AN: For J-Horror Girl, who gave me the inspiration for this piece forever ago. Thanks, girl!


She takes the sleeping baby in her arms, jealous twinges of guilt and longing as it lays slumbering against her small breasts. They are dry-no milk. Behind her sad smile one would never guess how bitterly she begrudges the wet-nurse. Her son-her only child, only light in this miserable hell. Sleeping in another woman's arms. Suckling at another's breasts.

It is nearly more than she can stand. And yet-she is grateful. She treats the woman well, pays her, sends her off with a kind word and a nod of her tired head, standing in the door frame of the small cottage as the sun sinks slowly into the sea.

As it has done every night for over a year.

From the fort a small, dark, trickling parade begins to wind down the beaten dirt path. The men. Returning home from their work. Dusty and tired, they turn aside, here and there, each to his own expectant home, children running, dogs barking, wives calling in greeting. They come. And go. Yet none turns aside to her small home.

Her door is open and inviting, a small fire on the hearth. Doors close up and down the path. Chimney smoke rises in the failing light. Music plays. Plates and silver clatter as he evening meal is served. The light is gone. The bell tolls. The doors are shut.

All but hers. Still she stands, the fire dying slowly behind her. The night deepens. But no man will turn aside here tonight. Will not eat with her, laugh with her, enjoy the comfort of the small cottage, hold her son close, lie next to her in bed, brush her hand-her lips-with his own-

When asked by the wives and daughters on the lane she says her name is Elizabeth. Port Royal stands not three miles distant, but none here would recognize her face nor class. Bereft of her finery, lace and perfume, she is indistinguishable from the rest.

When asked, she says she is married. When pressed, she relates her husband is gone-on business. But he would be back. He would be back soon-

But the truth rests hidden, aching beneath her breast. She presses her small son closer, kisses his pale forehead, smoothes a lock of dark, silken curls from his soft and sleeping face. A perfect, pudgy fist holds her stray finger close, the sharp tips of tiny nails digging into the flesh-

In her heart, she knows that this boy, this tiny boy, will be grown ere her husband returns.

…So small. So peaceful. She weeps.