Irena stood in the centre of her bed-sitting room holding the two precious infants. She had to leave very soon.

She knew Virgil was waiting for her, but he had not known she was pregnant. He was safe, but she didn’t know anything about his circumstances and she had not walked the streets at night for a very long time. Virgil could not come for her without putting them both in danger. Reaching him would be difficult and perhaps dangerous with one baby, much less two. She now had a difficult decision to make.

She looked around the studio flat which had been her home for 20 years. It wasn’t much, but she had kept it clean and herself fed.

The memories flooded her and she allowed herself a little time to reminisce. She and her mother had moved into this place when Irena was 14. It was intended to be the manager’s flat, with windows which gave a good view of the street and the hallway. It had a back door to a service corridor and an outside door – and therefore perfect for a ‘lady of the night’.

Just before she turned 16, Irena’s mother had gone out one evening to the "stroll" and not returned. Irena had woken with a start and knew that her mother was dead. She had tried to find out what had happened, but a missing whore, it seemed, was no one’s concern.

Her mother had taught her to read and write – and the ways of lovemaking. She enjoyed her business, she said, and that, she told Irena, was what set her apart from the other whores on the beat. Her customers knew and treated her better as a result.

Irena had lied about her age and taken over her mother’s ‘inside’ trade without regrets. It was fortunate that her first such client had been Matthew Gilchrist, an older man who lived on the first floor of their apartment building. He was gentle and unsophisticated. He had not realized she was a virgin. Years later, when he sent Virgil to her, she had another reason to thank him.

Her ‘men’ had been as generous as they could. They gave her food, clothing and household necessities, occasionally money, sometimes food. Her landlord took his rent in her bed. He was a rank, overweight man, but he was kind, sometimes giving her money too. He lived in the top floor suite. She hoarded her money with what her mother had hidden in a wooden box which resembled a book – a gift from one of her customers.

Irena had spent none of it because she had not needed to. When she needed something, one of her men would find it for her. She had learned from her mother how to make soups and stews out of food to hand and she always had a big pot on the tiny stove in the kitchen nook. She dished it out to some of her hungry men and others helped her keep it supplied.

Among the old, street men she was now almost a legend – and not yet 35 years old. Well, she had welcomed them, the men the real hookers would not even look at. To her, they were the boyfriends she had never had. They used her bathroom to clean up and loved her gently and with real affection, not like younger men who sought such release. She had known those others in the early days when she was younger and prettier, and unscarred. The big welt left on her face, souvenir of her one bad judgment, did not bother her regulars. In the dark, all cats were black, one told her.

Virgil, though, was different. He had come to her one night when she was in her late 20s, wrapped in a long cloak. His voice had captivated her from the first. It was deep and silky and seemed to stroke her soul. He told her Matthew had recommended her. Matthew had become a regular, treating her like spun glass and reciting poetry to her when they relaxed afterwards. Virgil was also a special one, an educated one – and only a few years older than herself. He had told her his own story after a while, that Matthew had rescued him as a baby from the man who had made him what he was – a freak.

That was the term Virgil used – freak. It was not how Irena saw him. True, his lion-like face had surprised her at first, but she had never been afraid of him. His body was something else again, when, after several months of companionship and a growing desire on her part, he had allowed her to see it. He was covered in soft hair. On his torso and back – and that special place - it was like fur, and he loved to be touched. She came to see him as beautiful – inside and out – and he made her feel the same way. He stroked her face, but her scar was never mentioned. She realized he didn’t care - that he loved her for all that she was, not what she wasn’t.

He was graceful, gentle, quiet, and their lovemaking was unique in her experience. He had been a virgin, but seemed to know what she liked. It took her some time to realize why that was – and why his joy seemed to melt into her bones, make her blood hum.

She had asked him one night if he could read her mind and he had hung his head. She realized he had been afraid to broach the topic. He had spoken almost in a whisper.

"Irena, you are my first and only lover. An empathic bond is growing between us. You can feel my emotions, as I can feel yours – especially when we make love. But I cannot read your mind."

Irena had told him she loved him, that such things did not matter to her at all. After that, something else had been released in Virgil, for his chest began to vibrate after they had made love. Again, she had not caught on immediately, but when she did, it made her love him all the more. He purred! Soon that purr made his whole body hum and she loved to hug him to her so she could feel it to her bones, like a gentle massage.

Virgil was as educated as Matthew could make him. He had a spirit that seemed to transcend the restricted life he was force to lead, the world he could see only at night. He read to her, told her of amazing things, wonderful places.

He loved beautiful things and often brought her little gifts he found on his night time foraging expeditions. One evening, he gave her an enameled locket, probably lost because the chain broke. She kept a small lock of his hair inside the tiny glassed compartment and wore it on a thin silver chain from her mother’s meagre jewelry collection.

