A night bird chittered outside the window. A gentle breeze, heavy with the mingled scents of honeysuckle and the sea, drifted in past the velvet drapery. Slipping from the rich satin softness of the bed, Angelique moved soundlessly to the window and drew the curtain back, letting moonlight spill unobtrusively into the room. The sound of faint, even breathing told her that her lover slept on.

Her lover. A week ago this man had been a stranger to her. But from the beginning, Angelique had known that there was to be something between them. From the beginning, she had found this visitor uncommonly attractive.

He had come, they said, from the Americas, to ask for her mistress Josette's hand in marriage. Not that Msr. DuPres would not have given his consent, for Barnabas Collins came of a wealthy New England family, and was himself the owner of many ships. But poor, stupid Josette did not appear interested in marriage. Could Josette, she wondered, ever really be interested in anyone?

It had been difficult, finding a way to speak with Barnabas... finding a way to bridge the gulf that existed between their classes. At first, there had been no response to her attempts at conversation. How, after all, should a gentleman of means be expected to take any notice of a maidservant? It had chafed, knowing that -- badly enough to tempt her use of the Art. But she had forbidden herself that means, until at least, she could be certain that the art of femininity alone would not suffice.

Her advances, though not always subtle, had drawn no comment from the DuPres'. Either they had taken no notice or they did not care that Angelique had taken more than a passing interest in Josettefs handsome suitor.

There had been one who had noticed, though, and Angelique recalled the incident with clarity. It had occurred on the night of the last full moon, when she had met in the back of the great house kitchen with Dorcas, her somewhat addle-minded student of the occult. Angelique had regretted then, as always, that she had ever permitted this pitiful creature to form so strong an attachment to her. The obese Dorcas, a bond-slave to the PuPres', had been blessed with a sow's face, a magpie's voice, and the uncanny ability to engender in others a genuine pity for her 'ill-deserved' lot in life. Although Angelique did not know what her crime had been, she strongly suspected that Dorcas might have killed the 'erring husband' about whom she so often spoke (and always in the past tense.) The girl had become a chattering, incessant shadow, clinging to her like a puppy, and without knowing why, Angelique had found herself allowing the intrusion, while the other servants -- even the slaves -- avoided her like a disease, whispering that Dorcas was probably possessed of a demon. At that, Angelique had had to smile. No demon would have so disgraced itself.

The day Dorcas had come upon her in the kitchen, practicing witch patterns on the hearth, Angelique had fully intended to silence her. But when the girl had sworn secrecy, and then begged to be taught the Art... It had all seemed so innocent and so flattering at the time...

Their lesson had gone that night without incident, as even the fear of discovery had started to wane with the familiarity of their ritual, and they had set about clearing away the instruments of the night's instruction when Dorcas had looked at her in the half light of the false dawn and said bluntly, "You like that Barnabas, don' t you?"

Angelique had nearly dropped the silver candlestick she had been carefully returning to the cupboard.

"I'd thought you more sensible," Dorcas had prattled, and her fat, clumsy fingers had fumbled with the censer, spilling ashes to the tiled floor. "You know he can't be any different from the rest. They are all animals -- all of them! You would only be wasting yourself."

Her voice had grown in volume until Angelique was wont to hush her, but the girl only persisted in a whisper. "You should listen to me," she demanded. "I know what I'm talking about! He isn't worthy of you. No man is worthy of you!"

Angelique had taken the censer from her and wiped it clean herself. "We will not discuss Msr. Collins here." Her abrupt dismissal of the subject had angered Dorcas. But the fat girl had chosen to vent her frustration on a broom, sweeping ashes from the floor with short, belligerent strokes. Angelique had watched her, as dawn crept through the single window to turn the black shapes of the kitdhen to grey, and had wondered again whatever had possessed her to confide the Art to such a fool. To call Dorcas inept was a kindness. She would never master the Craft. It was a wonder she had ever mastered anything.

When the last of their objects had at last been concealed, they had stolen out together through the back door of the kitchen only moments before Philippe and the other servants had entered the room to prepare for the family's breakfast. Dorcas had padded hurriedly off toward her separate outdoor quarters without speaking again, and Angelique, conscious of the chill in the crisp morning air, stood listening to the distant shouts of the slaves as they moved into the cane fields.

