XXXIX 

10:30 p.m. 

"Carry me to bed," Marta begged in a small 
voice, a child's voice, such a good child. 
Her arms were warm around Derek Taylor's 
neck, her bottom hot against his thighs. He 
would have liked nothing more than to 
succumb to that heat but--. "Oh dear girl," 
Taylor sighed. "I simply cannot leave Mr. 
Mulder. You shall have to put yourself to 
bed, I fear." 

Marta stuck her lower lip out poutingly and 
looked toward the quiet occupant of the 
hospital cot. Taylor smiled and stroked her 
dark tresses, shaping their fall over her 
shoulders as he had shaped her spirit from 
her earliest years. "How long will he 
sleep?" she asked, still pondering Fox 
Mulder. 

"For some time yet. He's quite sedated." 

"He fought." Marta shook her head, no doubt 
remembering the scene in the infirmary 
earlier. Delirious, Fox had bucked the 
endotracheal tube and wrenched his bandaged 
wrists and ankles against the restraints. 
But Fox's fingers had merely fluttered like 
butterflies when Taylor had drawn out the 
tube, Versed and Fentanyl returning the 
battered, fevered man to painless slumber. 
No more pain. They were truly finished with 
that. 

Taylor's tongue felt heavy with remorse. 
"Yes--well. Mr. Mulder did struggle, but he 
was frightened and a fighter, just as he 
warned me. I ought to have given his 
confidence more weight." 

"I think he's a fool," Marta said scornfully 
then looked back to captivate Taylor with 
warm-eyed absolution. "All you want to do is 
help him. Why can't he just let you? I would 
never fight you!" Then she laid her head 
against his chest, above a heart that 
swelled from pride in her. 

"You never gave me a minute's grief, my 
darling." Taylor's hand left her shoulder to 
circle one nipple. He smiled at her soft 
moan even as he regretted the wiggle of her 
bottom. "You were the gentlest and most 
trusting of all the little girls." 

"That's why you kept me." 

"Goodness, yes. How could I ever part with 
my Marta?" 

She lifted her face up, smiling brilliantly. 
"Tell me again how I became yours." 

Taylor felt the crinkles at the corners of 
his eyes as he grinned in return. Twenty-one 
years old and she must be told her own 
story. Ah, but it made her feel lucky and 
cherished, so there was no harm done. In 
fact, Taylor prized the lack of guile with 
which Marta sated all her needs. While 
Taylor's affection for James and William was 
depthless, boys were boys and he must 
tolerate their little deceptions and 
hijinks. Marta never caused the headaches 
they did- - especially William with his 
mischievous lies. Fox wasn't the first 
patient whose "head got messed with," as the 
culprit might phrase it. Normally, 
correcting the damage done by William's 
pluckings of psychological trip wires was 
easy enough, but in Fox's case--. Fox seemed 
to fight against making things better as 
hard as he fought against making them worse. 

Marta's soft kiss kept Taylor from frowning. 
"Tell me the story," she pleaded again. 

"Yes, yes, my dear. You were born in a 
terrible place, to a mother who did not want 
you. When I took you from her, you were 
filthy and infested with lice, you had open 
sores that crawled with flies, and you were 
starved by intestinal parasites. Afterward, 
I wondered if you'd live." 

"You got me from Mexico City." 

"From a shanty town on the outskirts, yes. 
The moment I saw you I knew you deserved to 
be brought to my house. You remember that 
house in New Orleans, don't you?" 

"Just a little." 

"You were just a baby then, no more than 
two. And I cured your ills and fed you up 
and bought you nice dresses--" 

"I remember the white dresses. We all loved 
the white dresses! And the dolls!" Marta 
laughed. 

"When we moved house to Shropshire there was 
more room for toys, wasn't there?" He could 
still hear his little beauties shrieking in 
delight as they discovered the dormitory 
crammed with a century's worth of 
playthings. 

"I loved Bingham Old Hall. I love England. I 
miss it." 

"One day we'll go back. It's still there, 
waiting for us." Taylor did not add that 
they might see Bingham soon. 

"Sometimes I miss the others, too. 
Especially Daphne." 

"Yes," he murmured, tracing the point of her 
erect nipple to draw her thoughts away. "But 
she went to a good home." Marta's tongue 
licked her lips and her breath hitched-- a 
sure sign she was no longer thinking of her 
favorite companion. Daphne had been small, 
with red hair and light freckles. Taylor 
suspected she'd now look much as Fox's 
beloved Dr. Scully from the surveillance 
photos he'd seen. He imagined Daphne/Dr. 
Scully being fucked by the gentleman who 
owned her, remembered that man's penchant 
for whips and wondered if the girl's pale 
skin bore scars. His cock began to swell. 

"Let me please you," Marta whispered, 
feeling it harden. 

"No. No, my dear." 

"I can ride you right here, or suck you. You 
don't have to leave Mr. Mulder alone." 

