What startled the doctor more than the silence from the infant was the completely focused gaze in her already green eyes. A shiver went up his spine as he checked the girl’s vitals; she merely watched him, actually observing what his large hands were doing to her tiny body. Trying to ease his own nervousness, he turned back to the young, blonde mother. “Have you come up with a name for her yet?” His eyes were drawn back to the gaze of the dark haired child.

“Heather.” The woman whispered, exhausted from the painful labor. “Heather Comeline Kessler.”

“It runs in the family,” Amanda Kessler stroked her daughter’s long hair. “Her grandmother, my grandfather …”

“Diabetes is difficult to manage, but not impossible. As long as her blood levels are maintained and her insulin administered on time daily, there’s no reason that she can’t lead a healthy and normal life. The hard part, of course, will be keeping her away from sweets.”

“Heather doesn’t have a sweet tooth.” She looked down at her three year old, blaming herself and her genetics for this disease her daughter would have to deal with for the rest of her life. “In fact, it’s always taken a lot for me to get her to eat anything with sugar in it.”

“Then she’s leaps and bounds ahead of where you will need to be. Just maintain that diet – keep the pastas and breads low as well – and she’ll remain healthy. When she’s old enough, there isn’t any reason that she won’t be able to administer the insulin injections herself, but for now you will have to be the bearer of the pain.”

For a minute Amanda didn’t answer. Her thoughts drifted back to that moment, not even three weeks ago, when she’d found Heather carefully sticking straight pins into her upper thigh. She’d screamed in terror, hoping to frighten her child into never doing it again. But Heather’s reaction had only been to reach for the pins again and to quietly sulk when they were refused her. “I don’t think that will be a problem.” She looked down to see Heather looking back up at her, her green eyes shining. Heather had understood every word of the conversation perfectly and when the needle was brought out to teach Amanda how to administer the shots, a smile graced Heather’s features. No, Amanda thought, this would almost be too easy. It bothered her on some levels, but her daughter had been different since birth. This was just another piece to who she was.

Amanda shook her head at her friend. Heather sat alone at a table near her mother, turning pages in a book of Victorian history. A graceful finger poked at a picture of a young woman in a corset.

“She’s unnerving. I never know what she’s going to do from one minute to the next. I’ll look up and she’s reading but then ten minutes later I’ll find her tying her wrist to the banister. And because she’s always quiet, I can never take silence for something being wrong.”

“Is her language delayed?”

“She’s been having coherent conversations since she was two, and reading almost as long.” The mother’s head shook again, “She just chooses her moments to speak.”

Heather looked up at her mother’s words, her emerald eyes locking the two women in a gaze that sent shivers up both their spines. Quickly they changed the topic of conversation and Heather’s tiny hands reached for her plastic cup of orange juice.

“I want that.” Heather pulled her mother to the long, black skirt. “I want to wear that to school.”

Amanda sighed and knelt down next to her dominating child, her patience beginning to wear very thin. “Heather, all the other little girls will be wearing lighter colors. Don’t you want that?”

“I am not other girls!” The six-year-old protested. “I am me. I want that.” Her voice never rose above its ever-calm tone while she pointed to the long black skirt with black bows down the side.

Amanda looked at her daughter – dressed today in a pair of dark pants and the red t-shirt she had insisted on. Around her neck was a black cross she’d seen in a department store jewelry case, on her feet were perfectly shined Mary Jane’s. As always, her dark red hair cascaded smoothly down her back. There was nothing in her daughter’s closet that spoke of childhood femininity. No, her daughter was not like other girls. The yellow dresses and lavender jackets remained completely untouched and rather than girlish sandals, the shoes were all shined patent leather. Her friends warned this kind of behavior was evidence of criminal psychosis. But Heather was a perfectly behaved child. She just didn’t like what other little girls chose to like. She supposed she should be proud that her daughter was indeed an individual. “All right.”

“Because I like it.” She looked into the intruder’s eyes, not impressed by what she found there.

“My mom says it always looks like you’re on your way to a funeral.”

“Your mother is repressed and wishes she had done something different with her life.” The ten- year-old turned back to watching the games the other children played. “Leave me alone now.”

“We are worried about your daughter, Ms. Kessler.”

Amanda stared at her thirteen-year-old and then looked back to the English teacher. “What has she done now?”

Heather raised a solemn gaze, but her smirk reflected her amusement at her mother’s situation. “They do not like that I am reading the Marquis de Sade for my book report.”

