"By her own admission, Valerie Collins is a witch!"

Trask's voice echoed in the tiny Collinsport courtroom. It was
crowded with dour-faced members of the community, their eyes fixed
invariably on the petite blonde woman standing before the tribunal.

Barnabas Collins watched the proceedings from a bench against
the back wall, Julia and Stokes to either side of him. He did not
like the ugly turn events had taken here -- until Trask's untimely
entrance, the tribunal had been prepared to acquit
Valerie/Angelique on the basis of her confession and renouncement
of her Craft. Now they had regained the vulturous look of
executioners waiting for the axe to fall, and the fear in
Angelique's pale eyes reflected the same awareness. Barnabas
shifted uncomfortably at the realization that Angelique's fate did
indeed concern him. There had been many times, after all, when he
himself had worn the executioner's mantel, and she had been the
target of his vengeance.

Something far removed from hatred stirred in him when he
looked at her now. She had told the court that her unearthly
powers had left her, revoked forever. That they had believed her
was evident -- her confession had saved both Quentin and Desmond
Collins from a death sentence -- and the 'Valerie' who now faced
Trask lacked the fire that had once driven Angelique. She was
small, and frightened... and very, very human.

"This creature of Hell has deceived you," Trask told the
tribunal. "Denouncing her Master, if indeed she has done so, does
not excuse the crimes of which she is already guilty!"

One of the judges frowned and steepled his plump fingers in
front of him. "And what crimes would those be, Mr. Trask?"

"There are many in this courtroom today who will tell you that
forty-five years ago, their loved ones were cruelly and brutally
murdered." Barnabas and Julia exchanged disquieted glances as
Trask prattled on. Parents, grandparents -- my own father was
among them. And these murders were never solved. I submit, your
honors, that the reason was witchcraft -- and that this woman was
the cause!"

The thin balding man central to the tribunal waited for the
collective murmur in the courtroom to die away. Then he pinned
Angelique with cold black eyes and said, "You do not appear
advanced in years, not even forty-five of them. Can it be that you
were here, in Collinsport, so many years ago, and a witch, even
then?"

Angelique's voice trembled when she spoke. "I was here," she
said thinly. "But there is no truth to Mr. Trask's accusations.
I did not kill his father, nor..." She faltered, and the faces of
the three judges grew stonier accordingly. "...Nor the others."

"I will bring witnesses to refute that claim," Trask countered
loudly. "There are those who remember you, Valerie Collins, when
your name was Angelique!"

Barnabas stiffened, feeling Julia tense beside him at the same
time. If Trask had uncovered that truth, what else might he have
found? Perhaps the name of Angelique's husband, and the curse
under which he had lived?

"These witnesses are present in the courtroom today?" one of
the judges asked of Trask.

"Two of them are here, Your Honor. There are others I may
summon as you require."

"And who are these two?"

"The shopkeeper Aaron Loman and his wife, Andrea. They were
but children then, who sometimes played with young Sarah Collins at
the Old House on the Collinwood estate. But they remember
Angelique Collins, and the cruel deeds for which she was
responsible."

The plump judge lifted an assenting hand. "You have yet to
satisfy us that this woman is Angelique Collins. But very well,
Mr. Trask. Call your witnesses."

When Trask turned away, the object of his attack plaintively
addressed the tribunal. "Your Honors, I do not deny that I was
once called Angelique -- but there is no truth in Mr. Trask's
contentions, and he can call no credible witnesses to acts that I
have never performed!"

The third judge, a wizened prune of a man with a shock of pure
white hair, turned rheumy eyes on her and shook a bony finger at
the witness stand. "That has yet to be determined," he wheezed.

In horror, Barnabas watched as Aaron Loman and his wife
jointly took the stand, and proceeded to relate the painful tale of
Sarah Collins' mysterious death, and the unexplained deaths of many
others in the Collinsport of 1795. Most, they said, had perished
due to loss of blood.

Trask pounced on that grisly bit of information.

"Mr. Loman," he said, "are you familiar with the rites of
Satanic cults?"

