~~~1897~~~
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Twelve-year-old Jamison Collins sat on the floor of a dark, dusty, unfurnished room that had apparently never been used by anyone.

He was confused, frightened, and felt generally miserable.

That was nothing new.

Jamison had experienced so much illness in recent months that he was confused about almost everything. At times he doubted his sanity. The bizarre happenings he sometimes thought he remembered had to be the product of delirium...or worse.

The few things he was sure of had brought him to the brink of despair.

His uncle Quentin had jilted Beth Chavez, the maid who'd been deeply in love with him for years. He'd rejected her in favor of a near-stranger called Angelique.

Jamison had flown into a rage and told Quentin he hated him. Would always hate him.

Why did I care so much? Why was it so important to me that Beth be happy?

His fierce protectiveness toward Beth hadn't abated. Yet he'd give anything to take back the words he'd hurled at Quentin. It was too late. He'd sought to apologize, but Quentin had become cold and unapproachable. He almost seemed like a different person.

My fault, all my fault...

And the truth was that Jamison loved Quentin, loved this young ne'er-do-well uncle as he'd never loved his father. Edward Collins was a man who showed no affection and inspired none.

Recently, the boy had seen a glimmer of hope. Quentin and Beth were spending more time together. Perhaps he meant to marry her after all?

Please, God, Jamison had begged, let them be happy together. Let her be happy! It doesn't matter about me.

But he'd been forced to admit he was fooling himself. Together or not, neither Quentin nor Beth looked happy. Quentin was usually scowling, Beth a bundle of nerves.

Jamison had been reduced to spying. Sitting in the dark with a door open on a crack, peering down the hall at the activity around Quentin's suite of rooms--the only occupied portion of the West Wing.

On this night, comings and goings in the lighted hall had been frenetic. Quentin. Beth. Charity Trask--or Pansy Faye, or whoever she was. Barnabas Collins. Voices had been raised in the suite, in anger or alarm.

Jamison couldn't make out any words.

He did know Beth and Charity had an impassioned discussion in Quentin's absence. Charity left first, then Beth--wearing a shawl that suggested she was going out, and looking more distraught than he'd ever seen her.

Now Quentin was back. He'd rushed in, seemingly in a panic, inexplicably muttering curses on Gypsies. Jamison had heard him bolt his door.

Jamison had no timepiece, but at least two hours must have passed since then. He'd made a furtive trip to the servants' quarters and established that Beth wasn't there. He was sure he hadn't missed her return while he was away from this hiding place. He'd always been within view of the stairs or earshot of the outer door she would have used.

His anxiety was growing by the minute.

Suddenly, a man tramped down the hall. "Quentin!" he yelled. "Where are you? It's Tim Shaw. This is urgent!"

It seemed Quentin didn't mean to answer.

"Quentin! Are you here somewhere? There's a problem with Beth!"

At that, Jamison was ready to blow his cover and go out himself. But before he could, Quentin's door opened. "Shaw? Come in."

No! Please, please talk in the hall so I can hear what's wrong!

But Shaw went inside, and the door closed behind him.

As usual, Jamison heard agitated voices and couldn't distinguish words. Soon the men made a hurried departure. He was tempted to burst out of hiding and join them. But he remembered the withering looks Quentin had given him lately, and lost his nerve.

Alone in the desolate West Wing, he let the tears come.

What's happened to Beth? Oh God, what's happened?

Beth... I love you! If Quentin hurt you, I would have done anything, anything to make up for it!

But you didn't know that. How could you know?

I didn't know it myself...

Beth, what have you done?

A word formed in his mind, and he tried desperately to push it away.

The word was "suicide."
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He was sure another two hours had passed. No one had returned. And if an alarm had been raised elsewhere in the house, he would have heard it.

Why didn't I try to follow them?

He'd go crazy if he stayed where he was.

So he left the West Wing, made another fruitless check of the servants' quarters, and slipped out into the night.

He stood shivering at the edge of the woods. Leaves rustled in the wind; an owl gave a mournful hoot.

What if...

