This tale of rain and spring and secrets, of revelations and poetry and flowers, is rated SV for sects and violets (but you won't find any sects until the very end). Cheryl and I wondered what Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher--separated by protocol, professional ethics, and plain fear of each other--do in their spare time. After pondering this question for several E-mails, we decided the answer lies in this story of

Rain and Revelations

Diana Read and Cheryl Ross

It was a morning of heavy rain, a hopeless gray morning that echoed the hopelessness in his own heart. Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police entered the Canadian Consulate building in Chicago, where he served as Deputy Liaison Officer, and paused to wipe the wet soles of his highly polished black shoes on the welcome mat. Beside him his wolf, Diefenbaker, shivered violently, sending a spatter of drops against Fraser's blue uniform trousers.

"Oh, dear." The dampness was unwelcome, but he'd soon dry off. And if it hadn't been for his best friend, Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department, he and Dief would have been wetter still: Ray had kindly given them both a lift to the Consulate on his way to work.

Fraser flicked a few beads of moisture off his jacket, removed his rain-dampened Stetson, and proceeded up the stairs. Dief kept a dignified pace alongside him. Pausing at the top, Fraser turned to go into his office, only to be stopped mid-turn by the voice that haunted his dreams.

"Constable Fraser, a moment of your time, please."

He wheeled about to face her. "Yes, ma'am."

"In my office, Fraser."

On this dark spring morning that seemed more like March than May, Inspector Thatcher was wearing a severely tailored gray suit. She led the way to her office, her dark hair swinging as she walked; he liked the shimmer of it as it moved with her.

She sat down, her face as unreadable as always. "Constable, you're aware of the report I need from you no later than noon today..."

"Yes, ma'am." He stood at attention, holding his Stetson stiffly in front of him. He could feel the reassuring stillness of his own facial muscles: a lifetime of schooling himself not to show emotion in public stood him in good stead now. Didn't she remember how he had kissed her on top of a moving train, on a day so cold that even now, months later, he had to repress a shiver at the memory of it? Had she forgotten how he'd told her, a bare four weeks ago, that he'd been unable to erase the kiss from his mind?

"Are you going to deliver it today? I can't complete my own summation for the master report until I have your input. I have to Fed Ex the master this afternoon for delivery first thing Monday morning. "

"Yes, ma'am. I'm waiting only for one last set of statistics, which I hope to have within the hour. I put in a call to Ottawa last night and they promised me the information by ten o'clock."

"Very well, Constable. Dismissed."

Fraser saw her eyes return to her laptop as she appeared to forget he was there. He turned dutifully and marched out, feeling even more down in the dumps than before. He thought he'd detected a flicker of possibility, once upon a time, that she might return his feelings for her. That time they had been locked in the incubator by the egg thieves who were after Lyndon Buxley's exceptional eggs, for example: she'd seemed to want to tell him something as he worked the door lock with the piece of wire she had extracted from his tunic collar.

For months he had wondered what she would have told him if he'd allowed her to speak. At the time, it hadn't seemed a good idea to let her; confident of his own ability to get the two of them out of an extremely life-threatening situation, he had wanted to forestall the possibility that she might tell him something that she would later regret having said. And if the Inspector experienced regret and chose to take it out on him...the thought of the possible punishments she could devise made even Fraser, brave though he knew himself to be, quail. He had no desire to stand sentry duty outside the Consulate or to scour Chicago's bars for another bottle of five-hundred-dollar scotch.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof seemed even louder when he reached his own office. Dief, already dozing beneath the desk, thumped his tail once in sleepy acknowledgment as Fraser sat down.

Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out the sheaf of papers he'd taken home last night. After supper, while Dief prowled the streets, Fraser had sat at the kitchen table in his apartment and worked on the report that his superior officer wanted him to hand in by noon Friday. After doing everything except adding the last piece of information, Fraser had pushed the stack of pages out of the way and given vent to his feelings by writing a poem.

He loved her and yet she could never be his. He'd once entertained high hopes that they could somehow--despite the difference between their respective ranks, despite the rules of professional behavior that constrained them both, despite the seeming coldness between them--have a relationship outside the office, but now his hopes seemed to have come to nothing. He was doomed to remain alone, except for Ray and Dief, while love and marriage and possible parenthood passed him by. She was his distant star and he her worshipper, forever bound to silence. He poured out his feelings in words and as always, the intellectual exercise made him feel better. Poetry was so--so cathartic, he thought, as he began to prepare for bed.

Yes, last night he'd briefly felt better, but this morning he felt sunk in gloom again. He took the report out of his jacket and began reading through it once more to make sure that he had omitted nothing. When the telephone rang at ten o'clock sharp, he reached for the receiver gratefully; if this turned out to be his contact at RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa, he would make his deadline.

However, analyzing the statistics his source gave him proved more burdensome than he had anticipated, so it was with surprise that Fraser looked up to see Constable Turnbull standing at attention before his desk.

