A/N: A little more Melchior/Wendla in this chapter, some more drama, and the beginnings of a plan. I think Wendla will wake up in the next chapter, so we'll get some more comfort then.

All standard disclaimers apply.


Kindheit Ende

As soon as he heard the rusty squeal of the barn doors closing underneath him, Melchior let out a ragged breath. They were alone again, his mother returned to the house. Adrenaline from the encounter fueled his rapid heartbeat, and he turned his head further into the crook of Wendla's shoulder, burying his face in the soft fall of her tangled hair. Though she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness and he knew she was in pain, the touch and scent of her soothed him in ways he could not verbalize. He knew he had a number of tasks to undertake to make her more comfortable, but for the moment he just needed to breathe. To gather himself, to center and prepare for what would likely be a very long and difficult ordeal.

How stupid and naive had he been, he thought bitterly, to have assumed that a day or so of rest hiding up here in the hayloft would prepare them for the multi-day trip to Berlin? His earlier fantasy of the two of them joyfully discovering the city together now seemed so childish that it was laughable. While he had been dreaming those dreams, walking through the gentle night, Wendla had been trapped in a hell he hadn't previously thought could possibly exist on earth. Bitter guilt washed through him, settling heavily in his heart. He turned his head toward her skin, pressing his lips gently against the smooth column of her throat. He could feel her pulse racing just there, under his mouth. Such a tenuous tie to life. His mother might not think Wendla's illness was terribly dangerous, but Melchior did not entirely trust her assurance that a few days would make everything all right again. Too much was riding on this outcome, and he couldn't calm down and believe his mother's words. Not with Wendla at stake. The soft beat of her pulse, though strong and fast, did not reassure him either. Medicine had come a long way since the classical days of Hippocrates, but the doctor in town cautioned his patients and their loved ones that death was always an option. No one could foresee the future. No one could assure a positive outcome. The beat of blood under thin, tender skin seemed like such a fragile tie to life, so frail and easily stilled.

Had their unborn child had a pulse, too, Melchior wondered? He knew virtually nothing about pregnancy except the bare-bones facts—conception, nine months' waiting time, and then birth. Everything else was a mystery to him, and his studious, inquisitive mind began to pester him with questions he couldn't answer. Had conception occurred the moment he spilled inside her, or was there a...time lapse of some sort? What exactly happened between his body and hers to create the spark of life? He knew it didn't happen every time a man and woman lay together, but he wasn't entirely sure what made a woman fertile one day and not another. Would the weeks that had passed since their tryst in the hay have been enough for the child to have developed something as intricate as a heart to pump and blood to flow? His mother had known exactly what was happening when she saw the thick, bloody discharge between Wendla's legs. But was that all that was going to happen? What about the dead child itself? Would it pass as well? Would it be of a size and shape to be recognizable, or would it be lost in the general flow of blood and tissue that his mother had understood?

Emotions Melchior could not name or entirely understand flitted through him, one after another. It was as if his mind and heart could not agree on what to think or feel. He ached to understand this loss scientifically, but also emotionally. Unwittingly, utterly without meaning to, he and Wendla had created life. The idea of such a thing floored him. He knew, certainly, that sex led to conception. But it hadn't ever occurred to him that their single passionate encounter could have produced a child. Many married couples waited several tense years for their first baby, and though it was not a topic discussed where the children of the town could hear, Melchior didn't for one minute believe the lack of babies meant a lack of trying. But just once was all it had taken for him and Wendla. Just once.

Too much information at once was overwhelming his exhausted brain. Two days and nights without sleep had already taken their toll, and everything that had happened since returning to the village and finding Wendla was just too much. He didn't know how to even begin processing it all. Wendla had been brutally tortured at the hands of the headmaster—and possibly the other teachers living with him as well. Her mother had to have known at least some of what was going on, for she brought Wendla to the headmaster and then lied about the girl's whereabouts. On top of that, Wendla had been pregnant with his child, which his mother said she was now in the process of miscarrying. The pregnancy had to be the secret Martha had warned him about—the secret she said his mother was keeping. She and his father had known about the baby, and they had sent him off to the reformatory anyway. They had deliberately acted to keep him in the dark, forbidding letters from Wendla and not mentioning a word themselves.