The teacher stuttered a bit at Heather’s audacity before nodding. “That is our concern, actually. The material is a bit adult.”

“Well,” Amanda tried to control her trembling, “as I’m sure you’re aware, Heather is not your normal girl. She is more adult than most of her classmates.” The fact was both a source of pride and pain for her.

“Still,” the teacher shook her graying head, “I am concerned about the state of the home that would lead a child to read such books at her young age.”

Heather forced a smile from her lips before she folded her hands properly in her lap and raised her head again to look at her teacher. “You haven’t read the book, have you, Mrs. Thomas? Because I think that you should, it might help you with the inadequacies you face.”

“Heather!” Amanda looked back over, horrified. Her daughter pointedly refused to turn back to look at her, “Apologize right now!”

The teenager remained completely immobile, her long red hair a frozen wall of fire on her back, her pale skin even paler against the knee length black skirt, the black knee socks, the black boots, the black tank top, the black wrist band. “I have nothing to apologize for, Mother.” She continued to look at her teacher. “I have said nothing wrong.”

“Heather, we just feel …” the flummoxed teacher tried to regain her control under the unwavering green gaze of the student she was frightened of. “We feel you should be reading things more appropriate to your age level.”

“My age level?” Heather remained perfectly still. “If this were less than even one hundred years ago, I would not be here but at home, preparing for a wedding, as my monthly cycles have begun. My price would be set to the one who was willing to accept a bride from a single mother and I would have no choice but to go into his life. I would be at the age where only the wealthiest of girls were allowed to continue with their education. Were I to not be wedded off to a suitable man, I would enter an apprenticeship as a seamstress perhaps or my mother would sell me to the nearest brothel. Today, that custom continues, but in a far more subliminal way. At age thirteen we begin preparing for our sweet-sixteen parties which are nothing more than a celebration of our entrance into sexual society. So, could you please define age appropriate for young women?” With the end of her statement, she tilted her head and pursed her perfectly colored lips, clearly expecting an answer.

Mrs. Thomas had none. She sighed and looked at Amanda, pleading for help.

Amanda only sighed and put her head into her hands.

She could tell he was older, much older; he was ageless and angelic and eternal and his gaze never wavered as he stared at her. Her back straightened and her shoulders squared and the heels of her boots clicked on the tile as she walked over to him, drawn by the force of his gaze.

He smiled down at her, inspired by her confidence in herself and the power she exuded. In her hand were three books on the era of Queen Victoria, another on bondage, and a final one on the history of Angels. Her gaze drifted to the artwork on the cover and she looked back up at him, her eyes registering recognition of his soul.

“I am Heather,” her voice was low. She looked deep into his eyes, seeing history reflected in the single red pinprick in the obsidian iris.

“You are more than that,” his low tone matched hers. “You may call me Riel.”

He nodded his head and a lock of his long, black hair fell over his shoulder. She reached up to tuck it back behind his ear. He smiled.

“What is this, Heather?!” Amanda held the condom up before her daughter’s eyes. “You’re only sixteen! Who is he? Some boy from school?!”

Heather stared at her mother, watching the emotions in her blue eyes. “No,” she answered honestly. “And we are not yet having sex.”

“What have you done?”

“That is between the two of us.” She turned back to dressing. “And do not stand there and act as if my physical involvement with a man is a crime, Mother. You are the one who told me that my power is mine to give. You are the one who does not understand her own words. You give your power to fruitless men who take and take but allow you nothing in return. If you asked them to stop, they would not. I am what I am. I am not ashamed of it. That is our difference. You are ashamed of what it is that you are.” Heather turned, her hair up in a tight ponytail, her makeup flawless, her nails a frightening shade of red. She took the condom from her mother’s fingers and brushed past, “I will be home late. My homework is done.”

It hurt, but the ache was refreshing. As Riel watched, she reached between her legs to feel her own fluids mixed with his and the blood from the breaking of her hymen. He traced his hand along her bare leg as she explored her sore labia and tender clitoris. “How do you feel?” He whispered after a moment.

A smile graced her lips and she looked into his deep eyes. “Claimed.”

He returned the smile before capturing her lips with his own.

She pulled against the restraints, testing them, and felt the sting of the flogging tool against her back. For every movement she tried, the leather straps connected, sending shivers up her naked body. The metal cuffs chaffed at her wrists, only stimulating her further. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, tilting her head back, his mouth hovering inches from her own. Hormones got the better of her control and she tried for a kiss, only to be punished with his walking away. She was not to control anything, he had told her. She was to be willing, and silent.