"No. Another time. As much as I want you, I 
feel penance is part of my vigil. We nearly 
lost Mr. Mulder today, and that should not 
have happened." 

"None of this should have happened," Marta 
suspired then glanced away guiltily. 

"No, no, my dear, you're quite right to 
deduce it," he assured her, giving her 
nipple a painless little tweak. "We've been 
as badly used as Mr. Mulder, and shall 
ultimately lose more from it, I fear." 

"You should never work for them again." 

"I wish it were so easy," Taylor tried to 
answer lightly, but sounded flat and dower. 
The urchin from Nottingham's Broad Marsh had 
become rich and gentrified for all his years 
of service, but utterly entangled, too. He 
was bound like the men he broke, tied to 
Them as tightly as poor Fox to his lost 
sister. 

"The Samantha that you trained-- was it 
really her?" 

The synchronicity made Taylor's eyes dart to 
Marta's, then after locking with them for an 
instant, jump to the sleeping patient on the 
cot. Fox's stillness belied that he would 
run to the next clue about his sister; he 
would crawl there on stumps. Fox would never 
break; Taylor understood that now. He would 
never break because he hadn't found 
Samantha. Absolutely nothing that had 
happened in Taylor's house had altered Fox's 
need for her and for the innocent, kindly 
love she represented. 

"Was she his sister?" Marta asked again. 

Taylor shook his head. "I don't know. The 
gentlemen said to tell him that she was and 
they'd send Mr. Mulder something convincing 
to spring the trap. But I've never known if 
she was Samantha Mulder and I don't suppose 
they ever meant to tell me. But I did 
believe--I wasn't lying to him, Marta. I 
meant to keep my part of our pact. I did 
think I'd be able to tell him something for 
all he's endured." 

Marta glanced toward Fox, her expression 
softening. "He'll never know what happened 
to her--. That's sad." 

"Yes." To comfort himself more than her, 
Taylor kissed Marta's collarbone where her 
blouse had fallen open. "Go upstairs, my 
darling. I mean to sit with Mr. Mulder 
through the night. Tell Jim that. Both of 
you go to bed and have your playtime, if 
you're inclined." When Marta rose from 
Taylor's lap, the sudden lack of weight and 
warmth on his groin almost made him gasp. He 
trembled with need and swallowed hard. 

"I think you mean REclined, sir." Marta 
giggled. 

He feigned a smile at her simple wit. Dear, 
dear girl. "Yes. Go and ride him. Use your 
little flogger." 

She laughed again. "Goodnight, sir." 

"Goodnight." Taylor watched her go, grin 
fading. After a moment he stood and bent 
over the sleeping patient. Fox's face was 
waxen behind the softly hissing oxygen mask. 
Taylor remembered the pale man who'd stepped 
out of the holding cell only days before, 
but then Fox had been pale from fear, not 
from fever, starvation, and hemorrhage. 
Taylor wiped his hand over his eyes, trying 
to wipe away his error. His feelings for Fox 
had blighted his judgment. If he had stayed 
in the dungeon and overseen the torture, 
William would never have gone so far. 

Taylor fingered the satin hem of the thick 
cotton blanket that had replaced the rough 
wool, imagining laying this soft reward over 
Fox as a new-broken slave. The lad's eyes 
would have been like a fawn's, dark and 
vulnerable with newfound desire to please. 
But, alas, Taylor would never see that 
dilated tabula-rasa stare; he would never 
gently reshape Fox, never feel his love 
through a mouth that accepted his master's 
cock, adored it with warmth and suction and 
a flickering tongue. 

His brow tightening and mouth turning down, 
Taylor tucked the blanket higher under Fox's 
chin then checked the IV bolus of Ringers 
with dextrose. A click of the thermoscan in 
Fox's ear revealed a temperature still 
hovering just above 102. The patient needed 
more antibiotics and Morphine-- a nice big 
dose of the latter to keep him resting. 
Taylor would let Fox wake up after 
everything was fully-- settled. 

Taylor heard the distant ring of the 
telephone as he prepared the syringes. That 
would be Mr. Spender, certainly. It rang 
three times before William's big unshod feet 
thudded across the living room floor to 
answer. Sure enough, as Taylor was injecting 
the Rocephin into the IV port, the heavy 
footfalls made their way toward the clinic 
and William's appeared in the door way. 
"Sir, it's for you." 

"All right. Thank you. Stay with Mr. Mulder 
while I'm gone," Taylor told the tousle-
headed, tired-eyed blond. "And if you do 
anything to disturb him I will whip you raw 
and bloody." Lacking pockets, William stuck 
his hands under the waistband of his 
sweatpants and looked down at toes wiggling 
inside dirty gym socks. "And don't start 
whistling," Taylor added. "Your innocence is 
black as coal county snow." 