And what would they have done if Wendla hadn't miscarried, he wondered as he pressed his lips against her skin again, kissing the tender line of her throat. What if the child had successfully been born? What would they have done then? Would they have refused to let him come home at all—ever-lest he find out about it? Surely they understood that any reform school only had jurisdiction over their pupils until they turned eighteen. At that age, they were considered adults and free to go. Even if he had been forced to stay in that terrible place until his eighteenth birthday, he would have immediately come back to Wendla. Even without a letter from her in all that time, even if he feared her feelings had changed, he would have come back. He had to. Wherever he went, he heard her heart beating. She was part of him—inextricably linked in a way he never wanted to sunder. Marriage vows meant nothing compared to the vow his heart had already made. He was hers, for good.

The squeak of the barn door heralded his mother's impending arrival, but Melchior didn't care enough to move. He needed the reassurance of touch, despite the situation. The sharp iron smell of blood dissipated when he was so close to her skin. He didn't bother to hide the slow drip of tears. He hadn't cried in a very long time, but Wendla somehow brought all of his emotions to the fore. He'd struggled to keep his composure after that awful encounter gone awry when she'd asked him to hit her with a switch, and each meeting thereafter had been fraught with feelings far beyond what he'd ever imagined were possible. They were young and in love, and nothing could be casual and easy between them. The line between joy and tragedy was wafer-thin.

"Melchior." His mother's voice was quiet, but he tensed anyway. His head understood that she was trying to help, but his heart still burned with resentment for her betrayal. She had sent him away and refused to let him know about his child. His sense of injustice was high, and he felt strongly that somehow—somehow—this tragedy could have been prevented without such a reliance on secrets and lies. He also resented the intrusion, wanting nothing more than to be left alone with Wendla.

"Melchior," his mother persisted, and he felt the floor shift as she pulled herself through the trapdoor again. "Sulking won't help anything."

He tore himself away from Wendla, whirling on his mother. The shouted reply that he wasn't sulking, he was grieving, stilled on his tongue. Not for his mother's sake, but for Wendla's. She had shied away from his angry voice before, and he couldn't stand the idea of making her do it again. She was too fragile right now, and if she couldn't handle the sound of a voice lifted in anger, he wasn't going to do it. Not if it killed him.

Fanny Gabor startled at the look on his face. He had no idea what she saw when she looked at him—the evidence of unmanly tears, yes, but other than that he had no clue. Something stopped her speech, though, and they stared at each other for a long, tense moment. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. Melchior didn't know exactly what about his mother's expression made him feel that way. Her eyes were cautious but her mouth soft as her gaze traveled over his face.

Finally she exhaled, the sound almost wistful. "You can't place blame for the miscarriage, son. You are a young man and you don't know, but these things are really quite common. They happen without cause, and nobody knows why. It's just one of those things."

"You can't possibly look at that bruise on her belly and tell me nobody did anything to make this happen," Melchior snarled quietly.

"I don't know what happened," his mother agreed. "I suspect only Wendla could tell you, since the perpetrator clearly won't be confessing anytime soon. Not to something like this." She paused. "Will you tell me where you found her, son?"

"No."

Frau Gabor set a bundle wrapped in a quilt down on the hayloft floor. "Who are you trying to protect?" she asked carefully.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I don't trust you, and I'm not saying a thing unless Wendla says I can."

"She won't be in any condition to talk about things for a while yet, son." Fanny unwrapped the bundle, setting various things on a nearby bale. "Meanwhile, whoever it is—he'll know she's missing. He probably already does. What will he do then? Whether you like it or not, I'm involved now. We need to know what he might do, and how to prepare."

"Nobody saw me," Melchior said stubbornly. "They won't know who took her."

"You hope."

"I know," Melchior said, closing a frustrated fist around a handful of loose hay. "They would have stopped me if they knew I was there. I wasn't armed unless you count my pocket knife, and I was carrying her. They could have stopped us easily. I'm telling you, they were asleep the whole time."

"They?"

Melchior met her eyes squarely and said nothing.

His silence received the desired result. She sighed again and shook her head. "I can't force you to say anything," she admitted. "Though I frankly wish I could. You said yourself that secrets and lies caused this mess. Do you really think more will solve it?"

