Catherine the Chandler

by

C.J. La Belle

“All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle…”

St. Francis of Assisi

Chandler - Noun:  A person who makes, or sells candles, and sometimes other items of tallow or wax, as soap.

Chapter One

Returning to the Past

“The past beats inside me like a second heart…”

John Banville

“Take your time, Mr. Chandler. When you’re ready, just ring the bell, and we’ll return the box to its place,” the young woman said.

Charles nodded, and seated himself in the private room used for bank customers who needed to retrieve something confidential from a safe deposit box. The table was wide, and the chair was comfortable.

But Charles didn’t plan on sitting in it for long. He had appointments he needed to keep.

He drew the long, silver container closer, and opened it with the numbered key. It was the family one, not his personal one, and as a businessman, Charles was aware of not mixing the two.

In his private one, there were some few things. His late wife’s wedding rings, and their certificate of marriage; then, sadly, the one of her passing. A few photographs he valued. His passport…still valid, though prior to recently, it had been a long time since he’d even considered venturing off-shore. Other things. Family things, mostly, but things which were solely his, in some way.

His personal box was also the repository for some of the papers he wanted Catherine to have. Deeds, titles, certificates ... the formal, legal declarations that indicated that Charles Chandler had been a person of importance, in his life, and that Catherine would be his only heir.

Until the day my grandchildren start to arrive…he grimaced, knowing his daughter kept her own council on such things, and did not need his.

He wished (for what felt like the millionth time), that his beloved Caroline was still alive. His beautiful wife would have known what to say, and how to get their daughter to open up, maybe, about her love life, and the possibility of the next generation’s arrival.

“An old man’s fantasy.” Charles pushed his regrets aside. There was business to attend to, here.

He frowned at the family box. It was much larger than his private one, and had been in the family since...well, Charles couldn’t quite remember a time when this particular box hadn’t contained some particular family treasure.

The papers which established the Chandler Family Trust were in here, taking up a goodly amount of room. Contracts about money owed, on land or business dealings. The title to his grandfather’s Bentley was in here, somewhere, as was his parents’ marriage certificate.

There were a few loose diamonds his great-uncle had picked up in Antwerp, which it seemed no one wanted to bother to set into a piece of jewellery. A ruby ring that had belonged to his maiden Aunt Elizabeth, and had probably come from India. Silver certificates. The deed to his apartment, and to Cathy’s, since both were listed in the family trust. Business contracts for ventures he’d once been a part of. A letter of gratitude, signed by a president, to his great-uncle. His brother’s flight wings. A distant relative’s discharge papers, from the Army of the Confederacy.

“Time moves on, and things change, whether we wish them to, or not,” Charles mused.

There were a few things that others had put there, and never retrieved. Bridal sets from relatives long gone, or a gold watch for thirty years of dedicated service, in business. Trinkets once thought too valuable to part with. Treasures, which actually were that. Most had an intrinsic cash value, but not all of them did.

Some of the items, Charles had to admit, he’d almost forgotten the provenance of. Some of it had been placed here by his grandmother, or even a distant great-aunt. Female things, mementos he shied away from investigating. Women had a tendency to hang onto items he could see no earthly use for. But he had never dared share his opinion on such things. And it was certainly never asked for.

“Memories…” Charles shook his head.

They were bittersweet. His childhood and youth, were represented in this box. And not just his. His father’s first report card had ended up tucked in here, for a reason Charles utterly could not name. Perhaps his grandmother, wanting to stress the importance of education, had taken his father down to the bank on report card day, and made him watch her stow it, with the family valuables.

Charles had never known the whole story. Now, he knew he never would.

As was the order of things, those who had raised him were all gone, now. Yet here, within the long metal rectangle, some of their personal effects remained. Therefore they remained, in a way. He only had to touch an object, and its owner lived again, in his memory.

These were either the Things That Could Not Be Replaced, or the ones no one wanted to lose to a fire, or a theft, or an act of carelessness, or some other disaster. It was where the Wills were stored next to the Powers of Attorney; where the paperwork that had officially created “Chandler and Coolidge” had been kept safe, next to original family photos too precious to be trusted to an album. His great-grandmother’s college diploma was in here, the first woman in the family to graduate from an institution of higher learning, back when that was a thing rarely done.

It was a thing she’d been more than a little proud of, so here it sat, protected from loss, or harm. She’d been good at accounting. And though she’d never worked a day, officially, Charles knew her financial acumen had increased the family’s coffers.

She’d been a kind woman, and the few memories Charles had of her were pleasant ones.

But Charles wasn’t here for a stroll down memory lane. This was the place where the stock certificates he was trading were kept, and he was in a selling mood. The market was being good, and it was time to take some money off the table. His broker had indicated as much.

Besides, Charles wanted to do a little travelling. Maybe a lot of that. It was high time he pared back his duties at work. Kay would like that. She deserved his slowing down, some. Perhaps they could reinvigorate their romance, strolling down the streets of Paris, or London.

He realised that meant he’d need to go into his private box, as well, for his passport. Visions of Paris, and possibly sharing it with Kay, waltzed across his mind.

It’s been too long since I’ve thought about such a thing …

“I’ll phone her tonight,” he decided, reaching into the long, flat box, and removing the business envelope he himself had placed there. He checked the contents.

A thousand shares currently valued at over ninety dollars a share, at the close of the market, today. He’d place a “sell” order in the morning, and have the cash by the end of the week. Not bad, for something he’d gotten into at the IPO.

Though Charles never fancied himself a true “investor” (there was too much of the lawyer in him for that), the family almost always had holdings in some dividend-paying company or other. It was how both he and his brother had gone to college, and not just “any” college, at that.

Cathy was hardly the first Chandler to graduate from Columbia.

Sliding the envelope into his overcoat pocket, Charles realised that shifting through the box had stirred some of its long-slumbering contents. His mother’s bridal photo stared up at him, along with his great grandfather’s photograph, in his military uniform.

The Chandler men had always served their country. Daniel’s sacrifice had been proof of that. His service medals were in here, things Charles’ mother had never wanted to see, again.

The clear-eyed, rather severe picture of his great-grandfather stared back at him. He was a dashing figure, in his dress whites.

Charles smiled down at an old man who’d looked nothing like Charles, in his youth, but was now beginning to bear a somewhat sneaking resemblance. Rigidly waxed moustache aside, Charles felt he now recognized the set of the blue eyes. (Charles knew the eyes were blue, even though the photo was in black and white.) Most of the Chandler men were blue-eyed and sandy haired, to some extent or other.

He tugged the old photo forward, and it brought more contents of the box with it. Mostly paperwork, there was also a heavy leather document pouch, wrapped with a tattered leather thong. Bound to the front of the pouch was a modern notebook. The legend scrawled across the cover declared it to be the property of Daniel Chandler.

At first, Charles didn’t remember anything about the odd document container, or the book. Perhaps it had been placed here from his brother’s personal box when it was cleared out and closed. It happened.

Then, he smiled. “Ah, of course… Well I’ll be damned. It’s been a very long while since I’ve seen you,” he said, carefully removing the rectangular bag from the box.

Aside from some silver coins minted in the 1780’s, the contents of the pouch (if not the pouch itself) were among the oldest things in the metal repository.

Untying the thong, he checked the deep interior and smiled again. Paper rustled. The brittle smell of old age, and the faintest trace of jasmine, greeted him.

He had very few memories of the old bundle, and none that were personal. It was not a thing Charles had any great attachment to. The contents of the pouch had been his father’s and his father’s before him, and so on, going backward. He couldn’t honestly say how far back it reached.

It had been intended for his older brother, Daniel, before his untimely passing, in Korea. His brother had been researching their shared family history, and he’d made a particular connection back to the shores of revolutionary France, thanks to whatever investigating he’d done.

It was a discovery which deeply shocked (and nearly offended) more than a few of the elderly aunts, who fancied themselves as Mayflower descendants, - and no one could convince them otherwise. Any possible “French connection” was something foreign, and deeply suspect, therefore.

Charles cared little for claims of a sterling lineage. In business, it mattered more what you had in your head, or in the bank, than where your distant ancestors hailed from. America had been a melting pot for all who made it to her distant shores. People sometimes made up the rest as they went along.

Charles suspected some of his more high-brow relations had done just that, in spite of some claims to the contrary.

Like the persistent rumour that Elliot Burch had remade his own past, Charles thought. He frowned, sighing at the lost opportunities Burch’s romance had represented. He’d been so sure Catherine had liked the younger man.

Charles lifted his shoulders in a soft shrug, the gesture stretching the fabric of his well-made Armani blazer, just a touch. If Elliot was past history, the contents of the pouch were that, on steroids, for Catherine.

The old papers were something he never thought about, really. In his youth, he’d pursued his education, then his wife, and in middle age, the further establishment of his business. It had been no mean feat to almost single-handedly elevate the family fortunes to the very impressive levels he’d achieved. It had taken years of hard work, years when Charles admitted he’d felt all but driven, to grow the firm.

His own family origins were still something of a mystery to him, therefore, at least in the particulars. For one thing, dry history had no intrinsic value to him. It couldn’t have saved his wife, or made sure his daughter hadn’t been attacked. And it couldn’t help her find her way to the happy life Caroline had so devoutly wished for Catherine.

If you couldn’t weight it, measure it, put it into a corporate contract, buy and sell it, or file it in court or with a broker, he had no standard way to measure its value, even if he understood “value” existed. Charles didn’t consider that a mercenary stance. Just a commentary on what the family box often contained.

What had once meant something to some, had only so much meaning, for him. That was the thing about having a “family box.” To some extent, it became a catch-all.

But now, the leather pouch widened his smile. He did have something of value to offer his only child. He hoped Catherine was interested in their family’s background. Charles wished he had paid more attention, when first his father, and then his older brother had prattled on.

Maybe it’s a sign I’m getting old, that I’m even looking through this stuff, Charles thought, carefully shifting the contents of the makeshift envelope, a little. The pages moved, within. Some were lightly illustrated. He closed it carefully, and set it aside, on the table.

Daniel’s little book had only a few pages translated. Recipes, mostly, then he’d moved on to some other pages. There was no particular order to it. Charles closed the book reverently, and set it back atop the pouch.

He smiled with happy anticipation. It was beyond time to telephone his daughter’s office, and arrange a get-together. They had seen too little of each other since she had gone to work for the D.A. Between his work and hers, well. Kay had told him more than once, he needed to make more of an effort…

“I think this means I have a date to make with my daughter,” he remarked cheerfully, carefully re-tying the thong around the pouch.

‘Friday at eight? Tavern on the Green. My treat. I have a surprise for you. And I miss you…’

“Oh, Dad…” Catherine sighed, reading her father’s message, again.

It had been on her desk when she’d returned from yet another long and frustrating day in court. She was aware she’d been neglecting her father, of late. Her work seemed to be dragging them ever further apart. And the secrets she could not share with him… they stood like barred, steel gates, between them.

It was past time they reconnected. She picked up the telephone receiver, and confirmed the date and time with Marilyn, her father’s secretary. It would be so nice to chat over dinner with him, again. She wondered what the surprise could be…

Chapter Two

Jasmine Never Fades

“Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it…”

Vladimir Nabokov

Charles waited until their server had cleared the table, and left them alone with their wine. Then he pulled out his ace. He’d waited three days to see his daughter again, and give her the surprise he had promised her. He’d been so pleased when she had accepted his invitation. He’d worried she couldn’t.

The old pouch emerged from his coat pocket. “It’s quite the mess, I’m afraid. The pages are whatever my father gave him, along with whatever Daniel could find. Any original binding probably gave way long ago. The nicest thing I can say about it is that the dates on the entries seem to help, some. But there aren’t dates on everything, and none of the pages are numbered.”

“What is this?” Deeply intrigued, Catherine opened the old container her father had handed to her across the restaurant table. She looked inside, and saw only papers.

Mingled scents rose to greet her, underscored by something feminine and alluring. They were sweet aromas, and decidedly floral ones. Jasmine, with a hint of rose? The exotic scent seemed to encourage her to delve further.

“You’re being very mysterious, Dad.” She reached in and carefully withdrew the smallest set of old papers. They crackled to her touch as she laid them on the table. A quick scan gave her some curious facts, and no answers.

She looked up at her father’s expectant expression. “I’d say the fact that it’s in French has slowed a couple of people down, too,” she remarked slowly, fascinated by what lay before her.

“And not 20th century French, either, Cathy,” he replied.

She scanned for a date, and found one. It confirmed his statement that at least some order could be guessed at.

“June, 1791?” Catherine was astonished at the age. “This is incredible.”

Brittle paper, yellowed with the passing of years, lay silent, smelling strongly of age and also faintly of the jasmine which seemed to cling to it, regardless of the march of time. The leather “envelope” was all that had kept everything intact, for so long.

“Oh, Dad, these are wonderful…” She smiled with anticipation. “Where on earth did they come from?”

She knew Vincent would love to look through something so old. And his understanding of French was far better than hers.

“I found them while I was looking for something else. An increasingly bad habit, I’m discovering.” Charles smiled wryly, as he drank his wine, and watched his daughter. “The moment I saw them, I thought of you.”

“These look… amazing.” Catherine scanned a thin, ragged-edged page. As far as she could tell, it contained a recipe for some sort of calming poultice for pregnant women. Something she thought Mary or Father might find interesting, if just for the historical value of it.

“I’m glad you find it all intriguing.” Charles looked deeply satisfied. “Your grandmother said our family name came from the woman who wrote this. I never really paid any attention to that fact, until now. I think my father had some of it, but your Uncle Daniel collected everything he could lay his hands on. It’s thanks to him it exists at all, now. I would have probably just left it in an attic, somewhere, and the termites would’ve had lunch.” He signalled the waiter, indicating he wanted his glass refilled.

“You wouldn’t have!”

“So, sue me.” He laughed, raising his hands at his daughter’s deeply scandalised look.

When she arches her eyebrows like that, she looks just like her mother. Ah, Caroline, I wish you could see her. She’s become so strong, the last few years. So much like you.

The waiter left on silent feet. Charles picked up and waved the notebook. “It’s all in here, all the notes Daniel managed to make about the papers, which aren’t many.” He laid it beside her plate. His expression sobered. “I guess he ran out of time.”

Catherine knew that was a thing that could happen, though it wasn’t supposed to happen to twenty-five-year-old men, in their prime. Uncle Daniel’s passing was considered the family tragedy, along with Caroline’s. It was a thing they both acknowledged, but seldom spoke of. Sad memories, still painful to touch.

Catherine opened her uncle’s book. The poultice page had already been set down in English, though some of the words were obscure, at best.

“Amazing. So, some of the other pages have been translated?” Catherine asked, looking between Daniel’s book and the old pages that still lay before her, on the table. Several of them seemed like “lists” of things, and looked like more recipes. A picture of a dark, cauldron-looking pot stared back at her.

“Is it a cookbook?” she asked, flipping through Daniel’s notes.

Very few pages bore her uncle’s writing. There were a few translations, and the occasional note he had presumably scribbled in the margins.

Investigate this further. Look up the history. Convent life. Can’t understand. I don’t know. Too hard to read. Translate later. Catherine sighed. For her Uncle Daniel, time did indeed, run out.

“I have no idea what all this is,” her father replied. “Not much of it was ever deciphered, and your guess is as good as mine, on the latter.” He knew that while his daughter was no chef, she was clearly captivated. He was enjoying the interest that lit up her storm-coloured eyes.

Catherine turned the page over carefully, looking for more clues.

Maybe William has seen his share of French cookbooks. Perhaps he’d like to read something so old.

She wondered if he might find something obscure, and perhaps edible.

But when she flipped a second page, she discovered that it only contained directions for infusing wax with fragrance.

She picked up another page. It was seemed slightly thicker than the last one. It had several written recipes for mal-de-mar on one side. The reverse was decorated with forget-me-nots, arranged to look like butterfly wings.

“If it is a cookbook, it’s certainly an odd one.” She frowned at the delicate image.

It looked fragile. It appeared to have been made from the faded blue flower petals. She was aware it had once been all the rage, to conserve things from nature by drying and pressing. It was a time-consuming skill she could never contemplate doing.

“I thought you might enjoy the challenge.” Her father shrugged at his lack of immediate knowledge about the pages. “According to family lore, your ever so great-grandmother made candles. She was a chandler. You see the family’s connection with the name.”

Catherine’s smile again reminded him of Caroline.

“Mostly, it’s recipes for those, but there are a few other things, as well. Daniel said there was a soap recipe, using oatmeal. At some point, she seems to have started using her recipe journal as a diary.”

“Really?” Catherine’s eyes gleamed. She was trying to translate as she questioned him, and found it difficult. The script was faded, and thin.

Charles shrugged. “I know books were expensive and rare back then, so it’s more likely she just wrote things down on loose paper, and tucked them away, in some kind of order. I don’t honestly know if it was all held together as a book, or if it was a couple of those. Or even one book with some scattered pages, stuck in. If it was ever in one piece, or any kind of order, that’s been lost to the passage of years. Quite a lot of those, actually.”

He was enjoying her curiosity, as she looked back into the envelope and drew forth yet another page.

“Did Uncle Daniel, or anyone, ever try to piece it all back together?”  Catherine asked, charmed by the intriguing puzzle that lay before her. She carefully extracted a few more pages, and pushed her wine glass back, so moisture wouldn’t accidentally touch this new-old prize.

More pages even had drawings. Pictures of plants, mostly, but there were some sketches of what seemed to be rudimentary tools. A mortar and pestle, specifically made of “heavy stone.” Various sized chisels, and brushes. A thin knife. A pair of very sharp-looking scissors. More...

She couldn’t wait to show it all to Vincent. This was the kind of treasure she was sure he would appreciate.

Like the butterfly page, there were some thicker pages that seemed to be stuck together with what looked like drops of old wax. Probably an accident that had occurred while the pages were in use, providing a recipe for a scented candle. She wondered if Rebecca would have a remedy for that.

Suddenly, she was impatient to get started.

Her father shook his head at her inquiry, liking the interest that continued to light up her features. “Daniel tried to sort through it, once, back before we went to war. But we were young, and he needed a lot more time to collate old family history. And bluntly put, his French was only so-so. There are a few dated pages, but not many. He said there’s something in it about pirates. That, it seems, is how our ancestress came to the New World.”

Her gaze shot up to his. “My ever-so-great- grandmother sailed here on a pirate ship?” Catherine was beyond intrigued, now. “This story just keeps getting better and better!  Did she make anyone walk the plank, I wonder?” she teased.

Her lawyer’s sharp mind kicked in. “Or is someone spinning us a line here? You know, Great Aunt Harriet always insisted we’re all descended from the Mayflower, and the Plymouth Rock people. She would not hear of it being any other way. Any hint of a possible French descent from the 1790’s will have her spinning in her grave.”

“I know. More than a few of them will be doing that, right now.” Charles smiled at her suspicions. “‘Pirate’ could have meant anything from bootlegger to, well ‘Spaniard,’ as far as I can tell. It seems the original Kate Chandler fled the Reign of Terror, like many of the French who sailed for America. Trade went on, illicitly.”

“Was she from the nobility?” Catherine asked, surprised she knew so little, and had never been told. Her grandfather’s sisters had done a sterling job of family history manipulation, glossing over the unpalatable, and the unsatisfactory.

“We can only hope so, for Harriet’s sake!” Charles chuckled, delighted with her curiosity as she carefully shifted the papers from hand to hand. He gave her a wink.

“We’re not a hundred percent sure she was ever even married in a church, if you take my meaning. But if you imply we’re descended not only from peasants, but illegitimate ones, you’ll send your grandmother spinning in her grave, as well.”

He placed his hand over his necktie, adopting an aristocratic pose. “Family standards must be maintained, at all costs,” he intoned mockingly. He couldn’t keep from smiling, as he did it.

“Oh, this sounds fascinating!” Catherine answered his grin with one of her own. “Dad, please. Can I keep this? Get it translated? Make a copy? I promise I’ll give it back. We can’t allow it to be lost, not after all this time.”

“No need to return it,” he said, helping her carefully gather all the pages back into their sturdy home. “It’s yours, Cathy. Once I saw it in the safe deposit box, I realised it was always destined to be yours. Passing on one of the family heirlooms, I guess you could say. Your Uncle Daniel would be more than pleased. If only he had lived to see it brought back to life, again.”

His daughter’s eyes flared wide. “Oh, Dad, no. This is too precious. This is... legacy...”

“And it’s yours.” Charles raised a denying hand. “As much as the money, or anything else. This is what it means to know your family history. Warts and all, it is what made us who we are, today.”

His gaze narrowed. “But I am so glad you are interested. I was never into all that family history stuff. And Daniel died in the war, childless. Your mother and I were blessed with only you, so the family tree is getting kind of narrow. The whole thing has been sitting in the family box for a long time, just to make sure it was never lost to fire. Or bugs.” He continued to watch her thoughtfully.

She handled her prize reverently. “Yes.” Catherine nodded. “It needs to see the light of day, once more.”

A very satisfied Charles leaned back in his chair.

And you can keep it for my grandchildren… he mused, but he didn’t express the thought most dear to him.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

He nodded again. “It’s truly yours, Cathy. You’re named for her, in a way, same as my Dad’s sister was.”

Catherine only vaguely remembered Charles’ other aunt, but family portraits and scattered stories assured her that Elizabeth Catherine Chandler had been a strong, kind woman.  One with smiling green eyes, and a will of iron.

She frowned at the package of papers, remembering the faint scent of the expensive oils, and knowing some scents can triggers the deepest memories.

Like the sweet scent of candle smoke in the tunnels, and on Vincent’s clothing…

Charles watched her closely, seeing her eyes darken with reminiscences. He wondered what she was thinking right then, when she looked suddenly so wistful.

Or should that be, who? He sighed. More secrets…

“Keep it all safe for me? Maybe... pass it on, one day?” he asked, his eyes pensively reflective.

“I will, Dad. Don’t worry. It’s safe with me,” Catherine replied, taking his hand across the table, and holding it tight.

Charles smiled, and gave instructions to their hovering waiter. “Make sure I get the check.”

Then, he turned the happy grin back Catherine’s way. “I’m going to start spending your inheritance. Thinking of taking a vacation. Tell me, do you think Kay would prefer Paris, or London, this spring?”

Catherine was delighted with him. He looked years younger, already. “Spend more of it. Go to both,” she advised, so happy she’d agreed to meet with him. “You’ve earned that. And so much more, Dad.”

Charles reached for his gold card, as pleased with his daughter as she seemed to be with him. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he replied.

Chapter Three

Memories Always Remain…

“Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart...”

Haruki Murakami

From the Diary of Kate, the Chandler:

December, 1851

It will soon be Christmas again. The birth of our beloved Jesus Christ. Once more, those I love will gather and be with me.

All except Him. The one I miss with all my heart and soul. He has been gone from us for almost half a year now, and I mourn. I cannot be consoled.

These words then, will be my final entry. For I have grown too old, and my poor fingers can no longer hold the pen. Joint-ills plague me daily, and it pains me when I attempt to carve my candles. I do not know which the greater tragedy is.

As much as it breaks my heart, I can trust no other to write in my diary in my stead. My candles I must leave to younger hands, more nimble now than mine.

My poor eyes suffer too, but in that darkness He finds me, and I am comforted by the visions of His beloved face, the touch of His hand upon my cheek, and His lips against mine. He holds me, and only then can I find some respite in sleep. He reads to me in my dreams. And then it is as it was when we were both young, and very much in love.

I know it is for the best that I write no more. My mind is not as sharp as it once was. Though I tell our tale here, I must hide it, also. I cannot err, or grow careless. The New World is as suspicious, in its way, as the Old one was, and I have our children to protect.

You see, I will never tell, because the secrets hidden within these pages are not mine to reveal. But they are mine to own and understand. They speak to the best part of me. The part of me that belongs to Him, always…

Soon I will die in this bed. The bed my love bought for me, all those years ago. The bed in which our four sons were conceived and born. The bed which still holds the memory, and the beauty, of the man I have loved beyond everything.

I will go to Him, knowing I have done all I can. He waits for me. I am at peace. Merci, mon bel homme…

Our children have all taken my surname. The name I had first been given by those I live among. We are truly a family of Chandlers now.

I have given strict instructions to my sons. They are to make sure all my diaries are buried with me. So our secret will remain hidden for all time. It is all I can do now, for Him, and His beloved memory.

I have been asked, if I could live my life again, would I change a thing? Such a strange question, one which I do not fully understand. How can one go back in time?

But my heart’s answer will always be, no, of course not! How could I do anything else, but love Him, and try to understand all that has happened to me, in my long and eventful life…?

Aller avec Dieu…Go with God, whatever you conceive him to be…

Within these secret pages then, is the story of my life. A life I would never, ever want to change…

“So that’s clearly the last page,” Catherine said, as Vincent’s soft voice read the last words. “My Uncle Daniel figured out that much. Maybe that’s because this page was written in English, and is legible.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard you mention him,” Vincent remarked, looking up from the ancient treasure in his hand.

“I never knew him. He was Dad’s older brother.” Catherine sighed. “He and Peter Alcott were friends. They shipped out, together. Daniel made Peter promise to look after my Dad, if he didn’t make it back to do it himself.”

“So his sacrifice led to Peter being your mother’s doctor?” Vincent asked, interestedly turning some of the other pages over. He was both fascinated and intrigued.

The pages were spread upon Catherine’s dining room table, since she didn’t want to trust them to the wind, outside on the balcony. After three years, Vincent had become accustomed to coming inside, in the winter weather. Late February was being its usual, somewhat mercurial self.

Catherine nodded. “I called Peter. He obviously remembers Daniel, and fondly, but says he never saw anything that looked like an old diary, among his things.”

She touched the page lightly. “This is all so sad. Kate has lost the man she loved. And she was so devastated.”

Her fingertip settled on the phrase, mon bel homme…my handsome man. She looked up at Vincent.

“I don’t think I could bear such a great loss.”

He took her hand, holding it gently. “Nor I…” He beheld the hint of tears shimmering in her green eyes, and sighed. “But true love never dies, Catherine. It simply moves onto a different plane, and waits for us to find it again. Always…”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers, before he released them. “Besides, Kate found her lover again, in her dreams,” he continued softly. “And they were together once more. Perhaps it felt more real than we can imagine. Who can tell where such memories come from? Where our dreams are created, or where they go?”

It was a beautiful thing to say, and Catherine knew it. “I don’t know,” she confessed. She closed her eyes a moment, and leaned into him, soaking in his nearness, while Vincent revelled in hers.

After a moment, she turned her attention back to the contents of her table. “It just seems such a … a shame that her memories have been scattered, and lost,” she said, eying the disparate pages.

He shrugged. “Many things can stir them to life again. Perhaps this collection of papers was simply waiting to be found. Maybe there is a higher purpose here. Perhaps… this is their time to live again.”

“You think so?” she asked, knowing that the chore of deciphering what was before them would be daunting, at the least.

“Who can say? It often seems like a whim of fate that some items from our lives survive, while others are lost. That a thing meant for your father’s brother, a man you never knew, should one day come to you, is a miracle all its own.”

He glanced at the picture of the little cauldron Catherine had shown him. “It’s an amazing collection.”  His eyes scanned across the flat surface of her table. “Pieces of scripture, illustrations, old recipes… things that look like parts of a diary… This is all treasure, Catherine. It is to be revered.” He touched a taloned finger to the page nearest his hand.

“This is the truth, after all. At least, it was her truth.”

“I agree.” Catherine nodded, tugging the page closer, so they could both see it better. “My dad said he pulled it out of his safe deposit box. He says it’s mine, and good luck making heads or tails of it.”

“You say your uncle tried?”

“Mmm-hmm. He only got so far.” She held up Daniel’s notebook. Most of the pages were pristine.

“On the way home, I was even wondering if I could make something from it, from one of the recipes, but Daniel’s notebook only goes so far, and then he appears to have given up. The order is all… jumbled. Judging by his notes in the margins, some of it was even confusing, to him.”

Vincent understood why. “The language is… dated, for lack of a better word, and even I don’t pretend to understand some of the terms, but perhaps it can be reconstructed?” Vincent picked up the cauldron page, and smoothed the edge of it, between his fingers. It was thick, and heavy with the cotton fibres that held it together.

“I am more than willing to try and help you translate it,” he offered, turning the page over, gently.

“That would be wonderful.” Her smile was all he needed, as a reward.

The word “Belladonna” caught his eye. He knew it was a deadly toxin, in the wrong hands, yet could also be used to treat colic, among other things.

“I would be careful with your reconstructions. Some of these things are poisons, in the wrong dose,” he warned.

“Really?” she asked, fascinated, anew.

He showed her the drawing of the deceptively named plant. “This was used in cosmetics. Eye drops, to widen the pupils, in bygone times. It’s why many of the portraits of women from the era look…doe-eyed.”

Catherine was visibly surprised. “I never even considered such a thing.”

“Ingested, too much can be deadly.”

Catherine frowned, as she looked at the drawing he held out to her. She’d had no knowledge of such odd facts.

“I can’t imagine a nun using cosmetics,” she said.

He sighed, trying to pierce the language of the recipe. “Used correctly, it’s also good for a stomach ache.”

Catherine realized she would need the rich body of knowledge Vincent possessed. Both about history, and medicine.

“This is all so … incredible.” She marvelled at the scattered bounty before her.

“It is,” he intoned. “And I would say, something of a unique record. Perhaps priceless, for you and your father.”

According to the page near his left hand, anise produced good dreams, while inhaling peppermint guaranteed something he could only translate as “wakefulness.”

It all made him deeply curious to see more.

“Thank you for offering to help,” Catherine remarked softly. “It’s waited a long time to be pieced back together. If that can even be done.” She walked around the table, to a page that was simply covered in Kate’s neat penmanship, no drawings or recipe measurements apparent. Most of the pages weren’t like that. Several contained bits of scripture, according to the chapter and verse notations.

Such an odd collection of things. Almost as if her great-grandmother had scribbled down her thoughts as they came to her. As if the diary had been her only friend she could talk with.

“Mostly, it seems like a bunch of recipes. But there’s no date on any of those pages, and no page numbers on anything,” she observed.

Vincent carefully turned over a sketch of flower blossoms, hanging suspended by twine. “No, but this diary page on one side has part of a formula for the proper drying of marigolds on the other. It may be possible to piece at least some of it together, accurately.”

He traced a drawing of a marigold, with a lightly touching finger. “Perhaps knowing which flowers bloom in spring and which in fall may help, as well.” He shrugged.

“Perhaps,” Catherine allowed.

“And the paper is different, one group of pages to another,” he observed.

Catherine’s green eyes lightly scanned the pages, for their differences.

“Is that why the colours vary, some?” Catherine asked.

He nodded. “Different recipes for paper-making, probably made at different times of year. Different qualities of cotton, or linen.”

He carefully brushed his sensitive fingertips across one page, then another. They looked similar, in colour. But one felt decidedly thicker than the other.

He picked it up, lifting the page to his nose, inhaling the smell of extreme old age, and traces of jasmine, and rose water. There were other, more subtle scents, too.

“The French were known for their use of oils in perfumes, and healing. Floral scents, of course. But I think I detect beeswax and chamomile, too. Maybe a hint of spruce…” He closed his eyes, and breathed shallowly. “Yes…” He nodded. “There’s rosemary in this…”

Catherine watched him, curiously. “It’s fascinating that we can still smell something, even faintly. That the scent hasn’t just… faded away, over time.”

He offered her the thick page, and she inhaled, agreeing with his assessment. Then she frowned.

“When Dad gave them to me, I thought I smelled an exotic, flowery odour, like jasmine. I remembered my elderly aunt used to wear it all the time. And perhaps rose. Am I right?”

“The oils have been trapped in the wax, or in the paper. But you’re right, your floral scent is jasmine. The recipes must have been very… strong.” He rubbed his fingertips together, before lifting them to his nose. “Jasmine has long been one of the most highly prized of the essential oils. It would have been very expensive, and very precious.” He smiled.

“Your aunt had very good taste in perfume.”

“I can see my oils knowledge is sadly lacking. Good thing I’m planning to brush up.” Catherine sighed.

“There is much to know,” he agreed, looking through for dated pages.

“So you think all this is authentic? I had an aunt who would say someone is besmirching the fine name of ‘Chandler.’” She smiled. “Do you think all the papers are really that old?”

She knew such things could be faked, though she had no idea why anyone would try to. Had Daniel… bought any of this, rather than just found it, somewhere?  Had it all come out of the same box, or been scattered, amongst various belongings? She had no way of knowing.

“I think they are, yes.” Vincent nodded. “It will be interesting to find out what they are trying to tell us,” he mused.

He smoothed a seeking hand across the pages, looking for variations in texture. Some had more than others, a sign of their composition. A few passed roughly under the sensitive skin of his palm, where most simply lay more smoothly, as if they were trying to not draw attention to themselves. Vincent fancied that it was almost as if they were uncertain of his intent.

He studied them again. Though there were indeed subtle variations in the colour of the pages. For the most part, it all looked like differing shades of yellow, white, or grey.

“I think the good name of ‘Chandler’ can remain well intact,” Vincent concluded, clearly having no personal connection to the genealogy craze, but understanding that there certainly was one. The antiques market was flooded with fakes and forgeries. Such articles were in the newspapers, often. And some had sold for truly incredible prices.

But there was no reason to think these pages were anything other than what they were purported to be.

“My dad says it was handed down. So I’m sure it wasn’t found recently, if that helps.”

“If I were asked to guess, I would say the dates you have are correct, then. That her story begins just before the turn of the 19th century.”

The pages needed to be carefully flipped, front to back, and searched for the earliest entries. They were the ones from the 1790’s.

“I can’t believe some of this is almost two hundred years old,” Catherine mused.

“Perhaps even earlier, since some of the recipes may have been handed down, for many years. Feel.” He offered her the page he had picked up. It was sturdy, for its age.

“This feels different than some of the other ones,” she remarked.

“These pages were made with heavy linen, while most of the others were made with something lighter. Someone went to a great deal of care, as if these words were very precious, when they were written.”

Catherine ran her hand delicately across the page, even though she was aware that an antiques dealer would have been handling them with gloves, to avoid leaving oil residue on the paper. She knew she’d have to load the pages in sheet protectors, if they were going to handle them further.

But if that had been done already, they’d have both missed exactly what Vincent was talking about. She realised how sensitive his fingers were, as they delicately brushed the dry pages. There were subtle differences, as well as tell-tale similarities, to be had. Things she’d not have picked up on, without his prompting.

“So, you think some of the pages belong together because they’re made from the same paper?”

He nodded. “It would make a certain amount of sense. Paper was made in batches, out of anything close to hand.”

She set a few of the thinner pages next to each other. “I think some of the pages might be stuck together. Some of them seem pretty thick,” she remarked.

He inclined his head, in agreement. “Perhaps. Some of them might be. But it’s also likely they were made with heavy cotton, or even wool. Rags, cut up and pressed, then dried in the sun.”

“I didn’t know the recipes varied so widely,” Catherine replied.

“Any fibre would do, I imagine. Cattail leaves have been used, as well as grass blades. And cornhusks make excellent paper. The Egyptians, of course, used papyrus extensively, though I can’t say the same for the French. It is a very old craft.”

In part, their old construction was why the document pages had lasted, this long.

“Some of them are even larger than others,” Catherine observed.

“The gift of a thing made by hand. And likely on two different continents.” Vincent smiled, laying the pages he held back on the table. “Time had a different meaning then.”

It seemed like a very daunting puzzle, in spite of what they now knew. “Do you really think we can make sense of this? I’d love to have it restored. Or at least have a copy of it bound.” Catherine looked thoughtful, and referred again to the directions on what would have been the “last page” of this wonderful find.

“It will take time.” Vincent inclined his head, again, in encouragement. He knew that trying to sort through it would be no small feat. In some places, the ink was somewhat faded, while in others, it was strong. Dozens of pages lay scattered across her table top, while others remained inside the leather pouch.

“And yet, she didn’t want any of it to survive,” Catherine mused. “Surely, her life was not so terrible as to wish no one knew of it? Or any secret so incredible…” She stared at Vincent, and bit her bottom lip.

Speaking of incredible secrets…

She was aware of a sudden bit of irony. Catherine herself could not keep a diary; at least not an entirely truthful one. Or if she did, it would have to remain a carefully guarded secret, and there, too, with instructions to be destroyed, if anything happened to her.

Vincent sensed the trend of her thoughts, but was unsure as to what it was.

“Perhaps there truly were things she could not tell,” Vincent observed quietly. “Perhaps she was the last to know and understand them. In spite of what lies before you, very few lives exist as an “open book.” We all own secrets we are sworn to keep, Catherine.”

“And yet, her sons did not bury the pages with her, as instructed,” Catherine replied quickly. “Perhaps they knew they were too precious to destroy.” She lightly traced the ragged edge of one of the pages, beyond grateful that it had survived the march of time.

“I’ll need to buy plastic sheet protectors, to keep them in. While some of the pages seem fairly sturdy, others are downright… fragile.”

“Perhaps there were other pages, which are now gone, thanks to that very thing. Maybe her sons needed a link, to the past, and the country they had never seen.” Vincent offered, by way of reasoning why the documents before him still existed. He shook his head, his eyes still on the papers before them.

His tone became almost wistful. “Without family connections… without some sort of guide, it is… difficult to know your place, in the world.” He began moving what looked to be diary pages closer to each other, while he made a separate section for what seemed like the recipes.

“Who we are to become is so often a reflection on where we have come from,” he mused.

Catherine caught the hint of longing in his voice. And what he left unsaid.

As interesting as I find all this… it’s just old family history. But you… you’d give almost anything to have something like this of your own, wouldn’t you? she thought.

He would help her translate, and be happy for her. But the circumstance remained that he knew nothing of his own family tree, or its history. And it was unlikely that he ever would know.

It was a simple fact he carried, always, like an open wound that could never quite heal.

Catherine bit her lower lip in reflection. She had been about to say that it would be so interesting to know where she’d come from, and something of the origins of her surname, and her family tree. To know even little details about the woman who had perhaps sailed with pirates, much less any of the larger, even more pertinent facts.

Intrigue had galvanised her.

Now it left a bad taste in her mouth.

Vincent had no idea of his own family’s history, or even if he could claim to have ever had a family, at all.

Catherine was aware that hurt him on many levels, even if it was a thing he rarely spoke of. He looked up from the picture of the mortar and the pestle to find her staring at him, some of the joy gone from her face.

He was far too canny to not know the direction her thoughts had taken. “It’s all right, Catherine,” he reassured her simply, sensing her sudden disquiet. “Truly.”

He gave a reassuring look. “I would like to help you,” he said simply. “It would be pleasurable to spend time with you, on this. It is so different from anything we have done before.”

Vincent knew that translating the pages was a thing he could help her with. That it meant there would be time, time with her, and he adored spending that.

This was indeed something different than anything else they’d ever done. Something pleasant, for her. Something that meant something, to her father. The father Vincent knew she’d been sometimes neglecting, thanks to him, and the concerns of his world.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “This looks like it will be a lot of work, for one thing. We would need to find time to be together, more than we do now.”

The look on his face told her he hardly considered that a burden. “I’m sure we can manage,” he replied. “We must not let Kate down. She has waited long enough to be rediscovered.”

He raised his broad shoulders, and the motion sent his long cloak to dancing, just a bit, when he lowered them. “And what do we have, if not time?” he asked reasonably. “We can select a page, and read it together, write it down in your uncle’s journal. If that seems too slow, I can do some of it on my own, if you will trust me with the pages, then bring you what translations I can divine.”

“Of course I trust you,” she replied. It was a given, as well as a constant, between them.

“And I can do that, as well,” she said. “We both have work. But we’ll manage.”

He swept her bangs aside with a gentle finger, before leaning closer. “We will come together whenever we can, and discuss what we each have found. I am looking forward to that…”

Oil of lavender, from fresh, not dried.

Three drops of essence of orange, from the blossom, not the peel.

Combine with tallow that’s newly made, not left too long to sit. But beeswax is the best to use.

Attar of roses. Red or white is best. Three drops, at least. More, for a headier fragrance.

Jasmine, which cannot be substituted or left out. As much as is desired.

Sandalwood is always preferred, but cedar or rosewood is also fine. No more than five drops, no less than two.

Never less than three drops of Rosemary.  Stir with a boar’s hair brush or a good whisk. Spoons do not spread the oils as well, in the mix.

Leave the wick longer than normal. (Do not trim close. You want the scent to release, and warm the air.)

This is the favoured scent…

Catherine read the words in the precise, flowing hand of her ancestor, translating as she went, with Vincent’s help. He stood, looking over her shoulder, and her French/English dictionary sat open before them, on the table.

After two nights of work, Uncle Daniel’s little book now had a new entry, though where the translated page landed in the overall order of things, was anyone’s guess.

“I’m surprised there aren’t directions relating to how full the moon should be,” Catherine remarked, holding up the original page, now ensconced in protective plastic. “Or chanting.” She smiled, as she re-read the list of ingredients, imagining how beautifully all those scents would combine.

Vincent leafed through some of the pages very carefully, thanks to their age and value. The plastic protected them from spills, oil, and dirt. It did not keep them from cracking, if they were bent, or rough-handled.

“Chanting and moon signs likely would have gotten your ancestor accused of witchcraft,” he replied thoughtfully.

He lifted the page they’d just translated to the light, scanning it closely. “This last line interests me. It looks like this recipe was her favourite. ‘The favoured scent,’” he quoted. “I wonder why.”

He opened the top of one of the other plastic covers, and inhaled. Enclosure had allowed any trace odours to build up, just a bit, and then be released. He held the indistinct aroma in his nose, as was becoming his habit, trying to detect the scents of the past.

Bergamot and cypress…extremely faint, but still detectable, to his very keen senses. Other, vague scents seemed trapped in other pages. Like the one they’d just been working on.

Catherine shook her head in an admission that she didn’t know. “If you look at the mixture, it doesn’t say if this had any medicinal value, like the others do. Maybe she just liked how it smelled?” She leaned back and massaged her neck, a little.

It had taken her a good while to translate just this small part. And it had taken Vincent to supply her with words like ‘whisk’ and ‘boar.’ Her dictionary was the kind most tourists travel with. Not every word she needed would be listed in it.

“I’m bushed.” Catherine set down her pen, noting the last line on the page that now stared at her from the white, lined paper of Daniel’s book. Somehow, it looked like it didn’t belong there, in something so modern. Like no matter what language it was in, these words seemed like they belonged on ancient linen, or even vellum.

Vincent watched her, and sensed her fatigue. It wouldn’t do, if this exhausted her.

“You mentioned making photocopies of the originals. It might speed the work, if I take some back with me,” he offered.

Catherine shook her head, carefully, as she rose. “Then I called the National Archive Society. The very helpful woman there says exposing the pages to bright light is so hideous an idea, she didn’t know where to begin. A copy machine is nothing, if not blinding. She said the damage might not show up right away, but it would, over time. The image would start to fade. And some of those are faint enough, now.”

“What did she recommend?” Vincent asked.

“Taking them to a special photographer, first. One experienced in photographing antiquities. Then developing the film.”

“Ah, I see.” None of those were things he could help her with, directly.

She gave the translated page a small smile. For all the fact that it didn’t quite look like it “belonged” anywhere, it was their first accomplishment, together.

“You know, I will do that, at some point, but for right now…” She closed Daniel’s little book, and tugged on one of Vincent’s hands. “… I kind of like that we’re the only two people handling these. It is our secret to share, for the moment. I like that, too.”

Her palm felt warm, against his own. It was a welcome sensation. They had done something together, were helping to make something.

Yes. It feels unexpectedly… intimate, he thought.

“Perhaps we should simply hand copy these recipes down, then, just as she wrote them, even before they are translated,” Vincent said. “Later, if there is a word we cannot find, leave it in. Perhaps research can help us.”

“I sense a possible trip to the New York Public Library,” Catherine replied.

The excitement of discovery still gripped her. Whatever spare time she had now, she knew she’d happily spend it working on the pages. But her work in the D.A.’s office kept her from completely submerging herself in this family history. She felt a measure of irritation.

“This might be slow going,” she warned. “My free time is limited enough, now.”

“I can go up through the library basement at night. We may yet need that avenue.” Vincent brushed aside her concern, still hoping that might not be necessary.

This was already shaping up to be something quite wonderful, something they were sharing. He didn’t like the idea of her sitting alone in the big, cold library, doing things with the books he wanted to do with her. Or at least, for her. His basement route was fraught with the possibility of discovery, but still, he held it out.

“These are priceless, for their link to you.” He handed back the small sampling of papers.

“It still feels so strange to be handling something so old,” Catherine replied, gathering them in. “And to think this once had so much value, someone thought they had to write it down. Old directions for mixing up a potion to be burned in wax, that swears to be a cure for insomnia, or indigestion,” she marvelled.

He sensed the scepticism of the modern woman, in her. Perhaps she just doesn’t realise…

“It would be humorous indeed, if so much of it weren’t effective,” Vincent replied.

Catherine raised a curious eyebrow. “You believe in aromatherapy? That’s very… New Age of you, Vincent.” She smiled.

