I am soooo sorry for the long wait guys. I have been SWAMPED with colleges and all that crap. So I hope you review after reading, and no flames please.

Two weeks after that lecture or argument or whatever, I received a letter from Eve. Why it was not Erik, who would miss me more than Eve would, I did not know. There was a photograph of the family with it.

Dear Christine,

If you had been wondering, that is our family in the photo. Well, it is rather obvious, if you asked me. Mother and Father are in the center, I on the center top, Erik on my right, your left, and the other man, if anyone wants to call him that, is Edward. Marcie is my dark-haired sister, leaving Annie to be the beautiful blonde to my father's right. This photo was taken in January before Father, Edward, Marcie and Annie went to France.

Erik is well. He spoke of you many times when he came back. He just left over a week ago to America again. Maybe he will visit you. How are you? I miss you. Did Erik behave himself while he was you guest? If he is too much for you to handle, he will let you throw him out of your house, so you should not let him be burden to you.

At the arrival of my father, sisters and brother home from France, Mother and I let them know about you. Not to worry, however. They now think that you and Erik met on the ship and he brought you to my home. If my father knew that your brother shot you and you were traveling third class and then on our money in second class, he would not be too pleased. Is your foot all right? We should have taken you to a doctor. He would have taken better care of you. Not that I offend my mother as a nurse.

Are the cats well? I missed Bright's calling for his supper at night. Do forgive me for bringing that up. I should think that the time difference had a larger effect on him than in did on you!

My sister Annie is now betrothed to Steven Wells. She is the first of us to be married. Steven is a friend of our family. Annie has had a fancy for him for quite a while. Do you have a mind to marry? I do not. I am one of noncommitment. I have often imagined you and Erik as one…however, Erik is much too immature for you, would you not think so? We tried to marry him to Belinda Spearson two years ago, but things ran amiss and she did not show up for the wedding at all, so Erik yelled at the guests in church. I think he will end up like me, whom nobody wants to marry. Shh, do not tell him I have said that.

I hope you will come back to England some day in the future. I have been to America once, and I am not so fond of the place. Not as though America is a bad place, I would just prefer England because it is my home. You must meet the rest of our family, although I feel you have met the best part, that is Erik. Though he can be a dunce, I am somewhat proud to say I am his sister.

Hope to see you soon,

Evelyn Deveroux

Well, all of that talk of Erik being too immature to marry brought me to laugh. Of course, Raoul gave me a confused look from the kitchen as he ate dinner. Lately, neither he nor Thomas had been speaking to me.

I took my letter and picture to my room and sat on my bed. Had Eve not told me which man was which, I would have been lost. They looked almost exactly alike before I found out who was who. But then, I could tell the difference. It was a funny difference, too. Erik seemed to lack facial hair! Really, he did. I looked very closely. Edward had more years added into his face, and their hair was differently cut. As for Annie and Eve, the only blondes in the picture, did not look like twins. Eve's fashion was that of a matron of society. Annie dressed younger, as though she was eighteen. I knew that she was not, however. Erik was the youngest, and he was two years older than me. As for Marcie, well, she stood out. She was a bit stocky. Mr. Deveroux, the origin of Erik and Edward's looks, was gray haired like his wife in the black and white photo. Not black and white, actually. The photo was generally brown, really, everything in shades of brown or yellow. Not as though I would know much about film technologies.

Five days later was my father's birthday. I realized this in the evening when I started to make supper. How old would he be? I thought. I should do something for him, I decided, even though he was not there. I began pulling out all the food that went together. Raoul walked into the kitchen and stood next to me in front of the sink as I washed vegetables for a salad.

"What are you doing that involves all this food that Thomas and I work for?" he asked gently.

I looked at him. "Supper."

"Want help?"

"Not really-"

"I'll wash that," he said abruptly, yanking the tomato from me. My heart sped up. He was acting and looking at me the same way he had when I received the two cats. I turned away to start on the meatloaf.

"You're doing it again," Raoul said accusingly.

"Doing what?" I asked, not looking up from my work.

Raoul turned to me and gave me that mysterious look I had been afraid of every time I saw it. "Avoiding all eye contact with me when I'm nice to you. That is about the third time you've done it."

