"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Your children?" I pushed out.

He stopped looking blank in order to look mildly impatient. "Yes. My children. Christophe and elan."

Christophe and elan.

A boy and a girl.

Or maybe two boys (I'd never heard the name elan).

It didn't matter.

Children.

Apollo of this world and his dead Ilsa had children.

Two of them.

Two of them.

Suddenly, I was certain I was going to throw up but luckily he spoke again so I had something to focus on and could swallow it down.

"These women are ladies maids and seamstresses. They will attend you."

I didn't need ladies maids and seamstresses. I didn't even need a bathroom anymore.

I needed Valentine. Like now.

So I asked, "Where's Valentine?"

"I do not know. She disappeared in the night, as is her wont."

Disappeared?

Why?

s.h.i.t!

"Uh...I think she left a lot out last night," I informed him.

"I'm late being away to the children's school. You and I will talk later. But I'll warn you now, I'll have little time. There's much to be done before we embark on our journey, so think on your questions and use that time wisely," he stated and turned to leave.

Wait.

Hang on a second.

Who was this guy? And where was the guy who was all affectionate and kind and concerned and fierce?

"Wait!" I called when he'd almost made the door.

He turned back to me, definitely impatient now. "Ilsa, as I said, I'm late being away. I should have left half an hour ago."

"I..." I hesitated and tipped my head to the side. "Are you okay?"

His impatience fled, the blank mask slid over his face and he answered, "I will be, if you leave me to go collect my children."

"Right," I said softly. "Of course."

He didn't acknowledge that. Not with a nod of his head, a lift of his chin or anything.

He just turned and walked out the door, and without pause, the troop of women rushed forward and descended on me.

It was late evening.

After Apollo took off, I'd been measured for clothing and then led to a room down the hall, which fortunately had a screen painted with a lovely landscape with people picnicking on it, behind which, unfortunately, there was a chamber pot.

I wasn't fired up about the chamber pot business but it was something that didn't include me tiptoeing through the tulips (or whatever) to answer nature's call, so I used it.

The room also had a fabulous porcelain bath with silver claw feet and high sides.

It was safe to say, I was fired up about that.

The girls left and I was allowed to take a bath alone but I noted there was no plumbing, although there was a drain. Still, the water was warm, the shampoo smelled of citrus, the soap of lavender, and the washcloth was slightly rough in a loofah kind of way.

When I got out, I grabbed the towel they left me on a dainty stool by the bath. It wasn't terrycloth but it was soft and absorbent and a fabulous shade of blue.

They'd also left a robe. It was silk, there was a fair bit of delicate lace and it was b.u.t.ter yellow.

Okay, it was safe to say I was getting fired up more and more.

The women came back (three of them) and brushed my hair until it was almost dry then arranged it in a soft ponytail at my nape. They gave me light makeup, taking care with my bruised cheek (the room with the tub also had an oval mirror with scalloped edges on the wall; I looked in it and saw my cheek was not good but still, as bad as it hurt, I'd had worse).

They also gave me undies (no bra, just a pair of white lace panties and they were like panties in my world except a whole lot better).

Then they helped me put on a dress that didn't fit, it was a hint too big, but it was lovely all the same. A gossamer fabric over a phenomenal crepe de chine, both the color of a bruised peach. It had a scoop neck that showed some serious cleavage, a gathered bodice that led to an empire waist, and the skirts swept down to my feet, the back of it ending in a small kicka.s.s train.

After I got the dress on, they gave me four different pairs of slippers that I tried (they were all beautiful, two embroidered, one with a flat bow at the toe and one just plain satin). But none of them fit, (three too small, one too big) so I went barefoot.

And last, they brought me breakfast which was croissants, jam, fruit and, thankfully, coffee.

Then they left.

I tried talking to them but they spoke what sounded like French and I might know what tout de suite and cherie meant, but I took Spanish in high school so the rest of it was lost on me.

Since Apollo had spoken to one of them in English, which I would a.s.sume he'd know she'd understand, I tried to ask for her to come back as she'd disappeared with the women with the measuring tape.

This got me smiles, head tilts, brows drawing and shrugs, so I was thinking they were in the same boat as me and had no clue.

So I gave up.

After I ate, I wandered to the French doors and pulled a set open.

Then I took a step back and winced.

I didn't wince from pain.

I winced because the rolling countryside was a green so green, a green so extraordinarily beautiful, it was difficult to witness.

In fact, it was so beautiful, it appeared unnatural.

I blinked several times and cautiously moved out onto the balcony.

The view was a unlike any other I'd seen and I'd traveled with Pol, broadly.