"I'm not lying. I'm protecting her. She had no choice in any of this, and I'm not taking any more decisions away from her. Whatever happens now, it happens on Wendla's terms. Not mine, and certainly not yours."

Frau Gabor felt a wondering surge of pride shoot through her. Never had she heard words such as those from any man, but her son was adamant in his defense of little Wendla Bergmann. She stilled for a moment, looking carefully at him again. His young face was beautiful in his conviction, the lines of surety drawn stark and strong across his normally sweet features. His blue eyes were almost steel grey, paled with mistrust. In that moment, she knew that her wish to keep them apart—her hope that he could move on from this, that his life might not be permanently altered—was in vain. He wanted Wendla, and he was willing to give up anything to have her. But not just as a possession, as most men courted a wife. He wanted her happiness so desperately that he was willing to keep the identity of her attacker a secret until she gave him permission to tell. The amount of trust and devotion such an act required blew her away. She'd neither heard nor experienced such a thing before—not outside of romantic novels, anyway.

But it was here now, staring her in the face in the form of her utterly serious son. He wasn't giving up on Wendla, no matter what it cost. And because she loved her son—both the little boy he had been and the amazing young man he had become—Fanny Gabor wouldn't either. Even had she the heart to turn the child away, which she didn't think she did, she wouldn't. For Melchior's sake, and for Wendla's. The girl desperately needed help, and Melchior was in no condition to provide it on his own. He was too emotionally involved, too fraught with worry and anxiety. She was also willing to bet that he had absolutely no idea how to properly care for her. He might be a scholar and well-read for his age, but that didn't mean he knew anything about practical application. Fanny was no doctor, but she was a mother. She had plenty of experience nursing children and neighbors, and she would do her best in this case as well.

"Go draw a bucket of water," she said quietly, dropping both her eyes and the subject, knowing Melchior would understand the capitulation. "Bring it back and we'll wash her as well as we can before dressing her."

"I'm not leaving her," he insisted.

"Son, if we're going to help her, we need to compromise. I won't ask you again for a name, but you must trust that I know what I'm doing. Fetch some clean water, please—I can't imagine what you think I'll do to the girl while you're gone."

"I promised I would stay with her," he said stubbornly. "What if she wakes up? She'll think I broke my promise. I can't do that to her."

"I can guarantee that she won't be waking up lucid anytime soon, son. The fever has to run its course. Go now. The sooner you get back, the sooner we can have her resting comfortably."

Melchior went, though he was entirely unwilling. He understood what his mother wanted, but once he was down the ladder and Wendla was no longer in his line of sight, anxiety gripped him strongly. He needed to be able to touch her, to see her. Without that physical tie, he had no idea what was going on. Rushing, he filled two wooden buckets at the pump and balanced them carefully in his hands as he stumbled back up the ladder. He didn't want to be sent away for more later; even just a few minutes of separation felt like torture.

"Good," his mother said when he returned, setting the buckets down carefully near the trapdoor. "We have plenty of water to work with. Melchior, son, I need to know whether you think you can handle helping me with this. I want to get her clean, but we have no real idea how she'll react. The cold water may not feel pleasant if she has a chill, and she probably won't want to be moved. She may cry again. If you can't handle it, tell me now."

"I can," he said tightly, his jaw tense.

"I hope that's the truth." She gestured to an old, ripped sheet she had spread on the bare floor a few feet away. "Move her onto that carefully, if you can. We'll try to leave your sleeping area as dry as possible."

Melchior knelt next to Wendla and stroked a hand gently down her cheek. "I don't know if you can hear me," he said softly, in a completely different voice than he used with his mother. It was tender and affectionate, solemn and gentle. "I'm going to tell you everything we're doing anyway, just in case you can. I don't want you to be surprised or afraid. You're safe, Wendla, sweetheart. I'm Melchior, and I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

She did not respond, but he had not really expected her to. He slid his arms around her and lifted her carefully, his exhausted muscles protesting even her slight weight. Going on three full days with no rest was taking its toll. He moved her quickly, settling her onto the old sheet. His mother knelt on her other side with one of the buckets of water and pressed a soft cloth into his hand. "I'll go first and soap, and you can follow me and rinse," she said. "We'll try to be as quick as possible, I promise. I know this isn't pleasant for anyone involved."