The shopkeeper and his wife paled in unison.

"Of course we are not familiar with them," the man replied
indignantly.

"Yes, yes of course," Trask soothed. "I merely wished to
point out to you that blood sacrifice is an integral part of
Satanic ritualism. My father was researching this very subject in
the interest of ridding Collinsport of the curse that had befallen
it when he, too, was murdered. His body was never found."

The judges made no effort to quell the shocked murmurs that
erupted in the courtroom. To Barnabas, it was apparent that Trask
revelled in the sensationalism he had engendered here, as well as
in the discomfort he was causing the woman at the stand.
Angelique's gaze strayed across the crowd of accusing faces and
fastened on Barnabas' own -- he saw a pleading there that would
have been alien to her in any other time or place. This Angelique
was somehow different to the one he had known in that other time.
This one showed him vestiges of a humanity, and a vulnerability, he
had never known her to possess. The feeling disconcerted him,
carrying as it did a tinge of guilt, and he looked away, pretending
that he hadn't also noticed the presence of Julia's harder,
disapproving stare.

When he looked up again, Angelique had fixed her gaze upon
some nebulous point below the judges' bench: she responded not at
all to Trask or the tribunal or the witnesses they called as one by
one, they accused her, swearing that this was indeed the woman who
had wreaked havoc upon the Collinsport of 1795, and who, by her own
confession to the hellcraft, deserved no better than to die as her
victims had died.

That she had recanted of that craft, and confessed to save the
lives of two of the Collins family, was not mentioned again, and
Angelique herself said nothing. Angered, Barnabas rose to
interrupt Trask's final argument, ignoring the warning in Julia's
glare.

"I will not sit by and listen to this any longer!" He walked
into the aisle, incurring the venomous stares of row upon row of
villagers as he approached the indignant Trask, who turned to
regard him with a sneer.

"Barnabas Collins," he said unctuously. "And precisely what
part have you played in this woman's evil crimes? She is your
wife, is she not? And collaborator no doubt, in the worship of
Satan!"

The cadaverous judge slammed a hand on the bench before him,
stilling the crowd of onlookers. "Mr. Trask," he admonished, "this
proceding will maintain decorum!" In the awkward moment of silence
that followed his command, Trask and Barnabas stood locked in icy
contention across the barrier of the now-empty witness stand. The
judge slapped the bench once again. "Mr. Trask!"

"Yes." The erstwhile prosecutor shot his adversary one final
hate-filled look before turning back to the bench. "Your honors,
the prosecution has rested its case. We will therefore request--"

"And where is the defense?" Barnabas interrupted again. Three
dour faces reacted with scorn to this new interference.

"The woman has spoken in her own defense."

Barnabas tried desperately to seek Angelique's eyes, but she
would not look at him, would not look at any of them. "And you
consider that adequate?" he raged. "Well I do not!"

The white-haired justice frowned, wrinkling his whithered face
further. "Were you a party to your wife's acts of witchcraft, Mr.
Collins?"

He had not expected such a question, had not considered the
danger he might place himself in by speaking at all. "She has
confessed and recanted her powers of witchcraft," he said. "And
that unselfish act saved Quentin and Desmond Collins from an unjust
execution. Surely that must count for something!"

Cold silence answered him for a protracted moment before the
judge said, "You have not answered the question, sir."

After so many years, the lie came easily enough. "No, of
course I was not a party. I have never practiced witchcraft."

Trask's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps," he said, "that claim will
bear closer investigation."

The judge harrumphed. "If so, Mr. Trask, it shall be for
another court and another tribunal to determine. This one shall
now retire to make its decision. This session is adjourned."

Chaos broke out behind him, but Barnabas scarcely heard; he
was watching the grim-faced baliff lead an unresponsive Angelique
through the courtroom's inner door, and the echo of the last words
he had spoken to her came back with a vengeance to haunt him.

"That's the difference between us now. I am human -- you are
not."

And she had asked, with all the poignant simplicity of a
child, "And if I were... human?"