She counted heartbeats until she again felt the leather on her back. The sudden burst of heat against her cooled skin sent liquid pooling into her labia and she felt him stiffen behind her; heard his swift intake of breath as he smelled her arousal. When he penetrated her moments later, she controlled herself enough to stifle the cry. As he held her after he finished, she dared to whisper words he already knew.

“I love you as well, my Angel,” he murmured. “Forever.”

With each blow, she felt his submission to her, his trust in her, his knowledge that should he say “stop” everything but his needs would cease. Each and every muscle strained against his bonds, accepting the power that flowed from her body into his. The leather was the conductor, the passion the electricity. Each blow, each touch, and then each bite and lick until he was completely hers, joined in the holiest of fashions. And when his arms came free and they reclined on the bed, her arms around his trembling body, she understood, completely, the truest power of equality.

Her hand rested over her still flat abdomen, yet she could feel the warmth of the child within. Riel only smiled at her from where he reclined on the couch, his eyes communicating his love for her and his pride that she carried his blood now within her veins. “I suppose we should not be surprised,” he chuckled, his low voice wrapping around her, “come here, My Angel.” His arms opened, an invitation for her to come and lie with him. His hands covered hers, their fingers linking. “You will be a good mother,” he murmured.

“Are you sure?”

“Why now this hesitancy in my presence?” He pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I’m not …” Heather sighed and shook her head. “Childish fears. My diabetes makes the pregnancy more difficult.”

“A difficulty you can more than manage. You are but human, My Love.” Riel chuckled softly, “You are allowed to fear from time to time. I would worry if you did not. Do not allow your fears to color your heart. You will serve her well.”

With a sigh, Heather leaned back into his arms, the warmth of his embrace enveloping her like angel wings, calming her as surely as if they had left this plane and traveled to another world entirely. Her eyes opened and she looked up, her focus coming to rest on the tapestry on his living room wall; a tall man with long black hair and large black wings stood with a bullwhip in his hand, brandishing it against a submissive reflected in the river at his feet. “Tell me again,” she murmured, allowing her eyes to close as she turned from the image of the dark angel to snuggle against her lover’s chest.

Riel smiled and held her close, stroking her hair as he began to speak. “Lucifer,” he responded in a tone that matched her own, “was one of the Lord God’s most devoted Angels …”

“You expect to raise a child and attend college?!” Amanda paced, a caged lion; patently avoiding the swell of her daughter’s belly under her loose black dress. “You’re only nineteen, Heather.”

“I can do this, Mother. I make a living on my own, plus I have my scholarships,” she paused, feeling her daughter’s movements and she rested a hand on her stomach. “This is none of your concern.”

“You’re my daughter!”

Heather sighed and sat carefully, the toll of the weight of six months of pregnancy, early morning studies and late night employment forced her, from time to time, to acknowledge her exhaustion. “I am due in the spring, I will have the summer to adjust to having her, and by fall I will be able to return to classes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Heather? I could have helped you.”

“Helped me do what, mother, hmm?” She looked at her. “I do not need your help.”

“Apparently.” Amanda glared at the girl she’d never understood, wondering yet again how she’d given birth to this child of fallen angels. “You’re on your own, Heather.”

“That is all we ever are, Mother.”

“You believe that?” Amanda looked at her daughter, completely flabbergasted. “This man, the one I can only assume is the father of my grandchild, he taught you that? You haven’t even given birth yet and he’s already out of the picture? Is this why you’re talking about being alone?!” She crossed to her daughter’s side. “Heather, come home. Let me help you.”

“Mother …” she sighed, wishing she could ease her mother’s fears and knowing that to defend her choices or Riel was pointless. “Mother, I do not need the help. I told you of this because I felt you deserved to know. You have never understood me, and perhaps you never will, but in spite of that, I know that I did learn from you, and I know that you do love me.” A perfectly manicured hand traced her mother’s cheek. “As I do love you. But I do not need your help. And I do not wish it.”

Tears streamed down Amanda’s cheeks. “Heather, I …” But she knew that look in her daughter’s eyes. “All right.”

“I will let you know when she is born.”

“Thank you.” Amanda rose to gather her things, feeling the door slamming shut for the last time between them. With the last of her strength, she took the ring from her finger and pressed it into Heather’s hands. “Give this to her. Let her know that she is loved.”

Heather smiled, and when her mother embraced her, she allowed the contact and even returned the gesture. “Always.”