I could not give an answer. But, I knew what point he was trying to reach.

"Do you have a reason for avoiding me?"

He came closer. I stiffened as he held onto the counter.

No, Christine, he will not do it.

"You do understand what is going on here, right?" His leg, bent backward, straightened forward.

No, he will not do it.

"Are you going to answer me?"

'I- I cannot," I whispered.

He laughed. "You are just not like the others!"

The others? Who? I wanted to ask, but could not. Whom was I being compared to?"

"I mean, most women lie to make man look stupid. You just come out with a straight answer."

He knew I was afraid?

He leaned closer.

He will not do it.

"Well? Answer me."

I could not.

Raoul did, as I predicted, move closer. His eyes closed.

"IS SUPPER READY YET?" Thomas screamed from outside.

I turned tothe meatloaf and began my work. Raoul returned to the tomato.

An hour later, the food was on the table, and Raoul and I were seated across from one another. We had not spoken since Thomas encouraged us to work. I stared at the plate in front of me and wondered how it would be if Father was in his seat and Mother at the other end. But, no brothers. I had never liked living with them, and often wished they did not exist. I could not put a face on Mother, but her blond spirals stood out like fire in the dark room, for it would only be a candlelit dinner.

"Beautiful," Raoul said suddenly, in that odd tone as before. It was not an address, but a comment, and had it been an address to me, I would need smelling salts.

I did not ask what was beautiful, but I did look at him. He had been staring at me the entire time I was daydreaming, peacefully and without talk until 'beautiful.'

I just realized that he never spoke like that before.

"Oh," Thomas' voice sliced through the room, like the room was a freshly baked cake and Thomas was the knife. "Where- why's there all this food for-" he stuttered. Calming himself a little, he offered, "Want a drink?"

Shocked that he had asked to do a favor for me, I could not respond.

"She's going through spells. She doesn't answer questions," Raoul explained, his normal, sarcastic tone returning. "I'll have what you are having." He turned to me and leaned forward. "And what will our miss be having?" There was his 'beautiful' tone again.

"I made a pitcher of lemonade. I would like some of that."

Raoul laughed and sat back in his chair. "Really, Christine, you don't want lemonade with a meal like this one. Have wine with I and Thomas."

"Thomas and me," Thomas said. He pulled out wine I never knew we owned.

I looked displeased.

"Get her lemonade," Raoul ordered Thomas. He turned around to me once more and said, "You don't have to have wine. You wouldn't like it much."

We sat in quietness, waiting for Thomas to finish preparing our drinks. Raoul began drumming the edges of the table with his hands gently, staring at me again. His fidgeting mixed with the background noises of clattering and clanking.

Finished, Thomas came over with the wine. He went back to the kitchen and got my lemonade. When he set it in front of me, Raoul said, "Lemonade is good, too."

I wanted to ask Thomas, "Do you at all notice his change if the tone of his voice?" Because it was there, and it was slightly bothering. I also did not understand why they were making a fuss over what I drank.

I raised my glass to my mouth and let in a small sip. Now Thomas was looking at me. Not wanting to be rude to him, as always, I did not tell him of the taste difference. We started eating. I served them, them when I sat, Thomas began talking about Raoul's quitting his job.

"You should keep to one profession, Raoul. Stop bouncing back and forth, and do stop working for Mr. Brown. He is not a suitable character and employer for someone with as much energy as you."

"He gives me a good pay for his errands," Raoul said defensively.

"And the job at the ice cream parlor wasn't good enough for you to stay with?"

"Hey! With all this new income tax business, I want a good income. Good incomes come from good jobs. I am going to stick with Mr. Brown until I find something good. I left the ice cream parlor to look for something else."

"Shouldn't you quit one job after finding a better one?" I blurted aloud. The two looked at me, Thomas once again thinking that I was not permitted to ever speak. There was a moment of a loud silence.

Then, Raoul began to snicker.

"What's funny about that?" I asked, taking another sip of my drink. "I spoke! So? What of it? What about freedom of speech?"

Thomas started to laugh with Raoul. I, not wanting to be left out, laughed with them. The three of us ate supper in laughs, making fun of each other. At the end, Thomas cleaned the table and the dishes, and then left us with more wine and lemonade.