One night, Irena showed him a large, flawless cat’s eye marble someone had brought her. He had been fascinated. Irena realized, belatedly, that he had never held one – and why that was. It had not occurred to her that he would never have played with other children. She had given him the glass ball, amazed that such a simple thing could give him joy. He had made a silk pouch to keep it in and wore it around his neck, never taking it off, even to make love.

Irena had known she was pregnant the last night she saw Virgil, but had sensed his fear. He had come to say goodbye. Matthew had grown old and frail and died quietly the hour before. Virgil had to leave. There was a chance that his guardian’s death would raise questions, so he had to find a safe hiding place. When he had found it, he would let her know so she could join him. He had a destination in mind, one that Matthew had hinted at, but he would have to be careful. Other outcasts might already be there.

So they had made love one last time to seal his promise and Irena had waited. She knew it was Virgil’s child she carried. He was the only one who didn’t use condoms. She had never broached the subject and he never asked if she took precautions. She was happy to make love without a layer of latex between them, and if that resulted in a child, fine with her. She had been afraid to broach the topic. Just the same, they had been making love for many years without result. Irena had concluded his uniqueness made him sterile.

She knew Virgil was sensitive about his appearance. Few even knew of his existence. She hadn’t, before he came to her. She knew he wandered the streets at night heavily-cloaked. That anyone might regard him as an animal, part lion or half-human, disgusted her. Protecting him became second nature to her.

He had never tried to change her profession, seemed immune to jealousy, understood the expediency. Such compromises had been part of his life since the beginning, she guessed. And he knew her true love was only for himself.

Irena had made another decision after Virgil left, one which now haunted her. She had joined an obscure religious sect which did not believe in hospitals or doctors. They had their own ways and midwives, they told her, and gave her lessons in their beliefs. She bore this nonsense for the sake of her child. She would not be able to go into a hospital, so home delivery was the only option.

Over the ensuing months, while she waited, she told her men that she wanted food, good nourishing food and soft blankets. One worked in a restaurant and had brought her as much as he could. Her increasing size was undoubtedly attributed to this increased diet and Irena did not reveal otherwise. Matthew had once brought her a blanket he had called ‘experimental’. It was thick and warm. She had made a pair of slippers out of it and the rest she cut into squares for baby blankets.

She had hoarded the money her men were able to give her and stayed home, reading the books Virgil had given her, over and over. She could sense him, knew he was tired but full of hope, without understanding how she knew that. She sent him her love, hoping that he felt it in return.

They had been kind to her, those religious people, but the birth had shocked them. Her labour had started at least a month early and been easier than she had feared, given her age. To everyone’s surprise, including her own, she had given birth to twins, tiny perfect versions of Virgil.

They had bathed the babies and herself and given her some beef tea, but she had seen the look which passed between the midwife and their priest. It had chilled her. They had not been able to prevent themselves from mumbling some kind of incantation against evil. She had felt her blood freeze at that. Then they had left her, but she knew they would be back and that she and her newborns were at risk. She had heard stories about this sect from one of her men. They would not suffer a witch – or her offspring – to live.

The birth had been easy and she was strong. Sleep and rest would have to wait. She packed the secret box of money into her backpack with all her meagre mementos and a few clothes. She took a last look around the room. At least she would not be going to Virgil empty-handed.

Irena could wait no longer. She carefully wrapped both babies in pieces of the thick blanket Matthew had given her. She hoped it would keep her children warm. Then she wrapped one child in as many old household cloths as she could find. She had a plan.

She had seen the people who picked through the leavings near St Vincent’s hospital. They were not tramps, for their voices were clear and educated, as Matthew’s had been. That gave her hope. One child would be carried in a sling under her heavy winter coat.

Virgil was now living far away, on the other side of New York, but had sent her a verbal message just before the birth. The man, who said he was a friend, had assured her Virgil was safe and had a home for them.

Irena left quietly, one baby in her arms, the other asleep and hidden. She was tired, but determined. It was a bitterly cold January night and she was afraid the scavengers might not be out. Then what would she do? But as she rounded the corner of the alley near the hospital, she saw them. They were heading her way, meticulously searching all the rubbish. She kept to the shadows.

Irena gave the baby a long kiss and a wish for life and happiness, then she carefully placed him in a cardboard box and moved the box so that it caught the light. Lastly, she wrapped the tiny face to keep off the cold. There was nothing more she could do. She left, her heart breaking, her tears freezing on her cheeks.

Her route to the subway took her back near her old home and a noise made her look up from her sorrow. Three or four men were grouped on the sidewalk in front of the apartment. She didn’t need to know who they were. She saw the glint of knives heard their mumbled oaths. Quickly, she turned down a side street and made her way swiftly to the nearest subway, shuffling as quickly as she could down the stairs. She couldn’t risk being seen by anyone she knew.