"Good morning, Turnbull."

"Good morning, Fraser. The Inspector--" Turnbull swallowed visibly "--the Inspector has sent me to get your report. It's a minute to twelve."

"Oh, dear!" Fraser, glancing at the heavy RCMP watch he wore, saw to his consternation that Turnbull spoke the truth. "Er, here, Constable."

He began to gather the papers in front of him into a neat pile; Turnbull, evidently nervous, bent forward over the desk to help him, but succeeded only in impeding Fraser's efforts.

"Don't keep Inspector Thatcher waiting, Turnbull." Fraser spoke more sternly than he had intended; Turnbull, blushing, accepted the report from Fraser and turned on his heel to march smartly out of the room.

Looking after him, Fraser sighed. It was merely the middle of a long day; but even the arrival of five o'clock would not bring the usual euphoria of the beginning of a spring weekend. The forecasters had predicted rain all day tomorrow as well. He and Ray had originally planned to go to a baseball game, but in view of the forecast Ray had informed him this morning that he intended to catch up on handyman-type chores around the Vecchio household instead. Bleakly surveying the prospect of a weekend spent indoors, Fraser nudged Dief awake and prepared to go downstairs to the Consulate snack room for lunch.

At 12:15 p.m. that Friday, RCMP Inspector Meg Thatcher closed her laptop computer and stacked the reports from her deputy liaison officer, Constable Fraser, her secretary, Mr. Ovitz, and her internal security officer, Constable Turnbull, into a neat pile on her desk. She would begin on them first thing after lunch. She opened her desk drawer to take out the brown paper bag containing her sandwich, then glanced out the window. To her delight, the rain had stopped; a few rays of watery-looking sunlight were streaming from the thick gray clouds moving slowly across the sky. That meant she could leave the building after all: she reached for the raincoat hanging on the back of her office door and put it on. Then, picking up handbag and lunch bag, she hurried out.

She had to get out of the building, she felt so...she searched for a word to describe her feelings...so invaded, when she was in her office at the Consulate. He was everywhere: in her thoughts every waking moment; in her line of vision, frequently, during the day; in her apartment at night. Try as she might, she could not banish Fraser from her mind. It was a new and not entirely pleasant feeling to be so overtaken by an outside force.

It was ridiculous, of course, she told herself as she headed for the pocket-sized park two blocks away from the Canadian Consulate on Stetson Street. She had allowed herself--foolishly--to fall in love with a man forbidden to her. It wasn't that he was someone else's property; plainly, he was unattached. And it wasn't that he was of a religion incompatible with her own--she felt sure, that whatever religion Fraser might profess, he would respect whatever spiritual path the people around him chose to follow. No, in every way that mattered they were more alike than different, as she'd pointed out to him on that freezing day on top of the moving train. She'd reminded him of their similarities and then Fraser had surrounded her--no, invaded her personal space--and proceeded to kiss merry hell out of her. And it was at that moment the madness began.

For madness it was. How could there possibly be anything between them? The man reported to her. She was his commanding officer in the police force in which they both served, and if she began a romantic relationship with a subordinate, the result might well be the ruin of both their careers.

The voice of passion constrained whispered that it would be possible to conduct herself in such fashion during working hours that no one would guess at the relationship she and Fraser might enjoy outside the office. Fraser's demeanor, of course, would not be a problem. Not for nothing had he stood sentry duty outside the Consulate during the year of her service as the resident senior police officer at the Consulate: his ability to control his expression so that he gave nothing away had sometimes, in fact, driven her to fury.

But Meg dismissed the thought of a relationship so discreet that no one would guess it existed. Sooner or later someone always found out about such things, and then the subsequent embarrassment made the parties concerned wish themselves elsewhere...Madagascar, for preference.

If we did have a relationship, one or the other of us would have to leave the RCMP--possibly, even me. And I wouldn't care, damn it--he'd be worth it. The thought was so heretical that Meg felt as if someone had thrown cold water over her.

In fact, she realized, something had: a gust of wind was shaking the raindrop-heavy branches of the tree she was passing under, and the cold wet reality of that sudden shower brought her mind back to her present surroundings.

There was a park bench, empty except for a puddle of water, which she hastily brushed off. She could sit down without fear: her raincoat was sufficiently waterproof to withstand a little dampness. As she sank her teeth into a rather dry cheese sandwich (really, she must remember to get some fresh bread on the way home, this seemed quite stale)--she realized she was not eating lunch in solitude. The spirit of Fraser seemed present even here in this waterlogged pocket park. Could she have no peace at all? Why wouldn't the man leave her alone?

She felt his eyes--invisible but nonetheless intense--on her as she finished the sandwich and fished an apple out of the bag. I can't take this, she thought, and then--improbably--rescue arrived in the form of a Muse. Phrases filled her mind as if they had been floating in the air, waiting for her frustration to call them into being, and even as she groped in her handbag for pencil and paper, the phrases arranged themselves into an order that seemed as logical as it was foreordained. She wrote quickly, excitement bubbling up inside her as she watched her feelings take form.