She had forgotten all about Dorcas' strange remarks after that. More accurately, perhaps, she had excused them as simply more of the girl's constant, inane chatter. She had always spoken of men with derision -- it was some sort of obsession with her. If she had not killed her husband, Angelique supposed she may have driven him mad.

Josette had been summoned early to her father that morning for what could only have been a discussion of the wedding plans. Angelique had listened at the door.

"You do know," Andre DuPres had intoned, "that Msr. Collins has come here to ask me for your hand."

"Yes, father."

Andre grunted. "The Collins family is one of the most prominent in the New World. And Barnabas Collins is the heir to a fortune in ships and trade. Why, we could not have chosen better stock if we had tried! But that it chooses _us!"_ His tone became suddenly stern. "Josette, what is the matter with you?" There was no response. "It was bad enough that you were indifferent to our guest when he came last year to tutor you. But now he returns as a suitor and you -- you behave as though you were made of marble."

Josette's tearful voice had said simply, "I am sorry, father."

Andre thumped something loudly on the table. "That's hardly an answer. There is perhaps something about Barnabas that you dislike?"

"No, Papa. I find Msr. Collins very charming. It is only that..."

Andre boomed. "Only that what?"

"Papa, I am not certain that I am yet ready to marry."

"Not yet ready to marry!" her father scoffed. "Good God, woman, you are nearly twenty years of age! Why, your mother and her mother before her were wed at seventeen!"

The confrontation had ended with Andre's abrupt exit from the dining room. When Josette's aunt Natalie had come, with Barnabas, to breakfast, they had found Josette in tears. Angelique, listening from the drawing room, had heard Barnabas try to console her, asking that she join him for a walk -- the fresh air would help her to feel better -- but Josette had rushed, crying, from the room, leaving Natalie to apologize over the untouched morning meal.

"I am very probably too modern, Msr. Collins," she had said, "but I do not find it indiscreet to tell you that you must not be discouraged so. My Josette is very young, and she is frightened, oui? She does not yet know her own mind."

Barnabas' response had been lost in the sudden interuption of footsteps approaching the drawing room from another door, and Andre DuPres had found Angelique dutifully stoking the fire. "You can dispense with that," he had told her. "I want you to tell Natalie that I wish to speak with her, in the study." He had poured himself a brandy and gone again before she had tapped lightly on the door and gone in to deliver his message. Sour-faced, Natalie had excused herself and left, but Angelique remained, and after several moments in which he had not seemed to be aware of her at all, Barnabas Collins had looked up at her with an expression that clearly wondered why she continued to stand there. She had dared to hold his gaze for a long moment before politely asking if she might bring him something.

"No. Nothing. Thank you."

"Msr. Collins," she venture, "may I speak?"

He seemed vaguely surprised at this minor infraction of etiquette, but the impression vanished swiftly. "Yes," he said, "of course."

_Slowly,_ she had warned herself, _and take care. Above all you must have patience._

"My mistress," she had said to him, "does not desire to offend you, Msr. She is of age by her years and yet she is so young of mind."

He'd looked at her strangely then. "You know your mistress well?"

"Oh, very well, Msr. My lady has had, if you will pardon my saying it, many suitors. But she cares so little for such things... she is very like a child."

"Yes, she is," he had said gently. "A very innocent child. That is a quality in her that I find most virtuous."

Though such gushing adoration was not precisely the emotion she'd intended to evoke, Angelique had smiled inwardly. "Perhaps in time," she had said, "my lady will come to see you differently."

"Time," he'd repeated, and rose from his chair to pace to the window. "Time is the one commodity I do not have in quantity." And after staring for several moments at the rolling lawns without seeing them, he added, "You said you knew her well."

"Oui, Msr."

"Then, will you do something for me?"

The rush of excitement that brought was almost more than Angelique could temper. "Of course, Msr. Anything you wish.

"Will you speak with her for me? Will you learn for me how she truly feels?"

Angelique never heard herself agree, nor could she remember how they had parted. She knew only that the rest of the day had been an endless stream of mundane tasks, as had the next, and the next, until this evening, when he had come to her in the drawing room after the family, bored of conversation, had at last wandered one by one off to bed. She had, at first, feigned a reluctance to speak with him, until he followed her to the hearthside and sat down beside her there. "Please," he entreated, "did you speak with Josette?"