There were few people on the train and she sat near two massive old black women, cleaning ladies probably. They smelled of disinfectant. Their comforting warmth made her remember her mother. Irena had always retreated to the tiny den when her mother had clients, but she could not help hearing what went on in the next room. It had often made her pleasure herself, but she had been ashamed. One evening, after her guest had gone, her mother had come in to find her in tears. She had taken Irena’s smaller hands in her own and looked her in the eye. Her mother’s face had softened. She had know what troubled her daughter.

"Irena, never be ashamed of what your body wants. Our bodies, men and women both, were designed for lovemaking – why else do we enjoy it so? We get old quickly enough, Irena. Do not deny yourself life’s pleasures. Embrace them."

She had chuckled at the pun, but had hugged Irena. After that, the lessons had begun.

Irena became aware of her surroundings again when the woman next to her got up to leave. She looked around, hugged her arms to her, feeling the baby on her chest wriggle a little. At least he was asleep. Miraculously, there was no sign of the punks who often plagued the trains late at night. She began to breathe easier, her heart racing in expectation of seeing Virgil again, at last.

Irena took the subway to its last stop and then began to walk. The long ride had restored some of her energy. It was so quiet, she could hear the soft breathing of the baby – then she sensed Virgil waiting for her. He was not far away now and getting closer. She quickened her step through the quiet streets, her footsteps silent in her sneakers. That was something she had learned from Virgil. He moved like a cat.

Reaching an intersection, she looked across and saw a large caped form. She almost ran to it and was enveloped in a careful hug, as if he was afraid she was an illusion. His love poured into her and she was left breathless. She felt the child move under her coat and Virgil pulled back, startled.

"It’s all right," she whispered. "Our son is restless."

It was not the way she would have chosen to introduce Virgil to his child, but his reaction was all she could have wished. Virgil looked at her, his mouth open and his face showing such surprise and joy that she smiled. That look quickly changed to concern and he silently took her hand and led her down the street, then made a sudden right turn into an alley. At the end, a solid metal door was set into a wall. Virgil pushed a brick and it opened inward, just enough to let them in. In the dark inside, he scrabbled on the wall and the door closed. She heard a lock snick shut.

They were in complete darkness, then Virgil lit a candle – a long, three coloured one in a old-fashioned candle holder with a brass guard. It seemed to shed a happy light, she thought, as Virgil took her hand and led her inwards, down many tunnels and passageways – then finally behind a large rock wall and down a set of narrow steps.

Irena gasped. The chamber was high and beautifully-carved from the ruddy native rock. Vigil had paneled the flatter walls with varied pieces of fitted wood, beautifully finished and reflecting the light of many candles. The burners on a small electric stove were burning cherry red. She learned later that Virgil had found a way to pirate enough electricity from the world above for this one essential appliance.

He seemed to have thought of everything. There was a lovely, big four-poster bed, dressers, even a kitchen nook. Another room led off the main chamber, and she could see a couple of chairs and a bookcase. She supposed there was a bathroom behind a curtain, although she had no idea how that convenience could be possible in this place.

She looked up at Virgil, her eyes blurred with tears. She undid her coat then, for it was warm, and Virgil took it from her, hanging it on a coat tree with his cloak. Then he gently helped her untie the baby’s carrier. He looked at the child and his eyes widened. He looked at her, his canines exposed in a grin. She had seldom seen him smile like that. Then he looked guilty. He took her hand and led her across the room to the bed, sat her on it beside him. He put the sleeping child on the bed behind them.

"Irena." His voice was just as silky as she remembered, but thick with emotion. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

"I didn’t know until after you left," she said, making the little white lie official. "Then I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where you were, so I made arrangements to have help with the birth. He’s so beautiful, Virgil. What shall we call him?"

She wanted to distract him from any discussion about the birth. It no longer mattered.

Virgil got pensive, just for a moment.

"I’d like to call him "Vian" – full of life. Our son is a miracle, Irena. I had not thought it possible for me to father children. Do you like the name?"

In answer, Irena reached over and kissed him. Their arms came around each other and they sat for a long time wrapped in their love. Irena felt wonderful, her energy reinforced by Virgil’s. Now they could start a new life.

Virgil decided the family should adopt his guardian’s last name, Gilchrist, although they could not register the birth.

She would have to harbour the guilt and loss deep inside her. Virgil must not know. Someday, she hoped they would be able to find and meet their other son. She knew, somehow, that he lived, just as she could feel the baby in this room. That little kernel of knowledge comforted her.

She slept gratefully in Virgil’s arms that night, his warmth surrounding her like a blanket.