Chapter Two
History

Tess had been gone for almost two years before Stephen began to feel The Need again. He had rather hoped that he was beyond it now, but he knew that he was fooling himself with that delusion. After all, he was only forty-three, and a young, well kept forty-three at that. The Need would be with him for several more decades.

If he'd been another man, he would have either controlled it by now, or it would have destroyed him. If he had been poor... He liked to think that he would have had the inner strength to resist the temptation. It was more likely, though, that he would have indulged anyway, and been caught long ago.

But Stephen Honeywell Baxter had been blessed, or cursed, with the wealth and power to feed his private obsession. Discreetly.

He had known that from the first time, so long ago. Little...he'd called her Minnie, because she was so small. What had been her real name? He tried to remember what her mother had called her. Called her, and called her, voice rising in panic as the dusk deepened into night.

It was in his thirteenth summer that he had finally started his growth spurt. After being on the small side all his life, his body had decided it was time to kick things into gear. Before the summer was over, he would go from 5'2" to almost 5'5". His arms and legs, back and hands and feet all seemed to hold a low grade ache at all times as the bones elongated, and the muscles stretched. Growing pains, his mother called it. He decided that if the size he coveted had to be bought with a little hurt, he was willing.

That was one reason why he spent so much time outside. He would run about in only a pair of tiny shorts, letting the heat of the sun bake into his flesh. He strolled and raced around the grounds, exercising and working the too tight, too tense muscles.

The butterflies had been magnificent. His mother's prized garden had been his hunting ground. He had prowled with his net and jars, spending hours stalking among the heavily blooming beds. The air had been almost thick with the scent, sugar sweet, almost cloying. He gathered the fluttering bits of color gleefully, catching a dozen or more each day. They never thinned out, never learned from the disappearance of their kin.

He knew that his father was worried that he was turning out 'queer' because of his butterfly chasing. Even today it made Stephen shake his head in slightly sour, but affectionate, disbelief. It was astonishing how simplistic some people's assumptions were. He was not queer. That summer, he was not really anything. His sexual interests were a tad slow blooming. He was not really thinking about girls or boys. He was thinking about butterflies.

He already had his Hobby House. It was a small concrete bunker set at the far end of the spacious back garden. It had been built for the brief obsession Stephen's father had gone through with woodworking back when Stephen was a toddler. The noise and mess of such physical activities could not be allowed close to the house, of course, so the Hobby House had been built at a suitable distance.

There were still reminders of that time about the house: a tie rack with slightly skewed hooks, a pipe stand (forever empty because neither he, nor his father, had ever smoked a pipe), a rather nice wooden box...

Stephen was fond of this last. It was his father's last project, and was pretty well done. It was about the size of a large jewelry box, very simple. The corners had been carefully sanded down, smoothed to gentle curves instead of sharp angles. It wasn't varnished, but had been rubbed and oiled to satin smoothness. It was cedar, and the inside was still fragrant, almost forty years after it was made. Stephen kept it on a shelf in his office, and it held various treasures, changing over the years.

But as it was with every passion his father had, woodworking had been temporary. The tools gathered dust for several years before eventually being donated to a properly grateful local school. Then the little building had stood empty till a twelve year old Stephen appropriated it for his own uses.

His parents were happy to oblige. Butterfly collecting had it's own peculiar scents. And it was rather disturbing to think about the pretty creatures fluttering away their last moments of life in a jar with a chloroform soaked rag. The stretching, pinning and preserving were a trial for delicate sensibilities also. Stephen did all his preparations in the little concrete bunker, occasionally bringing in the results, glorious fantasies behind glass. Now those were quite lovely.

His mother, who dabbled in interior decorating for her friends, even used some of her son's creations in her designs. There was eventually more than one fine home with Stephen’s handiwork framed on the walls.

That summer, Stephen had grown tired of the easy captures in the garden. He had begun reading books on the subject, and had learned about protective coloration. The idea was fascinating, that a living creature could mimic it's environment as a way of self preservation.