Melchior could barely stand to look at the horrible bruises and raw, red lines marking Wendla's body. He took a deep breath and soaked his cloth in the cold bucket, then wrung it out a little. His mother had already lathered another damp cloth. As the smell hit his nose, he blinked in surprise. She was using the expensive store-bought soap she never permitted him to use, saving it for visitors. The homemade lye soap he was used to was so harsh that it stung and burned. But the watery suds she was now rubbing across one of Wendla's bare feet smelled soothing, and the scent didn't sting his nostrils. A flash of gratefulness consumed him, though he said nothing.

Wendla flinched at the first touch of the cold water, and her face screwed up in an unhappy frown. But she did not wake, though Melchior kept a careful eye on her as his mother worked her way up past the knee. She paused about halfway up Wendla's thigh and shifted to the other leg.

"You can rinse that one now," she said. "We'll save the most difficult part for last. I don't want her crying and struggling any longer than necessary."

Melchior squeezed his wet rag as he carefully ran it up the smooth calf. Water rinsed away the soapy suds, leaving her lovely skin wet and gleaming. He wished they could wash away the rope marks and bruises as easily. But wishing for the impossible wasn't helping anything, and he tried hard to focus on the task at hand, one small swatch of skin at a time. To look at the whole filled him too deeply with despair; he couldn't do it. But focusing on one small piece at a time made the task just barely tolerable.

He followed his mother's sure, swift hands as she carefully washed Wendla's torso, taking extra care around her horribly bruised breasts. A thin trickle of blood came away on her soapy cloth, and she paused. "Rinse there," she said, frowning as she tried to get a look at the raw, bleeding nipple. He obeyed, his hand shaking as he squeezed water over her skin without touching. "Ah," his mother said, and she tsked softly. "Poor baby. She's been bitten."

"Bitten?" Melchior was appalled. He'd kissed that exact spot with reverence, and more than once. He'd used his lips and tongue to explore her body, entranced by her soft curves and the sweet sounds she made when he touched her. But he'd never even considered biting her—certainly not hard enough to draw blood. The point of touch was pleasure, not pain. How could anyone substitute one for the other and think it was okay? And to bite someone like an animal...

"She'll heal," his mother said. "The skin isn't badly broken." She sighed and moved on, lathering her cloth with more soap and moving the wet, sudsy rag up Wendla's throat and then over her shoulders and down her arms. They worked in silence for a while, moving each limb with the utmost care and cautiously sitting her up, Melchior holding her while his mother washed and rinsed her back. Frau Gabor carefully picked the pins out of Wendla's tangled curls and, with Melchior's help, tipped the girl's head back into the bucket to wash her hair. Wet, her hair was actually much longer than Melchior had previously realized. The curl was pulled straight by the weight of the water, and the shining strands dripped halfway down her back. Fanny Gabor let Melchior wash the girl's face, knowing the infinite care he took with her would keep soap out of her eyes.

But finally there was no more dawdling they could do, and Melchior's mother paused. She wet her cloth and lathered it again, thinking and watching the girl's prone body. Melchior knew what was coming, and he braced himself. The last time they'd tried touching between Wendla's legs, her terrified response had nearly killed him. If she screamed like that again, he didn't honestly know if he could stand it no matter what he'd told his mother.

"I think I want you to pick her up in your arms again," Frau Gabor said slowly. "That way I'll have access to everything without having to move her around unnecessarily." It would also limit what he saw her doing, but she wasn't going to mention that. "She may feel more secure being held, too." It was a long shot, but she supposed anything was technically possible.

Melchior pulled her damp body into his arms, cradling her close. He was more than happy to hold her, especially if his mother thought it might help calm her. He rose to his feet, holding her steady against him.

His mother rose, too, and took a deep breath. "I'll be as quick and gentle as I can," she said, "but you must be prepared for anything, son. I really have no idea how she might react."