Vincent’s returning smile was both slight and conspiratorial. “What you call ‘New Age’ I believe Master Wong refers to as incredibly ancient, and very effective. Some of the oldest records to come from his country are those of court physicians, recording herbal cures.”

“Really? Things to be burned really help?”

“Burned, ingested, inhaled, applied topically… the old apothecary shops had many cures. Eucalyptus has been used to aid with colds for thousands of years. When the children are ill, he sends some oil down to Father, if not sprigs of the plant itself.”

“So...this really works?” Catherine asked, still cautious about such a conclusion.

It was one thing to discover the recipe book of Kate the Chandler. It was quite another to believe that anything in the pages was actually effective. Back in Kate’s time, Catherine was well aware that they were still burning people at the stake for witchcraft, using leeches to draw out toxins, and hitting cysts with bibles.

She frowned at one of the few translations her Uncle Daniel had managed. “So, lavender will make me calm, while oil of cloves will... let’s see, what was oil of cloves was used for?” She carefully sought the page.

“It will ease a toothache, among other things. Scented in a candle, I doubt the effects would be so... helpful,” Vincent replied.

Catherine forgot for a moment that she was speaking with someone whom Jacob Wells had often declared had the soul of a doctor. The natural ability to heal needed no university degree. There were incredibly restorative powers to be found in Vincent’s touch alone. She knew that.

“Sometimes, they simply stumbled upon something that worked. They may not have known the ‘why’ of it, but they did observe the effect,” he explained.

“So you believe in this? At least some?” she asked, now more curious than ever. A tincture purported to cure warts was in one hand, while a candle scent meant to banish “pervasive sorrow” was in another.

Vincent shrugged his broad shoulders. “I think your ancestor was a wise woman to have uncovered what she did, and it must have taken much experimentation. The Dark Ages had all but obliterated reliable medical knowledge from Europe. The East fared better, but there was little interaction, between the two. By the time the Age of Enlightenment came, the changes were more social than medical. She’d have had only so many references, to gather information from. And few ways to get more.”

He looked thoughtful as he studied a sketch of garlic cloves. There were other drawings, on other pages. “A book like this would have attempted to overcome one of the things that made the Dark Ages so … dark. And the time in France so… difficult.”

“How so?” Catherine asked.

“Everything had to be learned, then learned again, passed down from mothers to daughters, and fathers to sons. With so many people illiterate, and books so expensive… much was lost. When the Revolution began, France cut itself off from the outside world, to some degree. And a convent is even more isolated than something like, say, a university.”

He clearly valued the incredible treasure before him, whether he believed in any of it or not. And he obviously thought some of it had been potentially useful.

“It was a hard time, for all of them,” he assured her. “Plague… wars. Then in France... the Reign of Terror. Much was lost, and in a time when there was little, in the way of outside communication.  Your ancestor may have been all the hope some people had, for a curative.”

Catherine fondled the pages anew, inside the plastic, as she put them back together. A beautiful drawing of the simple tools the Frenchwoman had used for candle carving caught her eye, along with the herbal recipe she’d just read to Vincent. A detailed sketch of a sharp knife, one that looked like it might be used to bone a fish, stared back at her. It now sat next to a rough sketch of a boar’s head brush, one that probably could have been used as a paint brush, in other hands.

Other images, laying side-by-side, completed the open page. A ball of twine. A woodcutter’s chisel. A small metal loop, on a handle. Not so much else.

“It’s all from so long ago,” Catherine mused. “I know I talked about trying to recreate one of her recipes. It’s funny to think that I could make something as perhaps she would have made it.” She looked up. “Revive an old family tradition.”

Her lovely face grew wistful, as her manicured fingers traced over the lines of the brush. She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Nothing ambitious, of course. Perhaps… just something... something I could give to my father, for his next birthday,” she said, the idea gathering momentum, in her brain. “Something from Kate. And me.”

Vincent kept silent, watching the idea evolve, in her fine mind. He didn’t wish to break the spell of her thought process.

“Usually, Dad gets a last-minute item, bought during my lunch hour, from the usual lists in Macys, or Bloomingdales.” She shrugged, but kept her eyes on the image of the thin knife. “Or a pair of tickets to a musical, or something. I haven’t given him anything truly personal, in years.”

Vincent nodded his understanding. He’d seen her leave the apartment with a brightly decorated gift bag, from a major department store.

“I would like to surprise him, for bringing all this to me. I could say it’s from Uncle Daniel, too.” Catherine indicated Daniel’s book, sitting near the scattered diary pages. “It would be so unexpected. Though sometimes, my father has a mild aversion to receiving surprises.”

“As does mine,” Vincent acknowledged with some humour. “But then, living with Mouse, will tend to have that effect.” He knew he was using levity as a way to allow her to think about the thing that was truly on her mind.

Will you try this, Catherine? Will you attempt it?

Catherine shared a smile with him. “Dad’s has a Hawaiian shirt he refused to wear, even in Hawaii.” She grinned at the memory, and knew the loud floral print was still among his belongings, since it had been a gift from her. He’d never wear it. But he’d also never part with it.

A line written in Daniel’s book caught her eye. “Mon belle homme…” she mused, bending closer. ‘My beautiful man…’

She frowned. Surely that should be mon bel homme, as Kate had written before? She shrugged, figuring the translation of the faded writing might not be up to par.

She looked back at the sketch of the ball of twine, the knife, and the other tools.

The knife doesn’t look that long. Surely, I could handle it?... She scowled a bit, as she mused.

“You are pouring over the pages, and considering something,” Vincent prodded, gently, noting that her eyes kept going to the drawings of the carving tools.

Catherine admitted as much. “Just a thought, about making him something. Hm. Still, the notion of me making a gift for him. It’s funny,” she said, eyeing the pages wistfully.

“Your father will love anything you gift him with.” Vincent lifted a blonde eyebrow. “Would your making a gift for him be funny, or... wonderful?”

She glanced back up at him. “More the first, than the second,” Catherine replied, honestly. “Vincent, in spite of my last name, I promise you I don’t know how to make a can...” the word died on her lips.

The idle thought that had been gathering momentum now blossomed into the beginnings of a plan. Or at least, the possibility for one.

Would it be so horrible, if I tried to create something I have never attempted before? Of course, if I make a complete mess of it, the wax can always be reused…

Vincent divined her thoughts accurately. “If you wish to try your hand at candle-making, I know Rebecca would be glad to help you. I could ask her for you.”

“Oh, Vincent…do you think she would want to do that for me?” Catherine asked. “I know I would need some serious help. But she always seems so busy…”

Vincent shook his head. “I think she’d welcome the respite from her normal work, and that she’d make the offer whole-heartedly. Perhaps even teach you how to carve one so it looked like... this,” he said, pointing to a picture on the next page. A beautiful sketch of a candle carved into the shape of a multi-layered rose stared back at her, drawn in red ink.

“Oh, no. I could never make something like that! It’s too complicated.” Her brow wrinkled. “Baby steps, Vincent. I have no plans to run any marathons, by attempting this.”

“Said the woman who remade her entire life.” He said the words in his lowest tones, the awe contained therein letting her now how much he respected her for her choices.

Catherine reached for his hand, and squeezed it. “Sometimes, you still know me better than I know myself.”

He watched her intelligent eyes travel over the pages. Watched her… wonder…

“I will admit, it does look … intricate,” Vincent hedged gently, feeling the rush of initiative fighting the fear of failure, inside her. “But how will you ever know if you don’t make the attempt?” he nudged.

She drew the rose candle picture closer, and he watched her eyes travel over the petals, trying to decide what to do.

Vincent couched an affirmation in the challenge: “I think your father would be most delighted that you would even attempt such a thing. And incredibly pleased that his daughter had made him something so dear. Adding your uncle’s name, and Kate’s, to the gift would be a beautiful touch. But only you can decide.”

She glanced up at him, knowing what she would see. Azure eyes, full of their belief in her. His gaze was rock steady.

Hers dropped back to the centuries-old drawing of the rose candle.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this…” Catherine looked at the multiple curves and layers on the candle. “She did this with no modern tools. Beeswax and wicks. A sharp knife...”

Vincent watched her weighing the variables. She sometimes caught her lower lip between her teeth, when she concentrated. It was a habit he adored.

He waited, watching her fingers trace and re-trace the drawn outline of the deceptively simple sketch.

“My father has a box full of cards I made by hand,” Catherine began tentatively, staring at the image. “School crafts. Little things I did for him. He declares them precious. I think he does it to please me.” She sighed. “He’s never been a good liar.”

“I’m sure all parents keep such a box,” Vincent said, enjoying the feeling of a happy idea, taking hold in her sharp mind. “And perhaps you are too harsh a judge of your own abilities.”

“Do you know how to make something like this?” she asked, pointing to the drawing.

He shook his head, regretfully. “We are all taught how to dip the tapers, and pour wax for the pillars. It’s a necessary skill, though Rebecca seems to do most of it, by her choice. But no, I’ve never tried to carve one. That too, is her skill,” he answered.

“I’m no artist,” Catherine hedged. “But maybe I could give it a try… But Rebecca is so busy! It would be an imposition to--”

Her soft hair swung, as she shook her fair head. “And I have my work. Depositions to take and continuances to contend with. I simply don’t have the time…”

Vincent could feel her trying to backtrack, and decided to help her continue in the direction of making the attempt.

“I’ve watched Rebecca work with carving the wax, before. It does not seem too difficult, though certainly, there is a skill to it. How would it be if I asked her to show me how to carve, then tried to teach you?”

Catherine ceased her denial. “Something… something else we could do together?” Her smile grew conspiratorial.

“It could be.” Vincent nodded.

She glanced back at the pages before her. Several contained pictures of sturdy looking pillar candles, or long, elegant tapers.

“I think I should learn to dip them, first,” she said. “That way, at least we’d know similar things, to start with. And it would be a way I could help, really help, in your world.”

You already help in my world. More than I can say. More than I’ll ever be able to express.

“You already—”

“No, Vincent. Thank you, but we both know I buy things, or donate them. I took Cleopatra’s reward money to Father, after you found her wearing that diamond choker. But it’s not the same, and we both know it. I don’t make anything. Not something everyone can use. Oh, Vincent, could we?”

She was excited over the prospect of a long day full of what for her, would be unusual labour. Excited and happy, for the same reason she had been when he’d offered to help her translate the diary. They were planning something together. Something different. Something that had value, for others besides themselves. He loved her for her enthusiasm.

“Rebecca is done with the Chandlery by mid-afternoon, unless she’s making the Winterfest tapers. You could come down, and we could try together.” His smile matched hers.

“This way, you could have something to do with my father’s gift, also.” Her eagerness couldn’t dim.

“There would be that, as well,” he acknowledged.

“Oh, Vincent, could we? Do you think it’s really possible?”

“I live where candles are made every day, and by a woman who is kind and good. I am sure she will offer to teach you. And I am sure you can learn,” he stated.

Buoyed by his confidence, Catherine was beyond pleased. She carefully gathered up the loose papers on the table, and made sure the protected pages were secure.  “I’m happy about this,” she said unnecessarily.

He could feel that she was. Their bond shimmered with a warm, rich kind of light.

Like a fresh candle, he thought.

“After you told me about the belladonna, I even called Jenny, and told her I was interested in finding out more about the ingredients we’re seeing, the various scents and fragrances. She said she has a great book for me, all about different oils and botanicals, and what they’re supposed to do. That I might be able to use it to figure out whether or not some of these … potions actually worked, for anything.”

Good. This was good. She was re-connecting with her people, even as she drew herself closer to him, and his.

“When will you see her?” he asked, glad for it.

“Tomorrow, as long as I don’t get a sticky judge,” she replied, crossing to him. “We’re aiming for a quick lunch, between sessions.”

“Then I will arrange things with Rebecca.” He gathered her close and kissed the top of her head.

Outside the window, a soft rain fell. Rain that would have been snow, a few week earlier. Though it felt slow in coming, there was no denying it. Spring was on its way.

Chapter Four

The Beginning of Everything

“Go out in the woods, go out. If you don't go out in the woods nothing will ever happen and your life will never begin...”

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Vincent had always had a gift for languages. He considered his command of French roughly on par with his Russian, though neither of those as good as his Latin.

The iron gall ink Kate had used in her writing stared up at him, its deep brown colour the familiar shade of old documents, and declarations.

In some sections of her journal, Kate’s handwriting was faded, and in others, a word was either all but illegible, nearly missing, or wholly unfamiliar. He also couldn’t discount the understanding that some of it was probably just plain misspelled, as would be common in any handwritten missive.

This would be something of a laborious process, no matter what.

Armed with that understanding, he began his first solo translation for Catherine. He was set up at his writing table, with several candles burning nearby. Near his left hand, there was a large magnifying glass Mouse had lent him (“Better than good. Better than better!”), the first of several yellow legal pads given to him by Catherine, and a French/English dictionary positioned at his elbow; the same dictionary he’d used when he’d wanted to read Les Miserables in French, many years ago.

He carefully removed the pages he’d taken from Catherine’s from his cloak pocket, but not from their protective sleeves. He started at what he hoped was the beginning. It was the earliest dated page they could find.

June, 1791

Oh, Dear Diary, I watched Sister Marie touch the face of my beeswax Christ figure and my whole body trembled. I had finally found the courage to show him to someone.

“He’s very beautiful,” she whispered. “You are gifted, Kate. Truly gifted.”

“Merci…” My heart leapt with joy. It had taken me days of careful craving to achieve the vision that haunted my dreams.

I had first committed the image to paper, erasing and changing it many times, until I was satisfied. His sad, downcast face haunts me still.

“I am so glad I showed my carving to you.” I hugged my one and only true friend.

The old nun has known me since I first arrived at the convent, and for all the years after. She took me into her tutorage the day she found me in the Chandlery, reverently handling the wares she made to sell. She did not make me leave, or chide me, saying it was not my place. I was barely ten years old, then, but I already knew what I wanted to do.

Emboldened, I begged her to allow me to help her. She had not the heart to refuse.

But I still work alone, and in secret. Marie’s creativity is confined to the simple and true. Not for her such flights of fancy as the figure that stood before us on her workbench.

“Do you think Mother Superior will like it?” I asked, breathless with excitement. I have such visions in my head of other figures I could carve.

“We will keep it here, for now.” Marie evaded my eyes. Her seamed face filled with worry. To my chagrin, she threw a cloth over my beautiful art. “We must pick the right time and place to present your fine work.”

I watched her hide my creation away behind some pots of beeswax on a back shelf, and my heart sank. So it has always been. My heart, and will, have never been my own to follow.

When I first arrived at the convent, the nuns insisted on calling me Kate, saying it is not at all fitting for one so common and lowly to use the name of a glorious saint such as Katherine of Alexandria, one of the saints who was said to have inspired and counselled our beloved Joan of Arc.

What choice did I have, then? Or now? What choice, for any of us?

As I watched my Christ figure disappear beneath the muslin, I was once again reminded of that.

‘Mon belle homme,’ my mind whispered. Marie had said he was beautiful.

And so he was beautiful, and not just handsome. Not just ‘bel’…

I cannot help what I see in my dreams. I have visions of such beautiful things! And sometimes, I must confess, a beautiful man. One who knows my soul and tells me that I must away from here, even though it is the only home I have ever truly known.

From my large family, daughters were given away, either in marriage, or to the church. Second sons became priests or soldiers. So it had always been. I do not know why it is that only the wealthy and powerful seem able to choose their fate. But I know I cannot, and never could.

Therefore, at seven years of age, I was given into the dubious care of the convent by my deeply religious parents. Kate I became, and Kate I remain to this day, eleven years later.

I have been taught that dreams are the product of an idle mind, and I have no time for such foolishness. I must abide, though my poor heart aches to be free.

I know I should be content with my lot. Behind these walls, I am fed and safe. Many cannot say as much. My hand is promised to Christ and my heart must follow that.

I was taught to both read and write well. Sister Marie may have had her hand in that, as there are recipes in the Chandlery that must be followed. I proved to be a very apt pupil. A deeply thirsty sponge, I was always wanting to know more. I soon outgrew my teachers.

For a time, I was sent to the library to assist in cataloguing the collection. At night, I read to the elderly nuns who have spent their whole lives bent over, studying the holy books, by flickering candlelight. Some stared at text they could no longer see, and at directions they could no longer follow – an awful fate I dread.

Where would I be without you, my diary, or my books?

I read the Scriptures, look at all the drawings, and feel a growing desire to know more about the world and its peoples, far beyond these convent walls. But I dare not voice my wishes. Such dissent would not be tolerated.

Must I always hide what I am, and what I can do? I know I will make a very poor nun. I seem incapable of resigning myself to my inevitable fate. Escape is but a faint dream, and not any real option.

I hope there is more for me, in this life. But then, don’t we all?

“You look… intense, Vincent,” Father observed. “Am I interrupting?” he asked.

Vincent rose from his desk, the diary page he was transcribing still there, next to his left- handed translation.

“Not at all, Father.” Vincent invited his parent inside his chamber with a gesture of his hand.

“I missed you at breakfast, this morning. What’s all this?” Jacob asked, seeing Kate’s sketch of Jesus.

“Something of Catherine’s. Or at least, a very distant relative of hers. I have been assisting her in translating some diary pages.”

“A diary? How interesting.” Father moved closer, eyeing the date. “June, 1791? France? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch? This looks like a… a museum piece.”

Vincent nodded at Jacob’s assessment.

“It is the earliest of the dates we could find. The pages are scattered, and out of discernible order. Not everything has been dated. And some of it appears to have been lost, to time.”

Jacob turned Catherine’s paper treasure front to back. “Those were benighted times.” He handled the page carefully, and with respect. “I’m surprised you have anything left, at all. Catherine must have had quite the relative.”

Jacob frowned at the words written on the old page, struggling for some of the meaning. He was aware his French was barely passable. He’d seen the country, in Margaret’s company. And he’d known enough to order a decent wine with a meal, navigate the Louvre, and to buy his young bride a bouquet of flowers. But Latin had always been his first love, when it came to languages, followed by Greek. It was one of the hazards of his profession.

“’Convent?’” Jacob read. “As in ‘a nun’s convent?’ Catherine’s ancestress was a nun?”

Vincent inclined his head. “That is where the story begins, yes. She was a novice who worked in their chandlery. She is Catherine’s very great-grandmother.”

“Must be quite the story, there,” Jacob said.

“She did have some few adventures, we believe. Or at least that is what we are trying to ascertain. It seems these pages were assembled by Catherine’s uncle, who died before they could be translated.”

Jacob carefully handled the nearest one. It was one of the pages that held part of the diary on the front, and a recipe on the back. “A curative for ‘night terrors?’” he asked sceptically. “Banishing, or causing them?”

Vincent knew Jacob didn’t require an answer. He studied the same page Jacob was. It seems Kate had required oil of lavender, for that one.

“To think that this woman was a candle-maker. And, as I read, one who faced great… limits, in her life.”

Jacob carefully handed Vincent the sleeved pages, and looked over at the yellow legal pad, and Vincent’s translation. After a few moments of reading, he nodded his agreement.

“The world has often been very much… less than kind, to women. She would indeed have had few choices, and a very… narrow life.” Jacob’s blue eyes flickered upward, to his son’s. “I imagine you can relate, sometimes?”

Vincent inclined his head again, thoughtfully. “I can. But it fascinates me to try to pierce the veil of this young woman’s life. Catherine says there is much in the way of mystery, surrounding her. Even Catherine’s family does not know quite what to make of her. Perhaps these pages will help.”

“They seem well preserved, considering their age. You say Catherine gave you these?” Jacob confirmed.

“There are many more. I have left her with most of the recipes. They seem easier to translate than actual diary pages. I told her I would try to decipher what I could, then take them to her, this evening.”

“Hmmm. French is one of the romantic languages. Maybe I can help with some of the medical ingredients she mentions… Sometimes those words don’t change, overmuch, from one language to the next, or even over time.” Jacob removed his spectacles from the deep pocket of his tunic, and placed them on the bridge of his nose.

He spent several moments in reading, then his brow creased. “You know, even knowing some of the words, I can barely make heads or tails of this. Essence of … Mugwort? Thyme? Briar leaf?”

Vincent smiled at his confusion. “Catherine’s ancestor seemed to have kept a journal of the plants used for the candles she made. Many were grown in the convent gardens, I assume. It may be nothing more than that. Many of them seem … medicinal.”

Jacob nodded in understanding of days-gone-by pharmacology. “An eighteenth century chandler was also something of an apothecary, sometimes, especially close to the towns. For all the good they did.” Jacob shrugged, as he set the page back down on the table.

“There was a lot of ignorance about the causes of disease, of course. It was a … backward time, medically. Superstition ruled almost everything.” Jacob was clearly dismissing much of what Kate did.

“Now you sound like Catherine. I’d have thought you more… open to these words,” Vincent observed.

Jacob put away his spectacles. “Let’s just say I’m glad we no longer treat people with leeches and scourging, even if I understand the value of inhaling camphor, or applying tea leaves to bee stings,” he replied, looking over the pile. “I won’t be trying to balance someone’s four humours anytime soon. But tying on a bruised dock leaf really will help with healing rashes.” He indicated a picture of one of those.

“I think modern medicine does me just fine,” he concluded.

“Sometimes, things do change, for the better,” Vincent acknowledged, as he reached to collect his cloak. He was well aware that he’d missed breakfast, and was about to miss the start of his morning class.

“William left you a plate,” Jacob prompted. “You could stop to eat.”

“I’ve no time,” Vincent replied. “I’m truly not hungry, Father. And there is a classroom of children waiting for me.”

“Robinson Crusoe?” Jacob asked.

“The Swiss Family Robinson,” Vincent corrected, checking to make sure he had the book.

“Ah. Enjoy,” Jacob exhorted, sure he would. “Will I see you for a game of chess, this evening?”

Vincent quickly made sure the diary pages were secure. It wouldn’t do to promise Catherine that he’d be careful with them, then risk them to damage.

“Doubtful, I’m afraid,” he replied. “I have a false wall to erect with Cullen, after my class, and a small pile of papers to assign grades to. I need to speak with Rebecca, and I promised Catherine I would return these as soon as possible. She means to assemble it all, and possibly have it bound; a gift for her father.”

“I see. Perhaps some other time, then.” Jacob sighed, understanding that his special son was often pulled in many directions, especially since the beautiful attorney had entered his life. “Give Catherine my love.”

“I will.” Vincent paused to embrace the old man, and give him a parting kiss on the forehead. “You may see her, soon. She would like to learn how to work in the Chandlery.”

“Indeed?” Jacob replied, clearly amazed. “Prompted by this… diary, I take it?”

“She is meeting with her good friend, today, seeking a book that will help her understand more,” Vincent answered, knowing he was about to run late. “They have not seen each other in some time. I am pleased for her, that she is taking the time for it.” He lengthened his stride, as he made for the entranceway.

Jacob sighed. “Very well, then. I suppose we’d best warn Rebecca she’ll be having a guest.”

“I will do so, on the way to class,” Vincent tossed over his shoulder, aware he was growing tardier by the minute. “And hope that all goes well, for Catherine.”

Chapter Five

A Thousand Fibres

“We cannot live just for ourselves. A thousand fibres connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibres, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects.”

Herman Melville

Catherine, meanwhile, had stayed up quite late after Vincent had left her, translating her own piece of Kate’s journal.

To Repair a Lapsed Friendship -

Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart:  So does the sweetness of a man’s friend, by hearty counsel. – Proverbs, 27:9

~~

A lapsed friendship may be re-ignited by a gift of a fragranced candle.

Mix honey and oil of lavender, together, in nearly equal measures. Blend into tallow which has been kept warm, not allowed to set. Dip two candles, one for each of you.  Deliver in a covered basket, with a loaf of St. Anthony’s bread. Offer a prayer to our Blessed Saint, who always helps us find and return to that which we have lost.

Burn the candles as you share bread and memories, together, and remember that you will always be friends. Let the sweet fragrance remind you that though life bears us along different paths, friendship is all too important to be allowed to falter.

The bread may be consumed with tea of chamomile, or rose hip, but not mint. This is a time of sweet reflection.

When you return home, offer thanks to St. Anthony, and to the Blessed Father, for the gift of your friendship.

~~

I have a feeling it’s the bread, not the candle that gets two friends back together, but who knows? Catherine thought, carefully sliding the page back with its fellows.

She thought it a fitting translation, considering the lunch date she knew she was going to have. And knew if she didn’t get to bed soon, she’d sleep right through her alarm.

“I swear by aromatherapy, by the way,” Jenny said, handing Catherine the book she’d mentioned. “Great therapy for a girl’s soul.”

Catherine wasn’t the least surprised to hear it, considering Jenny’s proclivity for vivid dreaming, among other things. “Really works, huh?” Catherine asked.

“A couple drops of lavender oil in your bathwater? It’s heaven. Or mint in your tea, to perk you up? You should try it, Cathy. Very relaxing. And then there’s the um… the ‘not really for relaxing stuff,’ if you ah… get my drift.”

Catherine glanced at a cover filled with pictures of different plants, and fruit rinds. “‘Scentsational You,’ huh?”

“I know. Kitschy, isn’t it? But it reads better than it sounds, and the listings are pretty complete. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Catherine grinned, flipping through some of the pages. “What do you know about jasmine?”

“Jasmine oil is your girlfriend, when you need a sort of little pick-me-up.”  Jenny grinned and winked. “Men need a bit of a push sometimes, you know?” Her laugh was rich with irony. “The last guy I dated virtually had to be drowned in it, before he got the idea! Cost me an absolute fortune. But he was worth it.”

Catherine’s eyes grew wide, in feigned shock. “Jenny Aaronson!  You’re not implying you used an aphrodisiac!” She pretended to be scandalized, and shared a conspiratorial grin, as she leafed through the heavily illustrated pages. Photographs of plants gleamed back at her.

Lemongrass is supposed to lift your spirits. Who knew?

“All I’m saying is, when the chips are down, musk oil is musk oil for a reason.” Jenny shrugged. “Some people just need a little help getting a small fire ignited, and then you see where it takes you.”

“That’s very… proactive of you,” Catherine said. “Very liberated.”

Jenny gestured with one hand. “To quote the late, great Janis Joplin, ‘Freedom’s just another word, for nothing left to lose’. You know what I’m saying.”

“The voice of experience, it seems.” Catherine shook her head, stowing the book inside her bag as a waiter brought their salads. He then settled a small basket on the table. Warm bread rolls, covered with a napkin, and a side dish of creamy butter curls.

Score one for you, St. Anthony, Catherine thought, remembering last night’s translation.

After the waiter left, she reached across the table and gave Jenny’s pretty hand a squeeze. “Thanks for this, really.”

Jenny’s answering smile was all the “you’re welcome” she needed, as her long-time girlfriend gave an answering squeeze, before they set about enjoying a hurried lunch.

Catherine buttered a roll. “Speaking of ‘small fires,’ I’m thinking about trying my hand at some new things, actually. Maybe… I don’t know. Candles. I don’t want to jinx it.”

She looked up, checking for Jenny’s reaction.

“You mean… making them? And scenting them?” Jenny asked, amazed.

Catherine didn’t deny it.

“Wow. That is … impressive,” Jenny stated, hoping she sounded encouraging.

“Let’s hope so.” Catherine lowered her gaze, busying herself with the napkin on her lap, and not making eye contact.

Jenny’s brown eyes took her in, perceptively.

Such a foray didn’t quite sound like something Catherine would normally be intrigued by. If Catherine wanted a particular candle created, there were artisan shops who did that for you, and fragrances could always be bought. And she’d never been into herbs, or much of a gardener, aside from one unusual rosebush with two colours, and a little trailing ivy, on her terrace.

There was a mystery here. Was it a new man? Or an old one? Had Elliot Burch gone all hippy and New Age? It hadn’t been in the papers, if they’d rekindled their romance.

“There seems to be quite a lot written about how different fragrances can affect your mood,” Catherine ventured, trying to deflect, just a little.

Jenny wasn’t fooled, nor about to be put off. “They say scent is the sense most closely tied to memory,” she replied. “The smell of popcorn cooking always takes me right back to the boardwalk. You and me, and all that sand between our toes. Don’t knock it, until you’ve tried it. So… what’s going on?” she wheedled playfully. “What’s his name, and when do I get to meet him?”

“It’s not like that. Well, not exactly.” She toyed with her salad and her roll.

Jenny huffed a sigh. She’d known Catherine for many years, and as her best friend she hated secrets, when they were not her own. She probed her meal with her salad folk, while casually asking, “Mind telling me why the sudden interest in herbs? Not that sage isn’t a great way to cleanse a room, but...”

Catherine waved an airy hand. “No musk oil baths imminent. It’s like what I told you over the phone, when I said I needed a good book to teach me something about what did what, herb-wise.

“My dad gave me an old diary. It’s been gathered up, pretty much in loose pieces, with a bunch of those probably missing. It was stuck in a safe deposit box for years.”

“Family history stuff, huh?” Jenny asked, jabbing a thin slice of cucumber. “Who begat whom, and who didn’t get on with their mother-in-law? The skeletons in the closet, no one wants to talk about? That sort of tedious stuff, you mean?” She grinned. “Maybe I’ll wait for the movie.”

Catherine pulled a face. “Not quite that kind of family history. Turns out I’m meeting the woman who put the name ‘Chandler’ in Chandler,” Catherine replied.

“Really? What was she like?” Jenny’s eyes grew wide, with professional interest. “Is there any chance of a book in it for me? They’re all the rage at the moment. I could easily put you in touch with an agent. Maybe even help arrange a contract!” Jenny enthused. “Was she naughty or nice?”

“You’re incorrigible.” Catherine chuckled. “And I’m dabbling, not publishing. I have no idea yet, about anything, really. It’s mostly in French, for one thing. I’m having to translate a lot. And it isn’t easy.” She took a few bites of her lunch. Time was ticking.

“It’s been a while, since we were in Paris. And this isn’t like asking directions to the Louvre,” she added, wistfully.

“Keep your dictionary close, and your best friend closer.” Jenny smiled, enjoying her meal as she listened, avidly. “Any time you can get away, we can go back to Europe, if you want. For the culture, of course.”

Catherine speared some endive, thoughtfully. “I think my father might be thinking of doing that very thing. Seeing Paris, again.”

“No kidding?” Jenny’s smile grew broad. “Not alone, right? Tell me not alone. Springtime is coming. Not the time of year to be doing Paris, solo.”

“Not alone,” Catherine confirmed. “Maybe with Kay.” Her smile grew just as large. It had been too long since she’d gossiped about her father with her girlfriend.

“Go, Charles!” Jenny waved her fork, happy for all of them. “So, do you think he’ll visit your ancestral stomping grounds? Steal a kiss in some… romantic, medieval French chateau?” She reached for a roll.

“No chateaus, yet, in this one,” Catherine shook her head. “My ancestress was in a rural convent for a while. Clearly that didn’t last, considering.” She sighed.

“A convent, yet she became a grandmother. Now we are getting somewhere.” Jenny’s eyebrows rose. “What year?”

Catherine sipped her mineral water, then reached for a second piece of bread. Okay, it’s working. Shoot me, she thought.

“Late 1700’s. She was the convent candle-maker. Well, one of them, at least,” she replied.

“Late 1700’s? The French Revolution?” Jenny asked. Her own family had come to America far more recently. “You’re a dark horse. Any romance in all this? Or did she die a scandalized, fallen nun?” She pulled a face. “That would have been a waste of good candles.”

Catherine chuckled at her friend’s sense of humour.

“No, she had a man in her life, as far as I can discover. I don’t know his name, before you ask. I’m translating as I go, and the pages are very old. Some are brittle. It’s still legible, though. Well, mostly,” Catherine tacked on. “And you know my free time is seriously limited, these days.”

“Protect the pages. Big time. Wear gloves. Keep them away from water, or too much sun. I’m serious, Cathy. Some of that old stuff was written on something about the consistency of onionskin.”

“I’ve had them in sheet protectors almost since Dad took them out of the safe deposit box. Can you believe they were just… left there?”

“Better there than in some damp attic, somewhere. I’m telling you, if there’s a sword fight and a fall from virtue in this, it’s movie-of-the-week material,” Jenny nudged.

“Sorry.” Catherine laughed, shaking her head in the negative, sending her soft hairstyle to swinging. “It’s a recipe book, mostly.” She hated to disabuse her friend that the abandoned papers of Kate the Chandler were really not much more than a collection of cure-alls, wart removers, and some personal asides, but so far, that’s what it looked like.

“There’s a cure for post-partum blues in it, but I think you’ll need the wool of a virgin sheep, and some linseed oil,” Catherine teased.

“Well, as long as the word ‘virgin’ is in it someplace, maybe it’ll still sell.” Jenny chuckled. “And I’ll pass, thanks.”

“She wrote down some of her formulas for this and that. A lot of those were probably just passed down, from the sisters at the convent. I think she was kind of an apothecary, back when they used to burn the weeds, to try and cure sickness.”

Now Jenny understood the request for the book. “Oh, well, we tried. And don’t mistake ‘virgin wool’ for ‘virgin sheep.’”

Score one for you, Jenny. So, that’s what that meant. “It’s translations like that which are going to keep me up nights,” Catherine relayed.

“See, there are so many better ways to stay up nights. I’m just saying,” Jenny returned. Catherine mock-scowled at her.

“And even if the mixtures are old, that doesn’t mean they’re not good. It means they’re time-proven,” Jenny stated surely.

“Like musk oil?” Catherine teased.

“Exactly like musk oil. And it’s not just what you’ve got, it’s where you dab it on,” Jenny confided, with a saucy wink. “And don’t forget our jasmine. She wouldn’t like to be forgotten. She’s a real woman’s perfume.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Catherine said.

Jenny sobered. “But seriously, that sort of thing has been around for ages, you know?  Cures for headaches, cures for the blues, aches and pains. A little rose water, oil of cloves…”

“Eye of newt, toe of frog…” Catherine shook her head. “I just want to know if any of the fragrances would have had meaning, to Kate.”

“Her name was Kate?” Jenny blinked.

“Yes. Kate the Chandler.”

“It’s got a nice ring.” Jenny waved a hand. “We could say even, a little Je ne sais quoi.” She pursed her lips. “Say, if you need any help with all of this, I know a few good Frenchmen who could help you translate. Now, Jean-Paul, from our mail room, is rather dishy…”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Catherine replied quickly. “I’m enjoying doing this by myself,” she said, knowing she had to fib.

“Besides, you don’t really think there’s really anything … scientific to all of that stuff, do you?” she asked, still not sure if there was.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” The woman who often had prophetic dreams was far more open to this sort of thing than Catherine was. “I hear they used to set fires in the streets, when the plague was at its worst, and it did help. The word ‘perfume’ comes from treating illness with scented smoke.”

“I’m thinking the fires just scared away the rats,” Catherine reasoned.

“Such a sceptic,” Jenny replied, picking out a roll.

She tried again to introduce a bit of romance into her best friend’s life. “I can write down Jean-Paul’s phone number. For when you decide translating French isn’t much fun as a solo occupation. I mean, all that romantic language, and the many uses for essential oils…Cathy, this is a recipe for a great first date.”

“You never give up, do you?” Cathy pushed aside her half-finished lunch. She wasn’t truly hungry, and time was ticking away. Right now, Joe would be looking at her empty desk, and his watch, by turns. They had a late afternoon court session to catch.

“Giving up is for amateurs,” Jenny replied, taking a bite of bread.

“Pass. I’ll have to keep staying up nights, translating, alone. If I come up with the cure for anything beyond insomnia, I’ll let you know.” She set her napkin beside her barely-touched salad.

Jenny waved her fork, then stabbed it into what she knew would be her last bite, as well. “I’d settle for a nice guy with broad shoulders and a good smile. Make him Jewish. We want my Mom to be happy.” She grinned.

“Don’t forget, my sign is always out, and my stall’s open, twenty-four-seven. For all the really good oil.”

“I will.” Catherine realised how much she’d missed spending time with her exuberant friend. “You’re delightfully crazy. I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. And thanks for the book. I want to try and mix up one of the recipes and give it to my dad, in a candle. He deserves something special, for his birthday.”

“Oh! I get it. Like ... a special kind of candle. The old family recipe! Cute, Cathy!”

“That’s the idea,” Catherine replied.

Jenny checked her watch and wiped her mouth. Lunch always seemed to fly, while the rest of the day dragged. And speaking of “lunch,” there went visions of Elliot Burch, romancing Catherine again.

Darn, the brunette thought. She reached for her wallet, just as Cathy did the same.

Time. There never seemed to be enough of it, when the two of them finally managed to get together.

“So, your dad, huh? That’s it?” Jenny asked, as she rose. The two women embraced, in a hasty farewell.

“You don’t have anyone else you can share it with?” Jenny’s brown eyes narrowed.

“Maybe,” Catherine hedged, tossing a bill on the table and collecting her bags. It was past time to go. “Know any place where I can buy good, scented oil?”

Jenny’s answering smile glowed. There was still hope! “Only about three of them. I’ll send you to my favourite one. It’s on Third.”

Catherine met Joe at the courthouse, before returning to the office, where she made a concerted point of making up for any lost time at her desk, later that afternoon. She cleared everything into three neat stacks of completed work, then sat back to admire them, proud of herself.

For someone who’d lost a little sleep last night, she’d done very well, today.

Even Joe was impressed. Which meant he didn’t quibble too loudly, when she said she was leaving an hour early.

“Hot date?” Her boss’s dark eyebrows rose in interrogation. “Anyone I’m likely to know?”

“No hot date. Well, only with a little shopping, and a good book.” Catherine grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, pushing her arms into the sleeves. “Sorry, Joe.” She snatched up her handbag, the bag with Jenny’s book in it, and headed for the door. “Gotta run.”

“Hey!” Joe put out a detaining hand. “You can’t fool me. You’re going out for more of that cultured music in the park. I read somewhere, there’s a Schumann concert on, tonight.”

“Schumann’s on at the Met,” she acknowledged, hoisting the strap on her purse.

He sighed, folding his arms. “Remember the last time we talked about this? What I said about all those smooth guys, who take you to concerts, and know all about the wines, and the best places? Well, they still aren’t right for you, ya know? You can do better, Radcliffe.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Catherine knew he meant well. She resisted glancing at her wristwatch. “I get the picture.”

“Good. I’m only saying it for your own good, Cathy. You really do need someone who’s more solid. More down-to-earth, and who’s there for you. Someone you can truly depend on, when the chips are down.”

“I’ll remember that.” Catherine backed away from him, easing through the door by opening it with her back. “But, I really have to run, before something closes.”

“Okay,” Joe groused, watching her dash out of the office. He watched her blurred form, through the glass, as she hurried towards the elevator.

“He’s one very lucky bastard, whoever he is,” Joe remarked to no-one in particular, before returning to his desk.

Catherine was filled with a very unique sense of anticipation, one that the drive over to the “Scents for Your Senses” shop only served to heighten.

Seeing Jenny at lunch had made her feel good. The anticipation of doing something important, together with Vincent, made her feel even better. Her lack of sleep didn’t bother her, as the excitement she’d been feeling all day stayed simmering, inside.

We’re doing something wonderful together, she thought.

And they were going to do more. Something creative, and fun. And for his world at least, something practical, as well.

Catherine knew that while candles, for most people, were a form of ambience or luxury, that for Vincent and his tunnel family, they were among the most vital of necessities.

His world, which had very little by way of electricity, used oil lanterns, torches, braziers and candles to keep itself cosy, and illuminated. She didn’t remember a time when there were no lit candles in Vincent’s chamber. And Winterfest absolutely featured them.

Catherine was well aware that candles were beautiful as well as practical, of course, and the shop she entered was a treasure trove of oils, all of which claimed to be “organic,” “authentic,” “pure,” and so forth. The rather eclectic store not only featured the fragrances she needed, but had its own selection of candles, teas, soaps, incense, sachets, body lotions, infusers, and even handkerchiefs, spritzed with lilac.

Kate would feel right at home in here. Catherine smiled, bypassing a row of incense. A young woman in a mini skirt was sniffing cones scented with lavender.

“Desi, what’s lavender do?” she called out to a female cashier with hair an unlikely shade of bright red.

“Helps with a migraine, for one thing,” the cashier answered back, jangling an armload of bracelets. “Other stuff, too. Put some oil on your pillow. It’s a relaxer.”

“Thanks.” The young woman tucked some cones into a bag.

Catherine browsed through the shop, taking in its unhurried atmosphere. She made several selections, and checked Jenny’s book more than once.

A few other patrons joined her, but no one seemed in any great rush. This seemed to be a place where meandering through the wares was encouraged.

A huge chart on the wall proclaimed the curative/restorative powers of each fragrance, plant, and oil. The list was impressive.

Bergamot – A citrus based oil. Stimulates the liver and relieves stress. Sometimes confused with the minty herb of the same name.

Cedar wood – Juniperus Virginiana. Respiratory cleansing and anti-anxiety.

Chamomile – Both the Roman and German varieties are digestive aids with analgesic properties…

“If you need any help, I’m right here,” Desi called out to Catherine, who was carefully handling a bar of goat milk soap.

“Thanks,” Catherine said, as an older woman sidled by.

“How ya doin’, Mrs. Grayson?” the redhead called.

“Fine, fine. Just a touch of arthritis acting up,” the older woman replied.

“White willow tea it is, then.” She pointed to where the teas were displayed.

“Honey, too?” Mrs. Grayson asked.

“Sure. It helps cut the bitterness, and it’s good for you, anyway. Blackstrap molasses might help more, if you want some.”

Mrs. Grayson trundled off. Catherine hoped the elderly lady wasn’t getting bamboozled.

The beautiful young attorney approached the cashier, ready to check out.

“So… white willow tea, huh?” Catherine asked, putting her basket of things on the counter.

The cashier smiled. “It’s the original aspirin. But taken as tea, it doesn’t upset the stomach as much. Mrs. Grayson is one of my regulars.”

Catherine scanned the chart on the wall, and sure enough, “White willow tea bark” was indicated as the main ingredient in aspirin. Hippocrates apparently wrote about it, in 5th century BC.

“I guess you learn something new every day,” Catherine commented, in a wondering tone.

She was content that she’d found the items she wanted. Bottles of oil rattled, as the redhead took them out, and set them before her.

“A friend of mine, Jenny Aaronson sent me over,” Catherine added.

“Miss Aaronson’s cool.” The woman smiled.

Catherine wasn’t sure if Jenny would agree with that assessment. But she was certainly right that this place was very… complete, if nothing else.

And if the young woman who rang up Catherine’s purchase looked like a throwback to the 1960’s (complete with peasant blouse, bell bottom jeans and a tie-dye scarf around her red locks), she was, at least, cheerfully helpful.

“Sandalwood. Rosewood. Rosemary. Jasmine. You have a lot of the romantic fragrances, in here,” she said, still smiling.

“Do I?” Catherine asked, instantly reminded of Jenny’s lunchtime commentary.

“Oh, sure. Half this stuff is to bring love to you, but of course, everything we sell has somebody who swears it’s an aphrodisiac.” She shrugged.

Musk oil is musk oil for a reason… Catherine thought of Jenny again, and smiled. “I hear that’s a popular theme. And sage is for… cleansing?” Catherine asked, reading the huge chart on the wall, as her friend’s words continued their echo, in her brain.

“You bet,” the woman answered “We sell both the oil and the bundles of it, for burning. It gets rid of bad spirits, bad karma. You burn it in a room after your ex leaves, or when your roomie touches your stuff, without asking. Gets rid of the negative vibes.”

Of course it does, Catherine thought, but didn’t want to say anything sarcastic sounding.

“I don’t have a roomie.” Catherine shook her head. She certainly wouldn’t need that to “get rid of Vincent,” from her apartment, or her life. If anything, she secretly wished they could somehow be closer.

“What about spruce?” Catherine asked, eying her own list.

“Things like pine and spruce have to do with good energy or long life,” the woman whose name tag insisted she was named “Destiny,” explained.

“Some say they represent eternity,” Destiny continued. “You know, the immortal side of things. The evergreens don’t lose their colour, in winter.” She rang up the sale.

Ah. I see.

Destiny’s large hoop earrings swung, as she moved to bag Catherine’s purchases. “And they make your house smell fresh. Of course.” She uncapped a nearby bottle.

“Of course,” Cathy said, inhaling the woodsy scent. It reminded her of the park.

“And in love, well, you know…  Stamina,” she winked, recapping the sample. “Tell Miss Aaronson Desi says ‘Hi!’ I haven’t seen her in a while.”

The hippie girl grinned as she slid a business card into the bag of goods.

“I’ll tell her. Thanks,” Catherine replied.

“My pleasure. You want any soap?”

“Just the oils, thanks. I’m … experimenting,” she replied, not elaborating.

“My favourite way to live. Come back and see us again, sometime. And don’t buy any of that over-the-counter ginseng they sell in the other stores. It has to be fresh!”

Catherine realised that ginseng was (blissfully) not on her list of items, and was probably something Kate the Chandler would never have encountered, anyway. Most of what Kate used or needed would have to come from the convent gardens, or the local village, the surrounding countryside. Some few things might be had by trade, but money was a thing a convent was not likely to part with.