And so she was, now. Human, and vulnerable. Why had she
subjected herself to that? Why denounce everything she had
embraced, simply to save two men for whom she cared not at all? It
made no sense. No sense whatsoever...

"Barnabas!"

He started at the sibilant whisper of his name, aware of
Trask's tangible animosity as the man brushed past him to exit the
courtroom, and turned to face Julia and a puzzled Stokes. They
were the only three left in the room.

"Barnabas," Julia repeated his name less urgently, but in a
voice still imbued with concern. "You're risking too much,
Barnabas. Trask is suspicious enough already!"

He brushed away the hand she had placed on his arm. "I don't
care about that!"

"It's of little consequence one way or the other," Stokes
said, uncertain just what Julia's remark had meant. "We cannot
remain in this time for even one more day; by all appearances, the
anomaly that permitted our coming at all will no longer exist in a
few hours' time. The staircase is beginning to fade from this
dimension, to return, perhaps, to its own plane, its own time. If
we do not wish to be trapped here, then we must go as well."

"No." The abruptness of his reply surprised Barnabas himself.
"I cannot leave now!"

Julia's temper flared. "You have to! We all have to! Don't
be a fool, Barnabas, there's nothing to hold you here!"

"Angelique is here."

Julia stiffened. "I've never known you to care what became of
Angelique."

Infuriated, he walked away from them. "Don't tell me what I
care about," he snapped.

"Someone has to." A determined Julia had followed him down
the aisle. "Be reasonable, Barnabas! Angelique was the cause of
this -- we have no reason not to leave her to face the
consequences!"

He turned on her, tempering the fierceness of his intended
reply only because he was mindful of Stokes' presence. "Are you
judge and jury as well?"

Julia bit her lip and glared at him, left, for once, without
an answer.

"Time will manage its own solution," Stokes offered, falsely
placating. "As we must manage ours. I would suggest haste."

Barnabas studied the man for a moment, then said, "You and
Julia go. I will join you when I can."

"If you can," Julia amended. "Barnabas, this is insane!"

He might have been baffled by her attitude, had he not
suspected what lay behind it.

"Jealousy does not become you, Julia." He hadn't intended to
say it aloud, and particularly not in front of Stokes, but he was
in no mood to hide his feelings any longer and it had come out,
sounding at once both petty and ugly. "I seem to recall a time
when even you were willing to set your grievances with Angelique
aside, and work with her -- to save me."

She was still glaring, her jaw set in a firm, angry line. "The
circumstances--"

"Were not all that different," he interrupted. "Both of you,
go."

"Barnabas--"

He flung the courtroom door wide and walked out on her
protest, welcoming the chill of the evening air, the shadows and
obscurity of the coming night. He needed their familiar comforts
around him, to walk, and to consider...
* * *
Night had shrouded Collinsport for many hours by the time he
returned to the courthouse and its accompanying jail. He did not
know if Julia and Stokes had heeded his request and returned to
their own time, nor could he guess whether the staircase would
still function for him if and when the plan he had devised
succeeded. But if it did not, then he would find some other
solution, and remain here in this time if he must. Either way, he
did not intend to go alone.

It was ironic, in its way, that Angelique herself had taught
him the use of the herbs he now carried, concealed in a
handkerchief and held tightly in hand beneath his cloak.

I have never practiced witchcraft, he had said.

And that, like the rest, had been a lie.

The hour was late; village church bells had long ago tolled
midnight. And there was but one guard on duty in the anteroom
between courthouse and cell. Such was the foolish trust inherent
in small fishing towns. The locked door no deterrent, Barnabas
used a tool Quentin had once given him and slipped easily into the
room. Four candles guttered in a tiered wrought-iron stand beside
the dozing guard, who roused at the draft of cool air from the door
and blinked in confusion at his visitor.

"Wha...? Who are you? How did you...?"

"I'm terribly sorry," Barnabas apologized, and strode
confidently toward the man. "I know it's quite late. But it
really is most important that I be permitted to speak with my
wife."