Melchior nodded and firmed his grip under Wendla's knees and around her back. He clenched his jaw as his mother stepped up and ran the soapy cloth across Wendla's exposed hip, then dipped down to reach her backside. Wendla's body tensed, and she whimpered for the first time during the bathing process. She flinched away from the cloth, though there was really nowhere for her to go.

Frau Gabor knelt, carefully inspecting the horrifically bruised skin. "One of the welts has split," she said quietly. "There's raw flesh showing—no wonder it hurts." She continued cleaning, doing her best to keep the soap away from the broken skin. Wendla whimpered again and another, harsher sound of pain escaped her lips.

"Talk to her," Fanny Gabor suggested. She stood up. "I need to reach between her legs now, and we both know she isn't going to like it. Give me her far leg so I can part them. Prepare yourself, and try talking quietly to her through this. It may not help, but you never know."

Melchior released the leg as instructed, and his mother carefully grasped behind Wendla's bent knee and pulled it away from the other. Just as before, Wendla screamed. She jerked, her body spasming as she clutched at Melchior's shoulders and throat with frantic fingers, trying to pull herself away.

"Easy, easy, dear heart," he said, his heart racing and his muscles shaking as he tried to remain strong in the face of her obvious terror. "It's just me. Just Melchior. I'm right here with you. We're cleaning you up, and then you can wear a big heavy nightgown and rest. Just a little more, liebling, and this will all be over."

She did not respond, but Frau Gabor held firm. Melchior was at least distracting himself by talking, and that was more or less what she had hoped would happen as she cleaned between the girl's legs as quickly as she could. Blood and thick discharge were still slowly seeping from her body, but it wasn't enough to be terribly messy. She rinsed quickly, blotting the area dry with a towel and then slipping some folded cotton between her legs before closing them again, letting Melchior slide his hand around both knees once more.

Wendla stopped screaming and writhing the moment Fanny released her, but she continued to cry softly, burying her head against Melchior's throat and clutching him tightly.

"I don't understand how she can cry and hold me so tightly when she's not really awake," he said. Frau Gabor could see the way his arms shook with both physical and emotional fatigue. Both children needed time to rest and recuperate. Wendla was far past her physical limit by now, and Melchior was pushing his. Fanny Gabor picked up the garment she had brought for the girl and shook it out.

"I know it seems strange," she said. "Her mind isn't what's responding; that's all I can tell you. If she was conscious, she would understand what was going on."

"She still wouldn't like it," he said tightly. "How could she, after what's happened to her?"

His mother made no answer—she had none. There was a very real possibility that the child would never fully recover from what had been done to her. Melchior would have to make a decision, once they learned the extent of her emotional scarring. If she could never willingly accept a man's intimate touch again, he had a difficult choice to make. She had no doubt that he loved the girl, but would he be able to stay with her? Would they be able to live happily in a permanent sort of way if they could never again share physical intimacy? Fanny had no answers to her questions, and now was not the time to ask Melchior and provide yet another quandary for him to worry over.

"That's my nightshirt," Melchior murmured.

"Yes." Frau Gabor attempted a smile. "I thought she might feel more comfortable in it than one of my nightgowns." She bunched the soft fabric up in her hands and guided it over Wendla's head. It took some maneuvering, as the girl adamantly did not want to separate her body from Melchior's by so much as an inch. But working together, they managed to dress her. The long-sleeved garment was huge on her—it had been made to be baggy even on a young man Melchior's size, and she absolutely drowned in the pool of fabric.

Melchior let out a sigh of relief as he was able to lay her down once more on the thick bed of hay he had prepared. He lay her on her side so the worst of her bruises wouldn't be irritated by pressure. He buttoned the wrists and throat of the nightshirt, and covered Wendla with a sheet and a blanket. Frau Gabor tucked the quilt she had used to bundle things up to the hayloft on top.

"She'll sweat under all those covers," she said, "but if she thinks she's cold, there's no harm. Every once in a while, try removing the blankets. If she shivers and reaches for them, give them back. I know it seems counter-intuitive to keep her warm when she's already feverish, but she's not hot enough to cause harm. If her fever doesn't break in a few days we might try cooling her, but for now if she wants to be covered, I'd say to keep her covered."

Frau Gabor reached for more items she had brought with her from the house. "Here's the small mortar and pestle, and your father's bottle of aspirin. I recommend crushing a pill into some water and seeing if she'll drink it—you don't want to risk her choking on a whole one while she's not fully conscious."