Suddenly the garden was not such a lure. He decided to venture into the rougher areas of the estate. There were untamed sections at the back and sides, sections that led off their land into actual forest. The city had crept closer over the years, but a mile or two of insulating woodland still curved protectively around his home.

So Stephen went out into the woods and brush each day. He carried a backpack filled with an over ample lunch, a thermos of soda, cans of juice, empty glass jars. The pack had a loop he tucked his net into. It rode his back like an ancient warriors sword or spear, ready for him to reach back and snatch it into action. He went forth in thin tee shirt and shorts, with brown, bare arms and legs. He returned with scratches and scrapes on said arms and legs, and jars of what looked like forest trash, till it moved.

The housekeeper almost turned away the delivery van from the pet store. But Stephen had heard the argument she was having over the security intercom, and told her that yes, he had made an order, and they were expected.

She had watched in astonishment as the burly delivery man had carried several large glass fish tanks and some mysterious boxes back to the Hobby House. She had been curious, but it was not her place to question what the son of her employers was up to. Perhaps if she had felt closer to the boy...But she did not. She had worked for the Baxters for several years, but had not developed a close bond with any of the family. They were a pleasant, but rather cold lot. Even the boy.

But the housekeeper (what had her name been? He didn't remember it any more than he did her child's name. Maria would do well enough.) had mentioned it to his parents.

Stephen had been startled when the knock had come on the Hobby House door. He frowned. This was his place. Why would anyone come here?

It was his mother. She peered inside, eyes darting above a fixed smile. "Maria said you had a delivery, Stephen. I don't recall ordering anything, and neither does you father."

"I ordered it."

Mellicent Baxter regarded her son. Gracious, he looked like a common child in those ragged, brief clothes. His arms and legs were so brown. She was a little taken aback by the scratches and scabs. Yes, well bred children did tan, though usually through tennis or swimming lessons. Abrasions were so... common.

Not that he wasn't quite beautiful, in any case. He had her own corn gold hair, bleached to corn silk by the sun. He had his father's sea green eyes. Sometimes they were as clear as the Caribbean, sometimes they were as dark as the North Sea. He was losing his puppy fat this summer, cheekbones and strong jaw line emerging. Yes, when you took in the details you could see the quality.

He was watching her with a patient calmness that was somehow... not quite right for a child this age. "You ordered it?"

"For my hobby. Don't worry, I paid for it out of my allowance."

"But Stephen... tanks? I thought you were interested in butterflies, not fish."

The smile he gave her was... well, yes, it was condescending. "Come and see, Mother."

There were three tanks, set up in a C on the tables. Each tank had a small mesh wire lid, hooked closed. The bottom of each was scattered with forest matter. Dead leaves, sticks, dirt. It looked very unsanitary.

She shrank from them instinctively. "Stephen, you're not collecting... snakes, or toads, are you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Mother! Just a minute." He peered into one tank, then unlatched the lid. Easing it up, he slipped his hand into the crack, reaching to the bottom of the tank. His fingers tweezed in the mess, and he picked up something.

Stephen was holding what looked like a dead leaf gently between his fingertips. He pressed it against one outstretched finger on his other hand. Minute, twig-like appendages settled on the finger, and he let go briefly, before pressing a fingertip on the back of the creature, holding it in place. Dun colored wings waved slowly.

"Is... is that...?"

"A butterfly. It's one of the hiders."

"Rather dull, isn't it? Darling, if you're going to keep them as pets, why not some of the pretty ones?"

"I think it's beautiful." He stroked the soft body gently with his fingertip.

"I don't see how. Why, I'd never even see that if I walked past it outside."

"Yes, she's very good, isn't she? But she couldn't hide from me."

"Oh. Well. I'm glad you have an... interest." She left her son stroking the tiny insect, gazing at it fondly. She decided that she was looking forward to him discovering girls. It should be any time now.