“And it’s okay for some stuff to be dried,” Destiny added. “But some herbs have to be fresh, too. Like, right-off-the-plant fresh, is best.”

“I’ll remember,” Catherine said, doubting she’d need that much advice, just to make a scented candle or two.

She shouldered her way through the door, as multiple copper bells jangled, overhead. A young man with a long, brown beard, a tunic shirt, a large cross around his neck, and leather sandals held it open for her. Catherine thought he looked a bit like Jesus. Or someone straight out of the cast of “Hair.”

“Hi, Desi!” he greeted her. “Got any fresh wormwood?”

I’m going to need to have a long talk with Jenny, Catherine shook her head at the exchange, as she moved onto the crowded street. Several bottles clinked gently together in her shopping bag, and her sense of anticipation grew, as she headed for her car.

I hope I can do this, she thought.

Unlike the people from Vincent’s world, Catherine knew her skill at “making things” was fairly suspect. She thought of Kate’s hand-made paper, and knew she lacked quite a few skills in that area. But who makes paper anymore? she thought.

It took all the minimal sewing skills she’d possessed to create Vincent’s pouch, for her rose. She barely cooked. She’d burned toast more than once, and her coffee was regrettably instant, some days.

In the tunnel world, people seemed more able. Vincent could cook, at least some. William had made sure all the boys and girls knew the basics, since they often camped, when they travelled Below.

Mary sewed, and thanks to her, every child at least knew how to put on a button, or patch the knees of a pair of blue jeans.

Cullen worked with wood, Rebecca made candles, and Winslow could work a crude forge, as well as swing a mean hammer. Mouse’s creative streak was an extension of who he was, as a person. He was an inventor and a tinkerer, on instinct.

Most were more than happy to share what they knew. As a matter of fact, having many people possessing many skills was a requirement, for how Vincent’s family lived.

To some degree or another, all of them were capable ‘crafters’ of things. She envied Vincent his skills, as well as the teachers he’d had.

Her tutors had been far different.

She was also aware that in the tunnels, the day had a very different pace. There seemed like there was time to learn. And time to live life a very different way.

It wasn’t just the ability to refurbish cast-offs, or make them into something else entirely. It was the ability to just… live. More slowly. More thoughtfully.

She understood that though tea was more common, Below, that coffee was made slowly, in a battered, old cafetière, a coffee plunger that William cherished. Years in the Navy hadn’t made the big man a tea drinker, though he’d had to resort to it, when coffee was scarce. It was a slower process than a drip coffee maker, and much slower than just pouring hot water over a spoon of instant.

No one seemed to mind the delay.

The rapid pace of Catherine’s topside world often meant food and beverages came out of machines, or from fast food places, or hot dog vendors on the street. The notion that it took twenty minutes to make a cup of coffee, or two hours for bread, was anathema in many places, but especially in New York.

To a certain extent, Catherine knew she was fighting the very pace of the city she called home, in this whole endeavour.

She knew that Father preferred Earl Grey tea. But again, steeped to slow and intense perfection, in a china pot. That William’s bread was baked fresh, almost daily, and that most meals were “from scratch” affairs, which required a goodly amount of time and effort to assemble. That Mary was constantly helping to remake the children’s clothes, and that Mouse would spend hours, tinkering with his “gizmos,” whether they ended up having a practical use, or no.

All of this was very different to not only how Catherine was raised, but how she lived, usually.

She dug her keys out of her purse, as she continued to consider how different the bustling humanity all around her was, compared to the people she knew were living, right beneath her feet.

The pace of the world Below was so different from Catherine’s own. It was often slower, and seemed to require bursts of labour, then spells of patience. The coffee, the bread, the tea, the meal, the patched trousers, the gizmos… all would be ready when they were ready. There was little sense in rushing any of it, and little ability to. It was a different way to live.

A way she knew she was about to explore, at least in part.

She’d often wished she had the time it took to perform the simple tasks in life, tasks which she hurried through, by necessity, or paid others to do, simply thanks to her own lack of skill.

She wondered how long it would take to learn about candle-making, and even if she’d become good enough at it to attempt the rose candle figure Kate had drawn.

“This is going to be way out of my comfort zone.” She shook her head, as she unlocked her car. Then, a subtle smile crept in.

But I like it. I like this feeling of exploring something new, while I’m exploring something so old. It feels good. It feels… right. And like it’s a sort of an extension to… him.

She knew the pronoun stood for Vincent. It often did.

The bottles shifted, inside the bag, as she settled her purchase on the passenger seat. She lifted her fingers to her nose, knowing some of the oils she’d purchased still lingered there, thanks to her sampling their fragrance, inside their large, corked bottles.

The scent of spruce still lingered, mixed with oil of cedar. Strong smells. Woodsy, and somewhat comforting, like the scent of the cedar blanket chest, in her father’s cabin.

She didn’t knit, or crochet, and she had no gift for sketching or painting. There was a reason she’d posed for the life study class, in college. It was either that, or be on the other side of the sketch pad, and that would have been a disaster, GPA-wise.

But this, this was something she thought she might be able to do. And she had never been one to run from a challenge, especially once she’d shared the idea with another person.

At least I hope I can make it happen, she thought. After all, I got a law degree, didn’t I?

She pulled into traffic, happy with her progress, today. Though the shop had been decidedly funky, it had contained exactly what she’d needed. She’d call Jenny to say “thanks,” again. And set up another lunch date. One she knew she’d keep.

She was anxious to get home, and translate, some more. The picture of the carved candle Vincent had pointed out teased her imagination, as she waited for the traffic to move off a red light.

It was a rare day she opted for her car over a taxi, but she felt like today’s errands made the drive a reasonable thing. She was in a mood to do things for herself, rather than have others do them.

Watch out, world. I may learn to cook, next, she grinned, fairly sure it was an idle threat, but liking the fact that she felt like making it.

She was both a little intimidated and excited, as she drove. The Chandlery, if anything, was more foreign a space than a kitchen.

William may well do things she didn’t know how to duplicate, but at least she knew how to use a stove, and had access to a good refrigerator and set of pots and pans. Rebecca’s workspace was far more unfamiliar a thing, to her.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Catherine cheerfully quoted the old saw, stepping on the gas. The image of the rose candle stayed with her. Already, she could see the end result, in her mind’s eye.

When she reached her apartment, she settled her purchases on the table and tugged some of Kate’s pages toward her. She knew Vincent had taken several, and would see her later that evening. She wanted to hold up her end of the work, and hoped to have something she could show him. She opened Scentsational You and it fell open to a page on thyme.

Do you have a cold, or a cough? Thyme is for you…

She knew she’d seen the same herb mentioned in one of Kate’s recipes for croup.

“Okay, maybe there is something to this, and it’s not just a bunch of old wives tales,” Catherine said, not thoroughly convinced, but no longer as dismissive as she once was.

Tugging off her gloves, she flipped the book to information on some of the oils she’d purchased. Destiny had been right. Many of them seemed to have to do with aspects of love, from increasing desire to reducing stress and anxiety (either in general, or during moments of romance).

“I guess we could all use a little rose water and sandalwood after all,” she quipped aloud, ready to dive in to Kate’s pages.

Though she’d decided to try and complete Daniel’s long-ago started work by deciphering some of the recipes, since Vincent had said they seemed easiest, the whole of it still held her fascination.

She knew that the “story” of Kate was so much in the diary pages, even as she knew the recipes hinted also at the life she’d led. It was such an interesting combination of two dissimilar-seeming things.

After about half an hour of steady effort, Catherine realized that Vincent was correct that the recipes seemed a little easier to translate. Aside from being briefer, at least many of the words used for the main ingredients had much in common with English.

Bergamot, cypress, rosemary, sandalwood and rose…she felt tantalised by their imagined fragrance combinations. Her soft smile wouldn’t dim.

She was flipping through the plastic-covered pages, searching for some of those same words, when her eyes suddenly caught on an entry she had not seen before. It wasn’t a recipe for candles or illness. Or, perhaps it was, in a way, on the latter. A recipe for how to survive in increasingly difficult times.

Clearly, you found a way to do that, Catherine thought, realising how many people must have asked her for that mixture. It contained certain combinations of ingredients steeped in tea, plus the exhortation to “pray with your whole heart, and teach your heart to trust.”

You were a special woman, to try and help with so many ills, Catherine realised. Even if some of your cures weren’t effective. And especially if some of them were.

Kate’s French danced before her eyes, and Catherine realised this was getting easier, as she went. I’m getting more comfortable with the language, she thought, having spent several hours translating Kate’s handwriting, by now.

I’m feeling more connected to you, Kate, she realized, pleased that it was so. And not just to you, but to Uncle Daniel.

She opened Daniel’s journal, and flipped to a section that he’d begun to translate. His handwriting was sharp, and narrow, and he often failed to dot his i’s. She wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about that, as she realized he’d gotten a good chunk of the page done, judging by the number of lines he’d already deciphered.

Thoughts of dinner forgotten, she flipped her writing tablet over, even as she further delved into Daniel Chandler’s scribblings.

She knew this was likely the entry after the June 1791 one, the one where Kate had mentioned carving a Christ figure in wax. Vincent had that page, and would bring it to her this evening, if he managed to get it translated. The beautiful picture Kate had drawn on the old paper had intrigued him.

Catherine read Daniel’s translation about how Kate had finally got up the courage to present it to the nuns.

And her awful punishment for daring to create it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Catherine scanned the rest of Daniel’s words, before beginning again, her pen travelling slowly across the fresh page of her tablet, as she did so. Daniel’s work on the entry was perhaps three quarters complete.

Catherine located the July diary page that corresponded with her late uncle’s efforts, wanting to know more. Her lips moved in silent concert with the words she was trying to decipher, as she checked for both the words Daniel had been unable to decode, and the accuracy for the ones which he had.

Words that both shocked and intrigued her…

July, 1791

Dear Diary, I must make apologies for my most recent neglect. My hands and back have been too readily employed in the convent gardens. If it were not for the sunshine and fresh air, I would be most wretched, indeed.

From before dawn until well after dusk, I toil without rest. My hands have become calloused, and my poor knees rubbed raw, from crawling among the rows.

Sister Bernice insists it must be upon my knees that I dwell. She says it’s the place for me to learn true humility, and not think to create any more abominations, such as I made last month, in my beloved Chandlery.

Oh, how I miss it! Every night, I dream. I know my hands move in my sleep, moulding and forming the wax into functional shapes. But my thirsty soul cries out for me to create beauty.

I finally showed the nuns my beautiful Christ figure that I had carved from raw beeswax, scented with jasmine and rose water. For the glory of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. That was my only intent.

I thought they would be pleased. My belle figure looked so lifelike. And so sad.

I should have listened to Sister Marie. I should have waited, more.

Instead of joy, the nuns were horrified! They accused me of the sin of vanity, and even pride! And banned me from candle-making for a month. A whole month!

The scent of the very herbs I had used haunts my nostrils, and my waking hours. I had tucked some within the breast of my habit, so I would not forget. Sister Bernice found them there, and insisted I crush them beneath my heel, and not collect any more. Or I would be soundly thrashed for my insolent disobedience.

Now, just when I thought I could not go on, I have been given a task I never dared to hope could be possible. The Holy Mother sent for me this very morning, much to Sister Bernice’s disgust.

At first, she would not allow me to rise from my knees. She waited, even until the messenger began to fidget with impatience. I was only released because I showed no sign of hope, no thought of escape. I remained kneeling, hanging my head and keeping my eyes down, hands meekly folded upon my lap.

Catherine’s pen flowed, as she continued the entry in Daniel Chandler’s notebook.

Finally, when my joints had already begun to protest, she waved her reluctant dismissal. I was on my feet, given my instructions to return to the Chandlery, and Sister Marie.

I would have gone straightaway, but I was not fast enough.

Sister Bernice caught my arm as I passed, and she whispered fiercely to me that I would soon be back in the gardens, pulling the weeds.

My eternal soul had not attained forgiveness, not yet. There was much work still to do…

“‘And miles to go before I sleep,’” Catherine quoted, clicking the pen closed. What a story she would have to share with her father. And with Vincent...

Chapter Six

Liberty Leading the People

- “Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy you must have somebody to divide it with.”

- Mark Twain

“So Cathy took an interest?” Kay asked, strolling through the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Charles. It was a thing she liked to do more than he did, and he was indulging her.

“She did. I handed her the whole bundle, along with whatever notes Daniel had managed to cobble together.”

“Sounds fascinating,” she said, admiring a Monet. “Do you think she’ll be able to do anything with it?”

Charles watched her. She was lovely, as she studied the painting. Elegant, but not cold. Chic, but not cool.

They’d been seeing each other for a while. “Seeing each other” was the polite euphemism Charles preferred, since “dating” sound too sophomoric, and “courting” far too outdated a term, for the nineteen eighties.

So, they were seeing each other. Which was to say that at the moment, he was seeing her, as she was seeing a Monet. He enjoyed the rapt expression on her attractive face. They were moving in the right direction.

It wouldn’t be like it was with Caroline. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be good. Different, but good.

Kay looked over at him, her peripheral vision telling her that he was staring at her, and her sense of hearing telling her he hadn’t answered her question about Catherine.

“Charles?”

She raised an elegant eyebrow, the grey in her hair mixed with the blonde, all of it tamed back into a wealthy woman’s chignon.

Charles had no idea what Caroline would have looked like, as an older woman. Fate hadn’t been that kind. But Kay had been a beauty in her day, and as far as Charles was concerned, she was still one. He knew that maturity, in a woman, was like fine wine. It only got better if you allowed it to do so.

He’d kept a sense of distance, between them, for all of their companionship, and she was either resigned that their relationship was all it was ever going to be, or completely content with that. He had no idea which one was truer. But she had always been a pleasant companion for him, and that was what mattered. Especially when that was all he wanted, of her.

Could we have a beginning? Not just a friendship, but… more?

Her intrigued expression let him know she was waiting for him to say something.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry. What?” He snapped back to her. It never paid to wander too far away, in his mind.

She smiled. “I asked if you thought that Catherine might see this diary translation through. It sounds like quite the project.”

Charles shrugged his shoulders, inside his sharply tailored grey suitcoat. “I don’t know. A few years ago, I’d have told you that Cathy has a tendency to begin things with some enthusiasm, but that it starts to wane, after a while. But now…” He frowned at the painting of water lilies.

“But now?” Kay prompted, linking her arm convivially with his.

“Now she’s… different,” Charles said. “Changed, more than a little. She’s grown up a lot, in the last few years.” He said it with a father’s pride. “I think she’ll pursue this thing as far as she humanly can. That’s just… what she does, now. Who she is.”

Kay squeezed his arm. “Then I’m sure she appreciates your gift. Very much.”

She moved with him to the next painting. Monet, again. They were nearly to the end of the canvases the Metropolitan had of his.

Kay’s attention became deeply involved with the painting, her eyes dissecting every nuance, as she took in the oils. Charles was aware of her concentrated appreciation.

“Say, you really like this stuff, don’t you?” Charles asked, nodding to the masterpiece. Honestly, he could not see what she was obviously seeing.

“Of course,” Kay replied, glancing back his way. “Why? Don’t you?”

“I suppose I do,” he said, placing her hand over hers, to keep it right where it was. As she spoke, they moved into a new section. It was titled Art of The French Revolution.

“Now we’re talking.” Charles looked around with interest. “Perhaps I like it for different reasons than you do. I certainly feel a family connection to some of this, now I know a little of Kate’s story.”

He frowned at a large painting which the legend beneath declared to be Liberty Leading the People, painted in 1830 by Eugene Delacroix. He thought of Kate and the terrors she had fled.

“We’re still in France, I see,” Kay smiled, aware that they’d moved away from the Impressionists and were now on to something else.

Not yet, we’re not, Charles thought.

His life as a lawyer who’d started his own firm had set strict limits on his time to indulge at least some of the youthful passions he may once have had. Though he’d always liked art, and certainly been aware of it, He knew he favoured baseball, for sport, and music, for pleasure. He’d played a little of the former, in high school, and none of the latter, anywhere. But that didn’t keep him from having good seats at both Yankee Stadium and The Metropolitan Opera House.

Painting, though, well, that was a thing he’d never tried, and felt fairly sure he never would. Charles, like his daughter, was not necessarily a creator of “things.” Unless those things were viable business contracts.

“France is an interesting country,” he ventured, giving her an encouraging smile.

“It surely is,” Kay agreed, taking in the historic work.

Charles watched her study, again, and realized how often she did that. He knew that he was, by contrast, a different sort of museum goer.

He’d taken in New York’s museums often, however, all through his life. Like many New Yorkers, he was just plain spoiled by all that lay within his able grasp. The Guggenheim, the Metropolitan Museum of Natural History, the Whitney, the Frick Collection… the fact that the Metropolitan museum of Art always had a new, “featured” collection on display, like this one … He often let a touring exhibit come and go, without bothering to stop in to see it. It was just a fact of life, for many who lived in the city that never slept.

Catherine, when she was little, had enjoyed looking at “the pretty pictures,” before she even understood their historical significance. Caroline had been the bibliophile of the family, and had simply adored being a wife and mother.

Then Charles had become a single parent, a situation which meant he was now in charge of overseeing both the blossoming of his child, and his firm. He wanted both to be forces to be reckoned with, in this huge, dominating city. And both had been, to be sure; the latter in ways which totally surprised him.

“I understand they have a lot of art there,” Charles said.

Kay raised a well-tamed eyebrow, and chuckled at him. “I’m positive that’s correct,” she replied, returning her gaze to the Delacroix. “It was nice of them to let us borrow some of it.”

She turned her gaze back to the large canvas, enjoying being in front of it, and not taking any hint Charles was trying to drop.

Either I’m getting bad at this, or she really isn’t expecting much from me, Charles thought. Then, unexpectedly: How sad, for both of us. Have I really been so… closed off?

He knew that that just might be the case. And he was aware of that in the same way he was aware of fine art. To a certain extent, he recognised it, of course. But he’d never been quite sure what to do about it, or if any “doing” had been required.

To a certain extent, Charles simply hadn’t had much time to enjoy some of the more pleasant spoils of his success.

Until now.

Liberty waved her victory flag. Perhaps, Charles thought, it’s time to wave mine.

He slid his hand inside his coat pocket, reaching for the pair of plane tickets and the itinerary that rested there. This was a big step, for them. He’d never asked Kay to go away with him quite like this, not on so lavish a trip. He knew this was more than just an offer to share a weekend at Martha’s Vineyard together. It just was.

He detained Kay’s progress to the next painting with a hand upon her arm.

“I feel I have time now, to enjoy the things I sometimes used to miss, in life. I do like all of this. I really do. And since I like it, and you like it, I was thinking… I know where they have a good deal more of it…”

Chapter Seven

The Butterfly Effect

“You have been created in order that you might make a difference. You have within you the power to change the world.”

Andy Andrews

“So, I’m fascinated by her story, even as I feel sorry for her,” Catherine said, turning her legal pad on her dining table, to showing Vincent her latest efforts.

“I confess I feel much the same,” Vincent replied, having already revealed what he knew. “She seemed to face great odds, and at a very… difficult time, historically speaking.”

Catherine nodded. “Even the recipes are telling me more about her. She has ways to restore friendship, ways to overcome loss… It’s just… It must have felt so… overwhelming for her, sometimes.”

Is it not that way for you? And to some extent, all of us? Vincent thought.

“Yet we know that Kate persevered, somehow. That she found a way to be more than the confines of her life suggested,” he pointed out.

Catherine smiled at his apt description.

“I wonder what it was, that changed her?” she asked, idly rifling through pages.

“Who can say?” Vincent said, scanning for the next date in the sequence. “Perhaps it was something large. She certainly lived in a turbulent time. Or perhaps it was something quite … small.” He turned several pages over.

“I bet it had something to do with candle-making. Do you think?” Catherine asked, not sure if Kate could have changed her fate through any other means.

“Perhaps,” Vincent allowed. “Speaking of which, Rebecca says she will be delighted to help you learn.” He found the page he wanted, and showed it to her.

“Will the weekend suit you?” he asked, tucking it carefully inside the pocket of his cloak.

Catherine’s smile was a winning one. “You couldn’t keep me away,” she declared.

From the recipe files of Kate the Chandler:

“In the Beginning, God created the Heavens, and the Earth.” Genesis, 1:1

~ ~ ~

Before Any New Undertaking:

Light a small, red, unscented candle, and place it in a stone bowl.

Clear your mind, and pray to the Blessed Virgin. Drink barley water and remember that the Sacred Mother, too, began a great journey, once. Sometimes, our life changes with so little warning; sometimes, there is none at all.

Concentrate on the flame, and remember that that same fire burns within you.

Do not let your courage fail you, for God is good, and even the most difficult fate can turn kind, at unexpected moments.

Drain your cup. Extinguish the candle. The fire still burns within you.

And so you can begin your new endeavour with your spirit renewed, and your will strong.

Red is the colour of passage, and of passion, both holy and base. Look to geraniums for courage, and be thou bold, in your undertaking…

The remainder of the week played itself out predictably, for everyone. Saturday had barely been born, before Catherine made her way Below. Vincent was waiting for her beneath her ladder.

“I’ve only had a couple of hours sleep,” Catherine admitted, as she descended the metal rungs. “I’ve been so excited. It’s tough to sleep when you know there’s this… wonderful puzzle to hunt through, sitting right in the next room.”

“I understand,” Vincent’s sonorous voice drifted through the tumbledown brick passageway, as he escorted her.

“Uncle Daniel had barely begun to decipher it. I hope he’d be happy with what we’ve done so far. I wonder what else we will find. I wish we’d found it years ago…” Her chatter was happy, and excited. Vincent loved the sensation, from her.

They reached the place where a break in the path forced them both to leap over a large drain pipe. Catherine’s sneakered feet made little sound, compared to Vincent’s booted ones. He went first, then held a hand back for her. She took the leap of faith, her hand in his. They walked on.

“Perhaps it was never meant to be found, until now.” Vincent intoned, as he put a detaining hand on her arm, to stop her progress.

“Well, from talking to my dad, it got found because he wanted to take a vacation. What-”

Catherine stopped her forward momentum, aware of Vincent’s hand on her arm, and that he had stopped moving.

A sudden sensation that they were being watched shivered along Vincent’s spine, though he was sure Catherine hadn’t been followed. He turned to stare at the shadows, but nothing stirred. The faintest trace of jasmine teased at his heightened senses. A whisper of sound, soft and feminine, echoed in his inner ear. He could make out no words, nor did he recognize the voice.

“Vincent?” Catherine asked.

He stared harder, but found nothing, in the shadows.

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged. “Sometimes… a draft follows us down from Above.”

Be that as it may, Catherine would have sworn he was trying to pierce the shadows in front of them, a moment ago.

He resumed their journey, keeping her close just for the pleasure of it, as much as for any other reason. The feeling of being watched began to lessen.

I’m visiting with ghosts too much, he thought.

“What did you mean, the diary was never meant to be found, until now?” Catherine’s brows arched.

Vincent’s answer was a simple one, but it wasn’t very comforting, to Catherine.

“If it had been found and translated years ago, then perhaps your fate would have been… changed, somehow. Who can say?”

She cocked her head at his odd assessment. His cloak swung, as they strolled.

“Too many… different influences, and… and you and I may never have met,” he elaborated.

The thought was indeed a terrible one, for her. “Don’t even say such a thing!” Catherine cried, banishing the idea, instantly. A life without Vincent… unthinkable!

His low voice took on a soothing tone. “I do not mean it to upset you, Catherine. Just that… Kate’s life seemed very much at the dictates and whims of others, yet she wanted more. I suppose reading her story makes me appreciate how much our lives are a … combination of other forces. So many of those beyond our control, even as many are. It’s what most of the recipes are designed to give: Control, over an illness, or a situation. I imagine it is why Kate’s wares were… sought after,” he said.

“Would knowing about an ancestor’s diary have changed my life so much?” Catherine asked. “How is that possible?” She stopped walking. “Do you truly think small things like that can be so… powerful?”

He didn’t answer right away, and left her to draw her own conclusions, with his silence, for a moment.

“Let us just say I understand how small things set off large chains of events,” he said, finally.

She took his hand between hers. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. I have heard of the domino effect, and the butterfly effect, but--”

“The butterfly effect is all about how incremental things can create great changes,” he interrupted, truly having no desire to upset her, but feeling the need to explain. “You say you have the diary because your father decided to visit his safe deposit box, to take a vacation. If he does not reach that decision, then what? The slightest variation can change … everything.”

“But… he’d have found it at some point. Cleaned out the box. Moved something else over, and remembered it.”

“You are speaking of him finding it later than he did. And if he’d found it sooner?” Vincent asked, just for the sake of wondering.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’m not sure I see how it would have made that much difference.”

Vincent kept her hand securely in his. “In The Vocation of Man, Johann Fichte says that ‘you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole’.”

He moved his shoulders uneasily. “All that change may have needed is for the diary to have been found earlier. And it could have taken you places you may not have gone, without it.”

Catherine tried to see his point. “Like taking a trip back to France to see where Kate lived, do you mean?” She looked worried, as she explored his conclusion.

Again, Vincent kept his counsel, that she might reach her own answers.

Catherine shook her head. “If I’d been in Europe… not been here, not been attacked that night, nothing would have happened between us… I wouldn’t have left Dad’s firm, and gone to work for the D.A.’s office…” She looked stricken. “Oh, Vincent, no… it doesn’t bear thinking about. I think I like my universe to be a little more—deterministic.”

Vincent smiled, at her lawyer’s mind. And loved her a little more.

“We did meet that night. That is all that matters, now.” He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug. “Reading of your Kate has got me to thinking about how hard we all struggle. How… full of chance life is, even as it’s full of choice.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Catherine said, taking comfort from his warmth, his nearness. “Perhaps it’s fate that we met. Perhaps we were destined to do that, somehow, no matter what.” She smiled, liking the thought.

Vincent dropped his head, and returned the look, as they strolled. “That the woman who isn’t quite sure about herbalism and aromatherapy is now the champion of predestination and determinism does have its quandaries,” he nudged.

She simply chuckled, in reply, knowing he was right, and that she’d enjoy reading whatever Vincent had for her, later.

“I suppose I don’t like to think we hang by so thin a line,” Catherine admitted.

I don’t, either, Vincent thought, as the scent of jasmine faded. He was aware of it, but said nothing.

“Forget I said anything about it, then. It was only a troubling thought. We’re due in the Chandlery, and Rebecca is waiting for us. We don’t want to be late.”

“I’m not sure if I’ve had enough coffee for this,” Catherine admitted. Kate’s recipe for new undertakings shimmered, in her memory. “Or barley water.”

“Barley water?” Vincent asked.

Catherine nodded, feeling herself catch a second wind. “I’ll tell you later. You’re supposed to drink it before you try anything new.”

We’re surely about to do that, Vincent thought.

“It’s really easy, once you get the hang of it,” Rebecca said, showing Catherine how to gently lower the wicks into the waiting wax.

“I still can’t believe you have the time to make all these,” Catherine remarked enviously, looking all around the commodious chamber.

A bowl of old washers served as weights for the ends of the wicks, to keep them pulled straight. A giant spool of cotton twine sat near, for the wicks, as did the larger moulds, for the pillar candles.

“Day to day is easy. It’s Winterfest that sends me to working.” Rebecca smiled. “The everyday candles are white, so they’re simple. Beeswax, instead of the tallow they had in the beginning. It smelled pretty bad in the old chandleries. All that melting fat. I honestly don’t know how they did it. Necessity, I guess.”

“I can only imagine,” Catherine said.”  She’d not previously considered that tallow would have a strong, unpleasant aroma.

No wonder Kate had so many scented concoctions, and combinations, she thought.

“Come Winterfest, though, I have to really apply myself. Pull out the dye, and come up with something pretty. Then I get to enjoy my creative side, for whatever that’s worth.” Rebecca smiled self-deprecatingly, as she took the completed tapers out of the wax and hung them to dry.

“You’re too modest,” Vincent said, looking at the tall shelf where Rebecca kept not only some of the candles she’d dyed, but the very few she’d sculpted, as well.

“Not at all. And if you two are going to make the candles today, that will leave me with time to relax and draw, and play with my designs.” She handed a long dowel rod to Catherine.

“Maybe spend some time with my husband, Ben.” She laughed. “He’s always says, ‘it’s candles first,’ with me. He’s been angling for an afternoon together, for ages now.” She looked around the chamber. “There just never seems to be enough time.”

“I think you are very deserving of an extra day of rest,” Vincent declared, loving her like the sister she’d always been, to him.

The sunny curls shook in soft denial of the claim. “I get my share. Anything else, before I leave you to it?”

“No, I think—“

“Yes, actually,” Vincent interrupted Catherine. “A few of the pages of an old diary Catherine and I are exploring seem stuck together, probably from the wax. Is there a ‘best way’ to remove it, safely?” he asked.

“If it’s coloured wax, be careful. Melting it will make it run, and obscure the page. If it’s undyed, that’s easy. If you can’t get a filet knife through it to cut it, just put the kettle on. Put a pot holder over the page so you don’t burn the paper, but set the kettle on the cloth until the wax melts. Blot it up, and you should be okay. It’s a little messy, but it works.”

“Thank you, Rebecca. There are some pages which seem all but pasted together,” Vincent said.

“No problem. I can help you with that, if you like. It’s not like I’ve never done something like that, myself. I dropped a wet votive on a book of my Mom’s, once.”

“I much appreciate it,” Catherine said. “Not very many pages seem affected, but I’d hate to lose anything.”

Rebecca nodded her understanding. “Not a thing to worry about. Have Vincent bring anything to me you think needs a little coaxing. Be glad to do it.”

“Thank you. For all of this,” Catherine said, indicating the entire room, with a sweep of her hand.

“It’s me who’s owing you,” the tunnel chandler replied. “I’m going to get out of here before you two change your mind about doing my job,” she said, laughing as she left.

Catherine handled the smooth dowel rod she’d been entrusted with. “She made it look easy. That’s usually deceptive.”

Vincent smiled at her nervousness, now that Rebecca was gone. “So... there’s an art to this, I take it?” she queried worriedly.

“As much technique as art.” Vincent shrugged. “It’s just as Rebecca demonstrated. We tie the wicks to the rod. She’s marked the spaces for how far apart.” He showed her the subtle notches in the long dowel. “We dip that many, then hang them to dry. It soon becomes second nature.”

“Well, I’m certainly a long way from that.” Catherine counted six notches on the rod. “Doesn’t seem like it will be enough, by a long way.”

“Which is why there are other dowels, and plenty of room on the rack.” He indicated a bin for the former. “Rebecca says that the tapers can be cut off after about an hour, and the rod re-used. She makes dozens of these, in a day.”

“Dozens…ohhh-kay…” Catherine’s respect for Rebecca’s work ethic was gaining uncharted new ground. “And I thought the law was taxing.”

She tied wicks to one end, while Vincent tied metal washers to the other.

“I’m probably going to ask a lot of unnecessary questions,” she said, showing him the knot she made. He nodded his approval.

“I have an endless store of patience.” His smile was a subtle one, as he stood near her, enjoying their proximity.

“I also have the pages I took, the other evening, and their translations. We will add them to your uncle’s book, later, if you wish.” He threaded another washer through another wick.

Catherine nodded. “I managed to work on a passage, too,” she said. “I came across it trying to finish something else Daniel had started. About this long?” she asked, holding up a pair of scissors.

He nodded.

“Kate sketched in the pages as a way to make art, because they wouldn’t let her sculpt,” Catherine explained, cutting more twine.

Vincent considered her words, sorry for Kate’s outcome, for something she’d wanted to share.

“The more I learn, the more I understand that she struggled with her lot in life. She had only so much, by way of opportunity, but tried hard to find joy, in spite of that.”

Catherine gazed at him fondly, seeing the immediate connection between her ancestor and her love. “Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to read more,” she replied.

Done tying off the wicks, she stood in front of the long, rectangular vat of wax, half afraid to start.

“Hold it out, and away from you,” Vincent instructed. “Then wait for the wicks to stop swinging.” She did so, and he reached out to smooth the weighted lines down, with his large hand.

“The advantage of working in pairs,” he said, giving her another small smile. He stepped behind her.

“Go ahead. Lower them down. It’s all right, Catherine. You can do no harm.”

Catherine felt silly, to be so nervous. This was a simple thing to do. Surely she could. She’d faced down mobsters, gang members, criminals and their henchmen, both on the street and in court. This was only a half dozen candles…

Carefully, she did as he bid her. But her hand still trembled, slightly.

“Now up,” his deep voice rumbled near her ear.

Six very skinny, coated wicks, emerged from the wax. Catherine wanted to clap with joy. The wicks wobbled.

“Careful. Wait just a moment, to let them drip. Now, again,” he said, feeling her delight at having accomplished this much.

She followed his direction, and moved the long dowel down, then up. Though it wasn’t heavy work, she realised she’d be spending a good part of the day with her arm extended before her. By the fifth time down, she could feel the burn, in her shoulder.

“Not so hard,” she declared, pleased at the growing tapers, before her.

She smiled, repeating the motion again. Vincent nodded, seemingly pleased by her pronouncement. He also sensed the soreness in her shoulder.

“Change hands, if you wish,” he advised. “Better now, than when they’re thicker, and more apt to swing together.”

She nodded, and did as he instructed, carefully.

After a few more times, Catherine realised that the tapers were now growing in girth, quite quickly. That while the initial dip retrieved almost no wax, the later ones were picking up an increasing amount, and though they were still light, they were also getting heavier.

There was indeed a bit of an art, to this. The candles had to be held with a steady hand, for one thing, so that they didn’t swing, and hit each other, causing them to stick together. Wicks that were once far apart from each other now sported thicker candles, which hung much closer, and the metal washers were now heavily coated with globs of white wax.

Catherine watched the warm, thin, liquid wax run back into the vat. Clearly, nothing was wasted. “This alone, takes time,” she observed. “Then there are the pillars, and the votive candles,” she realised.

Vincent nodded, took the dowel from her, and carefully set it on the drying rack. This batch was ready to dry.

“That is part of why this task takes so much time. The pillars and votives aren’t dipped, though. They’re poured.” He indicated a measuring cup sitting beside a separate vat of liquid wax.

Catherine went over to inspect it. A row of various sized cans and moulds stood lined up, on a long table. “This is different,” she said.

“Different, yet similar.” Vincent nodded. He began tying cotton twine to the next dowel, then trimmed it and tied a washer on the other end, while she explored.

Another round rack hung from the ceiling, made from an ancient wagon wheel or some such. Shelves held boxes of tools, extra washers, and leftover twine that would go to wick the votives. A small crate held bottles of dye. A larger one, more cans.

An old sketchbook held a picture of every Winterfest candle Rebecca had ever made, with the red, yellow and white one a familiar addition.

There were others, as well. A baptismal one Rebecca had gifted to Olivia, when Luke had been born. A wedding one, for Henry and Lin Pei. It was covered with seed pearls, and tied off on the bottom, with lace.

“There really is an art to all this,” Catherine said, as Vincent tied more wicks to the next dowel, happy to watch her as she explored.

It’s my world. But this room is perhaps the heart of it, the one that keeps the darkness back.

Catherine continued to explore the large space.

On one end of the room, a set of steps led to a smaller, separate entrance she had not noticed before. Near one wall, several empty lines were strung, looking for all the world like they were waiting for laundry. There was a large bucket of old-fashioned, wooden dolly pegs nearby, confirming her suspicions.

“What do they hang here?” Catherine asked. The lines did not look taut enough to serve as a candle rack of any kind.

“Blankets, mostly. The heat of the room dries them faster than just hanging them in the washing chamber,” Vincent revealed, charmed at her curiosity. “This is where the quilts are sent to dry.”

“I thought they looked like clothes lines!” She smiled. Though she’d wandered through his home for some time, and even been in here, once or twice, this was the first time she’d spent any real time in the Chandlery.

“Since the low fires need to be maintained for the wax, the room stays warm,” he said.

She realised he was right. And that he was without the cloak he often wore.

Catherine shrugged out of her leather jacket.

“Shall we begin the next batch of tapers?” Vincent invited, enjoying her closeness. He stood, holding the rod, expectantly, his head just slightly tilted to one side.

Like he’s expecting me to dance with him…

She answered him the same way he’d answered her, when she’d once asked him to dance at Winterfest, a long time ago.

“It would be my pleasure,” she replied, aware she’d just referred to something truly lovely between them, even if he wasn’t.

He caught the wave of her happiness, again. This had been a very good idea.

Thank you, Kate… he thought. The faint scent of jasmine teased at him once more.

He decided to ignore the perceived aroma. Perhaps Catherine had worn the fragrance, down. Or perhaps the Chandlery contained some scented oil, stashed here or there. Perhaps it was only his imagination working overtime. The fragrance faded, again.

Catherine took the proffered rod, and moved over toward the huge spool of cotton twine.

“Shall we start again, then?” he rumbled near her ear. Catherine knew delight, at the sound. He’s as pleased as I am, she thought.

Together, they spent the rest of the afternoon dipping tapers. Vincent often stood behind her, and guided her arm. The wicks were raised and lowered several times, and at a consistent speed.

“Too slow, and the wax is too thick, and it doesn’t dry in time,” he instructed.

“But too fast, and the candle is too skinny,” Catherine finished for him. Vincent nodded his assent, watching the look of deep concentration, on her face.

She was delighted to see that they were making something usable. And while Vincent considered it a not terribly difficult thing to master, Catherine’s neophyte self was enjoying the novelty, as well as the result.

His long arm reached around her, his hand sliding under her forearm, to hold her wrist. Dipping the eighth batch wasn’t quite the same as dipping the first one. Her arms were tiring, some. Her muscles were starting to complain.

“Hold it clear of the wax.” Vincent raised her arm, just a little. “Don’t forget to let it drip. The bottom will be larger, naturally.”

The washers dangled, dripping white wax. Aside from muscle fatigue, Catherine wasn’t tired, not by half. She was too excited, for that. But she could feel the tension, in her shoulder.

“We just cut the washers off the bottom, and then use them again?” she asked, grateful for his supporting arm. Not to mention the rest of his nearness.

“We do. The wax on them will simply return to the vat.”

She nodded. And felt a touch bereft, when he took the rod from her, and hung it on the drying rack.

After the next batch, Catherine felt fairly sure this was a thing she could do all on her own. Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t very fond of the sensation of Vincent standing behind her, and guiding her arm with a gentle touch to her elbow, or even holding her wrist, in support of it.

Vincent stepped away from her, and pulled a crate over to the drying rack. He began cutting down their first effort.

Catherine sent him a smile as she dipped the latest batch. Together. We’re doing this, together. She wondered if Vincent would look at the candles he used, tomorrow, and smile. She knew she wanted to take a pair of the tapers home with her, just because. Jenny would envy her hand-made decorations.

The long, white candles slid in and out of the wax. They triggered a memory, for Catherine.

“These remind me of the chamber Kanin made for Olivia,” Catherine said, recalling the time Vincent had put dozens of white candles of all sizes in the wall niches of the Anniversary Chamber.

“Indeed,” Vincent agreed, his eyes flickering with the memory.

The smell of fresh cut lilacs had permeated the air. Catherine had been arranging them carefully, on the bed. Dozens of candles had warmed the room.

The soft, sweet memory of Catherine spreading the out-of-season blooms on the beautiful white bed was still one he sometimes drifted off to sleep with. She’d seemed almost… ethereally lovely, to him.

Kanin Evans had made a beautiful trysting place for his pretty wife. And the room still had the ability to set Vincent to wishing.

It sat unused, now, waiting for Kanin’s return. But the understanding of the room’s intention still had the power to cause Vincent to think things he knew he shouldn’t consider, for too long.

He moved nearer to the fire, knowing that the wax had to be maintained at a very steady temperature. Too cool, and the wax would harden. Too hot, and it would burn. “I wonder what ‘lilacs’ mean, in the language of flowers,” Vincent mused, stirring the fire that kept the wax warm, and thin.

“Wait, I think I know this, believe it or not,” Catherine replied. Her eyes looked up, and to the left, the direction of memory. “It’s love. Love in the beginning, when it’s new. That’s the purple ones. White means something else… Innocence, I think.”

“You’ve been busy indeed,’ he said, taking the latest rack of candles, from her hand.

“I sat up half the night, either translating, or reading Jenny’s book. Between that and the diary, I’m really learning.”

“And now this.” Vincent gestured around the room. “Your plate seems very full. Are you sure this is a thing you wish to pursue, Catherine?”

“Afraid I won’t be able to?” she asked, ameliorating the charge with a smile.

I believe that is your fear, not mine.

He shook his head, in answer. “Please hand me Rebecca’s scissors.”

He cut more dry candles off the rack, setting them carefully in the orange crate used for their storage. Productive things keep his hands occupied, but not his mind.

“If you’ll gather the washers and set them in that warming pan, the wax on them will melt, then be poured back into the vat. When that’s done, we can simply return them to their place, and use them again.”

Catherine nodded, scooping up the small bits of metal that got used again, and again, to make the tapers.

“I can’t believe Rebecca does this all by herself.”

“Benjamin comes in and helps her, sometimes. But Rebecca swears that is only when he wishes her to be done early, so they can spend time … doing other things.”

She swore he blushed, slightly, and it took her a moment to divine his meaning. She smiled, setting the washers into the pan, lit only by a small votive, below.

“How long have they been married?” she asked.

“Years. He was her first dance, at her first Winterfest. I suppose you could say they’ve been waltzing, ever since.” He watched her face. “They dance to a music only they can hear. That is the best kind of marriage.”

“I envy them.” Catherine sighed, pouring the now-melted wax back into the vat, then placing the washers back in their basket. Vincent’s blue eyes followed her form, alight with his own pleasure.

Catherine rolled her shoulders, thinking they would prepare the next batch of tapers.

“Would you like to try a pillar next?” he asked, sensing the twinge between her shoulder blades. “I think you’ll find them far easier to make.”

Catherine nodded with interest as he dipped a large measuring cup into the liquid wax. A wick was already suspended atop the mould, tied to a hairpin that lay across the top. This wax was more yellow, in colour.

“Why the different colour?” she asked. “Is this dyed?”

He shook his head. “Different bees eat different things, from what I gather. This is from a friend of Peter Alcott’s who owns a farm, in upstate New York. Rebecca gets blocks of paraffin, sometimes, and the beeswax, others. Helpers know of our need.”

“This is the kind of candle I want to learn to carve, yes?” Catherine asked, watching him pour the wax in slowly, to avoid trapping any air bubbles.

“I think so. Perhaps one wider than this. Perhaps shorter, yet larger in circumference. Rebecca has all sizes of moulds. Some were made from tin cans. Others are cut from heavy mats, held together with rubber bands. She’s very… inventive,” Vincent said, watching Catherine pour wax into a huge can that had once held peaches.

“These must take a long time to set,” Catherine said.

“A full day for the largest ones. Half that, for some of the others. Only a few hours for some.” He proceeded down the row.

“I suppose we should have started with the pillars first, then,” Catherine said.

Vincent shrugged his broad shoulders. “Rebecca seems to go back and forth between both. Votives are made from the leftovers of other candles, when the wax falls in, and the candle will no longer burn properly. She leaves an empty box outside the chamber, where everyone drops off their leavings. She simply throws what is unusable into the vat, melts them down again, and pours them into the tins. We are fortunate it is a thing she… careful!” He jumped closer, not liking how close Catherine’s fingers were to the hot wax. “I don’t want you to get burned.”

Catherine adjusted her grip on the handle of the measuring cup.

“Should I wear my gloves?” she asked, noticing he wasn’t wearing his, nor did Rebecca seem to use them.

“Your ancestor may have,” Vincent said. “Do you wish to?”

Catherine considered the question, and knew the answer was “no.” While she could sense the heat all around her, she’d had warm wax drip on her fingers before, from a candle. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, but no damage had been done.

“I’ll just consider that I got a paraffin treatment, without actually having to go to a spa for it.” She smiled, loving him for his concern.

He stepped away. Only you could be generous enough to equate a time of hard labour with a trip to a salon, he thought admiringly.

She carefully filled some long, narrow tubes. They would make candles which were both tall, and wider than the tapers, more stable. These, too, she remembered seeing in the Evans’ Anniversary Chamber.

“I should have thought to bring some of the scent bottles down with me,” she said. “I could have put a few drops in. For you.” She slanted him a considering glance.

Vincent inhaled reflexively, at her words, remembering the very intriguing-yet-faint fragrance that still permeated some of the pages of Kate Chandler’s diary.

Yes... His mind spoke the single word, knowing it was an instinct, as much as it was an assent. Scents were a powerful force, and his sense of smell was very acute.

Like the fragrance Catherine is wearing now…one she often wears to her office, unless I am very mistaken. But it isn’t jasmine… Roses? His sensitive nose could easily discern the difference.

“When we finish here, would you like to look over more of the pages?” he asked, suddenly wanting very much to get back to them. “I have made quite the summary for you.”