"This lemonade is good, Raoul," I told him. "You should have some." And before he could protest, my glass was in his hand. He took some and gave it back, then started to laugh again.

"What?"

"It's good! Have some wine."

"But you said…"

"Never mind. Here." I took a small sip. There was a sharp taste. I had never had wine before, or any other alcohol. It tasted very much like grape juice, of course, but with alcohol. Not that bad, actually. I took more, until the glass was finished. Raoul watched with disbelieving eyes, until we began to laugh again. He got up and poured two glasses of wine, while I finished my lemonade. I got up and walked to Raoul. He put the glass in my hand and held his in the air. I did the same.

"To…uh…" he tried.

"To Michael!" I shouted. We clanked our glasses and drank.

We sat on the couch next. Raoul's free hand was on my skirt, fingering the cotton material. We drank more.

"I think you should go back to your ice cream parlor," I suggested.

"I wish I owned it!" Raoul cried out. "I'd be rich!"

I threw him a look.

"We would be rich," he corrected himself. "Of course I would share with you and Thomas." He got up. "Want more?"

"Sure."

"How about this, instead?"

I looked at Raoul in the kitchen. He held up a bottle of something. I stood to get a better look at it. "What is that?"

"Vodka. You want some?"

"Oh, alright. I suppose it shouldn't hurt." I did not know why, but I felt very much like trusting him right now.

He came back with two glasses and we finished it in ten minutes or whenever. Then he held up the bottle of wine. "We should finish this, you know. Since we will not be having any for a while again, we shouldn't let it go bad."

"Okay." I put some in our vodka glasses and we drank the remaining four cups in the bottle of wine. After that, my head fell onto his shoulder.

"Christine's tired," Raoul said, the sarcasm returning to his voice, as before it was gone.

"Yes. Too much grapes." I lifted my head. He looked deep into me, his grin being of pride.

It was as though a new light had been turned on. I never thought he was bad looking. Yes, he was not so bad after all.

We leaned closer and closer…

When I realized that we were kissing, I did not stop myself. It was… wild. Our legs somehow got entangled in my skirts, and somehow I found him on top of me.

Raoul lifted his head. It seemed as though I had slept for an hour. It was dark, except for the candle burning on the counter in the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I felt dead. Then I felt a kiss on my mouth. My eyes opened wide. I saw Raoul. Was he on top of me? Yes, he was.

"Beautiful," he rumbled. Was he addressing me? I hoped not. I was kissed again. No. I don't want to be kissed. I am too tired. He pushed my hair back from my sweaty forehead and kissed it. "What's wrong?"

What's wrong? What happened, anyway?

"Are you going to bed with me?" he asked.

My head lifted entirely. Raoul got off and stumbled into the kitchen. I got up and did literally the same as he, and sat at the counter.

"Tired?" I heard him asked as I lay my head down.

"Extremely," I muttered into the sleeve of my dress. Raoul put his arm around me and stroked my arm. His head was near mine on my arm, his face in front of mine.

"Do you know what I want? I mean, really want?" he asked in a whisper. I gave a small sound, too tired to speak.

In the lowest whisper that sounded more like an itch in my ear, he said, "You."

His hand went down my back, along the buttons of my dress. I winced, but, still too tired, I closed my eyes. His hand then went around my waist, pulling me closer to him on my seat, and his lips went to mine.

The clock stroked ten or eleven or thirteen strokes… I could not count. Raoul detached himself from me and murmured, "I'll be going to bed." He got up and started to his room before turning around, then mumbling something that sounded like, "Want to come?"

I did not know. A bed sounded nice. I would not have minded a bed. Any bed. His or mine. But my head pounded so hard. Raoul was gone. And I fell asleep at the counter.

There was a churning movement. Down below. My stomach? Well, my stomach moved. I was touched on my shoulder. That touch was like a magic wand that made me feel that I was coming to life. Yes, I was coming to life again. I had been sleeping. And something was near me, but I saw only black.

My head was being touched, too. Petted, I realized, the same way I pet my cats. Was I dreaming? No… there was a presence of someone else there, although black it was, it existed, and it was oddly familiar.