"What about food?"

"She probably won't even attempt to eat in this state, and I'd worry about choking again. For now, I'd suggest mixing some sugar water—as sugary as you can make it. It's not ideal, but the sugar will settle her stomach and help her body continue to function until you can get some real food into her." She paused and touched her fingers gently to Wendla's cheek. Sweat was already starting to prick her forehead again, and she was hot to the touch. "Poor baby," she murmured.

They sat in silence for a long moment, neither quite knowing what to say or do next. Fanny Gabor sighed quietly. "How did you find her?" she asked, not sure she would get an answer.

A short bark of humorless laughter left Melchior's mouth. He dug in his pocket and extracted a folded and crumpled letter. "You might have cut off all mail from the Bergmanns, but that didn't stop me from getting to her when it counted."

Fanny examined the letter. It didn't terribly surprise her when she read the name on the envelope. "Did you want me to read this?"

"Not particularly." Melchior held out his hand, and she gave it back.

"What did Martha tell you?"

"Where Wendla was, and who had taken her there. She said she didn't know what was happening, but that she had a sixth sense about these things and she believed something was wrong." He paused and gazed at the sleeping girl lying between himself and his mother. "Under the circumstances, I owe her an immense debt."

"I'm not really surprised to hear it. Martha knows enough to understand when things aren't right."

Melchior's head shot up, suspicion in his eyes once more. "What does that mean?" he demanded. "What do you know about her?"

"What do you know?"

"That her father beats her and her mother allows it."

"Mm." Frau Gabor stared pensively out the window. "Her mother allows more than that, though you can't blame the woman. She's just as terrified as her daughter is. Martha's father is not a kind man."

Suddenly the pieces clicked together in Melchior's head. Martha had known what he meant when he spoke of sex, and she had not reacted favorably to the mention. Now his mother was telling him—could she possibly mean—

"No," he whispered. "No, you can't mean that."

Frau Gabor's eyes were gentle. "You're a good boy, Melchior, and you're young. You still expect the best from people. Yes, Martha's mother has admitted to me that her husband is inappropriate with the girl. Neither is she the only child in town beaten and ill-used. Why do you think your friend Ilse ran away to live with the bohemians? It wasn't because of their nurturing environment, I can tell you that." She paused. "Your father was close friends with Herr Bergmann before his death. You were young, and I don't know if you remember. Wendla's father expressed on several occasions a vague worry for his daughters. His wife was determined from the start that they would never lay a hand on the girls in punishment or discipline. But her alternative, Herr Bergmann thought, was perhaps just as bad. Frau Bergmann bullied her children from the moment they were born, until neither girl would dream of disobeying. They were never hit, as far as I know, but they were emotionally browbeaten. That was why Wendla always seemed to be permitted more latitude than the other girls in town. Her father is dead, and her mother thought she had molded an obedient little doll. I imagine it didn't seem so terrible to let the girl dream by the riverside or go on walks alone, when she thought she could be sure of her behavior." Frau Gabor paused. "I can only assume that finding out her young daughter was with child must have been an intense shock, under the circumstances."

"No shock," Melchior said, low and firm, "could excuse what she did."

His mother watched him carefully. She knew he did not want to tell her anything without Wendla's permission, but she knew enough to start putting together at least some of the pieces on her own. She filled a crockery cup with water from the second bucket and reached for the cask of sugar. Busying herself fixing a cup for Wendla, she had a moment to think.

Frau Bergmann had to have known at least some of what was going on—that much was painfully obvious. She had lied about her daughter's whereabouts, and that was telling. It stood to reason, then, that whomever Melchior had rescued Wendla from had had her with her mother's permission. The thought sickened Fanny, though she knew she didn't have the full story yet. There was no telling just how much Wendla's mother had known. She might have sent Wendla away for an abortion or something else similar, never dreaming that this would be the outcome.