But I'd never seen anything like what I was seeing then. That verdant green. The winding, creamy lane that was flanked on both sides by a riot of wildflowers so bright, their stark juxtaposition against that green was unreal.

And that green seemed to go on and on, cut only by steeple topping a church made of mellow rust stone, and opposite that some ways away, a large patch of bushy rows of what appeared to be lavender.

But in the distance, the green darkened in what appeared to be a forest that climbed partly up some jagged topped mountains, their stone a severe gray which was lightened by deep grooves that scored nearly down to the tree line, the grooves filled with snow.

It was phenomenal. Amazing.

Otherworldly.

"My G.o.d," I breathed, finally believing without a doubt I was in a parallel universe.

There was nothing like this in my world and I couldn't make this up in a dream. No one could make this up in a dream, it was just that phenomenal.

I determined to take a walk and see it close up but decided to do that the next day (if we weren't "away" by then). After the activity of the morning, my ribs were killing me, my face didn't feel all that great, and I didn't speak French (or whatever) so I couldn't ask the girls if they had ibuprofen or aspirin.

Instead, I drank in the view until it dissolved in front of me as two names laid siege to my brain.

Christophe and elan.

I closed my eyes tight and sucked in a deep breath, the kind I'd practiced over and over again the last eleven years Pol had been in my life. And in pulling in that breath, as I'd learned to do and do it well, I controlled the emotion I couldn't allow myself to feel.

I opened my eyes, and having it under control, I allowed my mind to go there.

Christophe and elan.

I would never name my kids those names.

But Pol would. He'd totally name our kids names like that. And Pol, being Pol, even if I'd picked out my own names, would name them whatever the h.e.l.l he wanted.

Unfortunately, he'd lost his mind about something I no longer remembered- but when he did that, the reasons were never really important-and beat the c.r.a.p out of me when I was seven months pregnant and thus I lost our boy.

And I'd miscarried in my sixth month and lost our girl.

These had bought me the only long blocks of time with Pol that hadn't included him losing it frequently. Being the biggest a.s.shole I'd ever met in my life, even he wasn't that big of an a.s.shole to blame me for losing our son after he'd beat the c.r.a.p out of me and I'd eventually hit the ground and rolled down the six brick stairs that led to our fabulous pool.

So he'd treated me like crystal for months after that.

Until he'd stopped doing it.

And even Pol had loved me enough in his way to revert right back to that tender care when we found out I was pregnant again, giving me the first hint since he showed me the true Pol four months after we were married that maybe he could change and we could make a go of it.

Further, he knew I was crushed when I got so far along with our baby girl and lost her, so he kept doing it.

Until he'd stopped doing it again, forever shattering any illusion that he could change and we could make a go of it.

A year after that, carefully timed, carefully planned, I'd escaped.

Now I was here.

My eyes were open but I didn't see the view to beat all views.

I saw nothing but heard the Apollo of this world saying he would be preparing his children to meet me, something that would be difficult for me to do.

For if he was Pol of this world, and I was his Ilsa, then his children...

I shook my head and took another deep, steadying breath.

Letting it out, I decided that couldn't be. There had to be differences between the worlds and obviously there were. For the Apollo and Ilsa of this world had kids, and Pol and I did not.

His kids were not what our kids would have been.

No way.

I'd paid a very heavy price for my self-indulgence, materialism and avarice. No G.o.d in any universe would make me pay that kind of price.

I turned my mind from that and started to wonder when Apollo's children's mother died-if they were young and didn't remember her or if they did.

And if they did, I didn't think it was that hot of an idea for them to meet me.

In fact, it would be cruel. He'd been blank and impatient that morning and the night before he'd more than once been seriously scary, so I was guessing he had it in him to be cruel. But I couldn't find it in me to believe the man I'd met the night before would be cruel to his own children.

I had to turn my mind away from these thoughts and my future. No answers came from worrying and wondering. I'd learned that a long time ago. Answers came from seeing and doing.

I just had to wait.

I left the balcony and took a tour of the house, which was a long tour since it was a huge-a.s.s house.

And the entirety of it was much like the room I slept in, elegant to almost cartoon-like extremes, but nevertheless strangely tasteful and absolutely gorgeous.

A maid found me (and not the English-speaking one, unfortunately) and guided me to a dining room decorated in yellows and blues. There, I got a light lunch of salad with flakes of tuna, quarters of hard-boiled egg, crisp bacon bits and olives in a light oil-based dressing flavored in lemon with a heavenly roll on the side, this served with wine, of which I partook a lot.