Heather’s green eyes pooled with tears as Riel extracted his hand from hers. “You are leaving.” She wanted to remain strong; she had known this was coming, but it hurt in a way she had never dared to feel.

Riel again touched the blonde fuzz of their daughter’s head, thinking of the golden locks of his own mother’s, and then looked back at Heather with tender eyes. “I am called, My Love.”

“I know.” Her voice caught but she did not look away. She dared not ask the question that was on her mind.

Reading her thoughts, he answered her. “I do not know when I will be able to return.” He knew he did the right thing but leaving her side hurt far more than he was willing to admit. “You have learned from me what you must. Now it is your turn to honor that knowledge. And share it.” Stopping himself from touching her, as he did not know if he could walk away, he looked deep into her eyes, “You will be well cared for. Your choice of profession will pay more than enough for the both of you.”

“Riel …” she whispered, aching to touch him again, but knowing if she did, she would not be able to let him leave. “Walk safely.”

Giving into his desires, he stroked her hair softly, once more, before rising. “Our souls will always know where the other is, My Love. I will always walk with you.” He paused one last time at the door before slipping out into the endless night.

“But I don’t want the black one, Mom!” Zoë glared up at her mother as she rifled through clothing on the rack.

Heather laughed softly, vividly remembering a conversation that took place once, almost twenty years earlier. She pulled a pale pink shirt from the rack and handed it to her daughter. “Is this more your style, my little one?” Zoë’s grin was contagious and she knelt down to stroke the blonde curls. “Then the pink is what you shall have.”

“Mom?”

Heather looked up from her books and into her daughter’s contrasting eyes. “What is it, My Angel?” In the background, the depths of the house, a scream sounded.

“It’s parent day at school on Friday.”

“I know.” She tilted her head, reading her daughter carefully. “You do not wish me to be there?”

“No … I do. I mean, the kids already think …”

“Chose your words before you speak.” Angrily, she closed the ledger in front of her. “Why do you care what they think?”

“Because I’m not you, Mom!” The ten-year-old crossed her arms. “I care about what the other kids are saying because I have to go to school there and have friends! I want to be normal!”

“Then what is it you ask of me, Zoë?”

“Don’t dress like you always do. And don’t say that you do what you do! Look normal and say you’re an anthropologist.”

“I am an anthropologist by education, a dominatrix by calling. I’m not ashamed of myself, Zoë. And you should not be ashamed of where you come from.”

“I’m not, Mom! I just … it’s easier. Please.”

Heather sighed. “I will think on it. I want you to think on if you really want me there.” She looked back at her books, trying to conceal her hurt at her daughter’s embarrassment. “Go finish your homework, Zoë.”

“Mom …” the little girl’s voice was filled with guilt. “Mom, I didn’t mean …”

“We are finished here, Zoë Elizabeth. Go complete your studies for the night.”

Heather found herself having to catch her breath. She knew this moment had been coming for her daughter, but she had not expected it to be here, with a boy such as this. “You may leave,” she spoke to the embarrassed young man before she turned her eyes to her angry daughter. “Dress yourself, Zoë, and meet me downstairs.” Quietly, she stepped back and closed the door to the bedroom.

Her daughter’s footsteps forced her to turn around and she looked into the proud eyes of her only child. So like her father in moments, so like her grandmother in others, and yet Zoë truly was all hers – the defiance, the demand of self – all of it came from her own presence. “Are you safe with him?”

“Mother!”

“Do not be shocked at the question.” She leveled a knowing glare at her daughter. “Are you safe with him?”

“Yes.”

“How long since you allowed him to take your virginity?”

“Two months.”

“After you turned sixteen.” She nodded and moved to her couch, reclining on it in exhaustion. It was moments like these when she understood her own mother’s frustrations.

“Yes …” Zoë’s voice grew nervous.

“Sit down, Honey,” she looked up again, “I’m not going to yell at you. I raised you here, in this house; do you think I am going to fly off the handle because you’ve begun having sex? Anyway, I was your age when I lost my virginity.”

“Really?” Zoë moved closer, still skittish.

“Yes.” She reached out a hand. “To your father, actually.” The admission was a surprise, even to herself, and she realized just how much she did miss Riel.

Zoë, for her part, was completely shocked. “You’ve never once mentioned my father to me. I always assumed you didn’t know who he was.”