“Of course.” Her smile was immediate. “You read my mind almost as well as you do Kate Chandler’s French.”

Both are blessings. Of an entirely different sort, he thought, but didn’t say it.

He settled the last of the pillar moulds they’d poured on a work table, and checked to make sure none of the wicks had accidentally slipped down. They were all but done, here, for the day.

And a good thing, too. The heated air of the chamber kept the temperature of the room slowly rising. He felt warm, and the hair on his body was letting him know it was there, trapping his body heat the same way his vest and shirt were doing.

They would have to leave here, soon, or he would need to either remove the quilted grey vest, or suffer with it. Vincent being Vincent, knew which course was the more likely one.

He’d worn the quilted vest out of habit. Since it pulled on over his head, there was nothing he could do, to relieve his discomfort, no way to unfasten it, down the front.

The next time they did this, he’d need to wear one of the lighter ones, perhaps one of the brown ones he could untie and loosen.

He felt her sweet hand, on his arm.

“Vincent… I want you to know how much I appreciate this, how much I want to thank you. Your life is already so busy. I would be unhappy if you were sacrificing things you needed to do just for me.”

If she thought he’d disliked anything about the last few hours, she was sadly mistaken.

“It is no sacrifice,” he said simply. “Your life is often busier than mine. We both know that.” He looked down at her. “Working in the Chandlery is hardly cause for thanks, Cath —”

“Not just that,” she interrupted. “The other. I thought about it, last night. I know I’m asking you to read history. My family history. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d been just a little insensitive, in bringing it to you.”

A long, blonde eyebrow arched. “I’ve known you to be a great many things, Catherine. ‘Insensitive’ is not a word I would ever use.”

“It’s just… I know I’m asking you to go mucking through old papers. Recipes, schedules, diary pages… I know you don’t have anything of that of your own, not from some old family member. I can only imagine how much it would mean to you, if you did.”

She compressed her lips. “If a moment of this gives you any pain—”

He put a finger under her chin, raising it, to make sure she held his earnest gaze. “I can only imagine how fascinating it must be to find out more about an ancestor,” he interrupted gently. “But not for the world would I deny you this pleasure. And it… makes me happy to share it with you.”

He traced her cheek with the back of his bare fingers, a touch he seldom indulged in. “You are Kate’s lovely great-great-granddaughter. How can I be less than intrigued, to know from whence my brave Catherine has sprung?”

She caught his hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Let’s finish up here, then. And tomorrow I promise I’ll bring some of the scented oil down. I’ll experiment with a couple of them. Maybe not something too floral. My dad likes … woodsy smells. We can go through some of the old recipes, and try to find something that looks right.”

He nodded his agreement, and shut things down for the day.

“I should probably start trying some of those out, anyway,” she continued. “I want to pick out something Dad will like. The more I think about it, the more I realise… he’ll be thrilled I made him a birthday gift, instead of buying one.”

“I’m sure he will,” Vincent agreed, putting his hand on her shoulder.

She turned her head, giving the back of his hand a quick, brushing kiss. “I’ll show you the diary page I translated, and you can check it for any mistakes. She writes about being punished for carving that Christ figure we read about the other day. I have it in my bag. It makes fascinating reading, though it made me sad, for her.”

That is because your heart is as tender as it is good. She is long past, Catherine. Beyond the reach of whatever sorrows bore her down.

“I’m not surprised she encountered resistance. Her world was so very different from ours…” Vincent said softly, watching her.

Heat from the melting vats caused a touch of perspiration to dampen her temple, as firelight glimmered, in her soft hair. One single drop of moisture ran down to her chin, and trembled there, catching the light. Catherine wiped it away with her fingers, before grabbing her jacket and bag.

Vincent knew one thing for certain: If Catherine looked anything like her namesake, Kate Chandler had been a woman of surpassing beauty...

On Sunday, Catherine did just as she said she would. They both spent time sampling the bottles she’d brought to the chandlery… until ancient pipe chose that particular moment to burst, and flood William’s kitchen.

It was “all hands on deck” for the men, as the emergency was contended with. Rebecca stayed in the Chandlery with Catherine, as the two women kept out of the way while stronger backs made repairs and moved some of the exposed foodstuffs to higher ground.

By the time Vincent returned to the Chandlery, Catherine had had to leave to attend her own concerns. A lovely note sat on the work table, with his name on it.

Vincent picked it up and inhaled. Roses and a trace of spruce. He read her familiar script.

Dearest Vincent,

I loved our time together, this weekend, but it caused me to put off things I need to do until the last minute. Regrettably, that minute is here.

I played with the different oils all afternoon. I discovered that each time you combine something new, you create something unique, even though you can still detect what went into it. I like this one. Something about it reminds me of summertime, on our balcony. It’s like when the nights are very warm, and you can smell the trees, down in the park. And our rose bush seems to all but explode, with heavy blooms.

We stand on the balcony sometimes, reading together or watching the moon. And it’s like I can feel the fragrance of those nights, on my skin.

Thank you for this weekend. There will be more days, together, I promise. I love you more than I can say.

Yours, Always,

Catherine~

He folded the note over, inhaled its heady aroma again, and tucked it inside his brown leather vest.

Yes, Catherine, he thought. Yes, there will.

He walked back to his chambers in sodden boots, longing not just for the quickly approaching spring, but for summer.

Chapter Eight

The Revolution

“The greatest and most powerful revolutions often start very quietly, hidden in the shadows. Remember that.”

Richelle Mead

August, 1791

Oh, my beloved Diary, though summer’s heat bears down on me, you cannot conceive of the freedom I have found in my work! The Holy Mother has tasked me with delivering the candles I help to make in the Chandlery!

It was at Sister Marie’s insistence that I returned to the work I love. God bless and keep her old soul. She also has much need of my young hands and straight back. My fresh legs replace hers. She fears to fall, traversing the narrow lanes on her unsteady, arthritic knees.

I am also under strict orders not to create anything beyond the function and form the convent has always been famed for making. Or it is back to the gardens for me, forever.

So I bend to a will not mine own, and suffer in silence. But, at least, I am back where I belong!

I set out each afternoon carrying my basket of the day’s wares, and armed with naught but my faith, and a stout walking stick. The lanes are not always safe, they say, but I hold myself well, and I keep a wary eye out.

Once alone, I sing to the rambling, wild roses that grow along my path. They seem to nod their heads in approval, red and white sometimes mingled. Their glorious, heady scents lift and carry me onwards!

The days are so long and testing, but I escape the convent walls for most of the afternoon, to walk the lanes and make my deliveries. The people I meet are fearful, thanks to the terrible news from the cities, but most are still kind.

The whispered words I hear speak of revolution, and the death of the noble class. France is changing, they say, still.

I am not noble, and all too soon, my long hair will be shaved for the cowl of the nun. We only await the arrival of His Excellency, the Bishop, to perform the Holy Investiture, and I will finally be married to Christ.

But the Bishop is unaccountably delayed, and he sends no word of his coming. Some of the local people say he has been attacked upon the road, and robbed of his valuables. It is said he was injured and returned to Paris.

But not even the Mother Superior can confirm this disturbing rumour. Her messages go unanswered.

So I clutch my walking stick tighter and tread the lanes. I am forced to await a choice that was also not mine, but my deeply devout parents’. Such is my simple lot.

They cast me into this walled place, to live out my days in prayer, and the contemplation of my sins. Of which there are almost too many to count…

But I am free, at least for a bit! The joy of it is almost too great to bear, inside my maiden’s heart.

Rebecca’s voice was steady, as she explained what she was doing, to an attentive Vincent. “Then you cut into the wax, and make the cut long. Do it again. Then...” Rebecca demonstrated, “You bend the cut wax and turn it... and stick it back down.”

The half-finished product sat before Vincent. She was giving him lessons, even as he became aware that her feminine fingers might be much better suited for the task than his larger, taloned ones were. His first attempts to imitate her were only so successful. They had been returned to the pot.

But he was learning. And determined to teach Catherine.

The white, half-carved candle began to take shape, before his eyes. It started to look like a collection of white ruffles, cascading down the length. To the base of each, Rebecca had added a piece of ribbon, for a finishing touch.

“You don’t make these very often,” he observed, continuing to imitate her movements. The results were similar, but by no means identical.

“Twist and turn, but don’t ever pull. You’ll break off the wax,” she instructed. “You get used to moving your hands left and right and down, but not toward you.”

He nodded his understanding, and saw what she meant.

“It takes time to come up with a new design,” she answered his comment about how she spent her time. “And I’m usually busy with the tapers.”

“Catherine’s book says scent is often part of the process.”

“Mmm. You’d add it to the wax while it’s still liquid, or touch it to the top of a pillar, so it rests near the flame, when it burns. We don’t get a lot of perfume, down here, and Mary’s a touch allergic. I tried pine needles once, from the park, but I’m afraid it was more mess than it was worth,” Rebecca replied.

Vincent watched her deft fingers command the wax. This was clearly easy for her, thanks to her years spent learning.

Patience. Remember you bid Catherine have some.

“Dye is easy to make, if you want me to do a batch in colour,” she offered.

“White will be fine,” he replied, twisting a piece of wax and guiding it back down. “Especially now, when we’re just learning.”

Rebecca did not miss the use of the plural pronoun, and knew he wasn’t speaking of her. Her sisterly heart was very glad for him, that he’d finally found someone to use it with. Vincent had so much to give.

She reached across him to move his fingers over, a little. “Don’t push so hard. The wax is like glue, when it’s this soft. It will stick okay.”

She glanced sideways at his frowning profile. “I guess, you could say it’s like a pretty lady’s hand. Or any other part, for that matter.” She smiled. “Hold too loosely, and it slips free, accidentally. Grip too hard and you’ll cause a bruise. It is the same touch that’s needed.”

Vincent didn’t reply, and didn’t bother to correct her impression that he might know more about how to touch a woman’s skin than he did. But he understood her direction, and followed it. He nodded, to indicate that he’d heard her, and kept his thoughts to himself.

Rebecca smiled, knowing she had made her point. She knew of the incident with Lisa, and she knew that there were those who were loath to imply that Vincent could have a physical relationship of any kind, with a woman. Rebecca wasn’t one of them.

Her hands moved over his, again, helping him adjust the length of a cut. She had long fingers and immaculately white, short nails.

Vincent realised that they were the soft hands of a woman who worked with wax, for a living. He fondly remembered holding that hand across the Whispering Bridge, when they were very young. She was one of the first little girls who’d ever sought out his unusual hand, for friendship, or safety. Memories spun out, for him.

“You’re smiling,” she said, inviting him to confide his thoughts.

“I was just thinking of the Whispering Bridge,” he replied, gently pushing a curl of wax into the candle base. There was a ‘feel’ to this, as there was to everything. He understood why it took some practice.

“Oh?  What about it?” she asked, knowing he often spent time there, thinking, and listening to the voices.  Rebecca did not care for it like he did. The dizzying height of it unsettled her.

“That you held my hand across it, one time, when we were young. You did not hesitate to accept my help.”

“Fear of the unknown will do that to you.” She smiled. “I was afraid of heights, a little, back then. And I knew you wouldn’t let me fall.”

No. No, of course I wouldn’t.

“We weren’t supposed to go across.” Vincent knew it was a boundary all the younger children were ordered to respect. Like the Maze. Vincent felt those limits did not apply to him. Sometimes.

“But I was determined,” Rebecca recalled. “Someone told me there were ... shells, or something, on the other side. And I wanted to gather them to make something with. Set them into one of my mother’s candles. You were my very willing partner in crime.” She recalled one of the misadventures of their youth, fondly.

“A life without Father’s limits was what I had been searching for that day.” Vincent shrugged. “We found no shells, as I recall.” But I found something better. A woman who has been my good friend, all my life.

“No, we didn’t,” she recollected, as taken by the sudden wave of nostalgia as he was. Her fair head shook in the negative, setting the riot of curls she’d always had to bouncing. She often wore her hair up, while she worked. It helped with the heat of the room.

Vincent realised that the Chandlery, with its heated vats of wax and wide, sturdy work tables, as warm as it was, was often very quiet place. The combination seemed to invite such reflection, or day-dreaming. Even Catherine had fallen under its cosy spell, when she’d recalled Kanin’s anniversary gesture.

“We were so young, then.” Rebecca trimmed the wick, slightly, while he worked the wax. “And I was more scared to come back than I was to go over. But you wouldn’t just leave me there, and go get a grown-up. You knew I didn’t want to end up in the doghouse.”

Her smile was a fond one, as she picked up a wickedly sharp knife and cut the other side of the candle for him. “You made sure I didn’t get in trouble with Father.”

His smile answered her own. He still remembered holding his hand out to her, and her taking it. The feeling of her small, slight hand slipping into his larger palm was a treasured memory. She’d shown no sign of fear. Of him, anyway.

“I’m sure trouble found us elsewhere, at some other time,” he recalled. “Like this?” he asked, bending and twisting the wax, as she turned the candle for him.

“You’re getting better.” She grinned, patting his leather-clad back, affectionately.

He was nearly as pleased as she was. “You’re a good teacher. And dipping them is easier.”

“You’re a good student. And that’s why we burn tapers and pillars, instead of the fancy kind.”

Rebecca also separated some of the ‘stuck together’ pages, for Vincent. As she’d indicated, the small drops of accidentally spilled white wax had done no damage, to the paper, and now he had an even better gift to give Catherine.

After leaving the Chandlery, Vincent had but only a little time to devote to translating one of the entries Catherine had given him. It turned out to be little more than a note about the summer weather being the best time to harvest basil, sage and dill, while the other side contained a recipe for a baptismal candle, scented with the same sage, in hopes of clearing away any evil spirits from around the baby.

Vincent wondered how many of those Kate Chandler had had time to make, in her life, and thought he understood the need for a convent garden, a little better.

Not only would it contain what fruits and vegetables they could grow, but herbs and flowers; not so much for decoration, or simply for cooking, but for candle-making and medicines, as well. All the convent work was hard, to one degree or another. But Kate clearly preferred her chandlery to any other place within the convent, and the lanes outside the gates, to the paths inside it.

He wondered if the convent chandlery had invited daydreams, the way his seemed to. If it was a place for quiet reflection, for her.

He also wondered if she felt the same about the little roads that wound through her French landscape as he felt about the various paths (both manmade and not) that wound through the park. There were similarities, to be sure, and he well understood her love of freedom, of the liberating feeling produced by stepping outside her stone walls.

He empathized with it perhaps more than Catherine did, though he didn’t try to make that comparison, consciously.

His other duties beckoned, and he brushed his fingers softly down the most recently translated page, liking the link it gave him to Catherine. He knew he’d take it to her tonight, time permitting, and they’d discuss it. That he’d hand her the deciphered paper, and she’d transcribe it into Daniel Chandler’s notebook.

He knew she’d been concerned about how he might feel, helping her delve into her own distant past, when he knew absolutely nothing of his own.

It was all right. It was a thing he’d grown up with. He took her consideration for the loving gesture it was, and thought no more of it.

In the long run, children like Laura knew almost as much about their past history as he did about his. Which was to say they knew they’d been abandoned. They had all made their own families.

He shrugged his mighty shoulders about that. There was no sense dwelling on a past he couldn’t address, and couldn’t change, even if he could address it.

The idea of teaching Catherine how to craft and carve a candle had an increasing appeal, however...

“I guess, you could say it’s like a pretty lady’s hand. Or any other part. Hold too loosely, and it slips free, accidentally. Grip too hard and you’ll cause a bruise. It is the same touch that’s needed.” Rebecca’s words came back to him.

While he knew he hadn’t touched Catherine intimately, he also knew he loved touching her. Tracing the back of his hand along her cheek, in the Chandlery, had been sheer pleasure, and he swore he still felt her kiss, where she’d planted it on the back of that same hand.

He regarded his own fingers, front and back, knowing what he’d see. The short, laying fur was always there, always a part of him, as were the pointed nails. He could blunt the tips, if he took them down a granite wall. But not much, and it often left his fingers sore. He knew, because he’d done it once, in his youth, when he’d desperately wanted to be… not as he was, after Lisa.

He flexed his fingers, knowing their strength. Knowing there was much that was good about them, even if they were… not exactly human.

After he’d told her about Lisa, she’d kissed them, once. No, not “once.” Several times. He sighed, at the memory, knowing she’d meant it as a gesture of comfort, rather than of passion, or love, or anything else. It was all right that she did so.

The ambience of time spent in the Chandlery had stayed with him, and the diary itself was a call to open up the past. He’d felt close to his own, much of the day, even as he learned more about Kate’s. Though some memories were very difficult, he knew that others were happy. Such was life.

He shook himself free of his reverie, and absently rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. They felt soft, the gift of the time he’d spent handling the wax. What had Catherine called it? A salon treatment?

Catherine still planned on bringing some more of her special oils down, and leaving them in the Chandlery, for the next time they were in there together.

He supposed when they practiced carving, the scent would be on his fingertips, as well as the softness from the wax.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand, he mused, quoting Macbeth, internally.

But then he recalled Rebecca’s utter trust of him, as a child. That of others, as well. Yes, his hands were fearsome. There was no sense pretending otherwise. And to save himself, he couldn’t quite picture them on certain parts of Catherine’s body.

But these same hands had saved and healed Catherine. Gone where no one else could. Gone, and brought her back, safely.

Surely that counts for something? He knew that he was increasingly entertaining the notion of caressing her, and that it was a testament to how far they’d come.

Kate’s baptismal candle recipe stared at him.

But I cannot make her a mother, like her grandmother was. She will lose that chance, with me.

Some butterflies are better left alone, tight within their chrysalis. For to release them, may bring the very chaos they are trying to avoid…

Baptismal candles must be scented with sage. Sage will clear away all darkness. Evil must be kept away from the baby.

Our dream… comes at the cost of all your other dreams, Catherine. It just does.

It was a familiar lament, and not one he was prone to dwell on, at this point. And while Catherine might be correct that he had certain feelings about delving into her family history, they were not based on a lack of having one, himself. Rather they were more closely akin to the understanding that a union with him would deny her the opportunity to bear her own children.

“There are children, waiting to be born…”

He remembered saying it to her, when she was at her lowest.

If Vincent loved her, if Catherine stayed with him for the sake of that love, and the love she bore him… Kate Chandler’s line might perish, ultimately.

It was the thing they seldom discussed, and never, deeply. There was just no point, one way or the other.

To be sure, Vincent knew other childless couples. Rebecca and Ben, for instance. And though no one knew the exact “why” of that, Vincent knew they were both deeply in love each with the other.

Perhaps there was hope, therefore…?

And perhaps there wasn’t.

It was a thing he’d never been certain how to handle, no matter how he looked at it.

The pipe near his head rattled to life. He was wanted over at Eli’s, to bring back supplies, and he was running late. Again. Zach was hitting the pipe, summoning him. The hard, rapid tone implied the boy was growing impatient.

No rest for the distracted, Vincent thought wryly, knowing the day would not cease its demands so he could do more, by way of Kate’s diary.

He gave the old page another fond pat, then tucked it inside his own journal, for safekeeping.

From Scentsational You

Jasmine is highly prized in the fragrance world. In many countries, this expensive oil is considered one of the most valuable. Taking a long time to process, Sultans were known to spend exorbitant sums to anoint everything from their candles, to their clothes, to their wives, and even their horses with it …

“How is all the translating coming along?” Father peered at the chess board without much hope of winning. “You and Catherine always seem to be pouring over manuscripts and recipes.”

“We’ve made much progress, though there is much more to go,” Vincent replied, studying the board.

“You’re spending a great deal of time in the Chandlery. I hardly see you anymore, these days. Learning anything interesting?”

Vincent considered a pawn. “Time spent there is having its uses. It gives Rebecca a well-earned respite. And it is necessary for Catherine to learn her new craft.” Vincent inclined his head, at the same time removing his parent’s hapless queen.

“She wants to make something for those closest to her. She started, thinking she would just learn to make a certain gift for her father. But her confidence is growing…”

He watched Jacob move his rook. It was a decent move, strategically. One which would not ultimately save his king, however.

“We are learning as we go,” Vincent continued. “Any time spent away from her work, is precious to her.”

He was not prepared, yet, to share the newness of it all, for him, as well as her. How it had stirred up thoughts he’d long considered dealt with. How it had made him both student and teacher, as they both tried something new, together. He knew he was still discovering the limits, of all of it. And finding out that he shared a certain kinship, with Catherine’s ancestor.

“I’m glad you’re both enjoying yourselves,” Jacob replied. “Ben tells me Rebecca has been sketching plans for the Winterfest candles, already.”

“I’m sure they will be… amazing, this year. As they are every year.”

Jacob nodded as he contemplated Vincent moving a bishop near the rook, then leave it. He couldn’t take the piece, but it limited Vincent’s ability to move, thanks to a well-placed knight.

“Father… about Ben. Has he ever discussed… becoming a father with you?” Vincent asked.

Jacob’s eyes flickered upward, knowing that Vincent wasn’t prone to gossip.

“You mean about how they’ve been married for years, are clearly very much in love, yet have no children?” Father asked.

Vincent nodded.

Jacob knew there was very little he could say without risking the other man’s right to privacy, not to mention Rebecca’s. He also knew there was very little to tell on that score, mostly because he knew no more as to the “whys” of that than anyone else did.

“It’s a thing they’ve faced, together. With more grace than most bear, I can tell you that,” Father assured.

“How so?” Vincent asked, distracted enough to not realise that Jacob was trying to uncage the rook with his king’s pawn.

Jacob shrugged. “It’s not like we have a hospital, but even down here, there are a few tests I can do. But they simply decided…” He raised a shoulder, again.

“They don’t want to know whose fault it is, or if it’s anyone’s at all. They know they love each other. They insist the rest of what happens in their life, well, it is whatever it is. Ben doesn’t want Rebecca to feel responsible, if the difficulty lies with her, and she wants the same for him. It’s a decision they’ve reached, as a married couple.”

The bishop moved back on the diagonal, and boxed the pawn. “We all have no choice but to respect their decision,” Father commented, noting that spending more time with Catherine, hadn’t done any damage to Vincent’s game. In fact, it seemed to have been sharpened.

Jacob moved the rook, then realised he’d be mated in three moves.

“Masochism…” he remarked fatalistically, laying down his king in surrender.

“You give up too easily,” Vincent commented, with a small smile.

“I rue the day I ever taught you the game.” Father huffed a laugh. “I asked you here tonight, because I have something for you…”

He opened and then reached into the top drawer of his desk, to bring forth a tattered old book. “I found it the other day. While I was looking for something else, of course. That seems to be the way of it, these days.”

Jacob peered at Vincent over the rim of his glasses. “’Aromatherapy’ appears to be the buzz-word in the tunnels lately.” He showed the title of the volume to Vincent, who took note of it. “So I decided to see what all the fuss was about. It has been extremely interesting.”

“’The Practice of Aromatherapy in Modern and Ancient Times,’” Vincent read the title aloud and raised a sceptical eyebrow. “I’m surprised you would find it worth your time.”

Jacob looked up from a section he had marked. “I’ll admit the fact that it was written by a historian, rather than a physician, gave me pause. But then, it wasn’t really meant to be a medical book. Did you know that The Bible has several mentions about the use of aromatic substances, in both Testaments? ‘Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair: and the house was filled with the odour of the ointment.’ Very emotive words.”

“Do you think the cures were effective?”

Jacob shrugged. “I think the placebo effect is real. And some of them may have been.” He closed the book. “More, I’m not quite willing to concede.”

He held the book out. It sported a “discontinued” library sticker. “I thought you two might find it useful.”

Vincent accepted the much worn volume graciously. “Thank you, Father. We may yet make a New Age man out of you,” he nudged.

“I’ll stick to my old age, thank you.” Jacob shook his head vigorously. “I know my place, and my limitations. If I started going around the tunnels raiding William’s spice rack and peddling cures for unrequited love …” He rolled his eyes expressively, and nothing more was said about it.

Vincent felt the soft weight of the book settle low, inside his cloak pocket. He knew Jacob had only so much use for this sort of medicine. But he was pleased that Father, like Rebecca, was supportive of his latest efforts.

“Should we have another game?” Vincent asked, knowing that while he wanted to return to his Chambers, and the pages which awaited him there, that he’d been neglecting Jacob more than a little, lately.

Jacob studied the board, and tried to hide a small smile behind his hand. He knew where his special son wanted to be, right now. And it wasn’t re-creating Fischer-Spassky.

“No, you go along. Leave the board as it is. I want to study it a bit, so I can figure out how to beat you.”

Vincent rose. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, leaning over to kiss Jacob on the head, before he departed.

Chapter Nine

Once Upon a Time…

“Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain...”

Bob Dylan

September, 1791

I have seen Him…it is to your pages alone I commit these words, my Diary. I can never speak of what I know. It is too dangerous.

At first, I thought He was a dream. A dream my vivid imagination made live. Can dreams be made to live? I do not know.

The farmhouse was remote, the way torturous to the point of my giving up all together. I was sure I had lost my way more than once. The threat of rain had replaced sunny skies. My spirits were very low, and my feet ached.

I was turning around from yet another blind pathway, when a voice spoke. He spoke to me. Him! The man whose name I don’t even know.

I can say nothing to the sisters, even Sister Marie. Only to you, my diary. My keeper of all secrets, hidden among pages no one else ever reads.

He said, “You are in no danger, here. But little butterflies should not wander so far from the convent walls. Especially when the weather is about to turn.”

I gasped my shock. But I heard no threat in His voice, which was deep, and melodic. If anything, I think He was … amused? And concealed. I could barely discern His form, from the deep shadows of a grandfather oak.

“And where is it you think I belong?” I challenged, surprised at my own temerity. I wanted to hear His voice again.

He hesitated a moment, before He gave His reply. “Safe. Walking through a garden. Gathering… roses, perhaps.” Then… “White ones. Fair, like your face.”

His words set my face to blushing, Diary. I felt the heat, and dropped my eyes, though I was still curious to see His.

No man had ever spoken to me, thus. Who was this mysterious stranger, who moved neither toward me, nor away?

I didn’t tell Him that the only thing I was going to be allowed to do in a garden was weed it. And only red roses were useful. They were grown for their fragrant oils, not for idle gathering. Sister Bernice had said so.

“They say my faith will protect me.” I think I mumbled it.

I pulled myself up to my full height, which was not tall, like Him.

He seemed to consider my words, a moment. “That is an easy thing for them to say… when they are behind an iron gate, and surrounded by a wall. They must not like you very much, little novitiate, to send you out thus.”

I kept my gaze down. “I’m not a very good novitiate,” I confessed. Then I raised my gaze, knowing He could see my eyes, even as I couldn’t see His. “I’ve been told I have too much pride.”

“Do you?” He breathed the words on a sigh. “I would keep such pride, if I were you. You’ll need it, for what the country is becoming.”

He indicated the path, with an outstretched hand. Even from the shadows, I could see He had a long reach.

“You’ve passed me twice now, half-lost, and singing your song of wild roses, rather than a hymn. Where are you bound?”

His accent was not French, even though His words were flawless. I could not place where He was from.

I squinted, but still could discern Him not. He was a cloaked figure, the hood drawn up. And He kept to the shadows, where the waning light did not reach - Where darkness dwelled, and my overactive imagination took flight. He seemed large, a shadow-shape against the failing light.

I named the farm and the woman. I watched Him move, seemingly uneasy with my reply. His voice was like low music. How can speech sound like a hymn?

“Take the path you passed moments ago,” He said. “It is direct. But the woman, she is not kind. She will try to cheat you.”

“Thank you. I will be wary.”

At this minute, I can remember every word we spoke, each to the other. They are engraved on my mind, and my heart.

I marvelled at His voice. Velvet wrapped within steel, with an odd huskiness that spoke of some slight … impediment to His speech.

He could have read Sister Marie’s ingredient list for her potions to me, and I would have been happy. My knees bid fair to give way entirely.

Such was the stuff of a foolish girl’s daydreams…

I am not free to dream thus. Remembering my manners, I turned to bid Him my habitual “God be with you,” but there was no one there. Those same whispering shadows were empty and silent. A single bloom from a wild, red rose lay upon the dusty ground, in His stead. I looked at it, but I did not dare approach, to gather it up.

But the questions remained, stark in my mind. Who was He, and where did He vanish to, and so quickly? How did He know I adored roses? Was it just chance? Or was He making sport of me, thanks to my song?

I had no answers until my return that way again, in the near blackness of dusk. The woman of the farmhouse had stayed me while she haggled over the prices I had been told to set. I think she hoped to lower the convent’s earnings by keeping me past the time it would be safe to walk home, on a night when rain threatened.

She finally paid me the full price, grudgingly. But only after I gathered my basket upon my arm, and made to leave. She watched her few coins pass into my keeping with greedy eyes.

I hurried, so as not to be caught by either the inclement weather or mortal man. I held fast to my sturdy staff, and armed by my calling, I trotted towards the safety of the convent.

But my path was suddenly blocked by two men, who emerged from the shadows, and stepped right onto the lane with me.

‘Farm workers,’ I thought. ‘No doubt dispatched by the farmer’s wife

“Vincent?”

to retrieve the few sous she had paid me for the candles.’

“Leave me be!” I commanded, in my best voice. “I am about God’s work!”

“Vincent.”

They did not reply, but lingered in the pathway, watching me. I closed my grip upon my stout stick, and continued on my way.

“Vincent!”

Then they stepped before and behind me, tugging at my basket and my person!

“Vincent! Cullen told me to come get you. That widening of Lena’s chamber won’t happen on its own, ya know.”

The young voice was a bit impatient, and it belonged to Zach.

The sound of French whispered away, in Vincent’s mind, as he finally looked up from the page, to see Zach standing in his doorway, looking impatient.

“Zach, come in,” Vincent, said, motioning the tall youth forward.

I don’t want to stop, now. So odd, that when I’m reading the page, I feel like I’m back there, he thought.

Vincent looked at the candle on his table, realising it had burned much lower than it should be.

Where has the time gone?

“Many apologies,” Vincent said, reluctantly flipping the tablet closed. “I was… distracted.”

“I’ll say,” Zach commented. “Is that the old diary everybody’s talking about? The one that belonged to Catherine’s great-great grandmother?”

Vincent rose to collect his cloak. Now that he was no longer in 18th century France, he realised the staccato sound on the pipes was largely for him.

“It is. It’s a thing I’ve been very … interested in,” Vincent explained, putting his arm around his young charge’s shoulder, as they left for the work area.

Lena and Kate were outgrowing the small chamber Lena had been allotted, when she’d come down. Expansion was called for. Either that, or a new chamber for her would have to be cut.

“How come?” Zach asked.

“Why am I interested in the diary?”

“Yeah. It’s just some old lady who’s a relative of Catherine’s. I mean, I get that you like her, and all, but…”

Vincent smiled, slightly. And the staccato sound increased. “Zach, I find the more I read, the more I want to know about this woman. What her life was like, what her trials were. How she overcame them …”

“How come?” Zach repeated.

Vincent gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It is in learning about others that we can sometimes learn about ourselves. Do you not find it so?” Vincent asked, lengthening his stride.

Zach’s long legs kept up. “You mean like… if I want to be a top general, I should study Alexander the Great?” Zach asked.

“Something like that,” Vincent allowed.

“But, Rebecca says Catherine’s grandmother was just a candle maker. Like her. You already know how to do that. And if you want to know more… just ask Rebecca.”

The path in front of them forked. Vincent spared a glance backward, toward his chambers.

“Something in me tells me there are things this diary will show me that I do not expect. Things I perhaps cannot learn, from Rebecca,” Vincent predicted, hardly able to wait until he could continue the translation.

The work had gone long, in part due to his tardiness. But by dinnertime, the chamber was at least somewhat larger. Vincent stayed behind with the clean-up crew, figuring he owed the work. By the time he was done, it was almost too late to go to Catherine’s.

He longed to find out how Kate’s story progressed. But not as much as he wanted to spend even just a few moments with his beloved.

Sighing, he grabbed as much of the translation as he had, and scaled down to her balcony. When he arrived, she’d literally just turned off the light in her living room, preparing for bed.

No matter the hour, she greeted him warmly.

“Vincent! I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“The work went… long,” he replied, not bothering to explain that his own tardiness was the culprit.

“For me, too, a little. I wanted to come down, but by the time I got through taking two statements from witnesses and sitting with the diary long enough to figure out that “Queen Anne’s Lace” is a reference to a flower, and not Queen Anne, or actual lace, it was past time to look at tomorrow’s files,” she said, indicating her brief case.

“Did you find out anything more?” Vincent asked.

“Just that fennel mixed with whiskey slows down early labour, and you’re supposed to burn old rushes and pray to the Blessed Virgin.”

“My adventures with Kate are similarly … problematic. She may have met her husband, in September of 1791.”

“Really?” Catherine asked, taking the pages from him.

“It looks as if she needed directions to a farmhouse, and then had some trouble, on the road.”

Catherine smiled, as she read his proffered pages. “Having to wrangle over prices. It sounds like she was quite the… does she say his name?” Catherine flipped the yellow sheets front to back, scanning for it.

“She only calls him ‘Him,’” Vincent confirmed, pointing to the places where Kate did so.

“Upper case,” Catherine smiled. “Like even before she knew his name, she knew.”

She read the last paragraph. “Wait… we’re beset by bandits?” She looked up at him. “Where’s the rest? Oh, please don’t tell me the story just… stops, here. I’d hate to think the page is lost!”

“It is not lost, it is on my table, waiting my return. And I am as anxious as you.” He sighed.

They were sharing all of this. The candle making, the translating, even the lateness of the hour.

Though the time on her mantle clock was prohibitive, being here felt good. Like they were both sharing a marvellous story, one not written by Shakespeare, or Dickens, but by Kate the Chandler. A story no one else even knew, really.

“Oh…you have to bring it back to me. Whenever you can!” Catherine urged.

“I’ll go back and work on the rest of the passage, now. Then bring it tomorrow.”

“Now? But… look at the time! It will be after midnight before you get back home, and later before you get it done.”

He shook his head. “I promise you I won’t be able to sleep, anyway, Catherine. Not until I know what happened.”

Catherine shared his enthusiasm, thoroughly.

“Well, at least we know she survived it. Or how I end up related to her is the mystery for the ages.”

“That it would be,” Vincent agreed, loving the feeling of her anticipation. It warmed the bond, between them.

Catherine kept hold of the papers he’d given her. “I’ll transcribe this into Daniel’s notebook, and then when I see you tomorrow we can add the finished …oh! Rats! No, we can’t. I’ll have to wait another day. There’s a benefit at the Luz’s. A charity auction. I talked half the people in my office into going. I don’t dare miss it.”

“It will run late?” Vincent asked, even though he felt he knew the answer.

“Probably. The bidding can get crazy at these things, and take time. I’ll probably barely be getting in, by this time. And I still want to come down and carve, some more!” she lamented.

“Rest,” he said, aware he was costing her precious sleep time. “I will do all I can, then see you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do everything I can to fly through the rest of the week. I promise I’ll come down Saturday morning, again, if I can’t come earlier!” Catherine vowed.

He gave her a quick embrace, liking the exuberant squeeze she gave him. “Until Saturday, then.”

“I can hardly wait.” She brushed her cheek against his, in a gentle farewell.

As Vincent returned back home, he liked the feeling he carried. They were exchanging something important to her, and firming up when they would next meet. For whatever reason, the latter was a thing they rarely did, owing to the unpredictability inherent in each of their schedules.

That seemed to be changing, as making time for this undertaking was becoming increasingly important, to both of them.

Vincent brewed a pot of tea and tried to finish the pages he still had. But before he’d gotten very far, the jasmine scent came up from inside the protective sleeves, and somehow seemed to bid him to rest. The third time he’d tried to re-read the same paragraph, he knew he was no good for further efforts.

A wave of sudden exhaustion engulfed him, and prompted him to set aside the chore for early morning, rather than late at night, and find his bed. Vincent felt his azure eyes grow heavy, even as he abandoned his writing table for his huge bed.

What happened to you, Kate? he wondered, as he pulled the quilt up. And do I have enough of your story to be able to piece it all together?

That thought, and a faint trace aroma of whatever was still trapped inside her pages, followed him down to sleep.

~ ~ ~

The convent’s old walls were a light tan colour, and high, and the lone gate was made of black iron. Though Vincent knew he could scale either one, he was glad he didn’t have to. Since the trees had been cut away to make the interior buildings, the area around the convent was clear of cover, and it would be almost impossible to go over the walls undetected, unless it was night time, and a moonless one of those, at that.

It was not night time, now.

Vincent frowned as he saw the gates open, as a bell rang in the high tower. There were people standing outside, waiting to get in, even as some waited to come out. Pilgrims, mostly, in the former group, and from the looks of them, very ragged ones. They clutched some wares, mainly wilted vegetables and some fruit.

From what Vincent understood of the times, they’d have been given a hot meal of thin soup and perhaps some dark bread, and sent on their way. No one seemed to notice him. Since it was his dream, he didn’t think that was unusual.

His breath caught when he saw the next person leaving convent. He knew Kate the moment he saw her.

She emerged from the gates, a woven basket caught at her elbow, and armed with a stout walking stick. Covered from head to foot in unbleached muslin, he still recognised Catherine’s strong jaw and intelligent green eyes.

Still, she was much younger than his Catherine was. She had the willowy form of a teenage girl; one who ate passably, if not well, and though the skin of her hands looked soft, the nails were not the even, polished manicure Catherine sported.

She had a bunch of forget-me-nots tucked beneath her rope belt. A single red rose nodded from the confines of her basket, as she walked. A hint of jasmine floated on the slight breeze.

She didn’t speak to Vincent, nor did she glance his way. But the unmistakable aroma of her basket came to him. Roses. Roses and cedar-wood, trapped in the oils which were part of the wax of her candles.

She was going to conduct business, in the small but sprawling village below the place she’d called “home,” since age seven. The Convent held the higher part of a steep hill, and she negotiated it, with nimble grace. Going out would be an easier walk than coming back, thanks to the steepness of the incline.

Vincent followed her, and regarded the entire scene pleasantly enough. It was a chilly autumn morning, and the dirt road was muddy, and wheel rutted, from a recent rain.

A pen of chickens clucked, on the back of a ramshackle cart that looked like if it lost one more nail, it would fall apart, completely. An old donkey brayed, carrying water jugs. Kate walked through the mud, in plain, slipper styled shoes that would already be taking in the wet, from it.

No particular snatch of conversation caught his attention. The sounds all seemed distant, or muted, like a radio with the sound down too low, or like the sounds that sometimes fell through the Whispering Gallery, not far from where he’d helped Rebecca.

But then, the hair on the back of his neck went straight up.

‘I’m being watched,’ he thought. ‘Either that, or someone is watching her.’

Vincent stood still, positive he was correct.

The nearest cover was a thick stand of huge pine trees, distant, and clustered close together. And though some of the trees in the area were turning golden, and beginning to show leaf fall, the evergreens held their foliage, and their deep green shade.

Vincent stared into the verdant cover, yet couldn’t pierce it.

He swore that within the branches, at least one set of eyes stared back at him.

‘I’m just dreaming,’ he said to himself.

An airy, indefinable voice whispered an answer to him. Vincent couldn’t even tell if it belonged to a man or a woman. The faintest hint of roses taunted him.

‘Yes. Yes you are dreaming. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Your life can change, thanks to the wings of a butterfly. Look for one...’

Vincent looked around. But there were no butterflies near, it being far too late in the season, for that.

‘I should have come in summer,’ he thought remembering Catherine’s note. In summer, there were butterflies. And the smell of roses made the air pregnant, with its lush scent. “In summer, there are butterflies,” he said to the whispered voice.

“This butterfly is not subject to the whim of the seasons, He was never born. So he can never die,” the voice answered, strengthening into deep masculine tones.

“A chrysalis? Do you mean a chrysalis?” Vincent asked, knowing a chrysalis was what a butterfly was, before it was ‘born.’

There was no answer. The scent of roses intensified, then drifted away on the breeze.

The dream faded, and Vincent turned over, in his wide bed, still asleep. A few minutes later, a more pleasant dream began. One where he and Catherine were sharing ice cream. Though he saw no garden near, and no butterflies, he reasoned they must have passed near one. Dream logic.

In the morning, his chamber smelled even more strongly of jasmine and roses.

Vincent eyed the pages on his table. The aroma must be coming from them. No other explanation made any sense.

He ate a hasty breakfast, knowing he dare not miss the meal, again, without causing either gossip or concern. He went with the men to work on Lena’s chamber, spurring the group on to work quickly.

“Slow down,” Ben quipped, clearing away huge chunks of rock. “Baby Catherine ain’t graduating, any time soon.”

Vincent inclined his head in agreement, and moderated his pace.

Still, they were done before lunch, and no other particular chores awaited him.

“Now to get back to you,” Vincent said, tugging the journal pages back in front of him.

The French-English dictionary he’d sometimes needed to refer to sat near his hand. His restless sleep had been brief, and the dream a barely remembered thing. The room now contained only the scents familiar to it, and the half-translated entry sat, waiting.

He scanned down the page until he found the area where he’d left off.

Then they stepped before and behind me, tugging at my basket and my person!

“Leave me be!” I commanded, in my best voice. “I am about God’s work!”

They did not reply, but lingered in the pathway, watching me. I closed my grip upon my stout stick, and continued on my way. Then they stepped before and behind me, tugging at my basket and my person!

They demanded both my coin, and my virtue. I was terrified, and though I tried not so show it, but I think they knew.

I tried to hit them with my staff, but they were stronger than me.

All would have been lost, if not for Him.

From nowhere, and everywhere, there came such a roaring as to rupture my eardrums. The sound beat upon me, pushing both myself and my assailants backwards, in fear. It was as if a great animal had been set loose, from a confining cage.

A shape, a demon, a mortal man, I knew not which then, came hurtling from the darkness. The bigger of the two men was sent flying, crashing into the brush like a broken ragdoll.

The other clutched at me, trying to shield himself behind my slender body. I fought to be free. As I turned, something sharp ripped through the loose sleeve of my habit, drawing red lines down my skin, quickly parting it into three bloody scratches.

I cried out, and fell to my knees, clapping my hand over the injury. My basket, and its contents of money, soap, and candles, went tumbling. It was only in that instant of terror did I realise the men had fled, and the roaring had stopped.

The sudden silence dropped heavily upon my abused senses, and the raw sound of my own laboured breathing was all I had, to fill the void.

“You are hurt…” He spoke from behind me. I knew that deep voice.

“I am all right…” I lied, even as I tore strips from the hem of my cloak to bind my bloodied arm.

He said nothing. Nor did He offer to help bind my wound. I sensed Him gathering my scattered things back into the basket. He leaned to place it between us, but still remained a goodly distance from me. He would come no closer.

He seemed to be waiting.

But, for what?

Knotting the bandage tight with my teeth, I turned to look at Him, but once again, discovered I could “see” Him not.

He moved as I turned, and His hood remained up, His face still deeply shadowed. He stayed back from me, keeping just beyond my ability to determine any of His features, at all.

There was nothing to see, beyond my sense of a huge, black shape, outlined by the light of the fitful moon.

“Do not be afraid,” He said, from inside His hood. “Please, do not be afraid. I will not harm you. Or t’was not my intention.” He made to raise a hand, but before it reached the moonlight, He dropped it. “You are safe, here with me…”

Mystery piled in upon cryptic circumstance. He tugged on a pair of gloves, keeping His hands low, within His cloak, and awaited my response.

“The fault is not yours,” I replied quickly. “In part, it was mine for lingering to haggle over a bad trade. I stepped into your path.”

I had barely finished speaking, when the heavens opened and it began to rain in earnest. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and I knew I would be completely soaked before I reached the convent.

I would doubtless catch a chill, and be the worse for it. In vain I threw up the hood of my thin cloak, but the rain only fell harder.

“If you will…allow me, I can show you a place nearby, where we may shelter from the rain.” His hesitant request was filled with the expectation of refusal.

I did not immediately reply. I found my voice had dried, and I could not turn my eyes away.

His cloak appeared heavy and full. Black thigh boots covered the lower part of his strong limbs. I am sure I glimpsed a hint of a white shirt at his throat, and a heavy belt at his waist. I saw no sign of the weapon that slashed my arm. He must have sheathed it.

His beautiful voice that sounded like a hymn, yet could roar like a hellish demon, seemed to belong to a man in his prime. I still tried to pierce His looks, but could not. I knew He could be fearsome. And I knew He was large. I should have been fearful.

Had He expected me to run screaming, from His intimidating presence? My convent life had taught me not to show fear. It made the weak of spirit feel powerful. And I was no longer a child.

But, Dear Diary, I could have remained standing there, in the rain, listening to His voice, forever. It touched me, moved me, somewhere deep inside, where none had been before, or touched.

By what power I do not know, I felt His spirit, and knew Him to be beautiful. Truly, by God’s great and wondrous grace, He was mon belle homme. My deepest, and most cherished dream, sprung to impossible, but undeniable life. I could not turn my eyes away.

“The nuns, they will miss me at Complin,” I managed to reply, sensing my rescuer was not to be feared. “But I must not linger.” I huddled deeper into my sodden clothing.

