Waiting for the Moon

Bending,'he grabbed another thick, round log from the pile. When he picked it up, he saw a single white flower, struggling to grow wild and free in the shadow of the matted, broken grass behind the woodpile.

It reminded him so sharply of Agnes. He remembered last week's union meeting, when he'd stolen a few precious moments with her, speaking softly while the others watched.

I want flowers in my room, Elliot. I miss the flowers. .. .

He'd been so devastated by the wistful sadness in her voice that he couldn't think. He'd answered by rote, mumbling that flowers were not to be grown for their

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beauty. Such an ornamental use would be 'contrary to order.' Roses were grown only to be used in making rose water, not for their scent or their beauty. Oh, she'd said with a half sigh. How sad. And it was, he realized suddenly. Sad not to enjoy the beauty of a flower. Sad that God would demand such a thing when He had created the beauty in the first place. He bent and plucked up the flower. It looked delicate and impossibly fragile in his big, rough fingers.

Across the street, he heard Lucy say, "I'll be right back, Agnes. We need more lavender water." Elliot's gaze shot to the washhouse, to the open door. He didn't think, just moved. With a quick sideways glance each way, he hurried across the street and ducked inside the building, closing the door quietly behind him.

Agnes looked up from her ironing. There was a moment's surprise on her face, and then it was gone, replaced by a dull acceptance. "Hello, Elliot."

Lord, how she had changed. He remembered in a flash how she'd looked at Lethe House, coming down the stairs in the worldly dress, her pale shoulders so creamy and soft-looking, her eyes sparkling with happiness. For the first time, he wondered how she'd been injured. How desperate had she been to leave this place? Desperate enough to run into a moving carriage?

He brought the flower up, handed it to her. "I don't want you to miss the flowers."

She stared down at it, and the dull, glassy look in her eyes melted away. "It's white," she whispered.

For a second, just a second, she was the woman he'd seen at Lethe House, breathtakingly beautiful and filled with emotion. She took the flower, brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. A slow, hesitant smile curved her lips.

"Thank you," she said.

He stared at her in silence, not knowing what to say, what to do.

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She looked up at him. "Do you ever think of leaving this place?"

For a second, he almost said yes. Then reality rushed in, pulverized the feeble hope. He

remembered what it was like out there, how people treated a huge man with a disfigured face. "I ... I have a tough time in the world."

"Johann told me that the world was a cold, cruel place. It must be true if a gentle man like you is treated badly."

"You were the only one," he said softly, surprised to hear himself speak. He hadn't meant to voice the thought. Heat crawled up his cheeks.

"The only one what?"

"The only one who never ran from me. Never held this face against me."

She gave him a sad smile. "Then you knew the wrong people. No one at Lethe House would have cared."

He sighed. Lethe House again. "Maybe."

Her gaze dropped to the flower in her hand. "Did you ever want children?"

He drew in a sharp breath. Children. So many nights, as he lay in his lonely single bed, he'd thought about the children he'd never have, the grandchildren he'd never raise. Long ago he'd named the invisible children, dreamed of them, but those visions had finally collapsed in on themselves, devastated by the weight of their own impossibility.

And now, as he looked down at Agnes, he dreamed of them again. He'd give anything, even his immortal soul, to hold a child of hers. He'd always yearned for a child, one whom he could hold and kiss and shower with all the love he'd hoarded for a lifetime.

It hurt to think of it, so he stopped, pushed the memories away. "It was not God's will."

She snorted and looked up. "It is always God's will to bring babies into this world. God did not force you

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