From the minute she'd laid eyes on her tall, blue-eyed, dark-haired, unbelievably handsome subordinate, Meg Thatcher had been so nuts about Fraser that she couldn't see straight. Trying to keep this knowledge from everyone around her (and most of all, from the object of her affections) had drawn on reserves of inner strength she hadn't known she possessed. Even when, on the occasion of their first meeting, Meg had looked him straight in the eye and said, "You're fired," she hadn't actually meant it. After twelve years in the RCMP she knew perfectly well that subordinates, even troublesome ones, could not be fired at whim. The paperwork to terminate an employee's service took a long time--was, in fact, designed to be daunting, so that everyone had plenty of time to think things through before proceeding.

And in this case, by the time the wheels to complete the process of terminating Fraser's employment were in motion, she'd begun to see that, despite his eccentricity, he was also admirable. Besides being handsome, he possessed the qualities of intelligence, courage, integrity, and kindness in full measure. Whatever kindly fairy godmothers may have presided at Fraser's birth had endowed him with far more desirable qualities than those possessed by most men of her acquaintance--which was why he had invaded her thoughts to the extent that she could no longer call her soul her own.

Almost, she had told him of the change in her feelings--not the part about being madly in love with him, of course, but about how she had come to recognize that he was an unusually fine police officer. That had been when, locked up with Fraser in the incubator at the egg processing plant, she'd thought they were going to end up like fried eggs themselves.

Glad now that she hadn't succumbed to that temptation, Meg read through her poem once more. She felt pleased to have written it. He would never see it, of course, but the sense of having captured her intense feelings on paper comforted her; neatly imprisoned in print, those troublesome feelings could be contained, and now, perhaps, she could be free. A drop of water landed with a large plop on one corner of the sheet: looking up, she saw that the sky had grown ominously dark again.

Meg folded the sheet of paper containing her poem in half and slipped it, along with her ballpoint pen, into her raincoat pocket. After carefully placing her crumpled lunch bag in a nearby trash barrel--she was, after all, Canadian--she began to walk briskly back to the Consulate, ahead of the rain.

Fraser was not in his office when she arrived. She wanted to ask him to make sure that everyone in their group put their time sheets in by three o'clock so they could be entered into the computer program that afternoon. Annoyed, Meg decided to leave him a note. She looked at his tidy desk: it was absolutely bare, and his blotter was the permanent, cardboard kind rather than the oversized calendar with tearaway sheets that she herself used. She tried his desk drawer to see whether he had writing supplies in it, but the drawer was locked: that was curious. Why would he lock his desk drawer when he was away from his office momentarily? She tore off a sheet off his small desk calendar--it was from last month, so he'd never miss it--and wondered what to write with. Suddenly she remembered the pen in her raincoat pocket; she pulled it out and was just starting to write, "Constable, please call me immediately on your return," when the sound of a discreet cough made her look up.

Turnbull stood in the doorway. "Inspector, there's a telephone call for you from Ottawa."

"Thank you, Constable, I'll be right there." Meg finished writing, put the note in the middle of Fraser's blotter, and swept past Turnbull on her way out.

Turnbull waited respectfully while Inspector Thatcher left Fraser's office. He knew that Fraser was downstairs helping one of the administrative assistants with a Windows 95 problem and would be back any minute. He looked around the room to make sure that all was in order for his idol's return.

For Turnbull did idolize Constable Fraser; he considered him the epitome of what an RCMP officer should be. Renfield Turnbull in fact was trying to model himself in every way possible on the man he regarded as a god: Fraser was always immaculately turned out, so Turnbull spent hours attending to the details of his uniform and his grooming until they were perfect. Fraser was excellent at his work, respectful to everyone he met, and kind to those around him, so Turnbull endeavored to meet the same high standard.

And Fraser was meticulous in maintaining the tidiness of his work space. Casting a critical eye around the room, Turnbull noted that it was perfect in every detail except one: the note the Inspector had left for Fraser was not placed in the exact center of the desk. Frowning, he crossed the room and rectified the omission. Another look, to satisfy himself that all was in perfect order--and then he felt something under his foot. He bent down to pick it up.

It was a sheet of paper, folded in half. Perhaps it had fallen off Fraser's desk. To make sure, Turnbull unfolded the sheet and read the first few lines. It was a poem. With a start, he looked to the bottom of the page. No signature. That one glance had been enough to assure him that the poem was highly personal, however, so Turnbull refolded the sheet and placed it next to the Inspector's note.

