The familiar pieces busied her fingers and allowed her mind to wander.

So far, I adore being married. My charming husband pleases me

tremendously both in bed and out. The bishop made me think I would grieve and

be miserable for a while and then begin to heal, but in fact, the two processesseem to be simultaneous. I still have those old feelings of fear and melancholythat have been my constant state for the last ten years, but they're nowinterspersed with moments of radiant joy. I must allow myself to grieve when it

rises; it has to be felt to be healed, but I'm far from miserable most of the time.

How can I be when I have Christopher to hold and kiss and talk to me?

Grinning, music ringing in her heart, she had no trouble making her way to

the kitchen for a cup of tea and then back down the hall to the parlor, where she

hunted for paper and a pen. On the small table, Christopher had brought from his

apartment, she located a folio filled with sheets of paper, which she opened in hopes of finding something blank.

Instead, each sheet had the logo of the Wilder printing company. The name

Robert Browning capped several collections of raggedly uneven lines.

“These are poems,” she realized aloud, setting her cup down and digging

through the collection. “The conversation pieces Christopher mentioned, I'll wager.”

She took a sip of her tea and regarded the first poem, her eyebrows drawing

together at the title, “Porphyria's Lover.”

Oh, it's a naughty poem, she thought. Perhaps like Byron? Feeling naughty herself, she rationalized, Well, I'm a married woman, am I not? I have experienced passion. If this poem proves a little scandalous, I’m ready.

So, she read. This poet writes with a bit of a lisp, she realized, lips moving soundlessly as she stumbled over the ragged rhythm and hunted for the rhyme in

the middle of multi-line phrases.

“Oh, God!”

Katerina froze, backed up and read again. “He killed her? Dear Lord.” She shook her head as her cheerful mood shattered. “He's a madman.”

A sob crept up from her belly, choking her. “Not now!” she ordered herself

sternly. Defiant tears welled up and streamed down her cheeks.

“Quickly. Something different.” She flipped the poem over and examined the

next one. “‘My Last Duchess.' Sounds harmless enough,” she thought, her

stomach jumping, and sure enough, the first few lines, with their description of

the speaker's wealth, were almost boring. “‘I gave commands and all smiles stopped together.’” She closed the folio, so her tears would not stain the paper,

and set it aside.

I came so close to being the subject of a story just like these. The onlydifference is that my lover saved me. If Christopher and his mother hadn'tintervened, would I still be alive now to read poems and cry over them? Likely

not.

Her tea forgotten, she buried her face in her arm on the table and gave vent to

her emotions again. That was where Christopher found her when he returned from work a few minutes later.

Oh, my poor darling, he thought, his mind still on the conversation he'd had with his father earlier. He was right. We should get away. Go somewhere filled with sunshine and spend our days as newlyweds.

Without saying a word, he approached her from behind and wrapped his

arms around her, intending to comfort her.

It was a terrible mistake.

She started violently, pulling away with a cry of terror and curling into a ball,

protecting her head and belly from a perceived attack.

What's wrong with me? Cursing himself, he laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Kat,” he said softly, “I'm sorry I startled you.”

“Christopher?” Her rigid body began to relax, and she straightened. They

stared at one another for a breathless, unguarded moment, and then she launched

herself into his arms. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, her face hidden against his shoulder.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love. It was my fault. Anyone would

have been surprised to be grabbed from behind. I'm sorry.” He slid his hand under her chin and raised her face. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

He regarded her in silence, waiting for the reason behind the tear stains on her cheeks.

At last, she added, “I read your poems.”

“What, the Browning?” He squeezed her tighter.