“Your wound needs proper cleaning and binding, and I would not have you out where trouble can find you, again. I will send a messenger,” He offered. “One saying that you have found decent shelter for the night. Come with me, please.” He tried to shepherd me in the direction He wished me to go, without drawing too near.

He adjusted something, inside His hood, as if He drew a scarf up over His lower face, the common disguise of any bandit. Yet I knew my saviour was neither common, nor a common thief.

“Very well…” I picked up my basket and stick.

It seemed churlish to argue further. Nodding my consent to walk before Him, I allowed my feet to answer His small commands to go this way, or that…

Vincent frowned over the pages, and the curious references they made. Now, there’s a coincidence. If I did not fear I am the only one of my kind in this world… Roaring. A demon’s shape. The three slashes on her arm, and a hidden face…

He shook his head, as if to clear it. No. The roar must have been that of any man’s battle cry. She gave no clear description of his face, but if he’s running from a date with a Guillotine, it was little wonder he wanted to keep his face a secret.

He studied his hand, not for the first time that in the last two days. Three slashes. The kind his index, middle, and ring finger always caused.

It could have been from a weapon, or even a gardening tool, wielded as one. It could have been from anything. And yet…

“Vincent!” Ellie’s tone was sharp. “I’ve been calling you for ages. You promised to read some more of Great Expectations to me. I need to learn it for next week’s exam.” She held out the book.

Startled, Vincent pulled himself away from his deep musings.

“I’m sorry.” He looked up at his young pupil, standing in his chamber door. She’d clearly been trying to get his attention for some time.

Time had gotten away from him, again. He would have to stop that. His stomach growled. He’d worked right through a meal. Also “again.” It was well after three.

“I have been…a bit preoccupied. Where were did we leave off, again?” he asked.

“Pip just beat up the Pale Young Gentleman, and Estella gave him a kiss. It’s okay, Vincent.” Her usual sunny disposition broke through. “I know you’ve been busy with Catherine, in the Chandlery.” She hurried to sit in the chair beside him. “Father asked Rebecca all about it, only yesterday.”

“Did he…?” Vincent looked down at the child, as she flipped the novel open to the correct place and pushed the book towards him. He wondered what other rumours were flying in the tunnels, about Catherine and the time she was spending Below, in his almost exclusive company.

An errant breeze ruffled the plastic that enclosed the brittle pages of Kate’s diary, at his elbow. Almost as if an unseen hand was urging him to return to the story within. And again, his sensitive nose could detect a faint trace of jasmine, through the top opening of the plastic. But this time, it seemed mixed with other things. Rosemary, perhaps, and a trace scent of bergamot oranges.

There are more secrets to be revealed… Determinedly, he gave his attention to Ellie’s lesson. He knew he would have to pay more attention to his duties. He’d utterly forgotten about promising her a lesson.

But in the back of his mind, he itched to know more of Kate’s mysterious rescuer…

Chapter Ten

Student and Teacher

“Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel.”

Socrates

From Scentsational You.

Benefits of Rose Essential Oil

Roses are widely considered the most beautiful flowers in the world. The flower is an integral part of innumerable stories, legends, myths and legacies. With its varied colours, incomparable fragrance and range of shapes and sizes, you can find one for every mood and occasion. People who do not know about any of its medicinal properties can still tell you of one undeniable property; a beautiful, red rose can invoke romantic feelings in even the hardest of hearts…

Uses for Sandalwood Essential Oil

For centuries, sandalwood has reserved a place of dignity and respect in many civilizations and religions of the world, especially in the Hindu Religion, where it is considered holy and indispensable in almost all of the social and religious rituals and ceremonies, from the birth of an individual until their death. In every step, sandalwood is required. It is offered to the various Hindu gods and goddesses, used in decorating babies on their birthdays, used in marriages to decorate brides and bridegrooms, mixed with flowers and other ceremonial offerings, used to embalm bodies and foreheads which is a common practice among people of many communities in India, and it is also burnt with the pyre when cremating the dead.

Sandalwood oil, and the paste of sandalwood is used in medicines, skin and beauty treatments and numerous industrial products including mouth fresheners, edibles, incense sticks, room fresheners, deodorants, perfumes, soaps, lotions, and creams.

It has some truly remarkable medicinal properties…

“Radcliffe… you planning on taking a lunch, today?” Joe asked, seeing her buried in the same book he’d seen her with, since last week. He knew Catherine was far more inclined to read the classics than some hippy-dippy volume on twelve different uses for the rind of a citrus fruit. “What gives?” he asked.

Catherine set the book down, hurriedly, unaware she was missing just about as many meals as Vincent had been.

“Noth-nothing, I just uh… grabbed a hot dog from a vendor after the deposition,” she lied.

Joe was in the business of knowing a lie from the truth. And while Catherine had no real reason to tell one, he sensed she might be.

“The sandwich guy should be by soon. Make sure you get something. Hot dogs on the run don’t last you.”

He knew she liked the kid who often delivered pre-made sandwiches, and that she bought from him often, even if she didn’t eat it, as much.

“I will,” she said, putting down the book. Joe returned to his office, needing to answer a call.

She hoped that when the lunch cart came, that there was a note in one of sandwiches, from Vincent.

Twenty minutes later, there was.

All is well, for our mutual acquaintance. I look forward to sharing more with you. ~ V.

Catherine knew Vincent often kept such notes very brief, and purposefully vague. She also knew it meant he’d finished the translation of what had happened to Kate.

She couldn’t wait to find out what happened, and smiled a secret smile as she held the small scrap of paper, tucked into a turkey on whole wheat, to her nose.

The aromas from the sandwich couldn’t entirely hide the ambient smell of the tunnels.

I love you, she thought.

From far beneath her, and a good bit to the north, Vincent felt her think it, and smiled.

“The knife is very sharp,” Vincent said, giving Catherine her first lesson in carving wax. “Be careful. Rebecca says she’s cut herself more than once.”

He’d already given her the latest translated diary page, but she’d not had a chance to read it yet, and he didn’t want to tell her what it had caused him to think of.

Let her reach her own conclusions, and see if they mirror my own, he thought.

A day spent in the usual pursuits and a night of decent sleep were helping to disabuse him of the notion that Kate Chandler had somehow met someone like himself.

It is fancy, nothing more. He focussed back on the task at hand.

After all, there was something which required his rather delighted concentration. He was teaching Catherine how to carve a candle, like he’d promised.

“I’ve been looking forward to this day all week,” Catherine said, dressed casually in long slacks, a soft green blouse, and a tan jacket. The Chandlery felt warm, and welcoming.

And at least a little intimidating, for her.

If dipping tapers was a challenge, carving a pillar was that, and so much more.

Catherine respected the small knife with the sturdy steel blade. It looked more like a paring knife than anything else. A selection of other cutting tools littered the table, but clearly, this was the way to start.

“I’ll be careful,” she assured him. “The wax was hot when we were dipping, but we managed that okay.”

Vincent nodded his agreement.

“Set your thumb against the bottom of the candle... here,” Vincent instructed, standing behind her and enfolding his hand over hers, as she held the knife. His thumb guided hers, then rested under it.

He realised what a sweet, intimate posture it was. This was a different teaching stance than preaching to a class about the virtues of Henry V, or Romeo and Juliet. He was behind her, rather than before her. And this lesson required that they touch.

“Cut down, never up. Rebecca says there will ‘feel,’ like a right place to stop. The longer cuts go toward the bottom, then smaller ones, just above it, for this pattern.”

She tried her first cut, under his watchful eye.

“That’s it. Then cut just above that one... there.”

“It feels harder at first. Then… not. Is it supposed to?” she asked.

“Yes.” His soft breath was a whisper against her left cheek. “You’re cutting more deeply into the candle, but the wax is also softer there, as well.”

His hand stayed over hers, at first. His huge presence at her back was a close and enveloping thing. Once again, Vincent was struck by how… different this was than the other times they usually shared.

This was not like reading a book together, or listening to music, where they often sat side-by-side. It was not even like the fairly close posture they’d adopted while she’d learned to dip the tapers.

This time, she was seated on a high stool, while he remained directly behind her. His front was unavoidably pressed against her back, as he reached around her, helping to steady both the candle and her hand.

Catherine sensed the subtle (and not so subtle) differences, as well. The steady rhythm of his heart beat reassuringly against her upper back. His masculine scent enveloped her, even as his strong arm aligned with her more feminine one. She felt ... surrounded by him, and found she very much liked the sensation. It was an embrace, but not the usual kind. The difference felt… good. New. And a bit intriguing.

Catherine forced her attention back to what they were doing, as she watched his hand cradle hers. The obvious differences between them were readily apparent, as were their similarities.

Hands she had once declared to be hers were obviously hirsute, and the fingers sharply-tipped. But his palm was devoid of hair, as was the underside of his fingers, and the pad of his thumb. She’d had to remove her gloves to wield the knife, and both his hands covered both of hers, one on the knife, the other gripping the heavy pillar candle, by the base.

His arms all but cradled hers, and it was here that his huge size could not be ignored. He made her feel… delicate, even as he made her feel strong. His broad torso was not only near, it remained near, exuding masculinity. This was no brief embrace, and then the act of re-establishing distance, between them.

They were touching skin to skin, with both hands, a rare thing, for them, since often either one or both of them wore gloves.

His warm palm felt hotter than hers, an intoxicating sensation that thrilled her right down to her boot-covered toes.

His strong thumb rested on the back of her hand, and he continued to guide her motions. Then, gradually, he released the pressure of his hold, until she was making the cuts all by herself.

She wasn’t entirely pleased he’d let her go, but could say nothing about it. He was teaching her something, as he promised he would. The only way for her to learn was to do it by herself, as much as she could. But she missed the welcome closeness, as he moved away, a little.

She tried to concentrate on her task, and stay steady. This was the thing she most wanted to learn, after all. “I keep being afraid I’ll make a mistake. Cut too much off. Ruin it,” she said, admittedly a little nervous.

He could feel the trepidation, from her.

“If that happens, we’ll simply return the wax to the vat and start again,” he soothed, trying to allay her worries. “We all have to begin, somewhere.”

Vincent gave her room, knowing he had to. She would not learn if he continued to hover, and that was, after all, why she was here. Though he’d greatly enjoyed their former position, the wax would not stay malleable, for forever, and he wanted her to have at least some degree of success, here.

Her fair brow furrowed. Cutting wax felt strange, in that it was so smooth, yet thick. She was scowling at the cylinder of white wax, before her.

Vincent headed off the urge to smile. It was almost amusing that a woman who could stare down a jury would be unsettled, here. What was seen as incorrect, could easily be corrected, just by beginning again. There was no test, here. No immense sums of money were at stake. No lives hung in the balance.

Well. Maybe. It was a bare whisper of a thought, for him. There, then gone.

Catherine was going slowly, and carefully. Almost too slowly and too carefully.

He itched to hold her hand again, knowing not only that it had felt good to embrace her from that angle, but that it was necessary, to be her instructor. Both thoughts filled him with a sense of pleasure, if not power.

He’d been many things to her over the last three years. But since their first parting at her threshold,  when he’d made her see the inner strength she possessed, he’d rarely considered himself her teacher, even when she’d argued to the contrary.

“Align your index finger along the dull side of the blade, then push,” he instructed, adjusting her hand, gently. He was aware he worked with a knife far more often than she did. Or any tool, for that matter. “Lift the knife straight up, at the bottom of the cut. You want to back it out, without pulling the wax a different way. You’re just… going back the way you came.” He demonstrated, again.

She tried, but clearly felt awkward. The sharp knife felt like it wanted to “grab,” as she tried to remove it from the firm-yet-not-hard wax. She didn’t like the sensation.

“You’re nervous,” he observed, reaching to guide her hand, a little. He felt it tremble, just a bit.

“I don’t normally make things,” she admitted, pushing herself gamely on. “Do things, yes. Make things... no.” She shook her head and it set her soft hair to whispering about her face. “I can manage to make coffee and burn toast.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “This is different. This is art. I was never very good.”

She resisted the urge to tell him about the life study class at Radcliffe. Despite her flippancy at the time, when she’d told Joe, it had not been a proud moment in her personal history.

Vincent sensed her inner chagrin. Her sense of disappointment. From his vantage point, looking over her right shoulder, he saw her breasts lift, on a deep inhale. She was trying to settle herself. To not be afraid of her limitations. To go beyond them, and make something different.

Oh, Catherine…

“Shall we pretend it’s a dishonest judge you’re taking to task?” he managed to tease, as he watched her return to her chore.

She lifted the knife away. “I’m not sure that’s the mood I need to be in, for a present for my father,” she chuckled nervously. She’d gone all the way around the candle’s base, carefully.

“Okay, now what?” she asked, setting the knife down on the table.

“Now we bend,” he instructed, standing behind her again and reaching over her shoulder. He showed her how to ‘fold’ the bottom strip of wax, so it made a loop, then do the same, with the strip of wax she’d cut above it.

“Oh! Like this?” she asked, imitating him perfectly. The shine in her eyes showed she clearly liked the result. Her beautiful fingers set to the next set of cuts, beside the first one.

“You may find you have a gift,” he complimented, rewarding her with a soft smile. “Rebecca will be proud of you.”

“Keep telling me that.” She began working on the next section, wanting to make it look like the others. Though it didn’t turn out quite so perfectly, she was not unhappy with the results.

She proceeded all the way around the bottom of the candle. He turned the candle so she could try to repeat the entire process, higher up.

“It’s good to know if the law doesn’t work out for me, that I’ve got a second career,” she quipped, picking up the knife and concentrating hard, on the next set of cuts. Understanding was bringing her confidence, just like experience was.

“But I will have to dye my hair bright red, wear great hoop earrings, and jangle a lot of jewellery.” She laughed, remembering her trip to the essential oil shop. “Oh, and loose, peasant blouses are still in, it seems. And bell bottoms. Also, impossibly short skirts.”

“One could become… intrigued, by such a picture,” Vincent teased subtly.

“I think I have a long way to go, before I’m ready to open my own shop.” Catherine shook her head.

She continued to work, but it wasn’t going to plan. The symmetry wasn’t exactly there, owing to her ability with the knife. That was when she realised how important the cuts were, and that they had to not only be precisely placed, but almost identical in length, one set to the other. Small differences showed up, when the turned wax produced loops that were slightly larger on one side, than they were on the other.

“So much for my new shop. This isn’t as easy as the people in the Village make it look,” she stated, her expression one of utter seriousness.

“Nothing ever is,” Vincent returned gently. The comment made him think about Kate, and the hard life she’d endured. But it was a wisp of thought, there and gone. His Catherine was before him, out of her comfort zone, and… concentrating. Her sweet jaw had a stubborn set to it, and her eyes were barely blinking, for the need to focus on the task.

Do you always look so … intense when you are learning? Vincent wondered.

Her lovely fingers continued to move, all over the wax. The white, pretty nails gleamed with clear polish, and she was starting to favour her longest finger, for pressing down the wax, to make the loops. She lightly caressed her creation, even as she moved around it, as if her sense of touch was telling her more than her green eyes alone, could.

“I think it’s going to take a lot of practice, to make this anywhere near good, but at least I’m learning,” she said, not shifting her gaze from the row she was working on. She lightly caressed what was now sculpted wax.

Vincent kept his eyes on the way her fingers kept contact with the wax, lightly touching, gently caressing, and then moving on.

What must it be like, to be “learned” by you?  The words came into his mind before he could set a bar, against them. He shook himself clear of the unbidden thought, aware he hadn’t commented on her statement. Would you also make a great teacher, Catherine? For me?

“It took me three tries to do as you are doing, right now,” he encouraged, hiding the sudden direction his thoughts had taken.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She grinned a little, as she said it. Her fingers remained on the wax, “feeling” the location of the loop on one side, as she bent the other. She was trying to assure symmetry by using her sense of touch.

She’s more tactile than she realises, Vincent thought, though he addressed her comment.

“My first cut took down too much of the candle. My second, too little. Rebecca says the key is to be consistent, with the pressure. But to remember there is some sense of urgency. The wax is drying, as you work.  So once you begin...” he turned the candle for her again, so that a fresh side presented itself.  “...you must see it through.”

Catherine nodded, instinctively liking the soft feel of the wax under her fingers. The knife was starting to feel more comfortable, in her hand. There was indeed a ‘feel’ for doing this.

“And you said Rebecca swears this is the easiest pattern?” Catherine asked, her green gaze tracking vertically, beholding her half-finished creation.

“She swears it’s the one her mother taught her, first. That most others come from it. Rebecca’s mother was more like Sister Marie. She preferred the plain and simple. Functional things suited her.”

Catherine nodded as she realised they’d just spoken of a character from Kate Chandler’s diary. It still felt like a shared secret, between them.

“I take it Kate got away from the men who were going to rob her,” Catherine said, making conversation while she still worked, intently.

“She did. I put the pages in your bag, for safekeeping. You can read them when you return to your apartment.”

Don’t say more. Let her discover it. Or not.

For now, there was something else that needed doing.

Vincent stood back and smiled at her, letting her know her progress was both acceptable, and not overly influenced by him. She turned the candle herself for the next row of cuts, and he could see her self-confidence increasing.

She stayed focused on the task at hand, and her efforts were producing almost acceptable results. The rippling rows of white wax began to resemble something that was, if not perfectly symmetrical, at least identifiably pretty.

“I’m starting to like doing this,” she confided, her smile slowly returning. She turned to him. “With you,” she finished softly.

“And I, with you.” He stepped near, again, just for the pleasure of doing that. His hand slid under her forearm, and lifted her wrist, slightly. “That’s it. Keep the knife level, when you cut. Don’t hold it at an angle.”

Catherine loved the feeling of his arm aligned with hers. His hand was a subtle pressure, guiding her own. His chest was a solid wall, at her back. She could all but feel him breathe, as his lungs expanded. The steady beat of his heart found an echo, within hers.

“I think I’m… getting it,” she said, “feeling” the knife slice through the stiff, yet not-entirely-hard wax. The higher rows were thinner, and easier to cut, on this particular pillar.

Vincent watched her with loving interest. Several rows of curling wax were now complete. Another middle and a top row awaited them.

“Now, the next one,” he said, aware that the pillar became slightly narrower, the higher up they went.

By the top row, it would be delicate work, lest she accidentally cut into the wick, or have a sliver of wax break off, thus necessitating they start all over. The wax was a re-usable medium. But it was not necessarily a forgiving one.

“You mean there’s more?” she quipped, knowing there was. She shed her jacket, as she’d done, before.

“It’s warm in here. Warmer than it was, yesterday,” she observed.

“It’s later in the day. The room doesn’t vent, very well. The vats have been warm for a long while,” he explained.

“I see someone brought their laundry down,” she commented seeing several blankets thrown over the row of lines, strung across the back part of the chamber.

“They’re Mary’s. The heavier quilts take the longest time to dry in the cooler air. She’ll likely come to collect them, after supper,” he said.

Catherine remembered their prior conversation about the clothesline, and its tendency to be used to dry the quilts. Of course, he had one. She’d slept under it, for one thing, back when she’d convalesced after her attack.

“Is this where yours hang?” she asked, blushing at what suddenly felt like a very personal question.

Did I just ask him where he hangs his bedclothes? she wondered. The idea of seeing his huge quilt drip dry seemed somehow a very… intimate thing, all of a sudden.

“Only on laundry day,” he said warmly, near her ear. Was his tone just a touch… husky?

Does he feel it too? Or is he just sensing me? Catherine was embarrassed anew, by the question.

Stop this. You’ll make him uncomfortable.

“Careful,” he cautioned, as she picked up the knife, again, hastily. For a moment, she wasn’t sure just what he was warning her about. His gaze was fixed on the knife, however.

Catherine nodded, and set back to work. She willed herself to be steady. “I’ve seen this done with coloured wax mixed in with white, in some of the exclusive shops in the Village,” she said conversationally.

There. Change the topic. That usually works.

Vincent felt her mood shift, and mourned it, some, even as he accepted that it was a necessity, between them.

He continued to watch her wield the knife, even as he felt her calm.

“Have you ever seen one?” she prompted.

It took him a moment to backtrack her question. Oh, yes. Candles which were both carved, and different colours.

He knew the kinds candles of which she spoke. “Rebecca says she pours white wax since that’s the way it comes, but experiments with colours, for Winterfest. Would you like to try a colour?” he asked, aware that dipping a pillar into layers of colour would be a bit more work than dipping a taper.

“Let’s get me through this part before we... oh!” she said in dismay, as a piece of wax not only sloped downward, but broke off, in her hands.

“Sorry!” she apologised. “I guess I should stick to law, after all.”

“I was distracting you,” he demurred, “and as I said, your result was already better than my first attempt.” He took the broken piece from her hand, scooped up the candle, and tossed both into the melting vat. They’d fish out the wick, later.

He set a new candle before her.

“Let’s try again,” he invited, fairly adoring the prospect of taking her hand in his, once more.

They spent the day in the Chandlery together, with Catherine learning to carve, and Vincent adoring being her guide. Rebecca came in twice, to offer advice and give praise. But for the most part, it was the two of them. Her second attempt was better than the first, the third one better yet, and neither one needed to be returned to the waiting vat of warm wax.

Vincent declared the day a success, and Catherine was inclined to agree, even though the results were far from “gift worthy.”

“I think I’m going to have to try this some more, later,” she concluded, not terribly displeased with her results. A small smile danced around her soft lips.

“They say ‘Practice makes perfect,’” he quoted, content with the satisfaction he felt emanating from her. My love is happy, he thought.

And she was.

By the time Catherine’s other concerns bore her back to her world, Vincent felt both tired and fairly pleased, himself. If the day had been a long one, it had also been a successful one.

Though time spent in the Chandlery was not as physically laborious as many he’d endured, he found his back was a bit sore, thanks to having spent the day leaning over her, trying to help her learn.

It was a welcome tiredness. One solved by a trip to the mineral springs.

He collected a set of loose clothes and made his way to the water, passing several members of his family, as he went. Brooke gave him a shy smile, and Cullen a friendly nod.

“How’s Catherine?” the wood carver asked.

“She is well,” Vincent said, not elaborating. Cullen nodded at the information, and moved on to wherever it was he was going.

Others had similar greetings for him. All seemed to know how he’d spent his day.

He didn’t mind that they did. They were his family. They wished him well.

He padded into the wide chamber that was not nearly as large as a bathing chamber, but was unique, for the quality of water it contained.

The small, kidney-shaped mineral spring was actually warmer than the water in the bathing chambers, but possessed of a somewhat unique aroma all its own, thanks to the concentration of calcium, magnesium, salt, and just a trace of sulphur.

Stone bench seats had been cut into the sides by Kanin Evans, and it was deep enough to submerge oneself in. Open to all, it tended to be favoured by the adults, rather than the children. Mary used it to soak a pair of arthritic knees, and Jacob used it when his hip was acting up. None of them were here, now.

Warm tendrils of steam hung in the air, making everything misty, and indistinct. The rock ceiling soared into oblivion overhead, lending an impression of echoing vastness.

Vincent eased into the pool. He pushed off into the middle, doing a lazy half-turn, before sinking below the surface. Rising to his feet, he tossed his sodden mane back from his face, before stretching out, allowing the water to do its work on his tired limbs.

Half an hour later, he was still more than half-submerged in the warm water, floating on his back with his eyes shut, when Ben came into the steaming room, and joined him, in the water.

The other man sighed as he settled himself on one of the stone seats. “I hear you’ve been spending some time with the most beautiful woman in the world,” Ben said good-naturedly, leaning back in the warm water. The smell of salt and magnesium hung, in the steamy air.

Vincent smiled, well aware that Ben was likely talking about Rebecca. He pulled himself up onto the carved bench next the other man.

“That I have,” Vincent replied, lying back as well.

“Course, I imagine I’m discussing Rebecca while you’re talkin’ about Catherine,” Ben allowed. “Things going okay?”

“Things are going fine,” Vincent answered. “Rebecca has been most patient. And very kind.”

“One of the many reasons I married her.” Ben nodded, splashing water on his face. “Before anyone else tried to snap her up.” He grinned. “The best decision of my entire life.”

“I know.” Vincent exhaled deeply into the steam surrounding him, making the moisture swirl into patterns. “I’m helping Catherine translate a diary—“

“From one of her ancestors. So I hear. I was never much into that, myself, all that old family history stuff. Of course, might be because my old man was a sonofabitch, when he was drunk, but who can say?” The other man shrugged. “So, Catherine’s into that?” he asked.

“She is… discovering something that she feels will have value, to her father. The learning is making her happy, and so far, the story is good. It was nearly an accident that she came to have it. Her father found it when he was looking for something else, from what she says.”

“Kind of like how I found this place,” Ben said, referring to the entirety of the tunnels, rather than the room. “Funny how often life turns out just about that way.”

Indeed it is.

Ben tugged a towel over, and used it to pad his back against the stone edge of the pool. He spread his arms out to claim the space, as he relaxed, letting the warm water work its magic.

Vincent well knew the other man’s history. Also, that it no longer bothered him, as it once had. Rebecca’s love had been a cure for many ills, apparently.

“Without Rebecca’s assistance, I’m not sure how far we’d have gotten, today,” Vincent added. “Catherine sends her thanks as well. She is very pleased.” he concluded, sliding down in the water so that it could cover his sore shoulder. It felt wonderful.

And so am I, he thought, knowing the sentence had very little to do with the ease the warm water was giving him.

“Becca’s pleased to be helpin’. And I’m pleased she’s off work, early. I have a mind to take her to the concert chamber, later this evenin’,” Ben revealed. “Maybe out for a walk in the park, later. Looks to be a handsome moon,” he stated, leaning his head back, and closing his brown eyes.

Vincent wanted to address the small stack of protected pages on his desk, rather than either go Above, or interrupt what was clearly a date Ben was planning with his winsome wife.

The two men soaked for several long minutes, more than content to be in each other’s company without needing to fill the silence.

Vincent rolled his shoulder, underneath the water, feeling the heat and the minerals soak into his skin, and banish the small discomfort he’d felt. He spared a moment to imagine how good it would feel if Catherine would massage those same shoulders, and like so many others times he’d imagined something similar, he pushed the thought aside.

He knew he’d never ask. And unless he did, it left her no real way to offer.

Oh, well. The water helps, he consoled himself.

“I will leave you to a good evening, then,” Vincent said, rising from the spring and reaching for a towel. He briskly rubbed himself as dry as he could, in the steam.

He and Ben had known each other since the latter had come Below as a youth. Ben had been angry, scared, and ready for a different kind of life, one apart from his father. Neither one of them could know he would stay for years. But if he ever regretted that choice, he never spoke of it.

“Ben?” Vincent asked, tugging on loose sleep pants as he reached for an overly large shirt.

“Mm?” Ben asked, clearly enjoying the water.

“Your marriage. It seems very happy. And you found each other when Rebecca was very young… even a bit younger than Catherine’s ancestor was. I’m glad for you.” He tugged the cotton shirt over his head. I even … envy you.”

Ben opened his perceptive eyes and shrugged. “No need to. Envy is for people who see what others have, and think they’re never gonna get that,” he replied, wiping perspiration from his stubbled cheek with the towel. “You and Catherine ain’t teenagers, but, what the hell. There’s always time.” He was characteristically blunt, in his assessment.

Vincent didn’t reply to that, but instead nodded a farewell, and proceeded to his chamber. On days like today, when Catherine had been Below, near him, and warm, he was inclined to agree, as impossible as the notion of putting their lives truly together seemed.

Still, the day had been a good one, and he was disinclined to spoil it by considering all the things he couldn’t have.

He ate a light meal in his chambers, worked on a diary page for a while, then went to bed.

The night was a restful one, and he dreamed no dreams he could remember…

Chapter Eleven

Sao Vicente de Fora

Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

Rumi

The next day, Vincent taught class and spent the evening with Jacob, allowing the old man his revenge over numerous games of chess. He took his allotted turn at sentry duty with Mouse, who chattered happily about inconsequential things, leaving Vincent’s mind the freedom to roam at will.

All the while he was itching to get back to the diary, and the interesting secrets it contained. He’d left Kate in the care of her mysterious rescuer, and longed to know more.

It was late on Monday before he finally found a window of time to call his own, again. The old words, some very faded, continued to unlock themselves, as his steady hand committed them to the pages of Catherine’s yellow legal pads.

We passed through a small clearing, then came to the side of a large hillock. We stopped, on His word, and He stepped in front of me, leaning to remove some sort of closure, covered in thorny rose brambles and willow branches.

The darkness of a large cave loomed out of the gloom, set into the side of the hillock. The entrance was completely invisible, to the casual glance.

We hurried into the cavern, and the noise of the rain became muffled. Small flambeaus were spaced along the walls, their flames shedding a flickering light. As we walked deeper, somewhere within, a sheltered fire was burning. Men’s voices echoed into the recesses of the cave roof, far above our heads. I heard children laughing, and a woman’s response.

A low-toned challenge sounded, and a reply was given. Some conversation passed between my companion and the challenger, before a young child hurried past us, and out into the rain.

“Oh, please…” I stared after the boy in consternation. He would soon be soaked to the skin.

“Do not fret for him. He travels more invisibly than you do, and a good bit faster,” replied my rescuer.

“Very well.” I nodded my understanding, though I was still vexed.

I looked about me. I frowned at the people clustered around the fire. The smell of food cooking permeated the air, and my stomach growled its protest. I sighed.

I watched the people moving about their business. They were hiding in a dank and sparsely lit cave, could have been anyone and from anywhere. They could have been fugitives, and surely, some of them were. They could have been desperate souls. They could have been anything…

Those seated near the fire, attending to the evening meal, looked up at my entrance into their hidden world. They did not speak, or move to greet me. But, on seeing my companion, they turned their faces away and went back to their own business.

I could see that some were wearing what had once been expensive clothes, while others were dressed far more simply. I could see there were provisions, stacked against a wall. Beyond the fire, a woman was nursing an infant, singing to the babe in a low tone.

I turned back to glance at my guide. I could not then explain why I knew there was nothing to fear. Least of all from Him.

My gaze turned back toward the exit, the way the child had gone.

“He will be all right,” my companion answered my continued concern for the boy. “And so will you. But you must do as I bid you.”

“Merci.” I was almost tempted to extend my hand to Him.

But somehow I doubted He would respond in kind. He seemed content to observe me, from a face hidden deep within the cowl of His black cloak. Also to keep a certain… distance, between us.

The nearby flambeau did little to illuminate His features. I saw only the sheen of His watching eyes.

I did not care. I was safe, and with Him. I do not often smile. There was not much to smile about. My Christ figure in wax, was the last time such a vanity curved my mouth. But I smiled now.

“What makes you smile?” He asked.

In my mind I could picture Sister Bernice, and the months I would be consigned to spending down on my knees, if she so much as caught a hint of my present predicament! And these people! In the midst of a land full of terror, they’d managed to find safe haven.

“Everything,” I replied. It was far easier a response than telling Him more. I had not the words to explain the confusion of my feelings, then.

There I was, in the half-dark, with a stranger, who could do anything to me. And I knew that some part of me would… welcome whatsoever He willed …Some… unspoken tie seemed to join us.

“You smell of jasmine,” He finally broke a lengthening silence between us. “Even when you are wet with rain.”

Did I? I suppose I did. But I knew jasmine was a costly fragrance. I did not want Him to think me a thief, or a wastrel.

“The sisters make the oils I use in the candles. I have to touch it, to create with it. Then I pick up my skirts, to walk. It gets on my clothes.”

“It suits you,” was all He replied.

Did it? Jasmine was a wealthy woman’s fragrance, as is attar of roses. I knew there were few more humble than myself.

I knew I trusted Him. I knew I wanted this huge, mysterious figure near me. I can explain it no better than that. The sheer beauty of a man whose face I could not even see, surrounded and comforted my thirsty soul…

It was as if He had always been waiting, just for me. My smile grew wistful, as I dreamed of things I may never possess. My sorely-tried heart began to sing. Just a little…

Then I heard His sharp intake of breath, and I stopped smiling. It seemed I had transgressed some invisible line. Had I had been judged, and found wanting, again? My heart sank.

“You may rest here.” He said brusquely, pointing to a pile of blankets set against the wall. “I will send some meat, with bread and cheese, back to you.” He nodded towards my bloodied arm. “Also water, and fresh bandages. Give me your cloak. I’ll see it warmed and dried, by the fire.”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” I tried to reassure Him, as I surrendered my damp cape. “I would never tell. I could never betray your faith in me. I promise you this upon my immortal soul.”

“I know,” He replied, in a rush of breath. “I knew that, the moment you trusted me not to harm you.”

He shrugged, as He took what I offered. “This is a place of safety. For those who have nowhere else to go. And there are many. To reveal it is to condemn them all. Including the children.”

“They are… refugees?” I asked, wanting at least that much clarity.

“They are whatever the world outside this cave has made them,” was all the answer He gave, by way of explanation.

He paused. “I would…ask for your name…”

I felt the intensity of His gaze, from within the hood, as His head lifted. I knew His eyes stared into mine. Eyes I could scarcely see.

“My name…?” I frowned, lost in the moment. “I…it’s Katherine…”

“Katherine…” He breathed it, like a benediction.

Of course he did, Vincent thought. His pen moved on.

I wanted to hear Him say it again. But the moment was lost.

“But, the nuns call me Kate,” I hurried to correct my error. “I was first named for a blessed saint, and they think it’s not proper for one so low-born…”

“I prefer Katherine.” He shook his head. “Katherine you shall always be, to me.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” I lurched forward, making a snatch for His arm, but He avoided me, fluidly.

“Please…” I begged. “Please…your name. In exchange for mine. What is it? I swear I will not speak it to others.”

“My name…” His breath hissed inwards, and He froze, as if suddenly on alert for the slightest threat. My skin prickled with confusion. What had I said, or done, now?

“Vincente…” He finally allowed, after a fraught silence. “I am named for the Portuguese monastery they found me near. I was abandoned, and left to die.” His voice held neither regret, nor self-pity. He was simply stating a fact.

It can’t be. How… incredible!

Then He asked, “Do you speak Portuguese?”

I shook my head regretfully.

“’Sao Vicente de Fora’. It means ‘Saint Vincent Outside the Walls.’ I must go now…”

Before I could reply, or even try to see His face in the gloom, He was gone, towards the firelight. So He remains almost a complete mystery to me. Others may see what I am not permitted to observe.

That is His name. I must not speak it aloud outside these rough-hewn walls for fear of discovery. His secrets must remain safe from those who would seek to do Him harm.

“Sao Vicente de Fora,” I repeated softly, committing it to memory. “Vincente…”

The promised hot food, bandages, and a jug of water were silently delivered by another child. And then I was left completely alone to tend my wounds. Laughter and bonhomie radiated down the passageway to my lonely outpost. I was sure I heard His voice raised in song. It sounded hauntingly sad, like something a lovelorn gypsy would sing…

‘We’re all vagabonds here,’ I thought.

I sighed, as I lay down in my blankets, quite dejected. Was I not to be trusted with any more secrets? I felt… blind here, and at least a bit shunned, pressed back near the wall, away from all others.

I tried to sleep, but it was elusive, at best.

In the morning, He sent another child to me, one bearing my now-dry cape. I knew not the way home, but I wished for larger company than this elfin, dirty scrap of humanity.

We walked in silence, the little boy and I, and I slipped him some copper for his pains, hoping it would help him, help all of them. Considering I’d been beset by robbers, a few coins more or less would not go missed. Much more than that, I could not dare.

As soon as the stout walls of the convent appeared, the child slipped away.

All I had to show for my rescuer being in my life, was a basket of broken wares, a few coins, and a bloodied arm, tucked under my cloak…

“Vincente…” I whispered to the roses along my pathway, breaking my own vow. Then I stowed His name safely within my heart, where none may read it, and know.

One part of me longed to run back to Him, to beg Him to allow me to stay. To serve Him as the others in the cave. But that way lay madness and betrayal. I was not free to choose thus.

The convent did not like to lose their noviciates. They would come looking for me, and find Him. I could not bear that.

I had to return to my world. I had to. I had nowhere else to call home...

“Vincente…” Vincent whispered. The complete irony of the man’s name was remarkable. Was it even possible?

How could their lives, separated by the wide gulf of two hundred years, and a vast ocean, be so intertwined? He felt a measure of sympathy and understanding for the man, whatever his story.

An outcast, and a wanderer. Would he stay in her life? This was the “Him” Kate had alluded to in her last diary page, wasn’t it? Or did she simply apply that pronoun indiscriminately?

Vincent knew he only had questions, and the questions begat more.

He turned his attention back to the pages. He needed to have more translated, before he showed it all to Catherine, to see if she could make the same connections he had.

Their time together was always so intermittent, and he wanted to have as much done as possible, before he tried to share it with her. He rose from the table, eying the last line.

I had to return to my world. I had to. I had nowhere else to call home...

It reminded him so much of the day he’d taken Catherine back to her world, his heart silently ached, for a couple he’d never met.

And just a little for one he did.

If I had asked you to stay… would you have done so without question, or a backward glance? He wondered, knowing that part of him had longed to, that distant day.

He also knew what the answer would have been. What it would have to have been.

Kate and Catherine were not identical women, no matter what similarities passed, between them.

And in spite of her protestations, he knew that Kate, like Catherine, truly did have to return to her world. Her missing status would have warranted a search party, at the least. And that might have led everyone to the cave.

In a way, both women had been dictated to by who and what they were, even if there were far different circumstances.

He wanted to know more. Very much. He prayed the other pages continued the story. Catherine had the rest of the diary. He knew they weren’t with him.

Chapter Twelve

Rosemary is for Remembrance

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember… there’s pansies. That’s for thoughts…”

Shakespeare

From Scentsational You.

Rosemary is for Remembrance.

Rosemary has been used, literally, for thousands of years.

Above all other herbs, Rosemary is the one that links the past to the present. Rosemary is the plant tied to memory, and it is used to signify that in Shakespeare, ballet, opera, and both medieval and modern herbalism. Rosemary has a distinct fragrance and can be ingested in tea, as well as inhaled, for its calming, nostalgic effect. Those who seek to know past lives must keep Rosemary near.

Heraldic emblems sometimes feature a Rosemary tinged border, indicating that the family has a long, and storied history. Sometimes, pictures depicting sorrows, like the loss of a loved one are also traced with Rosemary, to indicate the loved one will never be forgotten.

A gift of roses sprinkled with sprigs of Rosemary tells the receiver, “I love you, and I will never forget you.”

Reunions should always be celebrated with Rosemary, as should partings. The one says “I remembered us.” The other says “I will never forget you.”

In ancient times, unmarried women slept with a sprig of Rosemary under their pillows, hoping to dream of their intended.

After marriage, a wife would often tuck sprigs of rosemary into her husband’s pockets, as he went on a journey, to remind him to be faithful.

In current times, sprigs of Rosemary are worn on Anzac Day. Wreaths of it are made for Remembrance Day.

Medically, rosemary stimulates circulation brought on by exposure to cold. It also has both antiseptic and antibiotic properties. It can be ingested, in tea, inhaled, or even applied in lotion.

While Vincent laboured to construct the story of Kate’s assault and rescue, Catherine was having to face a challenge of a very different kind.

Arriving home, after another long day at the office, she found she’d been summoned to Charles’ apartment, via a message on her answering machine.

She knew he should be readying himself to leave on vacation. What was this about? she wondered.

She played the message again. Being called over to his very upscale apartment was an unusual (if not downright odd) thing, in and of itself, but it was almost unheard of, when he was preparing to travel.

She knew he’d be busy with last minute details. Anything he needed her to take care of while he was gone, he could simply leave a message on her phone, or at her office.

He almost never came over unannounced, having been raised with far more genteel manners, (if not a father’s well-honed instincts involving the private lives of adult daughters), and he also almost never phoned her to tell her she needed to come over to see him. He respected her busy schedule too much to issue such dictates. Meetings between them were usually arranged, well in advance, as their dinner at Tavern on the Green had been.

His almost hesitant voice was trapped on the hissing tape, requesting her presence.

“Cathy... honey... I'd really like it if you'd come over and see the old man this evening. My place. Soon as you can? ‘Bye.”

Catherine replayed the message once more, then simply dropped her brief case and headed out the door she'd just come in through.

Was it his health?

Part of her wanted to call Peter Alcott, to see if he knew anything, then realised that going over to Charles’ apartment would probably be simpler.

Whatever this was, her father wanted to talk to her about it, and even though the request had been short on details, his tone had been... cryptic, for lack of a better word. Almost as if he was asking for permission to see her.

Situated not far from Chandler and Coolidge, Catherine arrived at Charles' tastefully lavish New York residence as quickly as the midtown traffic would allow.

“Dad?” she asked, as he opened his door to her. He was dressed casually, in khakis and a soft blue polo shirt that emphasized the light colour of his eyes. “Your message sounded... important. Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry if I worried you.” He stood aside, and nodded her way in, then closed the heavy walnut door, after her.

“Thank you, Cathy. Thank you for coming over. I mean it.”

The room, which was normally a testament to regular maid service, was a bit... cluttered, for lack of a better description.

Charles' black leather duffel bag, the one he used for carry-on luggage, sat on the coffee table. It contained what Charles considered 'must haves' in case his luggage got lost, on a trans-Atlantic flight. Which was to say it contained two changes of clothing, a decent jacket, some shaving gear, and a pair of sturdy shoes he was comfortable walking long distances in. Catherine knew a hardback novel would find its way into the bag, plus his favourite camera.

Charles had been something of a shutterbug since before Catherine had been born. Most of the pictures they owned of Caroline had been taken lovingly, by him. Including the ones that were framed in his living room, now.

“Having trouble finding something?” Catherine asked. Had he lost his passport, or his shot records? Did he need her to run him someplace? He wasn’t scheduled to depart for a few days, yet, was he?

“No, no, it's all good,' he said, waving his hand at the small mess. He set aside a London Fog raincoat he favoured, knowing he'd need the lining for an early spring trip.

He looked… nervous. And for Charles Chandler, attorney-at-law and consummate gentleman, that was an almost unheard of condition.

“Cathy... uh... could you sit down, please?” He gestured. “Or, no, no, stand up, if you're more comfortable. I don't want you to… to feel like…”

Definitely nervous. Nervous to the point of agitated.

“Dad, you're scaring me. What on earth is wrong?” she asked, concern in her grey-green eyes. “Do we need to call Peter?”

The man who could influence almost anyone with charm and good manners, was worrying his daughter. That, too, was unexpected.

Most people who dealt with Charles had little idea how charismatic he truly was. He had a gift for putting other people at ease which had made many very lucrative contracts flow into Chandler and Coolidge. While “tough” captains of industry got what they wanted with bluster and scheming, Charles had deduced long ago that a calm, steady voice, sincerity, and a softly-wielded, yet brilliant intellect could achieve much the same thing, without the need for theatrics.

Being steady (and projecting that) was his stock and trade, as well as how he conducted himself, personally. It was not an affectation. It was part of who he was.

Catherine wasn't used to seeing him flustered.

“I don't mean to do that, don’t mean to worry you,” he said, adopting his “reassuring” tone of voice.

He picked up the two airline tickets, complete with long envelopes, which dominated his marble side table.

“I think... this is all getting very... real to me,” he said. “Maybe a little too real. And I knew I wanted to talk to you about it, before...” he let the sentence trail away.

“Before?” Catherine prompted, now aware that his discomfiture, whatever it was, centred on his long-overdue vacation.

She wasn't quite sure what the problem was. He'd taken trips, before. They'd both seen much of Europe, with the Aaronsons and Nancy's family, the year the girls had all graduated from high school. He and Peter Alcott regularly went fishing together in Connecticut, and he and Hal Sherwood had flown to no fewer than eight World Series games together, though obviously he liked those more when they were in New York.

“I haven't done this, Cathy. That's been on my mind the whole time, and I thought it was no big deal, but--”

“Dad, you've been on a lot of planes, and you've taken a lot of trips.”

Was he suddenly afraid to fly? Why?

His blue eyes held hers, and telegraphed a message.

Not like this. Not this way. Not this important a thing. He let several beats pass, letting her know this had nothing to do with being afraid to get on an airplane.

“I've travelled, yes. Sometimes I even met an interesting woman, while I was on vacation,” he allowed. “Enjoyed myself. Had fun. Fretted with Abe and Debra Aaronson over what time you and Jenny came in last night, and how some local Romeo was treating you. Or stayed up at the hotel bar, swapping stories with Hal, or Peter, or ... somebody else.”

Catherine nodded, and he eased his weight so it leaned against the table, and with a gesture, indicated she should take the couch. She did so, smoothing her skirt beneath her legs.

Listen. Listen and don't talk. It was a trick her father himself had taught her, about how to attend a business meeting with a nervous client. They were nervous because they either didn't understand something, or had something they wanted to say, something they wanted you to respond to.

She wasn’t sure which category Charles fell into, right now. Either way, just... listen.

“Honey, I'm starting to figure things out. I know it took me a while. I guess I was just too busy working. But if you don't reach for your happiness, if you don't take a chance... how will you know what you can have?”