Filled with awe, Turnbull left the room. So his idol wrote poetry in his spare time, did he? Well, of course: Fraser was a Renaissance man, he could do anything. He could sing--Turnbull had seen him singing and playing the guitar once, at a Consulate party; he could speak several languages (Fraser had helped him pass his exam for bilingual proficiency in French); he knew what to do with a computer, and he had a store of knowledge so vast as to be encyclopedic. Perhaps he, Turnbull, should try his hand at writing poetry. If he could work up enough nerve to ask him, Fraser might even give him a few tips.

Turnbull descended the stairs, so lost in admiration of Fraser's many talents that he failed to notice that his idol was at that very moment passing him on the staircase...

Returning to his office, Fraser noticed the note in the center of his desk immediately. He read it, called the Inspector--and got her voicemail. After leaving a brief message, he hung up the receiver and turned his attention to the next item, the folded sheet of paper lying next to the Inspector's note.

Unfolding it, he read what was inside. It was quite short, handwritten, and titled "Invasion":

"INVASION

leave me alone, love
let me sleep at night
I'm tired
of your face filling up my solitude
your words tumbling through my brain
like pebbles in a stream
don't call my name, love
all night long
don't haunt my dreams
til weary dawn
give me some lonely peace

I must not let you
claim every part of me
drain the last drop
from the bewildered heart of me--
stop stealing me away
soul thief

I'm not used to handing out myself
to every man that comes along
give me time to learn
the art of sweet surrender

don't take me all at once like this
first just the lips
just a kiss
then take my arms
possess my skin
use me up or draw me in
but slowly love
don't rush my heart
go easily
take softly love
you frighten me
pity love, pity me
release me love
set me free."

Transfixed, Fraser stared at the poem. It was unsigned. Who had written it? How had it got on his desk? Could it be from-- but no. She would never declare her feelings so openly. If she had any feelings for him, she would keep them quiet. This poem was from someone bold enough to make her feelings known to him. But who? Was it one of the administrative assistants? Which one?

He wracked his brains, trying to remember whether any woman he had encountered in the course of the day had given him any significant glances, but could recall none.

Whoever had written it felt driven by passion: of that he was certain. He considered the dashing handwriting, and swallowed. He looked at the handwriting on the note that the Inspector had left: the two handwriting samples were the same. To his experienced eye it even looked as if the same pen had been used. The presumption was strong that both note and poem had been penned by the same hand, but it was mere speculation: he had no proof. But if Inspector Thatcher was indeed the author of the poem, why had she left it there for him to find? It made no sense to leave the poem unsigned if she wanted him to know how she felt. And if she did want him to know, why hadn't she simply handed it to him and made some remark, like "I can't keep this to myself any more, I have to let you know"? Or, if she couldn't bring herself to do that, why hadn't she at least signed the poem so he wouldn't have to do what he was doing at this moment, which was wracking his brains to figure out who'd written the poem and left it on his desk?

The contradiction in the opening line intrigued him. What had she meant when she wrote, "Leave me alone, love"? That she loved him against her better judgment? Reading it through again, he absorbed the message of the pain he had caused her by being the object of her--evidently unwilling--love.

As flattering as it was to have provoked such a strong reaction in the woman he loved, he also felt acute distress that she felt so tormented by her feelings for him. The last few lines especially touched him:

you frighten me
pity love, pity me
release me love
set me free.

So she was frightened of him, was she? Frightened that he had power over her? With this realization, joy began to burn through him: timidly at first like a forest fire taking hold, then more exuberantly as he read the poem again and again, branding its message into his very soul: She loves me. She loves me!

But she was frightened. How could he reassure her? He would have to give the matter some thought. Perhaps---

The telephone on his desk shrilled; he picked up the receiver.

The Inspector's secretary, Ovitz, was on the line. "Constable Fraser, could you please step into Inspector Thatcher's office for a moment?"

Could he, indeed.

A moment later he was standing in front of her desk. She lifted her eyes from her laptop computer, looking at him absently. "Oh, there you are, Fraser. Have you collected all the time sheets and given them to Mr. Ovitz?"

She did not look at all like a woman who had just left a poem declaring her love for him on his desk. There was no trace of embarrassment in her manner. Nor did she peer at him intently, as if hoping to discover his reaction to her declaration. Ben felt nonplused. Her manner was perfectly normal. In fact, her mind seemed to be on whatever she was doing with her laptop more than on himself.

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Ovitz had them all by two o'clock. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

Her eyes had strayed back to the spreadsheet on the small monitor, but she glanced up at him. "That will be all, love. Dismissed." Her fingers played over the small keyboard once more as she turned her attention back to the computer screen.

Outwardly he betrayed no surprise, but in fact he was thunderstruck. She'd called him "love!" Quickly he turned and left the room, processing this latest incident through his brain and coming up with an explanation--the only explanation that fit the circumstances.

He felt more convinced than ever that the Inspector had written the poem--and hadn't actually meant him to see it. In fact, he was willing to bet that she didn't even know it was missing. However it had fallen into his hands, it had come about by sheer accident. No woman could leave a poem like that on her lover's desk and then behave with such a complete lack of embarrassment afterwards.