Angelique had watched an ember fall sputtering from its iron perch, chasing a shower of cascading fireflies scurrying up the chimney. "Yes. I have spoken with her." She affected a mild embarrassment. "And I fear that I may have misled you. You see, I did believe that my mistress night have cared for you... a little... but..." The look of profound disappointment growing on his face encouraged her. "You should perhaps not concern yourself so with a lady's preference, Msr. You may take Josette's hand in marriage without..."

"I will not have her that way!" He rose and walked away, only to return a moment later, vexation knitting his fingers in and out between one another.

"Perhaps, Msr., you are too much the romantic."

"No. I will not be party to a marriage of convenience. I must love the woman I marry, and she must love me."

Angelique met his eyes briefly, and chose her words with care. "Then you must know that there are many other women."

"No other woman will ever be like Josette."

_Nor want to be!_ Angelique had taken a lighted lamp from the mantel. "If Msr. wishes it," she had said, "I will prepare his room for the night."

She had sensed, correctly, that as they traversed the foyer to the great hall, he had been trying to fathom whether her words had indeed held the veiled invitation she'd intended. She had walked beside, rather than in front of him, and the lamp had cast eerie reflections on his face as they moved. It was a face rough and yet refined with the detachment of the exceedingly wealthy; young and yet aged with the mark of... experience? She did not think long on what form that experience might have taken, yet she knew. It was written in his eyes, with a measure of willful, indelible sensuality.

A floorboard creaked beneath the tread of their feet, and in the door of his room ahead, a shadow had moved. Angelique recognized Dorcas' bulbous figure long before the lamp had made her features discernible. She'd been about to enter the room, a battered copper warming pan balanced awkwardly across her chubby arms. Angelique had intercepted her, commandeering the pan in the process. "I will attend to that, Dorcas."

Dorcas' cherubic face had revealed both shock and suspicion. Bedwarming was the duty of a bond-slave, which Angelique most certainly was not. But when the fat girl had opened her mouth to object, the venom in Angelique's gaze had shut it again. The door had opened and closed, leaving Dorcas alone in the dark of the hall...

* * *

Now, in the moonlight, Angelique smiled at the memory of the thwarted Dorcas, whose footsteps had faded in angry succession down the hall outside. Two hours ago. How the world had changed since then. The night bird called again, a raucous sound among the trilling insects. Angelique moved away from the window, and silently returned to her place in the bed. There, secure in a way she had never quite known before, she drifted into sleep.

When she again opened her eyes, it was to see his figure at the window, where she had been -- how long ago? The moon was now low in the sky: its small, bright circle shining on the horizon made a silhouette of the unmoving Barnabas. He did not seem aware of her when, billowing white gossamer, she came to stand beside him. When he did look at her, his eyes were devoid of the passion they had held a few hours before.

"If you wish me to leave now..."

"No... I..." He stumbled over the words, and finished lamely. "Do whatever you please."

He turned back to the window, where a calm sea lay like black glass beneath the moon. When she made no sign of leaving him, he spoke again, though he did not look at her. "I thought," he said, "that I loved Josette." That Angelique would find mention of that name indelicate just now would not have occurred to him. "I thought," he went on, "that after all the wandering I had done, that after all the..." He did not complete the thought, but her mind's voice queried, _after all the women he had known?_ "I had hoped," he was saying, "that here I had at last found something... someone... who could give all of that a meaning."

_And so you have,_ she thought, and aloud said, "You underestimate yourself, Msr."

"No. I have exhausted every means I know... and Josette is no nearer to loving me than before."

_Josette. Josette! Why is he so damnably obsessed with simple-minded, calf-eyed Josette?_

"You will forgive me," she said softly, "but we must all learn to accept the truth at one time or another. If love is what matters to you, then must you not have love both ways?"

For the first time he seemed to look at her and really see her. "You have a remarkably modern outlook on life..."

Temper edged her voice. "For a servant?"

"I didn't mean--"

"Yes, you did. And yes, my outlook is, as you say, quite modern." She turned the temperamental tone to a wounded one. "I cannot apologize for what I am." Silence passed between them then, and he continued to watch the distant horizon of water, lost in thought. After some tine, she asked, "Is the sea in Collinsport like this one?"