"Your...?" The man was still fighting sleep, straining to
identify the caller in the umber candlelight. "How did you get in
here?"

"Very simply." Barnabas' hand slid from under the cloak, and
a white lace handkerchief was extended toward the unwitting guard.
"I used this."

The man had no time to react beyond taking the instinctive
breath necessary for the potion to work. He folded over the desk
at which he had so recently been napping, to resume his slumbers
for the balance of the evening.

Removing the man's keys from his belt, Barnabas found himself
musing that the state of being human entailed certain difficulties
he had nearly forgotten. Once, he would simply have materialized
within these walls and rendered the guard unconscious by quite
another means. But all of that was over now...
Angelique rose at the sound of the door's unoiled hinges, and
both surprise and pleasure filled her eyes at the sight of him.

"Barnabas!"

He turned the key rapidly in the cell's lock. "No time to
talk now. We must leave here, quickly, before anyone comes."

"But where...?" He arrested the question by grasping her hand
and pulling her from the cell.

"Just come with me. Hurry!"

It was not until they were well into the cover of the trees,
halfway to Collinwood's hill and the grim outlying acreage of Eagle
Hill Cemetery, that she broke stride and halted, speaking for the
first time since he had taken her from the jail.

"Barnabas, where are you taking me?"

He turned to face her in the moonlight, amazed at how
incredibly lovely it made her, just as it had done, many years ago,
in Martinique.

"To Collinwood," he answered belatedly.

She stared at him, and the fear was apparent in her eyes once
again. "You know I can't go back there!"

"But you can. You must trust me in this -- if we are not too
late, there is a way we may escape this time and travel to another.

And the means to do that is at Collinwood."

He made to leave but she did not follow. She was looking at
him now with suspicion. "The way you came here?"

"Yes."

"And you would take me back... with you?"

"Would you prefer to remain here?"

Some of her old fire rang in the response. "Would you?"

"Only if I must. That is a contingency I hope we will not
have to face."

Again, he moved to go on and again, she failed to follow. He
turned back to her, wondering why her head was bowed that way, and
reached out to lift her chin, appalled to find tears glistening on
her cheeks.

"Angelique... What is wrong?"
She stiffened, denying the tears. "Nothing. Perhaps... it
has simply been too long since I have heard you use the word 'we.'"

He had no adequate answer for that.

"I will take you with me," he said at length. "For Quentin
and Desmond's sakes, I owe you that. Afterward, I cannot tell you
what will happen. Not yet."

The shadow of betrayal flickered in the grey-green eyes. "You
will help me, but you still do not want me."

"I didn't say that."

"Didn't you?"

"No! I..." He hesitated, drawing a breath to curb his anger.
"I simply don't know my feelings on the matter, yet. There hasn't
been time..."

She moved into his arms, a swift and natural movement that he
found, for once, he did not wish to repel.

"I will tell you one thing you have always known," she said.
"That I love you. And nothing...nothing...will ever change that."

He had no wish to repel her kiss either, and returned it with
an eagerness he had not felt since that first night, when she had
come to his room in Martinique. Here, amidst the trees and the
sighing night wind, it seemed to him as though all those other
times had not existed at all, and they could discover one another
anew, without hatred or rancor, without any of the bitterness that
had formed between them in the intervening years. They were merely
a man and a woman, husband and wife...

"Yes, I knew," he said quietly, and held her closer to him.
"What I did not realize until now... is that in spite of all that
has happened between us... I have always loved you."

A cloud chose that moment to obscure the moon, plunging them
further into shadow, and somewhere far away thunder muttered in the
heavens. As though drunk with his words, Angelique seemed not to
hear, lost in the ardor of kissing him again.

This time he did pull away.

"Come." He took her hand again. "We must get to Collinwood."
 
 

Back ways into the house were all familiar to him, the route
to the secluded stairway all the more so. The last thing he had
expected, however, was to find Eliot Stokes ensconsed beside the
rosewood panelling that obscured the stairs.
"Stokes!" Barnabas ignored the man's curious look at his
companion. "Why are you still here?"