Heather chuckled and for a moment could feel Riel’s presence nearby. “No, Little One. I love your father deeply, and he loves me, but we are not meant to walk together, not yet. I have loved others since. But my soul belongs to him.” A small smile graced her daughter’s features. “You are careful with this young man?” She asked again.

“Yes.”

“He understands that it is you who holds the power?”

“Mother …”

“Zoë!”

“Yes, of course.” Zoë’s lie was plain, to both of them.

Heather paled, wondering where she could have gone so vastly wrong. Every day she taught clients how to embrace their own power, how could she have failed with her own daughter? “Zoë, this is important. He cannot give up his power any more than you can give up yours. He, as a man, will seek to dominate, even though he wishes for you to. That inequality will cause imbalance and be unhealthy for you. I do not expect you to follow my lifestyle, you know that, but I do hope that you can embrace some of what I have tried to teach you! You are a woman now, in all sense of the word.”

“Mother.” Zoë met her mother’s gaze. “I can take care of myself.”

A cold chill wrapped around Heather’s heart.

She could feel the presence of the man before she even opened the door. His strength, his dominance, his search for his own submission. He knew himself better than he realized and yet was afraid of what acknowledgment of his power would show to the world.

Their eyes met when she opened the door and although she was conscious of the words she spoke and the choices she made, in the future she would only remember a hazy night of unfulfilled lust. They were of the same soul, and for a moment, she thought of Riel and considered that this man must be one of his kin. She wanted to get him alone; she wanted to hear him speak. She ached for the loss of Mona, but her focus was the man before her.

“Lady Heather, you are an anthropologist.”

She found herself smiling.

Nor, to be honest, was she.

“You can always say “Stop”,” he breathed, looking into her eyes. She knew, on the surface, why he was here: they were attracted to each other and it was time to stop dancing around their feelings. But more than that was the truth that she was in every way his submissive equal. For all of her strength and dominance, she craved the act of being dominated. They matched each other in that way, and she trusted that he would show her nothing but the respect she deserved as that submissive. His hands were hard on her face, and when they entered the sanctuary of her bedroom, it would be only her words that would demand his stopping.

“So can you.”

The kiss did not happen until the door closed behind them. He nodded to the bedroom; she turned, walking before him, his hand on the small of her back. The door locked and she met his eyes without any defiance. She was his to do with as he willed.

Roughly, he pulled her to him, one hand behind her head the other on the small of her back, their lips tangled, but she acquiesced completely to him, letting him direct everything from the motion of their heads to the force of their tongues. He broke first, pushed her against the door, and held her still while his body pressed against hers. She moaned and he stopped, pulling back to look at her. Not a word had been spoken between them, but the rules had been established in the silent communication. She ducked her head, her acknowledgement of his discipline, and when she raised her head again, their eyes met and he pushed her back into her door, spread her legs with his thigh, and pressed his body completely against hers.

She stared at the door, feeling his presence just beyond it. In a moment of weakness she put her hand to the cool wood, the other reached for the knob. She would give it, this time. Her heart could allow this man she dared to love the power she swore she would never give up. But her soul would not allow the knob to turn. He had apologized, but now he must act upon it. Her forehead rested against the door and she gasped, refusing to allow the tears to fall from her eyes. Beyond the rain, she heard the engine of an SUV and felt his presence leave her. Walking back to her rooms on shaking legs, she closed the door of her private area, something she never did when not entertaining guests, and allowed the tears to come. She cried for Dr. Grissom, for Riel, and for herself. When she was spent and felt foolish for allowing the tears to get the better of her over a man who felt he was more than he truly was, she went in search for one of her employees – any who would be willing to don a mask and allow her to work through her frustrations so her pain could become completely part of her.

The crack of the whip in her hand allowed for her control to return, and it was not long before she was herself again, complete, at peace with her losses. She cradled the young man to her chest as she released him from his restraints before sending him off to bathe and rest. She would move on.

She collapsed onto her bed, gasping, “You’re what?”

“Mom …”

“No, how can you be pregnant?”

“You know how it happens, mother.”

“Who is this child’s father? That therapist of yours? A married man who breaks a code of trust and betrays not only his office but his wife, his children, and you?! This is the man who is the father of your child?!”

“He said you wouldn’t understand. Look, he’ll take care of me.”

“Zoë, he won’t. Zoë, come home. Come home, Zoë. Let me take care of you and this baby.”

“Mom, I like Boston.”