He sounded sad and very far away. "No. It is churning, white and angry... always angry."

"Even angry, I would give a world to see it. I have been so alone here. I think if I must stay any longer, I will die of it." When he failed to answer, she pressed the question. "You could end that. We could end it together."

The unmistakable annoyance in his glance warned her that she had broached this topic far too soon. Deliberately, he turned away from her, and the action could not be more clearly intended a dismissal had he spoken it. She gathered her dress from the floor and paused before leaving the room. "If you want me again," she told him, swallowing pride, "you know where to call for me."

When she returned to her quarters, she could not help reflecting upon how sharply this room contrasted with the one she had just left. Tiny and lackluster, it had no window, no view of Martinique's vast, calm ocean. Was the churning, angry sea of Maine's coastline visible from Collinwood's windows? One day, she promised herself, she was going to find out.

She nearly dropped the lamp she had been lighting when a shrill voice interupted her reverie. "Did you forget?" it squeaked, and she was suddenly, unavoidably aware of Dorcas maneuvering her bodily mass through the too-narrow doorframe. "Did you forget our lessons?"

Angelique found this unannounced intrusion no less infuriating for the fact that it was typical. She said, "Go to bed, Dorcas," but the heavy girl pressed on into the room, one thick, pink lip thrust forward under the other.

"My lesson was tonight!" she pouted, then added, with contempt, "Is _he_ more important to you than the Art??"

Angelique nearly struck her. "Get out of this room!" She spat the words so vehemently that Dorcas took a faltering step backward. Defiance flashed across her pudgy face and quickly fled again as, a moment later, did she. Seething, Angelique watched her waddle down the corridor as fast as her crocodile legs could carry her. The sound of the kitchen door slamning echoed throughout the sleeping house.

* * *

"I will come straight to the point, Andre." Natalie DuPres, after several days, had at last cornered her evasive brother on the porch of the great house. "I am certain, by now, that you are aware of the fact that your house guest has been practicing... what shall we call them?... nightly indiscretions... with one of the hired help."

Andre's response was mocking. "Oh, come now, Natalie. Really, Puritanism quite unbecomes you."

The countess bridled at his sarcasm. "I see," she iced back at him. "You do not intend to stop it, then."

Her brother made a facial shrug. "She is, after all, only a servant, Natalie. These Americans are not so noble after all as they pretend, eh? Or perhaps they are simply naive enough to think that bedding a serving maid is some new and daring exploit!" His laugh had a distinctly lewd undertone. "Nothing I wouldn't like to try myself, mind you. Damned good eye for the pretty ones, he has..." Her heated retort was cut short by the angry motion of his hand. "Go mind your own affairs, woman. Don't meddle with the ways of men."

Natalie's pinched and unattractive face contracted further into a scowl as she left him, repelled by the gutteral tone of his laughter. 'The ways of men' only served to reinforce her utter lack of regret at never having married one. Within that carefully guarded framework, her freedom was a tool she valued highly and used well...

It was not that she begrudged Angelique the pleasure of a gentleman's company. What galled her was his continued profession of 'love' for Josette. And while her timid niece had at last begun to return his attentions, his nightly visits to Angelique's room (or hers to his) went on. If this was how gentlemen of means in America treated their women, Natalie thought, she wanted no part of them.

There was, however, a certain other matter she had noticed of late. The bond-slave, Dorcas, had been keeping more than the casually-curious servant's eye on the activities of Barnabas and Angelique. That was odd somehow. Though Philippe assured her that the girl was merely envious, Natalie could sense that there was more. Before Barnabas had come, this girl and Angelique had formed some unique bond of kinship. Now, that bond would have been broken. The usually garrulous Dorcas had grown quiet and sullen. And there was something unpleasant brewing behind those porcine little eyes. Though Natalie would not have sworn to it, she had an uncomfortable feeling that it was jealousy...

* * *

"How you do flatter me, Msr. Collins!" Josette giggled, and like a child, skipped ahead of him on the sandy path. Not far beyond, the sea stretched, crystal blue under sweltering skies of the same hue.