This gave him an unfair advantage over her, he considered, because he now knew how she felt about him and she had no idea of his feelings for her. The poem he'd written to her was safe at home. It was interesting to wonder what Inspector Thatcher might think of it if she ever had the opportunity to read it.

The Inspector was, in fact, reading the poem at that very moment. Having been forced to deal with a sudden request telephoned from RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa right after lunch, she had not been able to get on with the task of collating all the reports until two o'clock. The first report was Constable Fraser's, so she read through it, making notes as she went, until she reached the last page.

The last page was handwritten.

And the last page was not part of the report. It was, in fact, a poem, in Fraser's handwriting, entitled "A Distant Star":

"A DISTANT STAR

Hence comes my lady fair
and e'en the air she glides upon
grows beautiful and bright
She drifts above my lonely realm
a cloak of pride swept round her tight.

How low I'd bow before her
and offer up my troth
to see the slightest smile
adorn her haughty mouth.

If she were mine, I'd nought deny
each whim I'd vow come true
and preach her virtues to the sky
to mingle with the heavens blue.

Oh I would scale the skies for her
to bring such treasure back
Pale moon to mirror fairer face
White stars to dust her tresses black.

Yes I would battle demons
long journeys cold and bleak
to rest within her velvet glance
to know her touch upon my cheek.

But I'm no more to her
than feathered wind on waterfall
I love her true, she loves me not
the fates decreed it all.

Stunned, she read it again. The poem was unsigned. Had Fraser written it about her? If the answer to that was yes, was that really how he saw her? As someone distant, unattainable, haughty? She reread the lines that bothered her:

How low I'd bow before her
and offer up my troth
to see the slightest smile
adorn her haughty mouth.

Her innate honesty reminded her that she had only herself to blame if he had a mistaken impression of her. Had she not overcompensated in her mission to convince everyone around her, most of all Fraser himself, that not only was she unimpressed by his undoubted charms of person and personality, but didn't even particularly like him? Recalling all the little barbs she'd sent his way during the first months of their acquaintance, she felt shame, regret, and despair.

She wasn't distant. She wasn't drifting "above" him with a "cloak of pride" wrapped round her--not at all. If she could telegraph her thoughts to Fraser, he would be hearing her say, at this very moment, "But I'm not a distant star,' I'm human. I would like your love and protection, but I don't want you to worship me--I'm not made of stone!"

It was true that she had been sexually harassed in the past: even now she shuddered to think how narrowly she'd escaped the unwelcome attentions of Henri Cloutier, from Legal Affairs at RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa, who had journeyed to Chicago to prepare the Canadian Government's defense against Lyndon Buxley's lawsuit. Incidents of that type, during her thirteen years with the RCMP, had made her wary but Fraser had proven himself to be different, and she was ready to trust him.

Was this why he had made no move to bridge the distance between them? He thought she didn't care for him?

Wouldn't he be surprised if he could read my poem to him...that would leave him in no doubt as to my feelings.

He loved her! In a roundabout way, the poem said as much. A glow of happiness began inside her, blossoming until she felt so joyful she could have laughed aloud.

How like Fraser to be too shy to tell her how he felt. How like him to do such a gentlemanly thing as expressing his feelings in a poem to the object of his affections. The poem's old-fashioned, almost courtly air, was in fact vintage Fraser. But why had he slipped it into the back of his report? It wasn't like Fraser to do anything as unprofessional as mixing his professional and private lives. Why hadn't he simply handed the poem to her in person, if he wanted her to read it, or mailed it to her home address (which would have been easy enough to discover--all he had to do was refer to the Consulate telephone list) anything but this rather devious trick of placing the poem where she would be bound to come across it?

It wasn't like what she knew of him. No matter how he might flinch from a confrontation he regarded as potentially unpleasant, Fraser would go through with it. He was neither a physical nor a moral coward.

What a day this was turning out to be, in spite of the rain. She'd written a poem to him, although she had no intention of showing it to him, railing against the love that consumed her, and now it turned out that he loved her.

It would be amusing to set her own poem against his and compare the two: his so restrained, even respectful, hers so passionate, tumbling like a waterfall, spilling her feelings out in words and letting them fall where they might. Yes, it would be very amusing

No sooner said than done. She'd shoved it into her raincoat pocket. Meg crossed the room in three strides, felt in her pocket for the sheet of paper--and came up empty-handed. It must be the other pocket, then. No, not there either.

Mildly concerned--she'd been so distracted that perhaps she thought she'd put the paper in her pocket when she had actually put it in her handbag--she opened the handbag to discover no single sheet of paper folded in half.

Take a deep breath, she counseled herself. You've lost it. That's the bad news. The good news was that there was no name on it, his or hers. If someone found it, they would have no way to tell who wrote it, or to whom, however much they might speculate.