“He is there!” She clutched at her own stomach, unsure of what hurt more in this moment – her clear failure as a mother or this man’s betray of her daughter. “Come home, Zoë!” Panic rose in her throat and for the first time in her life, she felt completely out of control. Her instinct told her that something was going to happen. “Please, Zoë!”

“Mom, I’m staying here and having this baby and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. You can choose to understand it or not, but I’m doing this.”

“Zoë …”

The line went dead and Heather curled up on the bed, tears rushing to her eyes as darkness settled on her heart. Her soul told her she would never again see her daughter and would never meet her grandchild.

She had known in her heart that something had happened, but refused to admit it. Now, staring at the body on the news, she could hear nothing, she could feel nothing. Her child was gone. Taken. Murdered.

The silence was not just in her head. The entire house came to a standstill, her employees all looking at her in pain. Some cried, others were not sure what emotions were allowed in this moment. All looked to their Lady, who stood in shocked silence.

She did not recognize her own voice when she turned to look at the gathering of her devoted. “Prepare for work. The world continues.” Force propelled her legs forward and she moved to gather her coat and purse and head to the police station. She would see him, she knew. It was inevitable. For a moment, she wondered if she could face him. She did not know if she could look into his eyes and see the love and compassion that she knew would be hiding beneath the unemotional surface he so carefully crafted.

It was only after her tears subsided that she realized he was still holding her close against his body, his arms strong and controlling. He absorbed her grief into himself, allowing her the healing tears she had been fighting since the moment she’d realized Zoë was dead.

He pulled back and looked into her eyes. Gentle hands tucked her hair behind an ear, removed her gloves and brought her body again against his. She clung to him a long moment, forgiving him as he forgave her, but when she raised her face back to his seeking the emotion they had once shared, she stopped. Here was not the place. He smiled softly and moved her to sit in the front seat of his car while he untied her victim from his bonds and let him fall to the ground. “Go,” he said to her then. “I’ll take care of this. I don’t want you involved.”

“I …”

“Go.” He interrupted her protest, no argument allowed in his tone. “Go.”

She nodded and went to her own car, leaving him to clean up her mess. This was his apology. Her strength returned as she drove away.

“I do wish we were meant to be together.” He lay on his side, the sheet to his waist, tracing his fingers down her naked spine.

“Perhaps once, Gil.”

“I did fall in love with you.”

She sighed and looked at him. “You are meant for someone else, but you must reclaim yourself. What have you done to your balance?” Her hand rested gently against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.

“I lost it when I betrayed you.”

“And so you have hurt another. Another who also loved you. She has already moved on.”

“I know …” he whispered softly. “I try to keep her close.”

“You cannot control her. You seek to, but she changed when you betrayed her.” Heather sighed, knowing without a word spoken of the incident what he had done. “You cannot control her by holding onto her body. Let her go.” She shook her head and looked at this man, a man of such strength and character and wondered what exactly had happened to make him so afraid of his own power. That secret was not revealed to her when she looked deep into his eyes. “It is not the women in your life whom you betray, Gil. It is yourself.”

“So I am learning.” He shook his head and closed his eyes to her knowing eyes, before she learned all his secrets.

She stroked his chest once more and then rolled over to sit up and get dressed. Both of their nights were just beginning, and this time together was their closure, not their opening. “Thank you.” She whispered.

Knowing what she meant, he just nodded before sitting up himself. They kissed once, at the door to her room, knowing they would meet again but moments such as these were over between them. After the front door closed behind him, Heather allowed herself to glance skyward, to wish for the companionship she had once felt with him while lying on a pallet on the floor discussing Victorian attitudes of sexuality.

The day was warm, as had been every day this summer. She allowed herself the casual feel of a pair of black cargo pants and a black t-shirt, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, grabbed a canteen, and headed for a long walk in the hills. She sought silence and solace today. Even months later, she was still not at peace with Zoë’s death – and she knew it was because she did not know whether or not her grandchild lived. The not knowing led to her own refusal to forgive herself for yelling at Zoë for something someone else had done to her. The comforting forgiveness of the hills whispered to her soul, so she followed the words in her heart, and walked.

The sun spoke her name, so she hiked higher and higher, enjoying the heat in her dark clothing. There was a cave above her, she knew, she would rest there before turning back.

A shadow caught her attention.

She was not alone on the path. Something in her soul skipped and she almost slipped down the loose rocks when she caught glimpse of the long, dark hair, the pale skin, and the look of love in his eyes as he turned to stare at her.

Smiling, she realized now why she had been called to this place.

“My Lady,” he whispered.

“Riel …”

~fin~

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