Catherine was fairly sure she agreed with that. As a matter of fact, since meeting Vincent, she was positive that she did.

“For what it's worth, I agree with you,” she replied. A chance was all she’d ever asked for, when she’d changed over to the DA’s office. She knew how important those could be.

He nodded, and held up the two tickets. “You know I'm taking Kay.”

Catherine did. “Yes, we discussed it at the restaurant. I'm the one that said ‘book both London and Paris,’ remember?” she asked.

“I do. Yes, I do.” He nodded. “And… I thank you for that, but... But as I was doing that, making those plans, I… I realised that this could be a... a huge step for me. Or not. I don’t know.”

His frown was a considered one. “Kay’s husband was one of my first clients. Yet we met almost by chance. Couple young hot shots with something to prove. I put a dime in his parking meter. It was about to expire, and a meter maid was close by. He caught the gesture, and appreciated it.”

As well he should have, Catherine thought, knowing that Kay’s husband, David, had been dead for over three years. Heart attack. A fairly unexpected one.

Charles set the tickets back down on the table. “Kay and I are kind of... set in our ways.” He put his hands in his pockets, then took them back out, again. Nervous gesture.

“And we very much enjoy each other's company,” he said.

Okay, yes, they did... so? She knew better than to think Charles was about to discuss his sex life with his daughter. He was too private, too polished a man for that.

So? What was this about?

“Cathy, this trip... it might mean nothing. Which is to say it will mean nothing, other than a nice change of scene, if that's the way we all play it.”

Catherine nodded her understanding. Keep listening.

Charles looked exceedingly thoughtful. “Kay and I could go on just as we have. And we could have that. And it would be comfortable, and we'd not be making any demands on each other.”

“Yes, yes you could. You could do that, Dad, if you want to. Confirm what got said. Then listen, don't talk. He'll tell you. Or he'll try to.

Charles took in a deep breath. “Or I could take her strolling on the Champs Elysees, and take her shopping for a very particular kind of ring. Get down on one knee, and ask for more.” He’d clearly thought about the scene, and thought about it in some detail.

Catherine was shocked. She truly hadn’t seen this coming.

“Daddy, I know you two have known each other as acquaintances for a long time, and you've been, well, seeing each other for over a year. You two sometimes even invite me to tag along, to the symphony, or some such.” Catherine was sorting through her memories of them. They seemed like good friends, and little more.

She prayed she did not sound disapproving. She tried a fresh tack. “Are you telling me you're in love with Kay? That you're going to propose marriage?”

Charles shook his head, knowing he was bungling this.

“No! No, not... not that fast, not... I think what I want is for ... all the possibilities to be on the table. That's all. To not keep saying to myself that ‘this’ or ‘that’ can’t happen, for some reason. It’s not about what I’m actually going to do. It’s more about what I feel like I have the freedom to do. I’d like to go on this trip knowing where the limits are. And even if there are any. Or aren’t any. Can you understand what that means, for me?”

I know somebody in a convent who thought much the same thing. And somebody I love dearly, right now, who struggles with that very notion, about limits, and what they mean for him. For us.

Charles continued, letting the lawyer in him come to the fore. He sounded like he was building a case for something.

“Cathy, I want you to understand this: Kay hasn’t been pressuring me for a commitment. Or for anything else. We’re already close friends, and I think she thinks those truly romantic days are behind her, too. But what if they aren’t?” he asked, crossing the room to where a beautiful, framed snapshot of Caroline Chandler dominated the space on his bookshelf. He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

“Honey, I will always love your mother. There is nothing that will touch that, or change it. And you know I’ll always love you.” He turned back to face her.

“Can I have your blessing? Can I try to find this kind of happiness? Because if you tell me ‘no’, I’ll respect it, and I’ll give it weight. I will. But... what do you think? Am I too old to be thinking this way? Or just blowing hot air?”

“Never that…” Catherine choked up, immediately. “Daddy, you can’t give me that kind of power to ... to direct your life, or your happiness. I--”

Then she bit back the words, at the sad, yet hopeful look in his eyes.

But she did have that power. And to some extent, she knew he had it as well, over her. It wasn’t a conscious bargain, some… contract they’d each agreed to. It was a fact of life.

It was part of why she’d kept any knowledge of Vincent from him, part of why she’d not trusted him with that incredible information. If the tunnel community had simply been “the people who saved me after my attack,” she might have told him, in time. After all, Peter Alcott already knew, and they were good friends, and Peter could perhaps have helped her guide the way to that stunning revelation.

But Vincent wasn't “just a tunnel dweller” and her feelings for him were far from “just very grateful for his help in a time of crisis.” she knew that.

And Charles still waited for her to give some sort of verdict. The one that wouldn’t break his heart, or put him in a well-intentioned box. One from which there was no escape.

Now talk. Now talk, and say something important. He needs you to.

“Don’t you ever call yourself ‘old,’ again in my hearing, Dad. I need you to live to be a hundred. Two hundred.” She rose from the couch went to him, and hugged him so hard it rocked him.

“Oh, my darling girl…” Charles enfolded her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Catherine sighed. “I don’t want you to ever feel limited by me, or what I think. Whatever you need to pursue… or not pursue… that’s what I want you to do. Really.”

The framed photograph of her mother’s smiling face stared back at her, over Charles’ shoulder. She’d been so... alive, then. And happy. They all had been.

If Catherine was about to be unfaithful to that memory, now, if she was supposed to play the affronted child of a deceased parent, she wasn’t about to.

“I want you to forget the limits and do as much... or as little as your heart tells you to. I love you, Daddy. So much. Climb to the top of the mountain and just soak up the view. You deserve the very best of everything.”

Part of Catherine wasn’t sure that Charles was in love with Kay. But she understood that was his decision to reach, and Kay’s, and none of hers.

Charles hugged her, fiercely, not daring to ask her do you think your Mom would mind? That was a different question, and it was for him to answer, privately, and not burden her with it.

“I love you, too,” he said, not relaxing the pressure until he felt he had to.

Catherine wiped away a tear. She knew her father had had a deep, deep love for her mother. And that he’d carried that love, even after her passing.

In part, Chandler and Coolidge had been a tribute to Caroline’s belief in him. And his love for Catherine was part of an extension of the love he had for the singularly amazing woman that had been Caroline Chandler.

Catherine had always viewed their love story as something that greatly comforted Charles. She'd not ever stopped to consider it something of a silken trap, as well.

How to stay in love with Caroline, stay “faithful” to her and to her memory, yet dare to perhaps find love, again?

“It won’t be the same. It could never be the same,” Charles said, his voice a little rough. It was as if he were reading her mind.

Catherine knew there would never be anyone for her, if something happened to Vincent. Also, that he would never consign her to living out her days alone, or making her life solely about honouring his memory.

Kate lived a long time, with her love. Daddy didn’t have that luxury. Finding love… it’s so hard, for all of us. And keeping it. That’s hard, too. Daddy and Kay would never have met, but for the sake of a dime… The butterfly effect.

“No, no, I know it won’t,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Nothing ever could be. But that doesn't mean something else, something... good, or happy, isn’t waiting for you.”

Charles moved her bangs aside and placed a sweet, fatherly kiss of thanks on her forehead. She is such an amazing woman…

When Catherine returned home for the second time that evening, she found Vincent already waiting on her balcony. He was clearly almost as agitated as Charles had been.

Must be a day for that, Catherine thought, opening her balcony doors. Her mother’s framed portrait, the twin of the one in her father’s house, smiled at her, from its place on the wall.

Vincent began speaking the moment she opened the balcony doors. “Catherine, about Kate’s diary. Have you found anything new in your pages? Do you know if there’s an entry immediately after September, 1791?”

She crossed to the dining room table, and he followed, right on her heels.

“Something… important happen?” she asked.

He tried to remove the urgency from his tone. “There is something I… wish to confirm. Some of the words are… faded,” he replied, hoping the explanation would suffice.

Catherine watched him look through the pages he’d already returned to her, as well as some of the ones she’d been working with. The pile hadn’t moved, in the last couple of days. Work had been making its demands, and now Charles had.

She felt guilty about not keeping up her end of the translations.

“Hang on…” She retrieved what she assumed would be the next pile of pages he might want. She shuffled through them, searching for the date. “I haven’t had much of a chance to look over these, but... Yes, wait…” She held a small sheaf out to him. “I think these might be next.”

He reigned in his own agitation, taking the pages carefully from her hand. They were dated October, 1791.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” she apologized. “I had to see my Dad. Oh, and I called Peter earlier today, and he said the tonic for stopping labour pains might have actually worked. Turns out it likely didn’t have anything to do with the fennel. It was the alcohol that--”

“Thank you for sorting them,” Vincent interrupted, scanning the pages. “I was looking for something…” Blue eyes moved quickly over the pages. Clearly, he was.

Catherine frowned, as she set the remaining pages in a tidy pile, near the table’s edge. He rifled through the items she’d just handed him, not even looking at her.

“Vincent? What is it? Is something wrong?” she asked. It never rains, but it pours, she reasoned.

He swallowed, appearing agitated, and on edge. He drew in a ragged breath, and expelled it gustily. “No, no, nothing. It’s just that I… I finished with the other entry, and thought I would try to continue. I am sorry your work – and other concerns -- are preventing you from doing the same.”

He looked contrite, even as he tried to read and translate the page in his hand.

She turned her back to him and (at last, she thought) began to shed the trappings of what had truly been a very long day from her small frame. Her conversation with Charles was still replaying itself, inside her mind.

“It’s not your fault.” Catherine sighed, kicking out of the same shoes she’d been in since she left the apartment that morning.

“I… I just didn’t expect to see you, tonight,” she said. “Work was a little manic. Then my father phoned. It sounded serious, so I went straight out, again.”

Vincent watched her struggle with her emotions. He knew he’d been rather abrupt. Now he was standing inside her apartment, shuffling through pages as if they contained something he needed more than he needed anything else.

She was tired, and it showed. He didn’t need the bond to tell him her day had been a trying one. She had needed him, but his mind was elsewhere. Two hundred years in the past, and with a mysterious man he did not know.

‘Vincente…’ an inner voice whispered softly. He caught the sound of soft feminine laughter, and again, the faintest trace of jasmine…

He wanted to tell Catherine of his discoveries. But he hesitated.

In spite of his own deep wonderings, he could tell Catherine was… preoccupied, by something. He spared the papers a final glance, then set them back down on the table. They, and their secrets could wait, Catherine could not.

The pinched look around her nose and mouth concerned him far more than anything Kate Chandler had scribbled down in a notebook, more than a century gone. Catherine was upset and it had nothing to do with a diary, or a pre-Napoleonic Era treatment for going into labour, early.

“I’m being single-minded. Forgive me,” he said.

“Could we not talk about Kate Chandler, right now?” she asked. “Could we just… I don’t know. Stay inside, for a bit? Sit by the fire? Relax? Things have been so crazy lately. You could read to me…”

Of course I could. I’m so sorry, Catherine, for whatever it is.

Though they’d ventured inside some few times, during winter, and had obviously been using her table to look over the diary pages, it had felt like ages since they’d stayed inside her apartment just to relax with each other. Since before Winterfest, more than likely. It was now March.

“Of course, if that is what you wish,” he said, indicating for her to go before him.

“Things are… unsettled, with you. Is your father not well?” He’d been so focussed, her upset hadn’t really communicated itself to him, the way it normally would have. He set other concerns aside, and “tuned in” to her. Emotionally, she was positively roiled, though trying to hide it.

She shook her head, and grabbed two throw pillows, settling them before her hearth. She indicated with a gesture of her hand that she wanted him to sit.

“Tell me?” he invited, as she turned on the fire and then collapsed near him.

“It’s my father. In a way… I think… he just asked my permission to get married, again.” It was as if saying the words detonated a small bomb, inside her heart.

Vincent pulled her close, taking her chilled hands in his. “And you feel disloyal to your mother’s memory, in encouraging him.” He needed to be no expert in psychiatry, no Dr. Grafton, to discern her.

Her stormy eyes bore their sorrow. “You don’t know what they were like. They were… so close.” Her voice held reverence for a woman Vincent had never met. “There could never be anyone else. Not from the very first night they met.”

“Yet… your father has asked you to understand if he now… moves on, with that part of his life?” Vincent surmised.

She nodded her head, against his chest.

“He is finally healing, then.” Vincent said, holding her close.

She nodded again, then pulled away, wanting to see the answers in his eyes.

“And is that so wrong?” Catherine asked. “When he asked me… he looked so hopeful, Vincent. And so… afraid, at the same time.”

“You think it’s because he’s afraid of displeasing you, with his choice?” Vincent asked, pulling her close, again. He knew Catherine could only be “so honest” with Charles, regarding matters of the heart, particularly her own. He was well aware that her relationship with him put her in a very delicate position, regarding how she dealt with her father.

“Maybe,” Catherine allowed. “I think maybe it’s also because he’s just… he’s been alone, a long time, Vincent. Not ‘alone, alone,’ if that makes sense, but… he’s dated other women, but sort of kept his distance. He didn’t even start doing that again, until after I graduated from high school.”

“Eight years, then,” Vincent said, knowing her mother had died when she was ten.

“Back then, I think he wanted me to reassure me that he wasn’t going anywhere, like she’d had to. That I was never going to lose him. I don’t know. Maybe he even needed the time, himself.” She tried to pierce memories from childhood with an adult’s discernment. “Like I said, my parents were… very much in love.”

Vincent’s arms stayed close around her, and his squeeze felt… strength-giving. Like he was willing his own fortitude into her small body.

“I’m sure they were,” he said, loving her.

She hugged him hard, and settled her head on his chest. “I miss my Mom. Still. She was my rock, and my world.” She rubbed her cheek against his vest. It felt so good. “Just like you are, now.”

“As long as you live, she lives…” He brushed a loving kiss, across the top of her head. “I know you miss her. But insisting to Charles that he must live his life as a monument to her memory… I don’t think that is what she would want, Catherine. No one should have a life conscripted to their own aloneness.”

I know. Believe me in that, if you believe me in nothing else.

“I never thought of it quite that way. I’m sure you’re right,” she said, trying to smile. “I feel a little guilty, you know.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“Because here he is, worried that I’ll be so upset, and I can’t tell him why I’m so sure he should just… go for it. Try again. Reach out, and just… accept whatever it is the universe is trying to offer him.” She sighed. “Carpe diem…”

Vincent tried to prompt her smile into blooming, with a small one of his own. “Then you think he loves this woman?”

Catherine shrugged, against him. “That’s just it. I’m not even sure if he’s sure, about that. I don’t think he’s been giving himself the chance. He knows it’s not going to be like it was with my Mom. And he really doesn’t have much else to measure it against. He’s older, now. He thinks that’s a factor that plays into this.”

“And what does his very lovely, very intelligent daughter think?” Vincent asked. “What does your heart tell you?”

“My heart…?” Catherine drew back to rub her forehead, showing her confusion, in spite of his gallant compliment.

“I think no matter what I said, I’m probably wrong. If I push him toward her, and it doesn’t work out, I’ll feel responsible. But if I tell him to be careful, when what he really needs to do is take a chance… I don’t know.” She was clearly feeling overwhelmed, by the evening.

“You’re afraid he will take that as a sign that you do not approve. Or that he’ll wait too long, and lose this opportunity for happiness.”

“He and Kay have been friends for a long time. She’s the widow of one of his first clients. That they ever met at all was just… chance and a well-placed dime,” Catherine said, shrugging her small shoulders. “Another butterfly effect. A small thing led to much bigger ones, for all of them.”

The butterfly effect, Vincent thought, not knowing the whole story, and not needing to.

“It sounds as if Kay and your father are comfortable with each other,” he offered, trying to be helpful.

“Oh, they are. But … I don’t know, Vincent. You should have seen him with my mother. He adored her. They adored each other.”

Vincent acknowledged that she spoke the complete truth, then chose his next words carefully.

“I can give you no sage words of advice, then for the same reasons you’re unsure of giving any to your father. I can only repeat to you the lesson we both learned when Father lost Margaret.”

Catherine remembered. “That one either moves toward love, or away from it,” she recalled. She stayed near his huge body, just for the comfort of it.

“There is no other direction,” he whispered into her hair.

She rubbed her temple. “And now I have a headache,” she replied, liking the warmth of the fire, but aware that the hot, dry air was probably contributing to the pain in her head.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “It looks like I’m poor company, this evening. I think I’m going to take some aspirin and just go to bed. Forgive me?” she asked, rising to fetch the medicine. He followed suit.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, watching her walk over to the table and collect the diary entries he’d wanted to have.

“Thank you, Vincent. For understanding.” She handed them to him.

He tucked the pages into the safety of his cloak pocket. “I could stay for a while. Read to you, perhaps, while the medicine begins to work,” he offered.

“Would you think me rude if I declined, and said I just want to go to bed? I’m sorry, Vincent. We’ve both been so busy, lately, both in the Chandlery and not, and now all of this. I think the days have just really caught up with me.”

She was pleading for understanding, when it wasn’t called for. A fool could see that she was feeling run to the end of a long tether. Between her work Below, Above, and with him, on this project, it was no wonder.

Vincent was no fool. “Rest, then, and take your aspirin,” he said, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “We will speak soon.”

“Yes, we… Oh. Not tomorrow,” she said. “I’m due in court, then Nancy and Paul are in town. We’re all going out to a show, then meeting back at Jenny’s for a late dinner and dessert.” She huffed a laugh. “My mad social life, when all I want to do is be here, with you.”

He squeezed her hands. “Not tomorrow, then, but soon. Go,” he admonished her, shooing her toward the bathroom. He’d wanted to know what her reaction had been to the pages she’d read, so far. It seems life had other plans.

Later. We’ll talk later.

He eyed the contents of her dining room table, as she went. She’d gotten many of the recipes translated, and had filled quite a few pages of Daniel Chandler’s notebook, thanks to both her efforts and his. The recipes were easier to decipher than the diary entries were, hence they’d continued to divide them along those lines, since that strategy had seemed to work.

She’d begun taping possible page numbers to the sheet protectors, of likely places where they’d both agreed the entries might fall. The entire thing was taking on a semblance of order. Some pages had yet to be translated. And some were deliberately left apart from the others, like the one which held the drawing of the candle Catherine one day hoped to carve.

Vincent would go Below and begin writing another summary for her to read. It seemed to be the easiest way for his love to grasp the whole diary. He could do that for her, if nothing else, right now.

And there were things he wanted to know.

A cold draft came into the room, thanks to the still-open balcony door. Vincent heard Catherine pouring a glass of water, from her bathroom tap. He knew he had to go. Remaining would only keep her up, and cost her that much more sleep. Sleep she clearly needed.

“Goodnight. Bonsoir, mon belle, Catherine,” he whispered her name like a love word, before he left, pulling the balcony door gently closed, behind him.

A lost Arthur and a missing pair of Jacob’s spectacles occupied his time when he returned home. Since it took a good deal of time to find both (not coincidentally in each other’s company), and his other duties beckoned, Vincent did not return to Kate’s diary until early the next afternoon.

Early October, 1791

I saw Him again. It has been two weeks, and I thought He had left me. But He was there today, in the evening shadows near the pathway, watching me pass by, on my way home.

He did not speak. Oh, how I longed to hear His voice again! It haunts my dreams to exclusion…I can hear Him calling my name… I can hear the gypsy song He sang that night, with such deep sadness, its haunting beauty twisting, like a knife, in my sorrowing heart.

My arm continues to heal well. Only three faint scars remain to remind me. They will always remain. It is fitting. His first and only touch, cruel to be kind.

Thankfully, none of the nuns were aware I had been injured. I made my way, undetected, to my cell, and tended to myself in secret. I am skilled in the healing arts, knowing healing soaps, potions and ointments. My arm is always covered by the rough cloth of my sleeve.

I had to explain my absence to Mother Superior, and of course I told lie after lie. They must have been good ones, or at least, they were the same ones my little messenger had told. I gave her all the coins I still had, and told her the wax could be melted down and re-used.

She believed me, and I was dismissed. I hope God forgives my subterfuge. I could see no other way.

I make the ointment that heals a wound, and the candles that banish sorrow. But what I really want to do is make a love spell…

I know that thought alone, damns me.

When I am alone, I run my palm over my scars sometimes, thinking, and remembering Him. It is always Him in my mind now, to almost the exclusion of all else…

My chest grows tight with wanting. The mingled scents of the wild red and white roses haunt my senses, for if I am jasmine, he is wild roses. They bloom and grow, despite the poorness of the soils they are forced to live in.

They flourish against all the odds. I must try and do the same.

My whole body craves for something I cannot define. But oh, how I burn…

I have not been able to write about it until now, because someone new has come to the convent. I know I am being watched. We all are.

I will keep my pages in the recipe book. Few here can read well, and that shoddy collection of misfit pages is such a simple text, no one bothers with it but Sister Marie and I, and her eyes fail her too badly to make out any words. It is another reason why they brought me to her, and allowed me to stay.

Still, I must be very careful…

There is a new priest in the area, sent by Paris, they say. The people think he is here to find those who have been hidden. The ones whose fine necks Mm. Guillotine craves with an insatiable thirst. Some of them hide with my rescuer, I am certain…

Father Damien is the priest’s name. He knows I travel alone, along the paths to the farms, the village, and the convent. He seeks to enlist me as his spy, his aide in the spreading terror. I must name names, and tell all I know. Or it will be the worse for me.

I must resist. But he is relentless.

He says he also seeks a highwayman, who is thought to hide somewhere near. Cloaked and masked in black, he is the one rumoured to have recently robbed our Holy Bishop of his most treasured possessions. They say he lost his blessed gold chalice and a sacred cross, set with jewels. The brigand also injured the Bishop, breaking his arm, and thereby sending him back to Paris for urgent treatment.

It could be more than three months before His Excellency is able to return for our investiture. My heart leapt with both joy and trepidation, at that news. By then, the roads could well be impassable, thanks to winter snows. That means it may not be until spring that the ceremony could be performed.

Faced with Fr. Damien’s suspicious eyes, I tried hard to keep the joy from showing in my face. I cast my eyes down, and folded my hands penitently.

I must tell him nothing. I say I see only the rutted road, and those we sell to. Damien is furious at such temerity. He thinks I am lying, and to be fair, he is right. I am. He says it is my duty to become his puppet. For God, and my country. To tell him anything I see. To say who is speaking with whom. My duty to… reveal anything I might come across.

How can that be? My duty to send innocent men and women to their deaths? They have done me no harm. And a highwayman was more use to the poor, starving folk I have seen, than some fat Bishop.

But I cannot question Fr. Damien. I would not dare! I would be weeding the garden, face-down on my stomach, for the rest of my miserable existence! And that existence would be a short one, I have no doubt.

Fr. Damien has a lust to send others to their doom. It is a thing he courts, if such a man can be called as one who pays court to anything.

But for my mysterious rescuer, watching me from afar, I would have been quite wretched. I think of His name, and I know He hears me. It sings within me, like a beloved melody…

He was there for me today. I know now He will be there again tomorrow. I feel He fears for me. I sense His concerns for my wellbeing. Somehow, He knows what I am thinking and feeling. Almost as if we are one…

You’re imagining it. You have to be… Vincent thought.

I dreamed again, last night. I dreamt of the violence my love had to endure for my sake, and an incredible image appeared before my mind’s eye.

I saw His face. As clear as I see mine own in a mirror. But His was not the visage of a mortal man, and it should have frightened me awake. But I clung to it, and Him, feeling like a tiny craft being swept down swirling rapids from which there is no escape.

I hurtle on towards an unknown future.

Is my love part… what? A great wolf? Something else?

Of course, I know this could not be Him in truth. It is only my fevered imagination, working beyond its limits, to try and explain the unexplainable.

Despite all that, I have drawn the image from my dream, and will hide it here, among my recipes and plain things. Only the most determined seeker would find it.

Mon belle homme…my fingers ache to create Him in wax, as I did my blessed Christ figure. To make Him live for me, in truth. But that way lies madness, and certain death. For if it was ever seen…

Though it breaks my heart, my dream image cannot ever be made real. But I could not resist committing it to paper. If only that I may look at it in secret.

It is the face of the man I have come to love. Even as I ask myself, how can this be?

By what mysterious alchemy this has come to pass, I do not know.

If I had taken to practicing the arcane arts, I might have crafted the love potion I was previously considering. I have the means, and the recipes, copied from the library. I have hidden them all within your sweet pages, my Dear Diary. I know you will never betray my trust.

But for Him to receive such a potion, I would have to get closer, and He does not allow that. The distance between us might as well be the whole Atlantic Ocean. Which, I have been told, is impossibly vast. I stand on my shore, and He on His.

Distant we are, and distant we seem destined to remain…

If only the fickle fates had chosen to be kinder. What might we have been, one to the other…I would follow Him, penniless and barefoot, to the uttermost ends of the earth, and beyond...

Vincent was moved, more than he could say. “I know you would,” he whispered to the page, forgetting for the moment that such a journey had likely been taken.

Somehow, the people who buy my wares seem to know I am well protected. They also say nothing. But they watch me, and talk behind their raised hands. There are so many secrets not allowed to be shared.

It is almost as if my unknown protector has become my talisman. No one troubles me now, and even the most difficult of customers pay without a qualm. As they take their purchases, their eyes are fixed on something beyond my shoulder.

I know my virgin heart burns with a deepening love for Him. I have a desire that can never slacken, even as it cannot be fulfilled, thanks to the lives we lead.

I spend hours on my knees, praying to be either free of my vows, or free of these feelings which race through my veins. I know I cannot have both. And my traitor’s heart tells me the one I prefer.

Does He feel the same? He says nothing, and keeps His distance.

And I swear sometimes, my longing is His, and I can feel it, like fire, in the link that connects us. We cannot be together. And we cannot be apart. It is a maddening thing.

My nights are spent aching for Him. The warmth of Him, the protection, the knowledge He only exists to love, to defend, and to be near me. It should be enough to know I am cherished in such a way.

But it is not…

Vincent gathered up the pages. He hoped Catherine had had some time to rest. It was time to show this to her.

“His name was Vincente?” Catherine asked, holding the pages before her. “But that’s… remarkable.”

“I thought so as well. You do see the parallels… don’t you?” Vincent asked, daring to say it aloud, finally.

She looked up at him, his blue eyes holding her green ones, with the question.

“Yes. Yes, of course I do,” Catherine replied. “They have names like ours. They live in… different worlds. She even has a dream of him where she compares his face to … what?  A wolf?” she asked, looking for the reference.

“It’s a powerful archetype of the times,” Vincent said, venturing nothing more.

“Do you think he loved her?” Catherine asked.

They had no sure way to know. This was not the diary of Vincente Outside the Wall, whoever he had been.

“I believe he utterly adored her,” Vincent replied, very aware that he was probably projecting, at least a little. “I think her name was the most important word he knew. I think the sight of her coming down the road to him was… transformational. That the day changed from… something ordinary… into… something else.”

The adoring tone in his deep voice told Catherine all it needed to.

Her gaze softened. “A name can do that. A day can… be that,” Catherine replied. They both went over to the remaining pages, all scattered on her table. “Even in the darkest night, Vincent, I would always know it was you standing near me.”

“And I you,” Vincent replied surely. “In the pages you have here… there is no… portrait?” he asked.

She shook her head. “There are drawings of cook pots and the carved candles. Some old tools, and the sketches of the herbs. Perhaps it was lost. Or she destroyed it, so no one would ever know what she dreamed,” Catherine said. “There are some pressed flowers and the like. But the Christ figure is the closest thing to a portrait I’ve seen.”

Vincent sighed. “I was hoping the page remained with you. It would make sense to keep it hidden, or destroy it, even, if she wanted to protect him. I suppose I had some vague hope.”

“Curious?” she asked, knowing he was.

“I admit to it,” he replied, knowing they’d separated all the pages of the diary that had been accidentally stuck together.

Catherine left the papers on her dining room table, and took Vincent’s hand in hers, so she could guide him to her balcony. If she’d needed a few stolen moments on the floor in front of her fireplace, she knew he needed this, now.

The March weather was shifting, and the nights, though still cool, were growing steadily warmer.

“It’s so strange to think about, isn’t it?” she asked, looking out over the city with him. “I mean… two people, from so long ago. Struggling against… everything, to be together.”

He drew the sides of his cloak around her like soft wings, enfolding her in soft warmth, as he settled his arms around her. “Perhaps not so strange. Perhaps…I don’t know. Not ‘common,’ surely not that. But … perhaps more common than we think. Perhaps everyone struggles, in their own way… Some, more than others.”

Catherine sighed, as she looked out over the lights. “Now I’m a little afraid. What if Vincente isn’t the husband she mentions on the last page? What if… everything… beat them?” She shivered. “What if Damien triumphed in his awful quest, despite everything Kate did to thwart him?”

“Oh, Catherine, surely not,” he said. “I don’t know what … choice caused him to be on the road that first time he saw her. What… chain of events led one thing to another, so that he would… irrevocably be there. But I do know that once it happened… there was no undoing it.”

She felt him tighten his grip on her, fractionally, and she leaned against him, willingly. She placed her hand upon his chest, so close to where she’d originally done that the first time they’d parted, he couldn’t help but smile. Memories flowed sweetly, between them.

His low voice was a soft confession, in the March night. “It was so hard to part from you… that first time. I don’t know if it’s gotten easier since.  But then…” his voice trailed away.

“I remember,” she said. “I was … terrified, of everything, in front of me.”

And nothing behind? he thought. “You said you’d never betray my world.”

“And you said you already knew that.” She gave him a squeeze. “You risked… so much, to help me.”

“I think the greater risk would have been in not helping you. Leaving it to someone else, Below. Or someone from your world.” He brushed a soft kiss across her forehead.

“When you read about Kate and Vincente, do you feel a kinship with them?” Catherine asked.

So she did feel it.

“I fancy I do, even as I know they are very different from us. And for that matter, from each other.”

Her mantle clock chimed, and got his attention, with its count. “I should go. The hour is… prohibitive,” he said.

“I’m glad you came,” she replied, disentangling them regretfully. “My week is threatening to get crazy.”

“Anything particular?”

“Dad’s leaving for Europe. A lot of my cases that had continuances are coming back around. Crime is up, the city budget is down. You know. The usual.” She shrugged.

“I will continue to work through the diary pages. Would you like me to take some of the recipes, as well?”

She shook her head. “I like doing them, and I’m getting used to the language, some more. And you’re probably in enough trouble for missing work,” she guessed.

“I may have let one or two assignments go begging,” he confessed.

Her grin was rueful. “I also want to get back into the Chandlery, again. I didn’t mean all of this to cause you any trouble, Vincent.”

He tugged up the hood on his cloak, preparing to go.

“It isn’t trouble until it causes an argument with Father,” he replied, leaving her so she could get some sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

The Innocent Rose

“It is part of a good man to do great and noble deeds, though he risk everything.”

Plutarch

Late October, 1791

The autumn winds are bitter and the season is grim. My candles are in demand for the dark hours, but payments have been reduced. The people pay what they can afford, and my guardian says nothing. I think He is there, sometimes. Sometimes, I am not sure.

Perhaps it is my fancy. Perhaps… so much of it was. Mayhap a forlorn dream is all I will ever possess…

With coins that much the less, our situation inside these convent walls… tightens. I understand that in the cities, it is much worse. They say it’s hard for ships to get in and out of the ports; that everyone in power fears spies and usurpers, both of whom are guillotined, immediately. Even suspicions can result in deaths. Neighbours grow wary of each other, and old grudges can turn deadly…

What damage will these huge changes bring? I know we will survive. But money is scarce, and ill-will flourishes. Panic spreads, and the government now holds sway within the church, as it demands the money from tithes, and all that we sell. And more besides…

That is another rod with which Father Damien beats me. The money is for the church. I must make the people pay what they rightly owe, and get more, when I can.

But how can I, when I know that some of them are trading medicine for bread?

Mother Superior stands against him in this one thing. She knows I keep nothing back from what little I can collect. My honesty is well-known, and she can find no obvious fault. But she watches…

Sister Bernice waits, and bides her time. Soon, she senses, I will return to her clutches. This time, for good.

Because Father Damien is not satisfied. He would know all, everything I think and feel. I know he watches me, and schemes…

Court had ended early, with an abrupt request for another continuance from the defence, one a fairly lenient judge seemed content to grant. In spite of the hours Catherine had poured into the case, it was on hold, for now.

Such was the life of an A.D.A. In two weeks, she’d be back before the same judge, again. She only hoped that between now and then, her plate wouldn’t overflow, with other assignments.

Rather than going home an hour early, or sit and stare at more French, Catherine decided to go Below, and spend time in the Chandlery. Though it was work, she decided she liked the quiet of it, and as Vincent had mentioned, something about the room seemed like a good place to wool-gather.

She knew Charles was on her mind. He’d sent a bouquet of yellow roses to her work, thanking her for the other night. Yellow roses meant friendship. She was touched, by his gesture, and had brought one down, meaning to ask Rebecca if she knew how to distil its bright, heady fragrance into an oil.

But the question would have to wait. At after four o’clock, the Chandlery was already empty, for the day.

Catherine set about to bringing it to life, again, enjoying being able to do that, on her own.

She’d been working for a while, when a familiar voice came from the doorway.

“You got any recipes for beer in that old French diary everyone’s talking about?” William asked, entering the Chandlery.

Catherine turned to him. “Sorry, William, but I don't think they were those kinds of nuns. She made candles, not liquor.”

“Pity.” William shrugged. “I saw Rebecca earlier, today. She said you might want some of this.” He set a cheesecloth bag on the table beside her. “I sent the kids up into the park, to a little hidden patch we cultivate. So you know it’s fresh.”

“What’s in it?” Catherine asked, bringing it to her nose.

“Fresh rosemary. Got some dried, too, in my spice cabinet. It's good on chicken.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, setting it aside. “I thought Vincent might meet me at my threshold, when I came down, but I haven’t caught sight of him, yet. Do you know where he is, this afternoon?”

“Last I heard, he was headed toward Chinatown. Henry and Lin Pei sent down a message. Seems like they've got extra bags of rice. Again.” He lifted an eyebrow, letting her know it was an increasingly common occurrence. Henry’s way of saying “thank you” often included extra food, now.

Catherine returned to removing the pillars from their moulds, while William leaned closer to the page she’d been using, propped up on a tin can.

“You sure this isn’t for beer?” he asked, noting it called for barley.

Catherine laughed. “Not even a decent brandy. Or an indecent one.”

“I’m startin’ to appreciate why Germany beat France in the war,” he quipped.

“I think it may have been that Germany had more tanks,” she replied.

“They damn sure had more beer,” William returned good-naturedly. “Sometimes I miss the Navy, and their generous servings of rum.”

Catherine chuckled, and he caught sight of her roses. “Pretty,” he said.

“They’re from my father. I was going to ask Rebecca if she knew how to capture the scent.”

“Mortar and pestle on the blossom, mixed with a little oil, I would think, but then she’d know better. I think she steams some things, and saves whatever’s on the bottom of the pan, after most of the liquid is boiled away, but your guess is as good as mine, on that one.”

Catherine nodded, knowing she’d have to ask the candle-maker, later.

“Thanks,” she replied. He watched her cutting lengths of twine for the wicks, like an old pro.

“You’re getting good at that,” he observed.

“I had good teachers,” she acknowledged. “I started out thinking I’d just learn how to make a gift for my father. Now I think I need one for my girlfriends, too. I’ll figure out what kind.” She gave him a satisfied look. “Maybe some will have your rosemary in them.”

He liked the thought.

He also had work to do. They all did. Before he left, he turned back to her.

“You gonna need anything else? I got a pretty full spice cabinet, right now. Just sayin’.”

Catherine mentally reviewed the list of ingredients she’s drawn from the diaries, so far.

“I don’t think I’m going to try anything with whatever ‘mugwort’ is, and nobody I’ve asked has any clue what ‘Friar's weed’ is. So... wait. Anise? Do you have any of that? It’s a spice, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “It’s a seed. Tastes like liquorice. You brew a tea out of it for an upset stomach. Spanish folk tend to favour it. It’s stuffed inside some kinds of sausage. Not to everyone’s taste, as I once discovered.”

“Do you have any?”

“Probably do. I’ll send Kipper over with it. And uh...looks like you might want some fennel,” he said, eyeing a loose paper.

She smiled at his willingness to help. “It’s okay. I’m not planning on making all of these. I just want to try a couple of them, see how they smell. And silly as it sounds, I want to make one for Rebecca for helping me learn how, letting me use her space. I know the last thing she needs is a candle, for a gift. But I want to make her one.”

William nodded. “Just the anise, then.”

She looked busy, moving around the chamber he usually associated with Rebecca. Intent, and a little pink-cheeked from the warmth of the room. Purposeful. Happy.

“It’s nice of you to give Rebecca a leg up,” he observed.

“The pleasure’s been mine, I promise.” Catherine frowned. “If only I had more time to make a real go of it all.”

“Looks like a lot of work, to me,” he said, noting she’d dipped a few racks of tapers. Mostly, though, she seemed intent on the pillars. The carving tools sat to one side.

“So does cooking for fifty people, to the rest of us,” Catherine replied, cheerfully pouring wax into the now-waiting containers.

He gave her a soft smile. “It's good to have you down here. You know that, right? You look… good over there. You know what I’m saying?”

She looked up from her task, and held his words to her heart like the gift they were meant to be.

“It’s good to be here. Really.”

“Yeah. Well. It makes him happy. And that’s a good thing. Okay, so... I better get back.” He turned to go, again.

“William!” Catherine called to the big man's retreating back.

He turned again. “Yeah?”

“If you ever need anything... you know... I mean... anything at all. You know you could just ask me, right? I mean, you could send Vincent, but you wouldn't have to. If you know what I mean?”

The big chef's face softened. “Right back at you. You need anything else, you just ask. If we don't have it, we'll do what we usually do. We'll figure it out.”

Before she could thank him, he was gone, hastening to get back to his kitchen.

Catherine picked up the small bag of rosemary, and tugged open the string that held it closed. The warm, earthy smell enveloped her, and made her think of bygone days, for no reason she could name.

Rosemary is for remembrance. She remembered Jenny’s book.

The tapping on the pipes assured her dinner would be served soon. She’d have time to tie off a set of wicks, so Rebecca could dip the next round of tapers.

She hummed, as she worked, and it was a feeling Vincent, some miles distant, felt.

My love is happy, he thought, loading thirty pound sacks of rice onto the food cart.

Vincent stood, for a moment, and simply let the feeling wash over him. He knew she was Below, and assumed she was working with the wax, some more. Her contentment had a different flavour, now, than it did when she was in her apartment, or at her office, or spending time with her friends. It just did.

But there was work before him, and a long walk back, pushing the wide cart. And at the end of the journey, he knew there would be Catherine. Perhaps he could sit with her, at the long trestle table in the dining room, and make sure she got fed. They didn’t have to discuss Kate. They didn’t have to discuss… anything.

He’d translate as much as he could, before he gave her more of it. In the meantime, he knew he’d simply enjoy her soft presence, in his life. Like he always had.

The excitement over the diary pages softened to something else, inside his heart. He was content to be a part of it. But more, he was happy that she was.

He felt her warm sense of satisfaction, of pleasure. It was much unlike the roiled, unsure feeling she’d had, before, when she’d come from her father’s.

There was a… an almost rhythmic quality to her joy. A soft brushing of wings, a gentle cadence. Like there was… music in it. Perhaps she was humming. He couldn’t tell, for sure.

My love is happy, he repeated, glad of it. He needed her contentment. Needed it as much as he needed his own, right now. And in a way, the two were one and the same, as they often had been.

He turned the cart around, readying for the return trip.

Humming. Definitely. A thing she wasn’t always wont to do.

My love is happy, he thought one more time, as he prepared to return home. He looked forward to spending the evening with her, then walking her to her threshold.

It was a good thing to be able to look forward to.

From Aromatherapy in Modern and Ancient Times.

Roses were the first flower known to be distilled for perfume. Romans used the petals to decorate their homes, their shrines, and their tombs. No other single flower appears more in tapestries, painting, and other art.

The Greeks venerated the flower as well. In the second century, the physician Galen developed a recipe for cold cream featuring roses.

Egyptian mummies were often buried with roses nearby, or oil of roses applied to the bandages. It has been ascribed properties from medicinal to mystical. It is said to stir thoughts of romantic desire, and to pique the appetite for food. French rosewater is famous, as is that from Hungary.

Expensive to distil, blooms are ideally gathered in the morning, and treated that same day. Its fragrance is released through a steam process, and it requires many roses to cultivate just an ounce of the precious fluid.

Sultans were known to give it to only their most favoured wives, and messages sent “sub rosa.” Entire wars have been fought by families bearing its sigil. “The War of the Roses” was famous, throughout Europe.

In both the ancient world and the modern one, no other flower is pictured more often, or more closely associated with feelings of love and passion.

In the language of flowers, red roses mean love and passion, while white stands for purity, and innocence.

My Catherine’s name means ‘innocent.’ How fitting, Vincent thought, touching the pouch that bore the white rose he wore around his neck.

I carry your name with me, he realised.

Yellow signifies friendship and caring, while pink is the colour not of love, but of fond regard, gratitude, and appreciation.

November, 1791

I can never tell. I must never tell. I have made a solemn promise to the man I love, with all my heart and soul...

This is a thing that must be understood, Dear Diary, for in your sweet pages, though I may pour my heart out in full, I can never tell. I have hidden pages of you. I have been supremely careful.

Lives depend on it. Mine. Others. His…

We can never be together. No matter what I dream. Or how much I ache…

But we will never be apart, never truly divided, one from the other. I have written that before, and I write it still, clinging to it like my only lifeline, in a raging sea. It is a thing as permanent as the stars, and as fragile as a summer flower. It makes my heart sing with joy, and cry with an intense sorrow unknown in this world.

And beyond that, there is only so much I can ever say. And even as I “say” it here, I know I will keep it hidden, and only reveal so much. You never leave me, now. I bear your secret pages close against my bare skin, beneath my habit, held there by its stout belt...

The work was long, today, very long. Dawn was barely birthed above the black horizon. The dark winter brings a chill wind into the Chandlery, and the thin pillars I created were not worth the wax and wicks it took to dip them. Tomorrow I must begin again, or suffer the consequences…

Starvation and revolution stalk deeper into the land, and I can do little to help. I worry now that He and His fellows may not have enough to eat.

Even in our forgotten little corner of la belle France, we will soon no longer be immune from unwanted intrusion.

How will He survive then, if the soldiers come to occupy us? Or if the Bishop finally returns, seeking his revenge..?

It would be the worst for Him and His followers, those who have nowhere else to hide…The children worry me most of all. They are so small, and so innocent.

But I am not permitted to walk beyond these hallowed prison walls, now. If I would become the spy Father Damien wants, only then I could walk free, once more.

Where could I go, but to Him?

And that would mean disaster, for both of us. Both of us, and all of them. I could not risk it. Damien has other spies. They follow me. Sometimes, I think they even follow each other. Has there ever been a time of such paranoia?

My eyes long to see Him. My ears crave the sound of His voice. My entire form desires to know simply that He is near, with His huge, strong presence. Mon belle homme…

I long to rest in His arms. If only He would allow it.

But I would lead Father Damien’s spies right to Him, and that would be beyond a disaster. I cannot risk even that one of the children might run up to me, or acknowledge me.

We are all living in fear.

The nuns have the stores to feed themselves, and they say they must survive. They are God’s chosen people, surely they will be saved.

But my soul is slowly dying.

Unable to see Him again, and when I need Him the most… It destroys my very being.

The last time I was allowed out of these bitter walls, the last time I delivered my wares, I looked toward the deep shadows, sensing He was there. I could barely make out the outline of his great cloak, (or perhaps I even imagined that I could) but I know He could see me. I sent Him my love, and it was as if we were exchanging glances, in secret. I think He knew I was losing hope. I think He knew I was tired, and bone-weary with despair.

I stepped closer to shadows, longing to be embraced.

I think then that He also longed to hold me, to comfort me. But, as always, He kept his distance. It is right that He did.

I no longer smell of jasmine. The flowers are long gone, as are the roses. What oil we had was shipped to Paris on a covered cart. It is only the dried herbs I can use now.

Winter snows cover all. Bleakness surrounds me, everywhere.

Yet, I know He was there…

It is pain for both of us. And I stepped back into the light, aware I was placing Him at risk.

But if He had reached for me… what then?

If I am observed, He is dead. We both are.

I can feel Him chafing against the constraints between us – can feel Him … longing to test them. I know He would not dare come inside these convent walls. I know that. As long as I remain inside, He is safe, in a way.

Safe, and unhappy. Is He as miserable as I am? I think that He is. But I have no way to know.

At first, though I sensed Him near, I could not see Him, anywhere, when I went out. Later, I thought I could discern His shape in barn doorways, or His great form, threading between the trees.

I used to think I’d caught some bare sight of Him, then turned toward that vision, sensing Him.

But now I think it was the opposite. That I sensed Him first, then saw.

