Waiting for the Moon

He nodded and reached for the door, opening it quickly. Ian and Agnes stood on the porch, locked in a tight, desperate embrace.

When he stepped onto the porch, they slowly drew apart. Agnes gave Ian a last, lingering half smile and came to Elliot, slipping her arm through his.

Together, silently, they walked down the sagging steps and across the soft layer of new snow. Still silent, they climbed aboard. Elliot took the cold, flat reins in his gloved hands and urged the horse forward.

The wheels whined in protest and slowly began to turn, crunching through the snow.

For a long time, Elliot couldn't bear to look at Agnes, and when he finally did, he wished he hadn't. She sat hunched and shaking, her chin tucked protectively into her chest. They hadn't gone more than fifty feet from the house and already she was beginning to wilt.

It broke his heart to see her pain.

She was the only real family he'd ever had, this wife who wasn't a wife, had never really been a wife. They weren't lovers, not in the physical sense of the word, and not even in the emotional.

It was amazing how the realization freed him. For the

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first time in years, maybe forever, he understood how he felt for Agnes. She was his family.

His friend. She had always been there for him; even after he brought her to the sterile world of the Believers, she'd always been there. A stolen look, a little wave, a tired smile. She'd always been his rock, comforting and anchoring him by her very presence.

But what had he been to her? Her protector, her savior. Not her husband, never truly her husband.

He loved her, certainly. But not the way she deserved to be loved. Not the way Ian loved her. Elliot had never felt honest sexual desire for her-or if he had, it was so long ago, he couldn't remember. He wanted her for the same reason she wanted him. So they wouldn't be so alone in the world.

Only she wasn't alone anymore.

The driveway forked up ahead. One road led to the huge, iron-scrolled gates, which now were silvered with frost. The other led back to the house.

Ian leaned against the porch stanchion, his arms crossed tightly on his chest, his mouth drawn in a taut line. Watching her leave him. Again.

The world was quiet, still, with only the low soughing of the wind to punctuate the clip-clop of the horse's hooves.

He stood stiff, straight, afraid that if he moved, if he even blinked, he'd run after her, fall to his knees beside the wagon and beg her to stay with him.

Marry me, Selena. Marry me because I'm selfish and unenlightened and need you so. ...

He squeezed his eyes shut, not ready to remember yet, wondering if he'd ever be ready to remember.

His life spiraled out before him, endless days and longer nights, and yawning, desperate loneliness. Children he wouldn't father, kisses he wouldn't feel.

"Jesus," he moaned, fisting his hands. He'd never

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known a man could feel this sharp a pain and keep breathing, keep living.

"They're coming back," Maeve said softly.

Ian's head snapped up. He opened his eyes.

The wagon had reached the curve in the driveway and turned left. Back toward the house.

Johann pulled away from the door, moved toward the steps. "Holy shit."

They stood there, Andrew, the queen, Lara, Maeve, Johann, and him, breathless and waiting, hoping. But no one said a word.

The wagon pulled up in front of the house again and stopped.