He didn't want to complete the thought, but he knew he must.

What if Shaw had talked to Beth and was afraid she meant to harm herself, but he didn't know where she'd gone?

There's only one place around here where people go to...do that.

Quentin would know, wouldn't he?

No, maybe he wouldn't think of it. He was away so long...

Jamison admitted to himself that he was terrified. But he wouldn't let that stop him.

The frail, frightened 12-year-old walked grimly into the woods, in the general direction of Widow's Hill.
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Too late, he realized he should have brought a lantern.

But he wasn't about to turn back. He picked his way carefully, listening for the sound of waves breaking on the rocks. He knew that when he reached the cliff he'd be able to see by moonlight.

He might see more than he wanted to.
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He heard the waves. Proof that he hadn't been walking in circles.

And then he heard something else.

A man's blood-curdling scream.
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He stood frozen, petrified. Someone was crashing through the brush.

Two people? Not together?

He made himself move toward the sounds. Thanks to his slender build, he himself was as silent as a thought.

Now he heard another scream, a woman's.
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At last he saw them. The woman retreating in terror from the man...

Beth retreating in terror from Quentin.

Why?

He couldn't catch all the words. But he heard Beth cry out, "Don't come near me!"

Quentin was saying, "I want to tell you the truth!"

Beth screamed, "I hate you! I hate you!"

She took another step backward...and lost her footing.

Quentin made a desperate attempt to grab her, but failed.

And with both of them shrieking in horror, Beth vanished over the edge of Widow's Hill!
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Jamison would never know whether he had shrieked too, unheard by Quentin, or had been struck mute by shock.

He definitely couldn't move.

He watched as a trembling Quentin peered over the edge--sure, of course, that no one could fall from that cliff and survive.

I should go to him. What if he becomes suicidal?

But he still couldn't move.

He watched as Quentin buried his face in his hands, moaning. And as he finally got up and staggered away.

Then Jamison was alone on the bluff above the dead or dying woman he loved.
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He crept to the edge and looked down.

Her mangled, bloody body was caught on the rocks, partially submerged.

And Jamison had only one thought.

I have to get down there.

It wasn't rational. He'd never heard of there being any sort of path down that cliff face.

But he was determined to find one, or make one, or die in the attempt.
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After what seemed an eternity, he was at the base of the cliff. Bruised and bloody, his legs skinned and his hands torn...but he was there.

He clambered over the rocks, aware a misstep could be fatal. He knew how to swim. But this water was frigid, the current strong, and he was already weak and exhausted.

He reached her at last. Cradling the wet, broken body in his arms, he struggled to lift her face out of the water and keep it out.

He saw a pendant on a chain around her neck. A star-like symbol.

Oh, Beth. I don't know if I'll get back up that cliff alive. But if I do, I need a keepsake. I can't live without some link to you.

He gently lifted the chain over her head and donned it himself.

Then, in defiance of reason, he began breathing into her mouth. A nightmarish substitute for the kisses he'd never have...

It was hopeless, of course.

But as he raised his head to inhale, Beth gave a faint moan.
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At that, his mind almost snapped.

She's alive. Just barely, but she's alive.

And I can't save her! If Quentin went to get help, they'd be here by now. No one's coming. I can't possibly get an injured woman up the cliff.

All I can do is sit here while she dies in my arms!
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He himself was moaning now, clinging to sanity by a thread.

And then he realized something else was happening. Her battered body was straining, convulsing.

At first he thought she was having an involuntary bowel movement.

But then he remembered.

Remembered the times recently when she'd been anxious or frightened, and he'd seen her put a protective hand to her belly...

Oh God. No, no!

Somehow, he pulled her long skirt and petticoat up. Ripped away her underwear--trying to ease the pressure, reduce her suffering.

Something small and wet was expelled from her dying body, into the boy's hands. Cold as she was, cold as his hands were, the small wet thing was briefly warm. And for a heart-wrenching minute, it twitched.

By the time Jamison Collins could see through his tears, it was cold and still.