I know that sounds impossible…

And I know I could feel Him wanting to draw closer. Wanting to be near…It is as if those limits He first set had shrunk to a few yards He wanted to venture ever nearer, as if drawn like a helpless moth to a bright flame.

But at what cost?

My heart bid Him “come,” while my mind screamed “stay back!” I shall go mad. As mad as my beloved nation is going.

Who could have predicted what the next few months may have held, had the entire country not become so… cast down? I yet dream of a touch of the fingers. My arm through His…the two of us, walking, hand in hand, in the sunshine…

It is nothing but a fancy. And it is also being foolish beyond all permission. I must be strong, for both of us.

He always knows how I’m feeling. I do not know how I know. He touches me, without touching me, if that makes any sense, at all. But then, He is always there, in the hidden recesses of my mind. Always…

Is it all right if I use that pronoun, here? As long as I say nothing more to give away His identity? I swore I would not say His name again. And I will not. I’ve pressed those pages together, to hide their secrets. And oh, but I have dreamed! His beloved name is my secret to guard, as a protective she-bear with her only cub.

Because I know this much is true. He is mine, and I am His. In both body and spirit. We will always be together, in this world, and the next.

He is the only one to call me by my given name, Katherine. That night, in the cave, my name on His lips, it sounded like a blessing, and an invocation. He breathed it, more than said it…like a dream from which I would never willingly choose to awaken…

But my love and I have divined no answer to our predicament. Any dream of a future we may have together is surely an insane imagining, born of our mutual aloneness, and our loneliness.

But I do know, whatever happens, whatever comes, I can never tell. And I never will. As surely as God is my only witness, and my ultimate judge…

“Whatever happens, whatever comes… ” Vincent sighed roughly. “Surely that is what matters most. Facing the future, together.” He read the lines again.

“Katherine…” he breathed the name, thinking only of the woman he loved with all his heart and soul.

He opened the top of the page protector, trying to detect any hint of fragrance, therein.

There was none. It was as she’d said. Winter’s chill and the Revolution had robbed her of her essential fragrances.

Chapter Fourteen

Pages and Postcards

“Real isn’t how you’re made. It’s something that happens to you.”

Margery Williams Bianco

Ben carried a tray bearing two bowls and the rest of the early evening meal into their chamber. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been seeing someone else, behind my back,” he teased his pretty wife. “All this extra help in the Chandlery, and you came in very late again, last night.”

“Sorry, love. Catherine was in the Chandlery, and then Vincent. You know how it is, once you start to carve. The wax won’t wait,” Rebecca said.

“I know…” He leaned close to kiss his beloved’s curly hair, before placing her dinner in front of her. “Except, now, you’re here again, waiting for me. I’m not used to having you home so early. But I like it.”

“Catherine dipped a bunch of the tapers for me before I even got there. Isn’t that sweet?” She picked up her spoon, but still looked at the book she’d had open on the table. It had pictures of different things made from wax, and how it was done.

“Vincent told me she’s all taken with that… diary thing.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together. There’s been talk. But it’s all good.”

“It’s great to see them working side by side.” Rebecca’s smile was immediate, as she looked up from the pages. “And I like that the recipes from it are so old. Catherine is going to let me copy some of them, when they get it all back together.”

“That’s a kindness,” he said, pleased if his wife was. He handed her a basket of bread rolls.

“Thank you, my darling.” Rebecca set aside her book. “The lessons are going well, and I’m getting ideas for Winterfest.” She winked at him. “And you know the only man I’m seeing, is you.” She smiled.

“Just as well,” Ben groused, good-naturedly, as he seated himself across from her, before picking up his own tableware. “But, you’re still in early, even for a head start. Is Vincent still in there with Catherine?”

Rebecca swallowed her mouthful of food before replying. “Not right now, but I think he wants to set things up for her, later. He came in late yesterday evening as we were wrapping up, to hand her some of the diary pages. She said she’d be tied up in court all day, but promised to try and read them.”

“She’s been down here more than I’m used to seein’ her, that’s for sure,” Ben replied. “It’s good for him.”

“It is.” Rebecca nodded her agreement. “I think she’s been coming straight here from work, the last couple of days. I think he plans on waiting for her.”

“Explains why he finished up on work detail, early. You should have seen him swing a hammer, at Lena’s.”

Rebecca could only imagine. “Catherine will probably be down soon, if she can be. I try to stay out of the room, lest I need to go in. I feel like a third wheel, when I’m in there with them.” She tore a role in half, to dip it in her stew.  “I told William she might need some spices he’s got in the rack, and he gave her some, so now he’s in on it, to whatever degree that helps.”

“I saw him,” Ben confirmed. “Asked me if I knew what ‘Friar’s weed’ was. Never heard of it. But anything that brings me more time with you is a pleasing thing, ‘Becca.”

She smiled at his gallantry. He had ever been her love.

“Any time I get them set up in the Chandlery together, I could swear I’m almost in their way, now. There is such a touching… intimacy between them. They are closer than I have ever seen them. It’s a pretty thing to watch. It reminds me of us, when we were younger.” She smiled sweetly. “In the beginning, you wouldn’t even hold my hand, lest we were waltzing. But you stood close.”

“Askin’ you to dance was the single smartest thing I ever did. And you know you would never be in the way, in your own chandlery.” Ben dismissed her concerns out of hand. Anyone in the room with her was heir to good fortune. It was a truth he lived by. “And who are you calling old?” he jibed.

“I suppose I’m just being fanciful.” His wife shook her head. “But I think they need the room. There’s something very new and… oh, I don’t know… magical going on with them. Vincent is either intense or happy. And she’s either focused, scared she’ll mess something up, or delighted that she didn’t.”

“Sounds like she’s learning. That’s all.”

“They’re… working toward something. And it’s not just something to do with the candles she’s learning to make, or the herbs and oils they’re using.” She gave him a small smile, prompting him to recall the times they’d used those very things, to further their romance.

She knew Ben loved mint, in his tea, and often brought her a vase full of wild daisies, from the park. On romantic nights, like the one they’d had last week, they’d take in the beauty of the park, together.

“Your handkerchief smelled like … a pine tree, the other day. Or spruce. You two growing a forest, in there?” Ben asked.

“I tipped over a bottle, but managed to catch most of it. She says she’s making something for a girlfriend of hers.”

“That explains it,” he said, passing a crock of butter.

She shook her head. “Still…I can almost swear I smell jasmine, whenever they’re together. Just the faintest trace. Even if the bottle’s closed, and she swears she’s using something else.” Rebecca frowned. “And the other day, there was also the scent of roses. But she didn’t bring down that oil.”

She shrugged her small shoulders. “I don’t know, maybe I’m being too fanciful.”

Ben understood his wife, and knew her to be a fanciful creature. That was the artist in her. But he also knew her to be dead solid practical. You couldn’t take pleasure making plain tapers and pillars all day, and not be.

“Like some kind of chemistry, do you mean?” Ben asked, trying to help her define it, without gossiping.

“I don’t know. Maybe…” she hedged. “Like I say. Seems like something’s going on.”

Ben buttered a roll. “Something has been going on between those two for more than three years. It don’t mean much, ‘Becca, until it does,” he stated.

“How can you say that?” Rebecca challenged. “He loves her. He wants only the best for her.”

Ben set the bread down, and sat back in a dining table chair that had once belonged to an old hotel. “Love ain’t just hearts and flowers, books and poetry, Angel. You know that. There needs to be substance, and depth. Room to grow.” He grinned. “Room to learn how to dance together, without stepping on each other’s toes. Like us.”

“Like us,” she agreed, mollified.

“And I did finally work up the courage to hold your hand. Look where it took us.”

“I know…” Rebecca nodded. “I understand what you were going through back then. I also understand that Vincent is struggling with things, too. The idea of making a life for them… well. You know how he is.” She held up her hands, in a gesture of asking for understanding. “That takes courage, and determination.” She set her hands back down, beside her bowl.

“He’s old enough to know his own mind, and what he wants.” Ben reached for her hand across the table, and took it, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “My advice, just be there for Catherine, as her teacher, and leave the rest to fate. And Vincent, to work it out.”

She raised his hand and planted a soft kiss in his work-roughened palm. “How did you get to be so wise?” Rebecca squeezed his fingers. He smiled at the familiar pressure.

“Living with you all these years.” Her husband sighed. “Now eat your meal, before it gets cold.”

“Yes, dear,” Rebecca teased.

They both picked up their spoons, and resumed their dinner.

She looked up at him, as he ate. His brown hair was touched with premature wings of silver, and his face was the plain, average kind, with a nose a bit too large and a forehead a bit too broad.

But his brown eyes were very kind, and Rebecca didn’t remember a day over the age of thirteen that she hadn’t looked into them. She thought him utterly handsome, even though she knew he wasn’t classically so. She always had.

“Do you ever want to go back?” she asked, out of the blue.

He looked up from his bowl. “Go back? What for?” he asked. “Didn’t I already get the first dance with the prettiest girl at Winterfest?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just… go back to that day. Live it again.”

“Nope,” he said simply, lifting his napkin to his mouth.

“Why not?” she asked. Usually, he was very romantic, in his way.

He lifted shoulders that contained a wiry kind of strength, as he set the white cloth back down. “Don’t want to risk it. Might not turn out the same way.” He picked up his spoon, but then set it aside, seeing that her soft eyes were still on him.

“Maybe Mitch Denton asks you to dance first, or somebody else does. Maybe I get sick that morning, and can’t go. Five minutes later… five minutes sooner… That butterfly effect thing.”

She nodded again, at his wisdom.

“So you wouldn’t go back, even if you could?” she asked.

He pushed aside his food. “And risk losing you? Not for all the tea in China, pretty wife. Even if it’s got mint. I love you too much to ever want to change a thing. Not one, single thing,” he emphasised, his eyes direct and suddenly very serious. “We are what we are, and are always destined to be. One thing. Ourselves.”

“I know…” Her smile was glowing. “And that is why I love you so very much.”

When Catherine checked her mail that day, there was a postcard of Big Ben in her box. She knew it was from her father before she even turned it over.

London is beautiful, though nowhere near as lovely as you! It seems… bigger than the last time we saw it.

We toured Stratford, and Kay talked me into a concert at Prince Albert’s Hall. Sibelius. You’d have loved it.

I’m glad I came, Cathy. Nothing to tell, but… I’m glad I came.

Love, Dad.

“Good for you, Daddy.” Catherine smiled, as she stuck the postcard to her refrigerator, with a magnet.

Chapter Fifteen

Mal de Mar

“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”

Rabindranath Tagore

From Aromatherapy in Modern and Ancient Times

Scent ties us to our memories, just as images are wont to do. Sometimes, the two can become one thing. Flower petals were often used in ancient artwork, not only for their dyes, but for the petals, themselves. Blue, red, yellow, purple… all are wonderful colours with stories to tell.

In ancient times, Lavender was highly prized, both for its fragrance, its perceived medicinal value, and its colour. Some paints and dyes often carried a touch of fragrance, until the process overwhelmed the fragrance. A lady often kept boudoir pages, pressed with rose petals, either held between scented tissues, or with the petals actually imbued into the paper.

All around us, the world is full of its own fragrance. Fresh mown grass. Night blooming jasmine. Fragrances like soap, or alcohol, all have an association, for us.

The world is seen through the eyes. But it is perceived through the nose.

Vincent caressed the old page, thoughtfully. He knew he would see Catherine tonight. When he did, he wanted to look through the old pages she possessed, once again.

“Motion denied,” Judge McMillan said, bringing his gavel down heavily.

“Your Honour, in cases of this kind, a sequester is often done.”

“And the prosecution seems to have developed a bad case of hearing. Motion denied.” The judicial voice became frosty, and Catherine was well aware that she’d overstepped.

“Yes, Your Honour.” She dropped her eyes, and tried to look meek. She wondered if that trick had worked for Kate, very often.

“Jury selection will begin on the 14th. No sequester, and I’ll take any motions for a change of venue… personally,” the thorny judge said, raising the gavel to let them all know they were about to be dismissed.

Joe met her outside the courtroom.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“No sequester, and I think If I ask for a change of venue, I’ll get hit with a contempt charge. You?” she asked, as they shouldered through the crowd of people, in the courthouse.

“Time served and a fat fine.”

“At least it was a win,” Catherine grumbled.

“You’ll get ‘em at the trial. Want to hear some good news?” he asked.

Catherine sighed “I’d love some.”

“Rita Escobar just called in from Philly. She eloped.”

Catherine stopped in her tracks, causing her shoulder to get bumped by a passing attorney. “Rita Escobar eloped to Philadelphia?” She was amazed. She’d known the other woman was seeing someone steadily of course, but…

“Her family’s from there.” Joe guided her toward the elevators and pushed a button. “Now, want to hear the bad news?”

“Does there always have to be bad news?” she asked, knowing there did.

“She’s got four cases pending, and would like to spend her honeymoon outside of jail, for dropping those.”

“I take it I know what my wedding gift for her is,” Catherine said, knowing Rita had done much the same for her, when she’d had to leave, unexpectedly.

“Ted can take on one, and I can get the racketeering one. That leaves you with two, but to be fair, they’re open and shut.”

“Define ‘open and shut,’” she requested, as the silver elevator doors slid open. They got in.

“A slumlord behind on repairs, and a guy with six DUI’s.”

“Think he’ll take a plea deal?” she asked, watching her work cup run over, some more, as the doors slid shut and elevator numbers tracked down.

“Which one?” Joe asked.

“Any one,” she replied, stepping off with him, when they reached the ground floor.

“Six DUI’s does not get a plea deal. It gets rehab, in jail,” Joe made his wishes known. “The other one… I don’t know. You’ll have to look over her case files,” Joe said, moving them out of the public building and onto the street.

She wanted to go home. But knew they were both about to head back toward the office.

Catherine knew nothing about either case. That meant she had a lot of reading to do, no matter what. She sensed legwork on the landlord, and at least one visit to the alcoholic’s lawyer, in her future.

So much for more time in the Chandlery, for a while. And there goes the next few days, she thought, as Joe waved down a cab. At least they could share it.

“Rita better love me for this,” she said.

“I kinda think she loves her new husband more, Radcliffe,” he replied, with a resigned shrug.

“I’m sorry. It looks like my professional life is about to swallow me whole, again,” Catherine explained, that night.

“Don’t be concerned,” Vincent replied. We are more than half done with the diary pages, and you had very little left, of the recipes. I can translate whatever you didn’t manage to get to.”

“Are you sure? It seems like I started this, now I’m dropping the ball on it.” She clearly felt guilty.

Considering the time she’d spent Below, “dropping the ball” was the last thing she’d done. “From what you’ve said, your Father and Kay will soon leave London for Paris,” he reasoned. “After that, he’ll be returning home. If the translation is a gift you mean to make to him…”

Catherine sighed. “I know.” She gathered up the pages. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

“I confess, I’ve come to be intrigued by your ancestor, much as I am by her granddaughter,” Vincent said gallantly, carefully handling the old papers, encased in their protective sleeves.

“I also wanted to look over the pages again. See if there is something I missed,” he confessed wishing he could find Kate’s drawing of Vincente.

Catherine shrugged. “Between you, me, and even Rebecca looking at them, I can’t think ‘what,’” she replied, waiting for him to elaborate.

But Vincent simply shook his head, and did not reply.

When you face stormy seas, I will be with you, with endurance and calm. Isaiah, 43.2

For Mal de Mar, Une Belle Cure.

A cup of tea laced heavily with ginger will help with Mal de Mar, the sickness of those who sail rough seas.

Burn a candle laced strongly with peppermint, and dab the oil on a handkerchief, and hold it to your nose. Breathe deeply, and keep your eyes long, toward the horizon.

Rub the oil into the skin of your wrists, and remember to take deep breaths.

Trials and tribulations, both pass, in time.

Vincent hoped that Catherine’s trials (both the literal and figurative kind) were passing, and that she was doing well with them. He left her a note after the third straight evening of not seeing her, just a tiny missive to let her know he was thinking of her. He placed the paper beneath a rose with a sprig of rosemary tied to it, and left it on her balcony table.

The next morning, Vincent inspected all the pages he’d previously handled, and some few besides. The translations he had seemed correct, and no hidden drawing revealed itself.

He set much of it to one side, and continued with Kate’s story.

Father Damien says we must always tell him the truth. He must know everything, all we do and think. Especially the novitiates. For the sake of our immortal souls, he says.

Almost daily now, he probes my mind with the expert hand of a skilled surgeon, hunting for impure diseases or unclean thoughts.

“Confession is good for the soul,” he says. “Your burdens must become mine, so you nuns may save souls in this world. For the Blessed Church and God, the Father.”

The other girls whisper they will tell him anything, and everything, to escape his attentions. I alone remain standing, isolated and defenceless, against the priest’s constant, strange assaults.

But, if I say nothing, surely that too is a form of truth, is it not? Father Damien says omitting anything from my terrifying journeys to the confessional is, in itself, still an unpardonable sin, and my eternal soul will be damned for all time.

“Confess!” he shouts at me, loathsome spittle coating his black beard. “Confess, or you will be shamed before God!”

He licks his lips, and leans closer to the grill between us, waiting. I keep my silence. He demands again to know all. And yet, I can never tell.

He grows angry, pressing his hand against the grillwork, demanding I tell him more, my innermost thoughts and feelings. What I dreamed in the night. How it made me feel...everywhere…

I tell him what little I think I must, and pray it is enough. How can I share the visions that haunt my dreams? Or the fervent wish to be free of all this torment? I own a desire that grows stronger by the day. Or perhaps it owns me. I can no longer tell.

Father Damien would think me mad, or worse…

His reddened face comes closer. His breathing is heavy, and his dark eyes are wild with disbelief. It is all I can do to hold his gaze and say there is nothing more to tell, in my meekest voice. I am a simple, dutiful daughter of the church, what could I have to tell?

Yet somehow, though not in the particulars, I think he knows. He suspects everyone.

I try to maintain my charade. Try to play my part, to keep the truth hidden.

I am the humble daughter of an honest, yet simple merchant, he, the scion of a great and noble house. I know my place in this wretched life. He is very assured, in his.

I drop my head, and cower in the corner. Submission must be everything, or at least the pretence of it. I try to watch him through my lashes.

Damien snarls that he does not believe me. I hear him rear back in disgust. I open my eyes, to see if he is gone, but he is not. He leers at me, saying he knows I will go straight to hell.

There, he says that things, horrible, awful, disgusting things, will be done to my eternal virgin’s body. Things I cannot escape, things he seems at pains to assure me will happen, unless…

I remain cowering in my corner, until the good Father finally releases me from that hateful prison. “So be it. Let your immortal soul be damned, then,” he mutters.

I agree. Damn me, and be done with it! Because I cannot tell, I can never, ever tell. And I never will, even if I have to live eternity alone, without the gift and benefit of His touch…

And I speak not of faceless, uncharitable Gods here, but of a mortal man, a very mortal man indeed. A beautiful man…for, to me, His face must surely be the most beautiful thing in all of God’s creation…I have seen it often enough in my dreams…

Vincent knew it was a face he also wanted to see. He looked over every page he still had, knowing it was all but a waste of time. There was nothing there. Nothing but the treasure he already possessed.

His whole attention became fixed on the description Kate had written. And the fact she’d drawn an imagining of her mysterious lover. A man whose face she did not even know, thanks to having never seen it.

‘Only the most determined seeker would find it…’  Vincent frowned at that statement.

I’m determined. I am seeking to find that which you have hidden, Kate. Where is the drawing now? Lost with some of your other pages?

Galvanised into action, he began searching the plastic packet-encased pages carefully, taking them out, one by one, and weighing each in his hands with thoughtful deliberation.

The slightest variation bent his attention upon the reason. Some were thicker because of the raw materials used, and some were made heavier by drops of fallen wax, staining the pages. On some, pressed flowers and dried plants had been glued to the various pages, added their almost negligible weight.

Why can I find so much, and yet… not this?

Then, an idea occurred to him: Because the drawing isn’t with the diary pages. It’s with the recipes.

‘I’ll hide it between the recipes and other things…’

Vincent dug through the recipe pages, pulling them clear of their sheet protectors. Most were unremarkable, for their shape or thickness.

He would have missed it, but for the memory of the dream voice that drew him to it.

‘Look for the butterfly…’ the voice had said, in his dream.

Vincent frowned. It was a man’s voice, he was sure. Low in timbre, and deeply resonant.

Vincente.

Then, he remembered.

Une Belle Cure… Of all her potions, all her recipes, all her candles, her soaps and unguents, this was the only one she referred to, oddly, as “Belle.” The beautiful cure.

And “Belle” was the word she ascribed to her love.

Vincent rifled through the stack of papers, knowing the page he was searching for, almost before he found it.

On the bottom of a recipe for mal de mar, there it was. Four small blue petals and a bud, imbued into the paper, probably placed there the day it was made.

Forget-me-nots. Arranged in the shape of butterfly wings. It looked rather just like a flower, until you realised that the arrangement of the petals had been very deliberate.

“I don’t believe it…” Vincent slowly lowered the diary page.

The butterfly effect…his mind whispered. He exhaled deeply, and continued to stare at it.

Mal de mar… A strange illness to catch the attention of a girl living in a convent, deep in rural France.

The edges of the page were not ragged, as many of the others were. They were straight, and sharp, like the pages one might find in a book.

You sealed it in, then trimmed the page, so the edges wouldn’t show. Clever girl.

Closing his eyes, he smoothed the page between his sensitive palms, and felt the presence of another, smaller page, between its fellows. Lifting it to the light of the hurricane lantern beside him, Vincent saw there was something smaller and darker pressed between the recipe pages.

Catherine had said she thought some of the pages might be stuck together with age or damage. And so they were. But this was deliberate.

“Hidden in plain sight…” Vincent shook his head.

Using his letter opener, he carefully slid it between the pages, finding them sealed with a thin layer of wax that had long since dried and crumbled. It gave easily, freeing its prisoner.

What fell into his hands, the moment they were parted, caused Vincent to stare in open-mouthed disbelief. His sharply indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. It was the missing drawing.

It took him long moments of frowning confusion, trying to make sense of the impossible. Surely this could not be real? And yet…

‘Vincente…’ that same feminine voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He felt a gentle sigh feather across the nape of his neck, and once again he smelled jasmine. But this time it was mixed with something stronger and more masculine. Roses? Sandalwood? Musk oil?

Vincent didn’t bother to turn in his chair to look. He knew no one was there. But he sensed the presence of unseen eyes, eyes that had seemed present since they’d begun this journey. Ever sensitive, Vincent knew his awareness was sharp.

He also knew he was staring at something impossible. Instinct fought with reason, in his complex mind. Was he finally losing his grip on reality?

Or about to gain some much-needed insight?

It was the middle of the afternoon. He couldn’t reach Catherine even if he wanted to.

Rising to his feet in one hurried movement, he went in search of another’s input, someone who might help to provide any hope of an answer…

“Then how do you explain the descriptions? This drawing?” Vincent held it up, before Jacob. They’d been arguing for nearly half an hour.

Jacob put on his reading glasses once more, inspecting the image before him. “Vincent, I understand what you are saying, I do. But we both know what I see. A ... gargoyle image. A picture of a demon, or some other fancy of a young woman’s very… active mind. You cannot take it seriously! I mean, look at it! That is not a man!”

“So you deny that Catherine’s ancestor may have loved someone like me.” Vincent had begun the conversation by asking if Jacob thought it might be true, then arguing that it had to be, considering.

Father sighed gustily, and regarded his very agitated son. “I think you want… much, for you and Catherine. I think there is a great temptation here to--”

“But she describes him, Father! And with such words of love...!”

Jacob sighed. “They are the words of a hysterical teenager, Vincent. A woman born in... what? The 1770’s, perhaps? You can’t compare her to Catherine, for all the temptation there is to do so. She was likely extremely superstitious, and held the narrow view of the world her betters allowed her.”

“She was intelligent, and determined,” Vincent argued.

“She was deeply frightened by a traumatic event,” Jacob countered. “And given her primitive imagination, she clung to anything to help her make sense of it--”

Vincent raised a dismissive hand. “And you can’t stand that I might have this. Might be able to... reach, for all it implies.”

Jacob was stung by the accusation. The few damning pages lay on the table between them, enclosed once again in the plastic sheet protectors Catherine had bought for them, with Vincent’s translation right by.

Jacob’s voice conveyed his conflicted emotions. “That is wholly unfair. You asked me what I thought, and I told you. If you’d like me to admit that I see and understand the resemblance, fine. I see it. But it makes no difference. How can it?”

Vincent rubbed his forehead, and ameliorated his tone.

“You think I’m creating this? Imagining? Father, help me. The knowledge of it fills me with such... possibilities.”

Jacob knew they did. He could see it, in every line of Vincent’s huge frame. If you’re wrong, it could destroy both of you, he worried.

“Vincent, please…please take a step back. You know I don’t want to be the one to… disappoint you. But … people have been drawing things that don’t exist, for centuries.”

Father rubbed his temple. “Dragons. Demons. Unicorns. This is…artistic license.” He rose from the table. “You told me this woman was an artist. She must have had an incredible mind. Please don’t think… we all know where such an imagination can lead us,” he was trying to pacify his very large, very agitated son.

Jacob wasn’t ignorant of the possibilities this presented, and he well knew the implications, for Vincent. He kept his voice calm.

“We talked about something like this, you know. When you were younger. After Lisa. We both know how that could have ended, even if she’d stayed. Her artistic tendencies made her see things that were simply … not there. She lived more in her imagination, than in what was actually there. And to a certain extent, she invited you to do the same. To ignore harsh reality.”

“I know all about Lisa,” Vincent stated evenly, struggling to hold onto his temper, his sense of reason.

“I also know the stories passed down from the natives often mentioned large, hirsute wild men, roaming the forests. Yeti. Bigfoot. Pictures on totems of animals, and cave paintings of warriors dressed as wolves, or jaguars. I know, Father. We’ve talked about this since I was a … callow boy.” He almost spat the last word. “I did not know any better, then.”

“Vincent, have you stopped to think yet that if this... person is an ancestor of yours, that it makes Catherine and you directly rela--”

“She is not my relative. Kate mentions he was exceedingly dark. Those genes would be strong, and I am nothing, if not fair. And I promise you my sense of Catherine is anything but... sisterly.”

Jacob knew it was true.

“So you think this is someone else, then? Someone else… like yourself?”

In his chambers, Vincent had been certain of the translation, of the image, and all it implied. Now, under the light of Father’s logical scrutiny, he was becoming less sure.

“It would ... please me to think that Catherine’s ancestor found her way thanks to... to--”

“To someone like you.” Jacob sighed, again. “I understand, Vincent. I do.”

Vincent all but rounded on him. It wasn’t the first time Jacob had ever said such a thing, that he “understood,” and it wasn’t the first time Vincent had rejected the claim. Jacob, for all his heartbreak, could know very little of Vincent’s.

“Do you?” Vincent snapped, his ire returning. “Can you? I wonder, Father. Can you possibly understand what this might mean for me? For us?”

Jacob kept his voice calm. “To know that there was once someone out there like you? Yes, Vincent, I think I can. It removes the notion that you were born in a test tube, for one th-”

“Damn how I was born, and damn what becomes of me!” Vincent’s hand sliced the air. “This... man...claimed a wife, Father. He claimed a life for himself. A life he shared with a woman. They had children together.”

Jacob spoke very carefully. And very slowly. “Every... dream... you have for yourself... I have dreamed, Vincent... Every one. Understand that, if you understand nothing else of what I say, here.”

Vincent cut him a sideways look. He was not about to be put off. “All of them? I can hardly think so, Father. Or one of us would be blushing, for shame.”

Uncharacteristically free of embarrassment regarding intimate issues, a fierce kind of hope shone in Vincent’s blue eyes.

Jacob was no fool. And he knew that hope could be a dangerous thing, a very dangerous thing, for his magnificent, yet different son. It would be a crushing disaster, if Vincent were wrong. For everyone.

He scanned the lines Vincent had translated for Catherine, then the original. Though the translation was a good one, Father wasn’t sure it was wholly correct, even if it wasn’t exactly incorrect, either.

“Vincent, before you reach… a very understandable conclusion… I beg you to…

“It says it! You can’t deny what lies before you!” Vincent was already far too attached to the idea. Which might still be a very dangerous one, for him.

“Vincent… I don’t deny your translation. I don’t even deny the French, but you’re talking about a deeply superstitious, and uneducated woman who lived two hundred years ago! By her own words, this is… is a dream image!”

“What if it isn’t?” There was hope in Vincent’s azure eyes. Too much of that, for Jacob’s comfort. “What if this is Vincente, sending her the image of what he looks like, in a dream? What if he was trying to prepare her for his reality?”

Jacob didn’t budge. “Is this a thing you can do, with Catherine?” he asked logically.

That brought Vincent up short. “I…don’t know.” He wasn’t sure. Though he’d had many vivid dreams of her, and he knew he had reached through their bond to each other, he wasn’t certain he could actually send her an image, in a dream. Bluntly put, he’d never tried to, at least not consciously.

“Perhaps,” he said, aware he sounded stubborn.

Jacob persisted. “Vincent, I know how much you want something like this. But… in the age you’re discussing, different people were always seen as … exotic. This... person you think you see... even if he was real… could have simply been a … a Moor. A man somehow disfigured by an accident. Or for that matter, from the Middle East. Or the Far one.” He grimaced. “We’re talking about a man very like the Phantom of the Opera here, not reality. A feminine fantasy, nothing more.”

“I sincerely doubt that we are discussing a disfigured Phantom, or any Chinaman. Unless he has… features like a lion.” Vincent pointed to the image.

Jacob refused to be moved. “Her dream could have come from something she actually saw, yes. That I won’t deny. This image could have come off a coat of arms. Or from inside a religious text.” Jacob’s gloved finger pointed at the page.

“She even says he could have been more like a wolf. Do you know how often people used to wear animal masks, Vincent? Shamans fearing plague. Convicts, trying to escape the law. Circus performers. Charlatans. Men were once chained into… into crude dog masks as punishment for trivial crimes. You know this to be true. Kate would have seen that.”

“Neither of us thinks this is a man in a mask. He won’t show his face. And she senses the bond, between them.”

“‘We’ think no such thing. If this is a highwayman, or some dispossessed nobleman, of course he isn’t showing his face. For fear of detection, of identification. And every young girl, with her first crush on a seemingly dangerous man, swears she can feel the object of—”

“Does the difference between the two of us matter, so much? Will you deny me any chance at happiness?” Vincent demanded, slamming his fist down on the table. Chessmen jumped.

“You know I wouldn’t.” Jacob was hurt. “You do know that I marvel at what you and Catherine have. I see you together and it makes me wonder, what if--”

“Then you marvel at my ability to hold her hand. And wish there could be so much more.” The self-deprecating description was a biting one.

Vincent’s father tried to choose his words carefully, praying he could find the right ones, for all their sakes. “I know… what you want is…a thing which comes at a great cost, to you.”

Vincent’s fist hit the table, again. “Children. Kate Chandler had children, Father. Human children. Catherine’s father is his descendent. He is not a monster.”

“Perhaps she did,” Jacob allowed. “Perhaps she had children, but not with this… man. Vincent, you have but one small piece of this woman’s life. It is folly to think you have the whole of it. Someone else could have fathered her children, at least some of them. She’d hardly be the first woman to have children by more than one man. Especially back when the mortality rate was so high. The fact that she was in love with a man named Vincente does not mean that man is Charles Chandler’s forebear.”

“What if this is why Catherine can sense our bond?  What if this is why we are so… connected?”

“And what if it isn’t? What if that has nothing to do with why the two of you are as you are?” Jacob countered, just as able to use a “what if” argument as Vincent was.

Vincent stepped away from the table, both hating Jacob’s logic and forcing himself to reckon with it.

Jacob wasn’t wrong, and Vincent knew there was no malice in his scepticism, only a strong sense of caution, be it reasonable or unreasonable.

“So that is what you think? That I am… spinning a fairy tale?” Vincent was angry, but he also knew he’d come to Father seeking counsel. At the moment, he was too struck by all he’d read to trust his own thinking.

“I think what you already know,” Jacob kept his voice soft.

It gave him no joy to dash his son’s hopes. “That Kate the Chandler was a refugee during a horrific time, in history. That she fled an assault and perhaps a near-rape, and that she was a … a teenager with a vivid imagination, raised in a superstitious time, by deeply superstitious people. Her imagination could very well have overwhelmed her reason, at times.”

He polished glasses that didn’t need cleaning, as he watched Vincent take in his words. “We all try to make the best of a bad situation. I don’t think she necessarily lied, no. Of course not. But I don’t blame her for … romanticizing certain … aspects of her life. Yes, she feels a… a connection, with this man. A man she’s dubbed her protector. It’s getting her through the day, Vincent. She’s … imagining much, to help her cope with the terrors of her life.”

Jacob put the spectacles back on. “How else was she to survive?” Father asked.

Vincent closed his eyes over the words he dreaded. It wasn’t that he thought Father was entirely wrong. It was that he feared the parts of what he said that might be right.

Jacob sensed Vincent’s acceptance, and hammered home his advantage. “You have no proof of this ever being a real person that she actually saw, and little evidence of anything, beyond a time of complete, mass hysteria. You’re projecting, Vincent. Understandably, but you’re projecting.”

Vincent kept his eyes on the ancient sketch. “You don’t understand.” Vincent’s low baritone came out in what was barely more than a whisper. “It would mean that there’s a chance for us. A chance for me to live beyond the limits that have always been set for me.”

Yes. Yes it would.

But being wrong could mean that every terrible thing Vincent feared might come to pass, also.

Jacob knew the dilemma Vincent faced. Deepening their relationship risked Catherine, physically, to at least some degree. It also meant she would likely never become a mother. Their realities had brought them to an impasse, of sorts. They were not willing to give up their relationship. They were also unsure of just what the word “relationship” might entail.

Catherine was in love with Vincent, and he with her. But that love came with sacrifices, and many of them were borne by her. You could not have the blessings of their relationship without acknowledging the burdens that were also there. Burdens both of them had to carry.

“Catherine’s father came to her, recently. Asked her permission to … to be in love, again. It had been years,” Vincent said, as if that somehow was relevant.

Jacob’s gaze flickered. “I hope she told him he could be.”

Vincent nodded. “She did. She told him that he should not accept limits, which he should reach for the possibilities.”

Jacob watched as Vincent internalized those words. And then he watched his shoulders bend, accepting the realities he couldn’t change. Again.

“How ironic that if she stays with me, she can do none of those things.”

“Vincent, Catherine would never say—“

“What she says and what she must endure are two different things, Father.” Jacob could hear the defeat, in his son’s voice.

Yes, yes it was. Jacob wasn’t ignorant about the position in which Vincent and Catherine found themselves.

“Am I to be her… special friend, all her life? All our lives? Just that, and so little more?” Vincent asked.

“Vincent, I only beg you to consider things, fully. Not to give up. But also not to pursue such a course without thinking about the impact this could have on Catherine. On both of you.”

“All I have done is consider the—”

“Have you?” Now it was Jacob’s voice, which rose. He loved them both. But he would not pretend to be a fool, for either of them. It could annihilate either of them. Or both of them. Or all of them, considering.

“You fear the … baser side of yourself. We both know that,” Jacob pressed. “And even if that is a negligible fear, -and I’m not saying it is- Will Catherine live in her world, with your child, then? When will you see him? Only at night? Or no, she’ll finally have to live here? Cut off from… everything.”

Father’s words pounded nails into Vincent’s skin, metaphorically. And some of those felt like they were going in, actually.

“I would never allow—”

“Please, listen. Please. I know you dream this dream, and it is one I have dreamed for you. But… at what price? What about your well-being? How much safety are you willing to forfeit, here?”

He left Vincent to struggle with the questions. In a way, they were the same questions he’d always struggled with. Or at least, they were some of them.

“If the two of you … after careful consideration… are willing—”

“I’ve had three years of ‘careful consideration.’” Vincent snapped, gathering up Kate Chandler’s writings, and the drawing which had driven him in here. “It is past time I stepped forward, into the light.”

Brigit O’Donnell’s words from the night they’d met, came back to him.  “And I am sick unto death of … safety,” he finished, stalking away to his chambers.

He had to see Catherine…now…

Chapter Sixteen

It’s Worth Everything…

“Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.”

Arthur Schopenhauer

Vincent’s fist was rapping on her balcony door before dusk could barely be named that. Through the glass, he could see the table that had held Kate’s journal pages. It now held two open case files, as well, with the diary pages stacked carefully to one side.

Catherine sat head down, a pen in hand, fingers rubbing at her temple as she made notes about one of the file folders open, in front of her. He knew a moment of deep regret he had disturbed her. But only a moment…

The door rattled in the frame, at his contact with it. It was an impatient-sounding knock. Because it was.

She looked up, clearly surprised to see him. Setting down her pen, she crossed to the door.

“Vincent? …What’s brought you here, so early?” Catherine asked in confusion, leading him from her balcony doors into the living room. “Did something happen? Is… someone hurt?”

“No one is injured,” he answered, stepping in. Immediately, he regretted the look of alarm he’d caused on her fair face.

Slow. You have to go slowly. You’ll frighten her. Or she’ll think you’re as mad as Father probably does.

She frowned at the rose-coloured twilight outside. It was not like her love to take such risks of being discovered.

“I needed to see you,” Vincent replied, simply. “You have not been Below for many days now, and I…”

“Oh, Vincent…” Catherine sighed. “Lately, my work has been almost impossible. I’ve missed you too.”

She was aware she’d been neglecting him in recent days. But it couldn’t be helped. She tried to alleviate her guilt. “Thank you for finishing with the recipe translations, and such. Were they much trouble?”

He still hadn’t told her what had brought him here at an almost dangerously early hour. But for weather starting to turn foul, it would have been downright perilous for him to leave the culvert entrance so close to sunset.

“They were… stubborn in revealing some secrets,” he answered, not knowing a better way to say it.

He eyed her dining room table. The small stack of legal files sat there, radiating silent reproach. Catherine followed his gaze.

“Someone I work with took a leap of faith. She got married, and I inherited her caseload. Which is to say we all did. I’m splitting them with Joe and Ted.”

Vincent stepped over to the work on her table. Here was no teenager’s flight of fancy, no eighteenth century wanderings of a superstitious mind. Here were witness statements, and depositions. Charges, and interviews. Her world seemed so much more… real than his was, sometimes.

He knew real people were waiting for her to help them.

But I need you, now. I do. Was it all right to think that? All right to say it?

Catherine watched him studying the obvious work she’d brought home. The look on his face was… fathomless.

He’s here for a reason. This is like with Dad. Let him talk. Don’t tell him you’re swamped. He’s always been there for you, when you needed it.

“I haven’t had anything to eat, yet,” she said truthfully. “I can order us a pizza, that pepperoni and cheese one you like. We can talk.”

Seeing his swift nod of assent, she reached for the telephone and placed their order. Settling the handset back in the cradle, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was pacing, some, but didn’t seem to want to go far.

“Good. Now we have time to chat about whatever this is, while we wait,” she said, closing the work file she was farthest along with.

Do we? Where do I even begin? Vincent wondered.

Catherine watched him, watched the tension in his long body.

Make him feel comfortable. He’ll tell you when he’s ready, she thought.

“Ah, that’s much better…” She kicked off her shoes with a grateful sigh, diminishing her height against Vincent’s.

Rain began to spatter against the window panes.

“Would you like to take off your cloak?” she asked, aware that they would be staying in.

He nodded, loosening the flowing garment, and draping it across the back of her small sofa.

She glanced at her love. He was big and powerful, and so very close… She only had to reach out her hand. She knew he would take it, and draw her into his embrace. And… perhaps tell her more about what was bothering him so much.

In the last few weeks, she’d stolen hours away from sleep and meal time, even a few from work, just to be with him.

We’ve both been a little spoiled, lately, she concluded, knowing it was true. He’s probably feeling that. We’re just missing each other. That’s all.

And even if that didn’t sound entirely correct, she had no way of knowing what was troubling him. Except the bond they shared seemed to shimmer with disquiet. His, not hers.

She knew it made her feel safe, having him so near. The precious memory of their shared candle-making made her exhale anew. If only…

“I truly am so sorry I haven’t managed to come Below, lately. I miss seeing you. I miss talking about Kate with you. And I really miss our candle-making sessions.” She reached to give his hand a squeeze, then moved closer to the table. “I thought I was making some progress, in what I was doing.”

“And so you were,” he said. “Catherine…” he glanced at the work on the table, and at her nearby brief case. “It is I who should apologize. There are people who need you.”

I’m just one of them.

She spread her hands in disgust, gesturing to the folders. “I swear, I’m being swallowed whole by continuances, and witness statements. I know Joe is ready to explode. And now we’re down one pair of hands…”

She sighed, pushing her fingers through her hair and shaking out its length. Behind them, rain started to increase its steady tempo. They both heard its delicate, springtime sound.

There was a measure of peace to be found in that sound. And a touching intimacy that caught his breath. To be so enclosed against the world, safe, here with his love...

If only…Vincent sighed.

“Talk to me, Vincent. Tell me what brought you here, so early. You look …distracted,” Catherine assessed. “I have a sense you are feeling…confused, about something? Is that right?”

She’s feeling what I’ve been feeling all day. Our bond…

“It is… something like that,” he allowed.

Do it. She’s inviting you to… No. Don’t. She has concerns of her own. He could feel the war, going on inside him. Now his love had intuited it, as well.

“Tell me?” Catherine encouraged, softly. She knew she was echoing his usual request to unburden one’s self.

“I have something new…to show you…” Vincent inhaled deeply, expelling his breath in a rush. “Something I found … earlier today. I confess that I talked to Father. That I almost didn’t… come here.”

She cocked her head to one side, listening.

“Then, I couldn’t wait until full darkness.”

Listen, don’t talk. It had worked with Charles.

His mouth tightened. “I have translated quite a few more pages, since our last meeting. I’ve been awake most of the night. I could not sleep.”

He moved uneasily. “I have…found something. Something I thought you needed to see.”

He said no more. Nor did he move to show her whatever it was. The silence lengthened, between them.

“That sounds ominous,” she said at last, when she was aware he wasn’t going to say more.

“Vincent, is it about the diary? Did something… terrible happen to Kate?”

How to even answer that? Was it terrible that she’d found someone like him? Or… wonderful, like Catherine’s desire to make Charles a gift?

“It is about the diary, yes,” Vincent answered, struggling to find the words he’d all but hurled at Jacob, earlier.

She looked relieved. Whatever this was, it was a thing from the past. And no matter how bad, there was nothing they could do to change that, now. He knew she was thinking it. He could see it in her soft eyes.

“Did someone actually end up having to walk the plank after all?” Catherine quipped, trying to lighten his sombre mood, as she circled the room, flicking on some lamps.

Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago. It doesn’t have power to hurt anyone, now, surely?

“You’re going to tell me my Grandmother Kate was actually a blood-thirsty, female pirate, after all…”

His expression didn’t alter.

“Oh. Oh, dear.” Catherine shook her head, seeing his deeply pensive expression. Whatever this was, it clearly had to do with the Kate and Vincente. When he didn’t refute her, she simply continued.

“I thought she might end up with a bit of a rogue in her. My father will enjoy the idea. But, my aunts…” She pursed her lips. “I don’t suppose we’re talking about buried treasure here?”

She walked around him as she finished speaking, giving him plenty of time to reply. Looking up into his shadowed face, she asked, “Vincent, what is it?”

She frowned. “I was only joking. Did something terrible happen? Did she have to do something… reprehensible? Surely it can’t be that bad…”

“Bad…no…” Vincent’s head-shake of negativity was vigorous. “Treasure… of a sort, I suppose. But… intriguing is perhaps the word I would have chosen. Something fascinating, and…” He trailed off, unable to continue. “I needed to see you. I needed to share it.”

“Then tell me. Or show me,” Catherine requested, in a concerned tone.

I have to tell her. I can’t half-pound down her door, and then keep this a secret. Even if I wanted to. Even if I thought it was for the best, for her, I couldn’t. It would eat me alive…

“Vincent…” She grasped his forearm, and shook it gently. “You’re not making any sense. What exactly have you found out?”

He went back to his cloak, and removed what he wanted from a pocket set in the deep lining. “It is these…” Vincent extracted the several pages he had been translating, along with the reconstructed recipe for mal de mar. He held them out. “Father is convinced this is nothing more than the fevered imaginings of an ignorant peasant woman. He says we have no proof of anything, and little evidence, beyond a time of mass hysteria.”

“Mass hysteria? Father thinks Kate was… hysterical, about something?”

“A little imagination, it seems, was deemed to be a dangerous thing.”

“I don’t understand…” Catherine accepted the pages gingerly, as if they could explode at any moment. “What is he talking about?”

“Please, read the pages of my translation.” Vincent slumped onto one of her chintz couches, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging between his thighs. He seemed the very picture of uncertainty. “It’s all there…”

“Very well…” Catherine settled beside him, her legs curled beneath her.

She read the translated pages quickly, before turning to the originals, safe in their plastic covers. She scanned them carefully, referring more than once to Vincent’s deciphered paragraphs.