In the living room the light was dimmer and 
an eerie, almost phosphorescent rime coated 
the windowpanes. Taylor pulled the rope that 
closed the drapes as he lifted the receiver, 
gripping with white knuckles-- figuratively, 
if not literally. His heart pounded in his 
ears. "Yes?" 

"Doctor I have good news. It's been agreed 
on." 

"You can protect us?" 

"The other gentleman in London can do so 
from there." 

Relief made him jitter. "S-so we shouldn't 
set up a Christmas tree?" 

"Celebrate Boxing Day instead." 

"I see." Taylor looked around the elegant 
living room, wondering how quickly 
everything could be packed. "You'll protect 
Fox here?" 

"Yes." There was a rustling on the other end 
and the flint-on-steal scratch of a butane 
lighter. Breath dragged in then escaped. 
"The truth will be our secret, Doctor." 

The truth. The truth was that Fox Mulder was 
not broken. "You understand I have no idea 
how he'll behave once he's out of my care?" 

"Anywhere from walking wounded to psychotic; 
you've made that clear. I'm sure it can be 
handled, however it turns out." The sudden 
click made Taylor blink. He replaced the 
receiver with a gravid finality. 

The doctor returned to his patient, 
dismissing William with a wave. The oxygen 
mask still hissed and Fox slept on. Taylor 
settled back into his chair and laid his 
hands flat on his knees, back straight, 
sitting just as his Mistress had taught him. 
Like Marta, he'd been saved, in his case not 
from a tin-roofed shed in Mexico, but from 
Clifton Place. Taylor smiled at that genteel 
name for the slum dwellings built around an 
enclosed yard. His nostrils twitched at the 
stench of the privies and rubbish tips, the 
oddly sweet smell of burning coal, and the 
moldy odor of his woolen clothes. 

He'd just taken a drink from the shared pump 
in the yard when the lady appeared at the 
end of narrow alley between his father's 
house and the Murdochs'. She'd emerged 
against a memory scrim of soot black and 
sepia tones-- a brilliant burst of color, of 
crimson cloth and a white fur stole tipped 
with gray. The black net tacked to the brim 
of her wide hat obscured her eyes; a 
cigarette burned in a long holder glittering 
with rhinestones, its tip hovering near her 
perfectly painted lips. "Come here, Derek," 
she'd smiled as she called to him. "Be a 
good boy now for Mummy." 

His real Mummy had died along with his 
stillborn brother. He'd been five years old 
when the wooden box was nailed shut on them 
then buried under the dark soil of St. 
Swithuns' churchyard. He'd been six and a 
half when his Mistress had claimed him. When 
he closed his eyes he could see the twinkle 
of those paste stones and the tremble of her 
ruby lips, anxious to suck. 

*** 

When the patient gasped and coughed, Taylor 
jerked awake. Fallen asleep, had he? How he 
would've been punished for that in the old 
days, he thought as he rose. 

The lad's eyes were open and there was fear 
beneath their opiate glaze. A lump of bloody 
phlegm stained the inside of the 
nonrebreather mask. When Taylor leaned over 
to remove it, a string of dark red mucus was 
left dangling from Fox's chin. "It's all 
right." Taylor wiped the mess away with his 
handkerchief, then turned to the cabinet to 
clean the mask with alcohol. Finished, 
Taylor crouched by Fox and stroked back the 
dark hair above his wan face. "Shhhhh. Don't 
be afraid," Taylor soothed. "I'm going to 
put the mask back on to help you breathe. Do 
you understand?" 

Fox's pupils remained fixed on Taylor 
despite his eyelids' heavy hood. His lips 
and tongue moved as if testing themselves, 
then a wet cough cracked apart the answer. 
"All right. Good boy," Taylor said gently, 
slipped the mask back on his patient, and 
adjusted the elastic band. "Now, I know you 
can hardly stay awake, but you must listen." 
He turned Fox's chin a bit more toward him 
kept his hand beneath it, gripping gently. 
"It's all over, my boy. We're done. I'm 
sending you home." 

He'd expected to see a change in Fox's eyes, 
but aside from a microscopic squint, nothing 
altered. Perhaps the lad was just too 
drugged to fully understand, thought Taylor, 
and that made it easier to admit, "I owe you 
an apology. I was misled about you. My 
employers are largely to blame, of course, 
but my own desires played a part. I see that 
now." Even as he spoke, Taylor wanted to 
take back the truth, to prove that through 
the discipline and approbation of a Master 
Fox could know happiness. Taylor stood up 
and looked at the ceiling, running a hand 
through his hair. "All you have to do is 
rest. Rest and don't fight as we prepare you 
to go. There will be procedures, but only 
what's necessary. Nothing gratuitous." 

He glanced down, ready to encounter that 
hate-filled spark in his patient's eyes, but 
found them fully closed. Fox's face muscles 
had slackened with slumber that was already 
deep. Taylor chewed his lower lip a moment 
and then sat again, assuming the position 
she had taught him.