"Josette." He caught up to her, taking her hand paternally in his own. "Don't you think now that you could call me Barnabas?"

She laughed. "Oh, I shall have trouble growing accustomed to that. I am not even certain if it would be proper, yet."

"Not even when we're alone?"

She cast nervous glances to either side, as though being reminded that they were, indeed, alone together, had unsettled her. It was, in fact, the first time that had been alone without Aunt Natalie to chaperone. Josette put the subject from her mind and commented instead on how lovely the palm trees looked today.

"They are like everything here," he told her. "Beautiful, but still quite pale -- beside you."

Blushing, Josette slipped her hand from his and re-occupied it within the folds of her taffeta gown.

"Josette," he persisted, "there was a reason I asked that your aunt not accompany us today." Innocently, she looked up at him in anticipation of the explanation. "I must leave Martinique soon. And before I go, there's something I would ask of you. A promise." Both hands now were twisting the fabric of her dress into spidery patterns. "What promise can I give you?" she asked weakly.

Several heatbeats had passed before he said, "I love you, Josette. I would give anything to be able to put you aboard when I sail -- to take you back to Collinwood with me. But if that is not your desire as well, then all I will ask for now is your promise -- that you will agree to become my fiancee; that you will send letters while we are apart... and if, after a reasonable time, you do not desire to come to America and become my wife, then we will break the engagement. I will release you from any commitment to me. I swear it. Please, Josette. Please promise me."

Confused and more than a little intimidated by his advances, Josette had had no idea what to do. So she had given him the promise.

"Is something wrong, my love?" He'd stood staring out the window this way for many weeks, and Angelique immediately sensed his discomfort. "Barnabas," she imposed herself between him and the view of the ocean, "please tell me."

He took her hands, pulling her to him, and in silence they embraced. But when she looked into his eyes, she was disturbed to find anguish there.

"I will be leaving Martinique tomorrow," he said. She waited, saying nothing, for they had both known this. "My ship will sail with the afternoon's tide. But in the morning..." He let go of her and turned back into the room. "I am going to ask Andre for Josette's hand."

The reaction he had probably expected did not come, for this announcement was not news to Angelique. "My lady Josette has already told me of the arrangement," she informed him acidly.

"And I suppose you're going to tell me you don't care."

"Do you?"

He pivoted, pacing back toward her. "Josette will be coming to Collinwood to become my wife. That means nothing to you?"

"It moans that she will share your name, your position, and your bed. But she will never love you, Barnabas. That particular misfortune is mine."

"You are wrong, Angelique. She will love me -- does love me. And we will be married."

She hurled the words at him. "Marry whom you please! Do you think a name means anything to me?" More calmly then, she added, "You forget that I am Ma'amselle's personal maid. Where she goes I shall follow -- and I will follow all the way to your beloved Collinwood. It has obviously never occurred to you that you could have me there as here -- wife or no wife."

"I would not do that to Josette!"

She laughed at him, unafraid. "Yes, you would."

His appall at that was slow to fade. "I don't understand you," he admitted. "I don't think I shall ever understand you."

Vixen in the soft light, she went to him, laughing. His lips sought hers as they embraced. His hand, applying a gentle pressure to her waist, guided them both toward the canopied bed...

* * *

In her own room once more, Angelique lay awake, listening to the far away slapping of waves that came, muffled, through the tiny skylight above. Somewhere in the night a dog yapped. The insects were hushed for a moment, then resumed their steady, monotonous drone. She had been close to sleep when another sound became audible -- that of a footfall outside her door, and a voice, oddly distorted. It had called her name.

"Barnabas?" She ran to the door and flung it open, stifling a scream when she saw him. His face was the color of dry clay, and his labored breathing warned that something was very wrong.

"Please," he begged, "please help me. I cannot breathe!" He stumbled inside and fell against the chair, upsetting it.

Angelique went down beside him, calling his name. Realization dawned quickly when she saw that he tore at the collar of his shirt, which was already loose, and she forced his hand away to look at his throat. She did not need better light to see that an angry red welt was beginning to form there, nor any further evidence that this was the result of witchcraft. And there was only one other in the house who could have...