It was extremely annoying, however. She'd felt quite proud of that poem. She would have liked to reread it and now that was out of the question. And she wasn't sure she remembered exactly what she had written, or the order of the stanzas themselves. Annoying.

The ping of her desk clock reminded her that it was now two-thirty and she still had a report to finish. Resolutely, Meg tore her mind away from her personal life, sat down at her desk again, and went back to work.

All Saturday morning, as he attended to the myriad chores that beset even a bachelor of modest means living in a Spartan flat in a slum neighborhood, Fraser listened to the rain falling outside. But this wasn't the dull, heavy-sounding rain of yesterday, that had made him feel so hopeless. This was a light, friendly-sounding, pitter-pat rain, the kind that sounded as if it were apologizing: "I'm sorry to inconvenience anyone, but I have to water everything--the grass, the trees, the crops. I'll finish up as soon as I can."

He whistled as he scrubbed the kitchen floor, mopped the living and bedroom areas of his one large room, starched and ironed his underwear. Diefenbaker, sitting on an oval rug made of woven rags--his favorite daytime napping place--cocked an eye at him, evidently wondering why his packmate was in such a good mood on a rainy day. Fraser felt impelled to explain.

"You see, Diefenbaker, she actually does love me after all. I found her poem on my desk yesterday, and I really believe it must have got there by accident. The very least I can do is return it to her. But first, I think I ought to answer it. Do you think that's a good idea?"

Dief snorted. He took a somewhat cynical view of human nature, which Fraser had been trying--without much success--to change.

"Dief, you have to realize the position she's in. She could get into serious trouble if she and I were seen to be having a relationship that was personal as well as professional. And she seems to feel quite tortured by her feelings for me. I think I ought to return her poem and write an answer to it."

The more he thought about it, the more the idea attracted him. He washed his hands, found pen and paper, and sat down at the kitchen table to begin work. Struck by a sudden thought, he searched for the poem he had written to her the night before last: it would be interesting to compare the two.

He searched through his writing materials, where he would normally have kept the poem, but didn't find it. Growing concerned, he opened every drawer, searched every possible place of concealment in the apartment, including his father's footlocker, and found nothing. Sitting back on his heels in front of the battered footlocker, he pressed his hands against his eyes and willed himself to be calm. Where had he last seen the poem?

And suddenly the answer came with dreadful clarity: he had last seen it near the pages of the report he'd brought home to work on. In his mind's eye he saw himself stowing the sheaf of papers inside his uniform jacket, getting into Ray's car, arriving at work.

His memory ticked on, remembering the telephone call from Ottawa, Turnbull's visit to his office to collect the report for Inspector Thatcher, Turnbull's clumsy attempt to help him gather the papers---

Fraser groaned aloud. Turnbull! Dear God, Turnbull must have swept all the papers together and carried the entire stack into the Inspector's office. And at some point Friday afternoon she must have come across it.

What on earth had she thought? Of course, she couldn't prove he'd written it: like her own poem, it was unsigned. But also, as in the other case, his handwriting provided a clue and the presumption would be strong that he had written it.

Fraser sat down at his kitchen table again and took a deep breath. If the Inspector had read his poem and correctly guessed that he was the author, then she knew how he felt about her. And he, of course, knew how she felt: she was frightened of her feelings for him. He read through her poem again, then--thoughtfully--set out to reassure her. The rain pitter-pattered against the windows like a soft but steady drumbeat as he wrote.

An hour later he woke the wolf from a sound sleep. "Listen, Dief, what do you think of this?"

Dief sat up, ears cocked, ready to listen. Fraser read his poem aloud. To add to the effect, he got up and strode back and forth across the room as he declaimed:

"REVELATION

My love is sweeter than the spring
of tender breeze and cloudless sky
bright buttercups beam up at her
tall birches bow as she moves by.

How like a violet is my love
as delicate as lace
yet bears the careless winds of March
with bravest heart's unfailing grace.

My soul is filled with April
the tender kiss of May
for everywhere are traces of my love
t'will always be this way."

The last words hung in the air as he looked at Dief. "Think she'll like it?"

The wolf rolled his eyes.

"You don't have to be rude," Fraser said. "Really, Dief, you're not very encouraging. I'm a police officer, not a poet. I know this isn't as passionate as her poem, but at least it says what I mean."

Dief whined.

"Well, there is that, of course," Fraser said. "How am I going to deliver this to her? The thought of just walking up to her and handing it over is so--so..."

Indeed, his very soul seemed to shrink from the thought. He wished he weren't so shy around women, but there it was. His had been an isolated life until his sudden translation into the urban environment of Chicago; the opportunities for social interaction with women had been few. There was that incident in his past, of course, but... Fraser repressed all thoughts of the time-- one-quarter dream come true, three-quarters nightmare--with Victoria.

Dief yawned delicately, then cast a quizzical glance at Fraser before stretching out on the rug to go to sleep again.