The heavy-set professor shook his head. "I can assure you,
Mr. Collins, it was not my choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Over here, Barnabas Collins."

It was a voice he had hoped never to hear again, yet it was
there, emerging from behind a drapery -- Trask, with a grim-faced
Julia held at gunpoint in front of him.

"I'm sorry, Barnabas." He had never seen Julia Hoffman so
penitent -- or so frightened -- before. "He followed us here. He
was certain you would..."

"That's enough." Trask pushed her aside, and brought the gun
to bear instead on Barnabas. "I do not know what sorcery the lot
of you had planned for tonight -- but I do know that I intend to
see it stopped, here and now!"

Barnabas faced the other man squarely and overlooking the gun,
stared into the zeal-maddened eyes instead. "Do you? How? By
committing murder?"

Trask ostensibly did not notice that his adversary had been
moving closer to him. "No. The court has already condemned the
witch; the tribunal would have passed its death sentence in the
morning. And you -- you would have died for your acts in collusion
with her, in service to Satan!"

"Barnabas!"

He had nearly been on top of Trask, had nearly been close
enough to dare charging the gun when suddenly it had swung away and
fired, the shot coming only moments after Julia's warning cry, and
another voice -- Angelique's -- had also screamed his name.

His hand lashed out to strike Trask's, knocking the weapon
away. Barnabas was only vaguely aware of the sound of it thudding
to the wooden floor. His hands were locked around Trask's throat,
the force of unrelenting rage bearing the man to his knees. His
scream was crushed before it could be fully born. Eyes filled
scant moments ago with hatred grew huge now with the terror of
death. The man's mouth gaped, desperately seeking air that was
denied him, and then, abruptly, his last feeble efforts exhausted,
he gasped pitifully and went limp beneath the hands of his
attacker. Still, Barnabas held him, shook him, raged at him.
There were other hands on his own now, prying them away from the
dead thing they clutched. Only when Julia's aggrieved pleading
finally registered did Barnabas drop the corpse to the floor, and
turned to see Stokes kneeling over another still form...
"No..."

Stokes moved away, his glance at Julia confirming what they
both must know, but Barnabas would have none of it. He gathered
Angelique into his arms, trying beyond reason not to see the ugly
stain that marred the blue satin of her gown.

"No," he said again, and appealed to Julia with eyes that
filled, unashamed, with tears. "Help her. Please, Julia."

She knelt beside him, one hand clasped hesitantly to his
shoulder, and shook her head in the annoying manner of all doctors
addressing the unwilling about the inevitable. "I'm sorry," she
said weakly. "But there's nothing..."

"We will take her back with us," he insisted. "In the future,
there will be a way. There must be!"

But Julia was shaking her head, denying his words as he spoke
them.

"She isn't..." he began, and then spoke to the woman in his
arms, willing her to open her eyes. "No, you can't leave me. Not
now!"

The thinnest of smiles tried meekly to grace the perfect
mouth, and the eyes did open, enough to smile up at him as well.
Her lips moved, forming three words he read without need of sound.
And then...
"No. Please, no..."

"Barnabas--"

He cradled Angelique in his arms and refused to hear the
urgency in Julia's plea. Nothing...no one else was there.

"Barnabas... Barnabas, please! The shot will have been heard.
We must leave here, now!"

Stronger hands were intervening now to tear Angelique from his
grasp and pull him to his feet. Barnabas tried to resist, moreso
when he saw the limp and delicate figure resting now on the floor
at his feet, but Stokes' grip was resolute, and Barnabas had
expended his all-too-human strength elsewhere.

The staircase, open now amid the even pattern of the wall
panels, loomed in front of him, and Julia was there, proffering a
hand.

"Come on," she said. "It's time to go home."

"Yes," he answered, but it was a hollow word, a trip he had no
particular desire to make. "Home..."

Whatever plane in all the corridors of time he might call home
would make no difference any longer.

To Barnabas Collins, they would all be the same.