A plan started forming in Fanny's head as she passed the cup to her son. They needed to start moving toward a resolution to this dilemma, and she didn't think they could wait until Wendla was recovered. Whomever had had her would be desperate to get her back, if only so Frau Bergmann didn't learn that she had escaped. Fanny Gabor had never been friends with Wendla's mother. They were on opposite ends of the parenting spectrum, Fanny believing that her son needed to learn and grow at his own pace while Frau Bergmann held and monitored Wendla's behavior tightly, forbidding all but the smallest deviations. Dreaming by the river was grudgingly permitted, but reading Goethe certainly was not.

But that hardly mattered now. Frau Gabor lifted her eyes, watching her son holding the girl's head, urging her to drink. She did, swallowing water as if she'd been denied for days. No, it didn't matter anymore that Fanny and Frau Bergmann did not get along. They would have to come to some sort of agreement, and soon. The well-being of both their children depended on it.

"She wants more," Melchior said softly, interrupting his mother's musing.

"One cup of plain water this time, and that's enough for now." She shifted, preparing to head back down the ladder. "Too much at once and she won't be able to keep it down. Offer a cup or two every few hours, alternating between plain and sugared." She placed her foot on the first rung. She did not want to leave them, especially with both young people in such a precarious state. But Melchior desperately needed some time alone to process all that had happened. She could see it in his eyes—the overload and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him. "You need to rest, too, son. I know you don't want to, but you need to try. I'll bring you a hot meal in a while. For now—just rest."

He nodded vaguely, his attention centered on the girl in the hay. Frau Gabor smiled a little wistfully before descending the ladder, heading back toward the house.


Melchior set the cup aside, exhaling deeply. Wendla was curled on her side again, and she clutched the edges of the blankets tightly in a white fist as if even in sleep she were afraid they would be taken away. Her expression was not exactly peaceful, but she was no longer crying and that had to count for something. He sat near her, playing with a lock of damp hair. He knew his mother's advice was sound, but he didn't honestly think he could sleep. Not when he didn't know what the next few hours might hold.

He considered the small bundle of food he'd brought up for them, but though he hadn't eaten in a long time, he didn't feel hungry. Too many other things were far more important, and his body wasn't registering hunger.

Slowly he removed his shoes and stretched out on the thick bed of hay, propping himself up so he could watch Wendla sleep. He wanted desperately to hold her, but he didn't know how to manage such a thing without hurting her. Instead, he finally settled for digging under the blankets with one hand, finding hers and holding it gently. She did not react, and he hoped that meant she was truly asleep now, resting as comfortably as they could make her.

Melchior didn't know what was going to happen in a few hours—a day—a week. His entire plan had been thrown off, dashed to pieces the moment his dark lantern illuminated her bound form in that terrible basement. He liked knowing, liked being secure in his plans and goals, and this nebulous sense of uncertainty was incredibly uncomfortable.

But the most uncomfortable thing of all was the guilt. He stroked her fingers gently as she slept, eyes riveted to her lovely, delicate features. He hadn't been the one to hit her, to mark her body so terribly. But his passionate wish to be close to her, to know her body and experience that ultimate connection, had put all of this in motion. He had planted a child inside her, the expulsion of which was now making her extremely ill. He didn't know exactly why her mother had given her over to Herr Sonnenstich, but if his actions had also prompted that, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to forgive himself. None of this was fair to Wendla, but she was suffering the brunt of it nonetheless.

And his mother was right, in a way. He could just walk away, technically. Wendla was bound by the consequences of their actions in a way he, as a man, was not. But his mother was also terribly, terribly wrong. There was no way he would leave Wendla now. Not ever. He didn't know what the future held for them, but he was positive they could face it together. Whatever happened, she could count on him. He'd let her down before, but he was adamant that it would never, never happen again.

"I'm so, so sorry, dear heart," he whispered into the silence of the hayloft. "I should never have let them send me away. I thought you were safe with your mother, that she would protect you as a parent is supposed to. I never dreamed anything like this would happen."

Wendla shifted slightly in her sleep, and her fingers fluttered softly in his grasp. A gentle breath left her mouth, and her expression eased. "Melchior," she whispered, the word thick with sleep and fever.

"Yes," he agreed, squeezing her hand again and settling in to rest, though he wasn't at all sure he would be able to sleep. "It's Melchior. I'm here, and I'm never leaving you again."


A/N: Reviews = more comfort! Mwah!