"Flowers, of course!" Fraser said. "Thank you for the idea, Dief. I'll take her these poems and some flowers. After all, gentlemen have often been known to bring flowers to ladies. She'll understand that."

Half an hour later, washed, brushed, and wearing his favorite weekend clothes--jeans, a henley shirt of faded blue, and his old leather jacket--he looked out the window. The rain had turned into a drizzle. Feeling encouraged, he checked his jacket once more to make sure that both poems were in the inside pocket, and set out.

Saturday morning, Meg woke up to the sound of more rain. She groaned and rolled over. The temptation to stay in bed was almost overwhelming, but there were chores to perform and exercise to do. Reluctantly, she slid out of the warm bed and prepared to greet the day.

It was strange how having something on one's mind could make work go so much faster. Meg was so engrossed in considering the meaning of Fraser's poem--of course it had to be his, it was in his handwriting, even though it was unsigned--that it wasn't until noon that she came out of her preoccupation, with a start.

It was then she realized that since eight o'clock in the morning she had vacuumed her entire apartment, done two loads of laundry, folded it and put it away, shopped for groceries, and worked out on her Nordic ski track machine for half an hour, all without being aware of it. She was, in fact, so damp with perspiration that her hair had matted around her face, since in her absent-mindedness she'd forgotten to put on a sweat band before exercising.

A shower was in order, she decided. Fifteen minutes later, feeling refreshed, still wearing her terrycloth dressing gown, she went to the kitchen to heat some soup for lunch. The sound of rain falling made her want comfort food: crisp Ritz crackers, mushed up in cream of tomato soup, eaten with freshly ground black pepper.

It tasted good, but the warmth of her recent shower and the warmth of the soup combined to make her feel a little sleepy. She went into the living room and sat on the sofa, looking out at the rain. It seemed quite business-like, beating down efficiently as if determined to get done on time because it had to be raining somewhere else no later than three o'clock. Actually, the sound of rain falling was very soothing. The steady rhythm of it was making her rather drowsy on this dark afternoon....

Meg woke up because of the sudden cramp that was disturbing her sleep. As she came back to consciousness, stretching to make the cramp go away, she sighed. In the dream she'd just had, she had fallen asleep in Fraser's arms after making love with him on a slow, rainy afternoon just like this one. They'd been in a quiet room, undisturbed by the outside world, and when she had felt those strong arms gathering her close, she had buried her face against his chest and known that here, at last, was the refuge she had sought for years. The dream seemed to stretch out time, so that she and Ben would make love, drift back into sleep, and then wake up in each other's arms to begin the cycle of loving and drifting and sleeping again. And she had felt so safe: even her bare skin, under those knowing hands, seemed to relax and breathe in peace and contentment.

I love him. I love him and he doesn't know it. He thinks I'm unattainable, but if only he knew!

Fraser was everything she had ever wanted: intelligent, kind, brave, loyal, honorable. And if he was a little eccentric, so what? His strong sense of duty, his penchant for attracting trouble of the most unusual kind, his predilection for peculiar companions--tame wolves, half-tame Chicago cops--meant that life with him would never be dull.

Not to mention that he was handsomer than any fairy tale prince that ever lived, in myth or memory. In fact, thinking of the dimples she'd seen at the corners of his mouth one day when he'd uttered one of his rare laughs, her heart began to beat faster. She wondered what he would be like as a lover: would he whisper endless poetry into her ears while his hands explored her? Or would he be silent, like a wolf, intent on breathing in her scent? She recalled how he'd nuzzled her hair when they were tied up in the horse-car on the runaway train; and of course there was no forgetting the rest of that incident, when she had felt his hot lips against her skin as he retrieved the hairpin from her exposed cleavage with his teeth...

Meg groaned and sat up. These speculations were taking her into dangerous territory. It was better to do something with this awakening passion, something creative, because it had no outlet otherwise.

The rain was still falling. She looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then, for the second time in two days, felt moved to find pen and paper to capture her feelings.

An hour later, she read aloud what she had written:

"RAIN FALLING

I need to be with you
burrowed in deep
hiding in the safest corner of your heart
wrapped in warmth and sleep

I need to drift within your arms
covered in the sound of heavy rain
falling like lonely tears
against the sullen window pane

Search me with your knowing hands
smooth away my fear
pour your comfort into me
flood away my care
scatter kisses over me
like stars upon the night
turn my sorrow in your hands
heal my wary soul and make it right."

In the half-light of her apartment, she smiled: what would he think when he read it? For she was determined that he would. She'd get dressed--jeans and the spring sweater whose misty purple made her look romantic and mysterious--and go to his apartment this very afternoon, to return his poem to him and give him the one she had just written. Fraser was no fool: after he read "Rain Falling," he would know beyond a doubt that she was no distant star, but real, approachable, grounded to this earth. And to make it more dramatic, she would deliver her poem and return his along with a single red rose--a rose with the thorns snipped off.