"Stay here," she commanded. "I know what to do. You will be all right in a moment." Her last words had come from the hall, but Barnabas never heard them. On the floor, fighting for the air that was denied him, he had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Dorcas was in the kitchen, clutching a crudely-fashioned doll that nearly toppled from her startled hands when Angelique burst into the room, crying her name. The fat girl stumbled backward into a corner, raising the doll in a threatening motion, and in the firelight, Angelique could see that a wire had been cruelly twisted around its throat. Dorcas released a maniacal giggle. "Get away," she snapped. "You can't help him now. He is going to pay for what he's done!"

"Done?!" Angelique was fighting angry tears. "Are you insane? He's done nothing!"

"He's made a fool of you! He has used you and now you think he will accept you again if you go to him?? He will hate you!"

"Dorcas, stop it. Gjve me the doll!"

"You would grieve for him now, but later, when you see, you will thank me."

Angelique forced calm into her voice. "Give me the doll, Dorcas."

"Barnabas Collins is going to die! That is his punishment for taking you, and yours for betraying me!"

"You imbecile. I could kill you where you stand!"

"He would still die."

There was no more time for this. Angelique lifted her hand "I warn you again, Dorcas. Give it to me."

In answer, Dorcas closed hammy fingers over the tiny wire and deliberately jerked it tighter. In the same moment, Angelique's outstretched hand had begun making swift motions in the air. As she uttered the words, the witchlight began tracing in the wake of her fingertips, glowing an eerie green in the still air of the kitchen. She paused, the half-completed pattern suspended between them. "Remove the wire, Dorcas."

"Stop it!" The fat girl shrieked at her, but clung to the doll like a dog to its bone.

Angelique's hand moved, weaving emerald light, then halted again. "There is one stroke left. You have very little time."

"I don't believe you. I'm not afraid of you!"

"That is your misfortune! Now will you remove the wire? Or do I finish the pattern?"

"No!" Dorcas screamed at her. "I want him to die!"

Like a swordstroke, the final ray of light was slashed across the witch pattern with all the malice Angelique could deliver. Dorcas tried to cry out, but could not, and her hands flew to her throat, allowing the doll to fall. Amid her strangled cries, Angelique swept the figure up and swiftly removed the wire. Ignoring a barrage of wheezing, choking sounds from the corner, she placed her hand on the doll's head and spoke to it lovingly. "Go back to your room... back to your bed," she told it, "and remember none of this night's evil. It was a dream. That was all. Only a dream."

The witch pattern was vanishing, shimmering translucent green, and melting into the air. The horrified Dorcas watched it dissolve, silent now. Angelique turned malevolent eyes on her and every word was punctuated with hatred. "Get out of this house. Leave Martinique. If ever I see you here again, I will do worse than I have done to you tonight! Far worse! Now get out!"

Terror-stricken, Dorcas hauled her tremendous bulk from the corner and, tears streaming down cheeks flushed white with fear, she fled the house.

* * *

With the dawn, the rain bad come. It was still falling lightly as, from the front room window, Angelique watched Barnabas and Andre say their farewells. Beyond them a carriage waited, the black driver and the horses both shivering in the dampness.

"So he goes at last." The voice was Natalie' s. "And high time." The older woman came to peer out the window as well. "Did he tell you?" she said conversationally. "Andre, I mean." "That Msr. Barnabas and Josette are betrothed? Yes, Countess."

"No, no. I mean did he tell you what else occurred this morning?" Angelique's blank expression answered her question. "Most odd," Natalie clucked. "They found that slightly demented friend of yours on the beach this morning."

"Dorcas?"

"Yes. Drowned. One of the slaves swears that he saw her throw herself into the sea." Suspicion edged Natalie's gravel voice. "But there was something else. Something... bizarre. One would almost be inclined to call it diabolical."

"And what was that, Ma'amselle?"

Natalie's eyes narrowed with repulsion. "She no longer had a tongue."

Angelique's smile had the grace not to exhibit itself. Instead, she made a pretense of turning back to the window, as though shocked at this revelation. Barnabas' carriage was already moving onto the path, and as Natalie went to meet Andre at the door, Angelique made a sign at the diminishing coach.

"We will be together again, you and I," she whispered to it. "Very soon..."

Grey rain swallowed the carriage.

Below, in the harbor, the ship lay waiting.
 

- End -