"Christine?"

Who is Christine? What is Christine?

My head still could not lift itself. I still could not sense who was there. My eyes were closed, I heard everything as though it was miles away, my brain was clogged with bed sheets and my stomach hurt like I had eaten three rocks.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

It sounded very much like 'Ah yoo awl roite?'

It could not speak English correctly.

"My God, Christine, are you dead?" It sounded male. He was speaking English in a strange way. The petting of my hair continued in silence, until he said, "Well, you are breathing fine. Are you sick?"

"No," I whispered lightly in a breath.

"Ah, so you can still speak."

Was he making fun of me?

"Hello. Are you in there? What did your brothers do to you in my absence, anyway?"

Stop talking too fast!

He did not. I felt his face next to mine, and heard a deep sniff"Jesus Christ," he whispered, "you have been drinking wine."

Who was he? I wanted to stomp my foot down in anger, but could not. And my stomach hurt in the midst of the heat.

"Holy God, you probably do not even know it is me."

I knew him?

"It is Erik."

I sat bolt upright, sending him backward, and looked at him. He did not fall; he just was shocked at my sudden movement, as I was shocked that he was there.

But before either of us could say anything, I jumped off of the chair with a sudden rush of energy and ran out the back door. My stomach started to reverse. I felt my insides guiding everything up. I made my way to the old outhouse and let out my entire dinner I had made for Father.

On my knees, I vomited, then wearily washed from the rust encrusted faucet in the ground. Weak as a rag, I fell back onto the grass, wanting to sleep, but I was now being lifted up and carried back into my house, by Erik.

I was placed on my bed, gently and lovingly. I felt the light being turned on and the door being closed.

"Now, Christine, you must undress yourself. That is not for me to do and you know it."

I heard him moving about a little. Despite my headache and my weak, dysfunctional body, I opened my eyes. I saw Erik next to my bed.

"What happened?" he asked, taking my hand.

"I…" needed more breath. "I am not sure."

"You were drinking."

"I was?"

"Yes, you were. Why would you be having wine today, anyway? And with vodka? No one does that. That is a horrible combination."

"I never had wine before."

He chuckled a brief "ha."

"What?"

"You have completely overloaded yourself with it tonight. Why?"

"I don't know…"

"You need to go to bed."

"I do?"

He got up. I realized how I had been waiting for this time to come, for him to come back, and he had to see me like this. I could not even get up to get the blankets for his bed on the couch.

"Where is your nightgown?"

I gave him a terrified look.

"No, no, no, I shan't…" he started, reading my mind and face. "I do not want you to get up. I shall not-"

"But you do want to," I blurted out. His face color changed, and he turned his glare from me and scratched the back of his neck, most likely in shame.

I got up. Immediately he came to flank me, grabbing me by the shoulders so as to not let me fall. "Do not do that," he ordered, "You are now supposedly dead, remember?"

"I am not."

"And I am sorry about your nightgown."

"It's all right."

Erik sat me on my bed. "Again, where is your nightgown?"

"In my top drawer." With my undergarments.

"Is there anything in there that you do not want me to see?"

I tried to get up, but he stopped me, and gently put me back down. He grinned. "You are a very stubborn person, you know."

"I don't want you to see…"

"I know—all right. Up you go." I got up and he put his arm around me.

"I am not a cripple, you know. I am not ill, either."

"But you are drunk. I have had a lot of experience with troublesome drunken sailors. Do not tell me that I do not know what I am doing."

"I can walk," I persisted. "And I'm not a trouble drunk sailor…"

"You are even slurring your words…" I did not know what he was talking about. He took me to my bureau and turned away, with his left hand still on me. I removed my nightgown and slammed the drawer before he could look.

"Should I hit you with this?" I asked.

"You'll put it on." He guided me back to my bed, went to the bureau again and hid his face in his hands. With his back turned to me, I changed in five minutes, my fastest ever.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Yes."

He turned around and put me in bed, then as he turned to leave, I said, "What about you, what are you going to do?"

"I am going to the couch."

"The blankets…"

"Yes. I know where they are. Go to sleep." He left. I fell asleep.