Fraser, passing by the public library, was suddenly struck by a thought: what would be the proper flowers to give his fair lady? A little research would be just the thing.

Ten minutes later he was sitting at an Internet terminal in the library, happily tapping in the URL the kindly librarian had written down for him:

http://gil.ipswichcity.qld.gov.au/comm/crawfords/language.html

Scrolling through the names of various flowers and their meanings in the language of the heart, he learned that red roses meant passionate love, violets symbolized modesty and faithfulness, and daisies stood for innocence. Satisfied, he closed down the program and terminated the Internet connection. He now knew exactly what he would give her.

Outside, the sun shining through the haze of fine water droplets turned the last of the drizzle into glittermist. Hope filled him as he strode through the silvery afternoon light toward the nearest flower shop.

A moment after he entered the establishment, a car pulled into one of the "Reserved for Customers" spaces outside it. From the car's antenna fluttered a small Canadian flag.

Efficient as always, Meg slid the glass door of the refrigerated flower case to one side, reached in to extract one perfect red rose, slid the door shut again. Then she went round a corner to stand in the long line of customers waiting to pay at the cash register.

"Inspector," a surprised-sounding voice said.

It couldn't be. She looked up. It was.

"Good afternoon, Constable."

For a fearful moment they stared at each other. Constable Fraser's lips parted, but for once, Meg noted, he appeared to be speechless. Her eyes fastened onto the flowers he was holding.

Violets. From somewhere in the depths of memory rose the echoes of an old song Meg's mother used to sing to her when Meg was small:

Sweet violets...
Sweeter than the roses
Covered all over from head to toe
Covered all over with sweet violets.

"I-I-" Fraser's voice was shaking. "I'm buying these to give to you."

She smiled up at him, then lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see that they were filling with tears. Violets. Sweet, shy violets, growing in the woods, shrinking from the harsh light of day because they didn't want to call attention to themselves. Like Fraser.

"Why, Fraser?" She spoke gently. "Why do you want to give me flowers today, particularly?"

"Because of your poem. You know--the one called Invasion.'"

She gasped. "You read it? How did you get hold of it?"

"It was on my desk yesterday. It was right beside the note you left me, asking me to call you when I came in."

Meg closed her eyes as her mind ranged back over that sequence of events. She had been looking for a pen on Fraser's desk, been unable to find one, pulled her own pen out of her pocket--could it have been then that the sheet of paper had fallen to the floor? Why hadn't she noticed?

Then she remembered. Turnbull had appeared to tell her that she had a telephone call, had waited in Fraser's office until she left--could he possibly have....?

Meg opened her eyes. "Turnbull."

Fraser looked at her gravely. "Possibly. In fact, probably." He shook his head. "That man is--well, never mind. Anyway, I did read your poem. I was just about to bring it back to you, along with my answer to it."

"Oh! You wrote an answer to mine?" She took a deep breath. "That's funny, because I wrote an answer to yours. I was going to give it back to you."

"You found my poem?" Fraser appeared thunderstruck.

"It was mixed in with your report."

They stared at each other. Then, "Turnbull," they said in unison.

Fraser was the first to break the silence that followed. "Perhaps we could go somewhere for a cup of coffee and read each other's answers."

Meg felt happiness breaking over her in waves. "Yes, perhaps we could. Let's go now, I have a car outside."

"Not yet." Fraser indicated the cash register. "We still have to pay for the flowers."

"Oh, yes, the flowers." Meg stretched out her hand toward the violets. "May I?"

He bowed from the waist and handed her the bouquet. She smelled the delicate fragrance: how elusive that scent, how reminiscent of old days, old ways, old songs. Lace and valentines and sweetness: loyalty, fidelity, and love.

She looked up at him, bit her lip, tried to smile. "I was planning to give this to you."

She placed the rose in his hand.

He looked down at it, then his eyes sought her face. "Red...a red rose means..."

"Yes?" She had to encourage him. "Red means?"

"Passion," he whispered. "It means passionate love."

She nodded, and then watched, amused, as the blush dyed his face and neck. "Red suits you, Fraser."

He got the reference at once, as she'd known he would, and grinned. As if in a dream, she watched as he paid for the violets, waited for her as she paid for the rose, offered her his hand.

Smiling, she took it, and walked out with him into the silver and violet of a rain-washed afternoon.

Sects. You want sects? OK: Zoroastrianism. Mithraism. Catharism. If that doesn't satisfy you, E-mail Cheryl. She's a librarian and knows even more weird stuff than I do!

Copyright September 1997 by Diana Read and Cheryl Ross on all original story content. "A Distant Star," "Rain Falling," and "Revelation" are copyright September 1997 by Cheryl Ross. "Invasion" copyright May 1997 by Cheryl Ross. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for due South. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the authors. Comments welcome at scribe@his.com or at rossc@air.on.ca.