“You showed me some of these, before. She calls him ‘un belle homme.’ But it’s a mistake. It has to be. French doesn’t even work, that way.”

“A great many things shouldn’t work, which do,” he said, making sure she had the recipe for mal de mar.

“Surely, in her haste, Kate just wrote that incorrectly.” She flipped between his translated page and Kate’s original. “A man isn’t usually described as beautiful. It should be ‘un bel homme’ a handsome man.”

“The translation is correct,” Vincent replied slowly. “She uses it, oddly, in one other place. It was one of the things that didn’t make sense. It’s all I’ve thought of. Well, that and… other things.”

Should he confess he had a dream where a centuries old spirit may have told him where to look? Did he want to sound that insane, to her?

Catherine frowned at his concern. “Well, we already know Kate met a man, and she was more than a little in love with him.” Catherine looked up. “And French was her mother tongue, but mistakes can be made.” She frowned. “Curious, though. As you say. She does use ‘belle’ again. She says it more than once. Even on the page for a cure for seasickness?”

She frowned. “Is Kate the one Father was referring to as being ignorant and hysterical?”

“She is.” Vincent nodded. He swallowed, hard. Catherine saw the movement, in his throat. “You have told me, that I am…beautiful, Catherine.” He leaned close to underscore the word with his fingertip. “Belle…”

“Tu es belle…” Catherine’s voice trembled with emotion. “And I meant it. You are beautiful.” She grasped his chin, turning his eyes to hers. “To me, Vincent, you will always be, mon belle homme. I think… I think I understand what she’s trying to say… in a way. Perhaps we think a bit alike.”

“Do you?” Vincent asked, needing her to.

“Je crois que tu es un très belle homme…” she said, wanting to say it the way Kate probably had. [1]

“Tu es la femme la plus belle au monde, il n'y a pas de mots pour le dire…” [2]

“The beauty you see in me, Vincent, is the beauty within you.” Catherine pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “But, why does any of this need to cause us concern?”

She raised a delaying finger. “Are you trying to tell me that she left Vincente? That there was more than one man in my grandmother’s eventful life?”

His expression was inscrutable. I’m trying to tell you there was no man in it. That there was never a … man… in it.

“I don’t believe it.” She responded to his silence, then looked back at the pages in her hand. “How could I have missed something that big?” She shook her head. He didn’t budge.

“I guess you could call that…intriguing, for lack of a better word.” She tried to soften the blow, even though she felt it. “Did her sons have more than one father, then?”

“I don’t think she ever left him,” Vincent said, not sure if he was soothing her or damning her, with that pronouncement.

“This is what I wished to show you…” Vincent reached for the pages she held, then returned only the recipe for mal de mar to her.

He had taken the time to carefully reconstruct Kate’s concealment of the drawing. Once again it was hidden between the pages of recipes for curing seasickness, and the flower petal butterfly.

“Hold it,” he said, handing it back to her. “Feel it. Close your eyes and allow your fingers to tell you what you can’t see…”

The accepted the page, from his nerveless fingers. “All right, but you know I’m no good at this…” After casting him a deeply sceptical look, Catherine complied.

She held the page delicately in one hand, while running her fingers across it in slow circles with the other. Silence filled the room, underscored by her carriage clock, ticking quietly on the mantelpiece.

After several minutes she said, “Oh, okay…yes, there’s something more here…” She traced the outline of the drawing slowly.

“So, we are talking about a treasure map…” She opened her eyes, and turned the pages onto their edge, studying the join. She saw the stains and lifted the paper to her nose. “Beeswax. And it’s fresh.” She laughed. “I’ve learned that much, at least.”

“I replaced the old with new,” Vincent acknowledged, watching her closely. “Go ahead, warm the wax between your palms, and the pages will fall apart easily.”

“You’re being very mysterious.” Catherine complied. “Does X really mark the spot?”

“I have no idea,” he replied. “Perhaps this is greater treasure.”

After a few moments she had managed to unseal the bottom portion of the papers. Not wasting time with the rest, she carefully peeled them apart, and the drawing fell into her lap.

She looked down at it, and gasped. Her mouth formed a perfect circle of astonishment.

“Vincent…” she could barely whisper his name.

“This is part of why she had to hide it, so well,” he said, handing her the next page of his translation.

Someone has been in here! Again! They have been searching my cell, this I know for a sad fact. Father Damien sends his other spies to look constantly for my supposed secrets. What such can be found within my mother’s wooden-backed hairbrush, or the old shoes beneath my cot, I do not know. My things have been moved, items rearranged, more than once.

They think I do not notice. They think me too simple to understand their deviousness.

Oh, how I long for fresh air and spring sunshine, but I think they will never come again. Will spring forget my benighted land?

So, once more, I must hide you, Dear Diary, secure beneath the stout rope belt of my habit, against my back and naked skin. A sacred place where only you have touched and warmed.

There has been no other… But oh, how I wish it was not so...

Catherine struggled for the right words, before demanding, “Who is this? I mean, what is this?” She held up the drawing. “Is this real?”

“It is the mirror of a dream Kate said she once had.” Vincent shrugged. “I know no more than that. She never intended it to be seen.” He hesitated. “This is her dream image of… Vincente.” he added, quietly.

“Vincente? How is that even possible?” Catherine whispered, looking from the drawing, and back again. “It’s beyond everything…”

She shook her head slowly, digesting this startling new information, before saying, “So this was Kate’s beloved belle homme…”

“If Kate was telling the truth, about everything.” Vincent took the drawing from her, holding it in his hands, which made the page shake slightly. “She says it is the imagined image of the man she loves. He comes to her in her dreams…”

His breath hitched. “Catherine…”

He put the drawing aside, to gather some of the pages and sift through them once more. “See, here…” He traced the lines with his fingernail.

He began slowly. “I dreamed again last night. I dreamt of the violence my love had to endure for my sake, and an incredible image appeared before my mind’s eye. I saw His face. As clear as I see mine own in a mirror. But His was not the visage of a mortal man, and it should have frightened me awake. But I clung to it, and Him, feeling like a tiny craft being swept down rapids from which there is no escape. I hurtle on towards an unknown future. Is my love part… what? A great wolf? Something else?”

“This drawing, you think it’s of her mysterious lover?” Catherine stared at the image beside her. “This is Vincente?”

She was grasping for hope, as she grappled with reason, and with caution. Much as he had done.

“But surely, this was only a dream…he wasn’t real…”

Now she sounded like Jacob. Or like the voice of reason, in his own head. He couldn’t blame her.

“Perhaps…” Vincent lifted one shoulder in denial. “Someone fathered her children, Catherine. Some man made love with her, and she seems to imply, that this is he.” He gathered himself, and his whisper was low.

“Look at me. Am I merely a dream, Catherine? A figment of your overactive imagination? Do you fear to wake, and find it’s all an illusion?”

He held her gaze, and saw her eyes shimmer, with banked tears.

No. She didn’t. Not since the time she’d begged him to tell her just that, when she was first Below, healing.

“Of course you’re not just a dream. You’re as real as I am. Oh, Vincent, I truly don’t know what to believe.”

Catherine picked up the drawing again, running her fingertips over the old image. “Is it possible..?”

Realization was catching up with her. And all it implied. He saw the look of hope, leap into her eyes, and knew it must have mirrored his own, when he was in Father’s chambers.

No wonder Jacob was terrified for us, Vincent thought. What would she give up, for what she thinks she might be able to have, in this moment?

“Father says we must give careful consideration to anything we may do, any decisions we may make now. Even given the evidence, he said it is only a dream, not based in fact. He asked, ‘what price the dream we dare to dream, you and I?’”

Vincent turned to her, not sure if he was blessing them both, or damning them. He would say what he wanted. He would say what he wished for. “But, I want to dream, Catherine. More than anything. I want…I need…more than these snatched moments of conversation, these… steps on careful ground. This necessary realm of safety we have forged together… Surely you feel it too.”

“I…” Catherine shivered. “I want what you want. You know that.”

“Then, I want…children…” The word felt foreign, in his mouth. “…someday…and yet…” Vincent’s lips parted, his blue eyes full of pleading for her understanding.

“I want to walk that plank of a pirate’s ship with you, and find that buried treasure. I want to lay down in a field with you, and touch a fawn. I want to sail whatever oceans we can, be they real or imaginary, and not count the cost in time, or loving. I want everything Kate says she had with her love. Is that too much to ask? For us, for our dream?”

“Oh, Vincent…” Catherine whispered, drawing his great head down to hers, and kissing him lingeringly. “I just told you, I want what you want. Of course I do. Always. How will we ever know what the limits are, unless we test them fully? We need to find the courage to try, and somehow, make our dream work for us.”

Vincent sighed, and pulled her very close. He could feel her heartbeat. It was pounding almost as hard as his was.

“I love you.” He said, as the rain began pelting the glass a little harder. Her answering squeeze was all the reassurance he needed.

“I love you so much…” Catherine sighed, against his lips.

Moments later, the doorbell rang, startling them both, badly. Catherine disentangled them, pushing Vincent towards her bedroom. Once he was out of sight, she snatched up her purse and hurried to pay for the pizza, quite having forgotten she’d ordered one.

My whole life is changing, and I’m paying for deep dish peperoni, she thought, unable to escape the irony of such a thing.

The door closed, and she set the food down, not caring if they ate it or not.

Vincent emerged from her bedroom, and met her in a crushing embrace, halfway across her floor.

“You think this is real,” she said, keeping him close.

“I know you are,” is all he replied, refusing to allow an inch of space, between them.

“There’s more. There’s got to be more,” she said, looking toward the table.

“Promise me...”

“Anything.”

“That no matter what it says, we will not turn from this moment.”

“I promise,” she vowed, hating the legal briefs still on her table. She wanted to call in sick. She didn’t dare.

Vincent felt what she did.

“Come and eat, before it gets cold. We have some time. Then I will translate, and you will tend to your work. I’ll stay until dawn drives me down.”

She nodded, and they both moved over to her table, Vincent pulling a chair close to hers.

There was so much more they both wanted to know about Kate’s mysterious lover.

Late February 1792.

For many weeks, I have kept your pages hidden, scattered among the recipes, and secreted inside the pages no one uses but me. I did not write. I did not dare. But now I am so alone… please let me speak to you, my Diary. For if I do not, I am sure I will lose my mind…

The celebration of the birth of our beloved Christ child has passed without incident. And the whole month of January followed without remark. In the dead of winter, nothing moves.

Then, a deep sorrow struck. I haunt the Chandlery since the death of my mentor and friend, Sister Marie. The bitter cold was too much for her aged body. All my infused candles, medicinal soap, potions and health-giving pottages could not save her.

Now I am truly alone, and I will be forced to become a spy, for Father Damien. He is triumphant that he has finally broken me. Or so he thinks…

He threatened my parents, you see. My family, with the attentions of Mm. Guillotine. He said he had the power to do that. Condemn all those close to me. He has powerful family members in the National Assembly.

There was only one, blessed exception to the list of names he thrust under my nose. Names of people he swore will make a gallows march, unless I agreed to use my eyes and meek form, for his sake. My desperate eyes hunted, but could not find His name.

My sigh of relief, Father took to be my final acceptance of defeat.

“At last, we understand each other,” he purred.

His stroking hand upon my forearm sickened me. I kept my temper, but only just! I longed to throw the vat of hot tallow I was working with into his smirking face!

So I walk the paths and lanes once more, with my candles and my fear. I can give no one away, give no true name.  For I would send that person to their death. I will watch the comings and goings near the river, and in the market. I tell Damien I’m sure I overheard the language of other places. Places I long to see with mine own eyes.

Scotland, perhaps, or the Netherlands. Made aware by my love’s story, I find that Spanish and Portuguese men are common among the ships’ unruly crews. But I say I understand nothing of the words I do not know, spoken in tongues I cannot pierce.

They are always looking for other spies, other hateful ones, like themselves. I will feed Fr. Damien the lies I know he longs to hear. I will keep my love safe, and implicate no one, directly.

It is a dangerous game I play. And he will not let me play it, for long. Damien is no fool.

But I feel He is always near…

Catherine stood, leaning on the balcony railing, watching Vincent glide through the shadowed trees in the park far below. He had left her alone in the early dawn. Golden streaks of light were already painting the dark sky.

They’d talked long into the night, and he’d worked at her table on the translation, while she’d tackled her case files, and asked him to tell her what Kate’s diary had revealed. When she could do no more for her cases, she’d hovered near him, while he’d worked.

Tea for him and coffee for her, had kept them both going. That, and cold left-over pizza.

Twice, he’d insisted she go to bed, and twice, she’d refused. Two a.m. found them sitting by her fireplace again, once more repeating what they knew. Kate Chandler had been a woman who had found a mysterious lover. One who had probably fathered her children. And… possibly looked a lot like Vincent.

It was a tantalizing thought, as the possibilities felt like they were opening, before them.

“Do we want too much?” she’d dared to ask, as three a.m. became four.

He shook his head. “I don’t think we want anything more than anyone else does,” he’d answered, drawing her close for another kiss.

But the world does not stop for those in love, nor does time. The carriage clock kept chiming, and the night drifted away.

By four thirty, they had found no truly clear, or immediate answers, from Kate’s diary. Or from each other.

Vincent knew that theirs was an incredible, and tantalising dream, and they wondered if Kate had managed to have one which was incredibly similar. If she and Vincente had decided to capture that dream, and harnessed to their combined will.

There was no sense even pretending if they were both wondering if they could not do the same. If only they had the courage to take the first step into the unknown. As Kate had once done, so long ago.

They’d looked over the several brown-inked pages he’d brought back to her, and Catherine had finally simply shoved her office work aside, to make room for the papers she now considered “theirs.” The drawing stayed before them, in the centre of the table.

Then Catherine had slept in her love’s arms, on the chintz couch, and he’d watched over her, until it was dangerously past time for him to leave.

Catherine had insisted he go, for both their sakes. There was still so much to do, and discuss. There was simply no time for it. Time was ever their enemy…

“Vincent, be well…” she whispered to the dawn breeze.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, and inhaled shakily. Turning away from the rail, she moved back into her apartment, shutting and locking the balcony doors behind her.

The day had already begun, and she needed to eat, before taking a shower and changing into her office suit, or she was going to be late for work… She’d need to find a way to get through the day, try to do her job right.

The last slice of cold pizza was an odd memento of the incredible night. She knew she’d just grab coffee and a bagel, instead.

This means something, doesn’t it? For both of us?

It was a thought that wouldn’t leave her, as she watched the sun push the shadows through the park.

She thanked God she wasn’t due in court, and hurried for the shower.

Early March, 1792

Father Damien is dead! And it was my love who caused that hateful man’s demise. If a death is a thing to rejoice in, then I do so with unbounded joy.

My spymaster followed me. I did not see him in the evening gloom, until he saw my love and gave chase. Damien was armed. The sound of a shot tore the air, and I saw my love fall!

I screamed! I know I screamed, until my voice gave out. Then I fell to my knees, and Damien came to stand over me, gloating that he knew I was not to be trusted. He said he knew I was hiding someone.

He told me that there was a rich bounty to be claimed for my lover’s head. For the callous attack on the Holy Bishop, and others.

As Damien gloated, he aimed his pistol at my forehead, and then consigned my eternal soul to hell.

It was his last act on this unfortunate earth. This time, my love’s roar was truly awful to hear; as if His own life was about to be snuffed out.

Sent spinning by a powerful blow to his head, Damien was dead of a broken neck, before his body ever fell upon the ground.

I looked up, and my mouth fell open with horror! My love was wounded! His white shirt was growing black, in the darkness, as blood spread slowly across his left shoulder, staining His great cloak.

He staggered towards me, my name on His lips, and I hurried to hold Him upright. His arm went around my shoulders, and He leaned heavily upon me, buckling my knees.

“Katherine…” He breathed my name again, slumping against me.

His hand was heavy upon my shoulder, and I felt the strong length of His nails digging into my flesh, despite the thickness of the leather gloves He wore. I buried my teeth into my bottom lip to prevent myself crying out, such was the pain.

“I’m sorry…” The pressure eased. He knew He had hurt me, again, without intention.

“You’re hurt,” I replied stupidly. The dark stain continued to grow.

“Please, don’t be afraid…” He turned His head, to look down at me, His eyes pleading for my acceptance and understanding. Begging me not to scream…

For, in that moment, I saw His face for the very first time. His beloved and beautiful face…and felt my mouth fall wide open with wonder and disbelief.

In truth, He was my beautiful man.

I did not scream. Nor I did faint at His feet. I think, from the look in His eyes, He expected both. But my sobbing cry was caught in my throat.

It was not one of terror, but of blessed recognition. Dear Diary, I had seen that face, before. Almost…

But now, the pair of eyes I had drawn, actually lived, and stared back at me. I felt my heart racing. It snatched my breath, and challenged my reason. But I could not look away, even though my knees shook, and threatened to give way, beneath me.

Surely God would not bless me so, with such an imagination to know and see the things I should not. For standing before me, was the very man of my imagination. What I had dreamed so often… it was all true.

It is all… true.

“You will not let go of me. And I will not let go of you,” I said, trying to cover His terrible wound with little more than my hand. “We must stop the bleeding, and get you to safety.”

He seemed … dazed, by the violence, or perhaps it was His wound. I kept Him on His feet, whenever His body threatened to fall. His nails pierced my habit again, and I could feel His power there. He eased His grip, once more, and I forced us to continue on.

Vincente was real. Like me, and… real. Vincent read the page again and again, underlining each word with a heavily tracing fingertip. “He is. I know he is. Even if it isn’t possible, it’s true.”

Saying it out loud made it sound as insane as it was.

He’d spent the night in Catherine’s company, and was becoming punch-drunk, and beyond tired. Fatigue was wearing him down, and translating more was making that worse.

In one minute, Vincente was real, and was like him. In another minute, doubt crept in.

Catherine was like him. She wanted to believe, even as she was afraid to.

Given time to reflect, Vincent replayed Father’s arguments, and heard their merit.

Do you think this is all true because you want it? Or do you think that you want it so much, it must be true?

He wasn’t sure if the question even made any sense.

He was almost prepared to dismiss the drawing as having been born from a young girl’s frightened imagination, despite all he’d said to Catherine, last night, and even, perhaps, because of it.

He knew there was a huge difference between wishing a thing were true, and knowing it was.

Despite everything they had discussed last night, were they only basing their shared dream on the shifting sands of uncertainty? ‘Un belle homme…’

“You loved her. And she loved you,” he said, to the drawn image that now stared back at him from atop his writing table.

He leaned back hard, in his huge chair, the papers in his hand. He checked his translation again, but it held fast. He felt rocked to his core, again. He read it one more time, trying to pierce the subtlety of the words, to build the argument he knew Jacob would offer.

Leaning forward again, he began pushing through the remaining pages, searching the text for the words ‘belle homme.’

He found none.

“Vincent.” Jacob’s voice. Tinged with no small amount of concern.

“Tell me you’ve slept, at least?”

Vincent realised he’d re-read the same sentence three times, and it was blurring, before his eyes.

“No. I didn’t,” he confessed.

Jacob entered the room, and simply tugged down the quilt, on the bed.

“I want you to sleep. I’m not fool enough to tell you that you have to stop doing this. But I want you to sleep, Vincent.”

Vincent was in no position to refuse.

“I’m tired, and I’ve spent the night with Catherine, the pages between us.” He sat heavily on his bed.

“I… we love each other, Father. She loves me. So much.”

Father’s hand held Vincent’s shoulder. “I know she does, Vincent. Believe me, I do. I also know you need rest. That whatever this is, the two of you have miles to go, before you sleep.”

“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,’” Vincent quoted Robert Frost, aware that he was about to be put to bed like a young child.

“That they are,” Jacob agreed, tugging off his boots.

“I’ll have Mary tend your classes,” Father said.

Classes. Chambers to widen, or build. Pipes to repair, or send messages on. How could life just go on, as if the entire world wasn’t changing?

Maybe because for others, it wasn’t.

Jacob rose slowly, and Vincent saw him wince, from the pain in his hip. Still, he pushed Vincent down toward the pillow, and Vincent went, unresisting. Exhaustion crushed him into the mattress.

“Tell Mary I said… sorry,” Vincent apologized.

Jacob doubted Mary would think there was a need for that.

“Rest. I’ll send a tray, for when you wake up.”

Vincent began to drift, the rigors of the past few days, and the very long night overtaking him, utterly.

“She so… good to me, Father. She asks for so little…”

Jacob knew to whom he referred. “And you want to give her so much. I know, Vincent. I know.”

Jacob smoothed the blankets down, and put the candles out, as she left.

Rest. Rest, my son. For whatever lays before you, you’ll need it.

Vincent felt sleep claim him. The soft sensation of a welcoming forest enclosed him, and he felt himself tumble down through consciousness.

There must have been a jasmine bush nearby, in the woods. It was the only way he could explain the fragrance in his nose.

Hours passed, and all the sleep deficits Vincent had been accumulating seemed to demand he stay in bed, now. The dreams were intermittent, and they often repeated. He saw the convent, again, and Kate, on the road. He saw a cloaked figure, stealing through the shadows. He smelled jasmine, and pine, and wild roses. And often, he simply saw blackness, as the deep, restorative sleep took him farther down.

When he woke up, it was well after noon. He tapped out an apology on the pipes, ate the pair of sandwiches on the covered plate Father had sent down for him, and went looking for a work detail, only to find that they were already done, for the day.

Returning to his chambers, he checked for Catherine, through their bond, and found that she too, was asleep.

She must have gone home early, he mused, pulling himself up to his writing table.

There was no question that he would continue.

I knew each step brought us closer to aid, and away from harm, and the hate that had caused it. Getting my love away safely from danger was a Herculean task. Together, we staggered to the cave, and the ragged inmates there could not have been more helpful. Some, I recognized from before. Some were new.

Had He been providing, for all of them? All this time?

I gasped out the whole sorry tale, even as I tried to bind my love’s wound, thankful the shot had passed right through Him. But He resisted me. Instead of keeping me near, He ordered one of His followers to attend to Him, banishing me to the background, again.

I knew He was only trying to shield my maidenly eyes from His strong, male form. And He was, but I suspected that it was not just His face that bore the marks of some wildness, of some unfathomable magic. That perhaps other places on His form had been touched by enchantment, as well?

Wondering and dreaming does not get a task done! So I kept to the back of the cave, making poultices and boiling water, anything to keep busy. Anything to help Him. I bid the little girl assigned to help me to fetch me what honey they had, and wine. To bring me thyme, if there was any.

All the while, His face remained, burning brightly before my inner vision.

Was He more man than beast, or more beast than man? I did not know, then.

His noble face was like an animal’s. A wolf? A lion?

I had seen wolves, running in the distance. But a lion, only in paintings, and in the illuminated pages of some scriptures. Both have the claws capable of leaving the marks that made the scars on my arm. I felt those talons again, when my love gripped my arm after He’d been shot.

My love is very dark, and His visage is most fearsome. He would give anyone cause to scream. And yet…Was this not my saviour?  My Vincente?

It was almost as if an animal had mated with a mortal, yet rather than creating something base, had made something... divine. I know in my heart, my love is no beast, or not to me. I knew the idea of two different species mating to be an abomination. This was something more, something different from whatever had gone before.

Perhaps the fickle Gods had decided to meddle with His life, making Him an outcast not through choice, but by an accident at birth. Did my love even know His own origins beyond His abandonment?

He is beastly featured, with a long, flat nose, and all but non-existent upper lip. His teeth are long, like a wolf, and but for the gentleness in His green eyes, I’d have thought myself likely to be devoured.

Vincente. God, what I wouldn’t give for a photograph of you, Vincent thought, trying to maintain his sense of calm, while inside his heart wanted to riot. He looked at the description again, trying to imagine such features on a normal man, and failing.

Steady. It might not be what you think. He knew he was trying to talk himself down.

But what if it is?

He reread the description half a dozen times, before he continued.

His eyes had gazed into mine so beseechingly, part of me thought I might not mind that fate. Set below slanted black eyebrows, they seemed to glow in the dark. Sable stubble adorned His lower face, rising to His angular cheekbones, matched in the thickness of His long hair, blacker than the darkest night.

What did it all mean? I had no idea, then. I was sure of nothing that night, except I knew I could never leave Him, again.

The little girl brought me what I asked for. “You will help?” she asked. I could see by the look in her eyes that she was as concerned for my love as I was.

‘My love’…my heart whispered. God himself surely could not have crafted a more glorious human being. Nor one with greater compassion for His fellow man…

“Of course I will,” I answered, firmly. “He… protects you? Keeps you safe?”

She nodded. “All of us,” she replied.

I looked around, making a quick count. Twelve souls inhabited the warm space. A dozen lives, depending on Him and His talent for survival.

They were cleaning His wound, and an old man was readying strings of silk to put stitches in, I think, while others stayed near. They spoke mostly French, of course, but there were tongues I did not understand, also, and He responded in their same language, His voice full of both pain, and reassurance.

No-one had more heart and a deeper desire to protect, than my love. It truly was as if a dark angel had been flung from heaven, and had fallen to earth…

I wanted to be near Him, even as I knew He still wanted me to keep back. The woman who had been nursing the babe was bringing fresh bandages. No one seemed to find His looks remarkable. Perhaps, in a way, they weren’t, to these lost people.

For His incredible green eyes had looked into mine, and the soul of a human man has stared out at me, begging for my understanding and love. Those things I could give readily, and forever.

The rest would take time and patience to unravel.

I only knew I had to help Him. And so I did. “Tell them to soak His bandages in this, and pour it into the wound, before they stitch it closed,” I told my small helper, pressing a warm wooden bowl full of my mixture into her hands. She did as I bid her.

I then unlaced and pushed aside the shoulder of my habit. I set about cleaning the marks left in my shoulder by His heavy clasp. They were no more than ragged indentations, shallow in my skin. They would heal well and without blemish. It was of small consequence.

I tidied my torn clothing as best I could, before placing my hands on my hips and straightening my tired limbs. Was I now a homeless refugee, as well?

Of course, I could not return to the convent, nor did I wish to do so. That life, I knew, was behind me now.

I watched as my saviour moved slowly to His allotted place at the back of the cave, where He lay down to rest. An old man settled near Him, and checked His bandages. Someone else spooned broth from a bowl for Him to eat.

I watched all this from afar, feeling useless now. I wanted to approach, to check all was well. But Vincente shot me a stern look. It was all right. I understood. I knew my love needed sleep, and that He would not rest if I came too near.

His companions divided the responsibility of keeping a strict watch for any intruders into their realm. But all seemed quiet, and one by one they retired to their places by the fire, and talked in low tones. Some drifted away to sleep.

I looked down. His blood (and perhaps even some of Father Damien’s) had stained the front of my habit. Dipping a cloth into the water I had set to boil, I tried to clean it, but I only succeeded in spreading the stain.

Seeing my concern, one of the women sent the same small elf to bring me clean clothes from their store. The dress and under-things were shabby, but very welcome.

“Come with me.” The child then took my hand, and led me to a small rear alcove, where I could change.

I confess I returned to burn my stained habit within the cave’s fire. Without pause, I also stripped the noviciate’s veil covering my hair, and burned that too. It felt freeing to do so. That life was truly over.

For I now wore the ragged clothes of a French peasant woman. It is all I have worn, since.

Freed from its confinement, my long hair tumbled down my back and over my shoulders. It seemed to revel in its unexpected freedom. I was at somewhat of a loss about what I could do with its unruliness.

A nearby woman noticed my consternation. She held out a length of black velvet ribbon. “If you will allow me…” She stood, and walked behind me.

“Your hair is very beautiful,” she said, as she pulled the ribbon through my hair, to hold it back from my face. “The colour of a robin’s red breast in spring,” she continued wistfully, stroking out a long curl.

“Merci…” I flushed with embarrassment. I thought she jested. My hair has only ever been a common colour of brown.

The woman then turned me to face her. “I once had a daughter with eyes as blue as yours.” She sighed, hugging me close. “But I lost her to sickness when she was young. I miss her still…”

“I am so sorry,” I said. I held the woman as she cried softly for her loss.

She finally moved back, and cupped my cheek. “Come, we have tasks that need attending. There are sentries who will want a warm drink, and children to get to bed.” She took my hand. “Then we will find you something to eat.”

So the die was cast. I was accepted into the group without question, or comment. I give thanks for the boundless generosity of my new companions. Those who have the least to give, give the most, so often…

I helped clean the bowls and spoons from the evening meal. With everything stowed away, and others in charge of the fire, I was at a loss.

Lacking anything more to do to help, I moved towards the cave entrance, and my rude pallet of blankets against the wall. I was tired to the bone, and my head throbbed. I lay down, and curled on my side. I longed to lay near Him, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

Outside, I could see the dawn was well advanced. The nuns would have missed my presence at their Morning Prayers by now, and would have started a search of the convent. When I was not found, they would begin a search in earnest.

I did not doubt the authorities would soon find Father Damien’s body sprawled in the roadway, and mark me as suspicious, in my absence. Or perhaps they would think we were beset by the very highwaymen they sought, and we were both their victims.

There is no one there to tell the tale. Perhaps they will think Father Damien died trying to protect me, but in vain. That I am simply… gone, like so many others in the countryside, who have become part of the missing.

Let them tell he was a hero, if it pleases them, even as all here sigh in relief, at his passing.

If that awful lie keeps one person safe, I will let them tell it. They will not spend much time looking for me. They will think they know my fate.

Mayhap they will decide it is for the best, where they are concerned. Indeed, I would have made a very poor nun.

So be it…I settled deeper into my blankets and prayed my family would not suffer because of me… More I cannot do. I will never see them again.

What would Father say? That this was a man with a flat nose and a harelip? Perhaps. Perhaps he would.

But something inside of Vincent couldn’t help thinking that every one of Father’s carefully chosen theories were being shot down in flames. Vincente wore no mask. He knew it. Either Kate was a deluded girl or her drawing was somehow, true. And Vincent had no reason to think Kate unstable. Superstitious, perhaps, and a product of her time, but not… unbalanced, in any way.

It is all… true.

And if all other rational arguments are dismissed, then what remained, however unbelievable and impossible, must be that truth…

But is it truly possible there had been another man like me? One who actually fathered children, and lived the life I could only dream of having…?

He was still sitting at his table sorting through the pages, when he sensed, then heard, Catherine’s approach. He looked up, knowing she too had come for some more answers.

“You left your work, early. You slept, at least? A little?” he asked.

“I pled a bad headache, after lunch, and confess I went home and took a nap. I promised Joe I’d come back to work on a plea deal for someone, and I will. Then I’ll come home. You?”

“I slept much of the morning, and into afternoon. And did no work, other than more pages,” he said.

“There are some who’d say we are obsessed,” Catherine remarked, drawing near.

“I can’t say that I’d blame them, for their observation. Father is worried.”

“I’d say we should… slow down, a little. But… somehow, I really can’t,” Catherine confessed. She rested a manicured fingertip on his shoulder.

“We are a long way from the original goal of making a gift for your father,” Vincent admitted.

Maybe not so long. He says he wants grandchildren. Catherine smiled at the thought.

“Are you in trouble with Samantha?” Catherine asked. Her love looked rested. And the hope in his eyes was a palpable thing.

“I sent a message on the pipes, and asked the children to forgive me,” he said. “You?”

“I settled one case with a guilty plea and I’m working the other by setting up a lot more interviews. That’s the best I can do, for right now. My mind isn’t on it, and I can’t concentrate. We both know why.”

She was holding the latest summary he had created with her last night. She knew nothing of his newest, most explosive findings. But intense curiosity had drawn her back to him. He could feel it in her, an expectant simmering of emotional turmoil.

“You’ve found something…” Catherine addressed his look, with certainty.

“Yes.” Vincent nodded. “I may have found the proof Father demanded.”

He leaned to push out the chair beside him, and Catherine sat in it. Her whole attention never left his face.

“Tell me, Vincent.”

He picked up the last page he had been reading. “You have to understand, Kate was terrified. Her whole world had just been shaken to its core. Her entire existence was about to crumble into dust. All she believed in, and worked for.” He breathed deeply.

“This was the one person she felt she could trust, with her life. This exotic stranger with the face she had seen only in her dreams.”

“She describes his face, in here, Catherine.” He held his hands over hers, as he indicated the pages. “My mind tells me I am reading what I want to read. But my heart tells me…” He shook his head. “Something else.”

Catherine kept her eyes steady on his face, not needing to read the words, just yet. “Yet she accepted this man. Better than I did. Better than the first time I saw your face…I keep thinking it. I’m so sorry, Vincent. My grandmother was a braver woman at seventeen, than I was, much later.”

Vincent disentangled their hands, and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Catherine, Kate’s face had not been cut to ribbons. And she had an advantage you did not. Her dream foretold what she would see. You were… surprised by my appearance. That is all. Believe me, your reaction was better than most of the people I catch unawares.”

“I made you regret what you were. You said as much, and I understood.” Her eyes were sad, with the memory.

He set his lips to her forehead, and she felt the whispered words. “Then you gave me cause to rejoice in what I was. What I am. If you take any of the blame, you must also accept the blessings. For I do bless you.” He brushed the skin with the barest kiss, and cupped her strong jaw with his huge, fearsome, yet gentle hand.

“I bless the terrible twist of your fate, which brought you to me. If a sin stands between us, it’s that one:  That the most horrible day of your life was, in its own incredible way, the turning point of mine. The end of my aloneness.”

Catherine’s eyes met his. “That wasn’t the most terrible day of my life,” she said in an unsteady voice. “The most terrible days of my life have been… any time I thought I was losing you.”

Her green eyes were huge. “We were in a safe place. But in a way, we were also struggling… with that very thing. If you ever chose to end us for good… even if the reasons are strong ones… I simply could not bear that.”

Kate’s revelations were forcing issues between them to the fore. Issues they had both allowed to remain dormant.

“I mean us to be closer. Nor farther apart,” Vincent whispered.

“Vincent…” her voice held concern. “My mother took… a long time to be able to have a child. If… if we can’t… I don’t want to know whose fault it is. But… could you bear that? Wanting what you want? Knowing how you feel, about… everything?”

Echoes of Rebecca and Ben shimmered along Vincent’s consciousness. “There will be no blame, between us,” he vowed.

She closed her eyes at his pronouncement, and accepted its promise. “I love you.” She said it simply, and kept herself close to him.

“And I, you. And I understand.” Vincent closed his eyes, absorbing what she was feeling and thinking, through their bond. Would he ever stop feeling blessed, by this incredible woman?

“Is the picture true, then?” she asked.

“I think, increasingly, that it is. Yes…” He sighed.

“Read it for yourself. Please.” He gathered up the pages he had been translating, pushing them in front of his love. “You have the right to know everything I do …”

I awoke, and rose from my pallet in the early evening, having been allowed to sleep all through the day. I went to check on my love. He still slept. I knelt down beside His blankets to examine Him. Thankfully His brow was cool, and His breathing was shallow, but even.

His wound looked clean, and did not need any fresh attention. The old man attending Him, frowned, but said nothing. He did not strike me as an evil man, though it was clear he had an opinion of me. Many of them probably did. Most seemed kind.

I sat back on my heels, allowing my love the healing power of sleep. God knows when we all could sleep so well, again.

I watched Him rest for some time, marvelling again at the dark beauty of His unusual features. I saw by the movement of His eyes behind the lids that He was dreaming. I hoped it was a good dream.

“Mon belle homme,” I whispered, for Him alone, kissing his cheek gently.

His eyes opened at my touch, and He stared hard at me. He frowned, seeming not to recognise me, at first. Then His brow cleared. His hand rose to caress the length of my hair, that hung over my shoulder.

"Katherine…it is you,” He whispered. “I almost did not know you…so fair. So belle.” He swallowed. His incredible eyes traced their way down my hair, then back up again. His unusual fingers wound themselves in my unruly tresses. “It would be such a great a sin to ever cut all this beauty away…”

His breath hitched, and then He said, ”There is a beach near Lisbon, with sand this very colour. Promise me, you will never cut it…"

His eyes drifted shut again, before I could think to comment. His hand slipped away from my curls, dropping back to His blankets.

I clasped it between mine, waiting for Him to speak again. But His breathing lengthened, and evened out, once more.

“I promise…” I fetched a sobbing breath, waiting for Him to respond. “But you must promise to get well for me…”

He did not respond, and slept on. I rose, finally, and moved away to the fire to prepare another poultice.

Some of His companions came to talk to me while we ate the evening meal. They had all decided some days before that it was now too dangerous for any of them to remain here. Father Damien had been a powerful enemy, and now his death would need to be avenged. No matter what, his passing would bring the area under even more scrutiny. Soldiers would be despatched and they would hunt for those responsible, guilty or not.

His people had formulated fresh plans, and only waited for my love to awaken, before putting them into action. They asked me if I thought it was safe for Him to travel some distance, to the coast. I gave my reluctant consent, knowing staying here could be more dangerous than leaving.

They then laid out their plans, and my heart leapt with sheer joy. It seems my dreams of seeing a life beyond the familiar were to come true, after all.

My Vincente and I are bound for distant shores. And, it seems, very different shores. Where all in our odd company are accepted, and none are questioned too closely about their origins.

Money buys disinterest, and all of us need that, now…

Catherine read the pages, and wept a little, as he held her. They were both taking it all in. She knew she had to go back to her office. But she also knew he would be on her balcony, that night.

“The next entry begins with the word you’ve been wanting to read. One your uncle must have translated.” He showed her.

“Pirates?” she asked.

“Pirates,” he confirmed. “I think your grandmother is finally coming to the New World.”

“You’ll come to me tonight, yes?” she said, feeling a strange sense of relief that it was all being confirmed.

“Though hell should bar the way,” Vincent replied. “We must finish this…”

Chapter Seventeen

There Be No Dragons, Here…

“Here be dragons…”

The Hunt-Lenox Globe, c. 1503

Late March, 1792

Pirates! The very notion of them should frighten me. But, Dear Diary, I have been through so much in these last two weeks, I barely raise a weary eyebrow, anymore.

I know I am heartily sick of this ship! This tiny craft which bobs up and down on the ocean like a cheerful cork, and does not count the cost to my terribly abused stomach! The crewmen have given me several recipes for mal de mar to add to my own, but I say here that so far, none of them are working!

I have spent a great deal of time standing with my head over the rail, staring into the heaving waves, as my stomach empties, much to the sailors’ delight. But their ribaldry is good-natured, and they mean no harm.

Dolphins swim often before the ship’s bow now. They watch me and seem to approve. The sailors named them for me. They said they are good luck.

The sleek sea-creatures dive and splash like children, without a care. They lead us ever onwards, towards a new world…The New World, Diary!

For we are going to America! I say that name beneath my breath. I still must pinch myself to believe it is all real. All of us from that dank cave found safety, and passage, upon the rolling bosom of the great ocean. It is truly as immense as I was told.

The sailors say we go to a wild, sometimes savage country. And all I can think is, “How much more savage could it be than what we left behind?”

We are worked hard as part of the hefty price of our passage. I help to cook and clean. But I do so with a glad and grateful heart.

Our powerfully-built captain (as dark as my love, though human-featured), will be exchanging fine French brandies and wines for cotton and furs when we reach the distant shore. Illicit trade goes on, regardless of the actions of governments and powerful warlords. People slip ashore in the New World, and no one asks their business.

In daylight, my Vincente bides His time below, in a narrow room we use as a cabin, waiting for the safe darkness of the night. It is only then when He may venture above decks in the lonely keep of the night’s watch.

He does not wish to be the object of speculation and gossip. Hearsay begets rumours, and the real truth becomes fluid, and dangerously distorted.

Sometimes I walk with Him. But I can only see a tiny part of what His keen eyes can determine. So He tells me of the heaving cast of the waves, and the beauty He knows is there, far beyond the black and stormy horizon.

Then He reminds me to look up. By God’s truth, you never saw so many stars. And the moon never looked more beautiful. Its serene beauty seems to beckon us on.

Vincente’s face is known to the ship’s captain, who is an old and trusted friend. They have contracted such delicate business before, it seems - smuggling the unfortunate, and the dispossessed, to new lives.

But always at a price. Vincente had the means to pay, and did so without a quibble, though He said the cost was very fair for such a large group of twelve people. He said the pirate captain owed Him a favour or two. Debts were called in, and a rich bargain accepted.

Was there truly honour to be found among such daring thieves?

When I am not being sick and my work in the ship’s galley is done, I am busy serving the men with their meals, and clearing away the dishes afterwards. They gossip, and I listen, though I do not understand every tongue.

Once my traitorous stomach settled, I began to take note of things said, which I would later relate to my love.

Some of the young sailors spoke of a blonde version of a beast man being seen living among the wild Indian tribes who inhabit the immense wilderness. They are said to have been seen where few white people dare to venture. Some say there is more than one…

Older sailors scoff, saying it’s just wild rumours.

Thanks to the plethora of Indian tribes, the New World is FULL of such tall tales of huge men, and giant deeds. Gold and silver are said to abound in the rivers and streams, there for the taking. If only a man has the courage…

The seasoned men stand and stretch, complaining they are too old for such foolishness. It is deemed bottle talk, and should stay thus.

When I spoke of this to my love, and asked if He had kin on this far-flung land, He frowned and shook His great head. “As you see, I am not yellow-haired. I am cast in a very different mould.” He turned His face to me, and pointed to the darkness of His features and person. “Such a man, if he exists at all, is not any brother of mine.”

He dismissed such wild talk as, perhaps such a blonde one could have been a Viking raider’s bastard, or the son he made with an Indian maiden he briefly took to wife. Such men are known to be giants, massively proportioned, and tall beyond measure. Perhaps he is a man like us, seeking the freedom he could not find anywhere else.

“Perhaps, my love,” He whispered, one night. “We may never know. Perhaps that is best.” Understanding what He had been trying to tell me all along, I went readily into His invited embrace and lay against His great heart, listening to it beat, only because of me. And I truly understood the great sin of pride, and rejoiced in it.

For I had saved my Vincente’s life. It was that simple…

“And so she did,” Vincent said, setting the entry in the increasingly large ‘completed’ sided of the pile. Catherine was writing in Daniel’s book almost as quickly as he was translating.

“I can’t imagine such a journey,” Catherine said.

“Nor can I,” Vincent replied, trying to imagine being all but trapped, inside a narrow room on a creaking ship, for the length of a trans-Atlantic voyage.

“We’re running out of the dated pages,” Catherine said, noting there were some of those, but not as many as there had been.

“This may be where your uncle ran into trouble, as well,” Vincent said, scanning several loose pages. He selected one.

“This goes with what we just read, but it happened before it.”

“The paper looks the same as the other ones she used on the ship. It’s tempting to think they are continuations of each other.”

Vincent tugged over her dictionary. “I want to do a little more, before I leave. Do you have work you must attend to?”

“I confess I do. Two dozen tenants swear the landlord is taking their money, even charging them extra, but there’s no hot water in the building, and the stairs are dangerous. They say that ice grows on the inside of the windows in the winter. I need to go through all their statements. See what I can find.”

“Go,” Vincent said, nudging her toward the very thick pile of legal documents which bulged the side pocket of her briefcase.

Catherine knew she had to tackle the job, considering she’d ditched work for over two hours, earlier that day.

“You’ll stay with me? Do some more diary work, then?” she asked.

“Right here. Near you,” he replied, making sure she had room on the table.

Catherine grimaced, as she tugged over her briefcase. “The weekend will feel like a Godsend.”

After midnight, curled in her bed, Catherine read Vincent’s summary, again. Could it even be possible?

Her great-grandmother had actually sailed to America, with someone, who appeared from her description, to be a man like Vincent. It beggared belief.

She had always considered Vincent unique, but a man nonetheless. A living being, who deserved the very best of everything life had to offer.

‘I was born, and I survived…’ Vincent had once said to her, when she’d asked about his mysterious origins.

“Perhaps, anything is truly possible, after all…” Catherine touched the translated words lightly. “But I have no idea what my father will make of any of this. Or even if I’ll show all of it to him…”

She turned the page and went on reading, anxious now to know the full truth…and all it could imply for her and Vincent’s dream of a life lived fully, together.

We saw some scrap of forest-clad land on the horizon, this morning, and birds flew above us. There are more dolphins than ever, playing at our bow. But we passed the island by and went on. The sailors said fierce cannibals lived there, and they did not welcome strangers, except to make a juicy meal of them!

So we watched the island slip from view, and once more we rode the restless waves ever onwards towards the distant horizon. Our ragged company knows a nagging longing to set foot upon solid ground, and forget this endless heaving.

My love must still hide His face from most of the crew, and stay below decks, until night comes. For His secret is one that still must be kept. But He is far from the first person to spend the voyage behind a door.

Other wealthy expatriates have made this crossing, fearing being recognized as either great nobility, or great traitors. The pirates do not care. All money spends, the same.

We only know that we can never again live in France. Mm Guillotine’s endless lust for fresh blood shows no sign of being satisfied, the sailors say. Both them, and the few other passengers.

Still, there are those in our company who worry. Some say there are only dragons dwelling beyond the edge of the horizon, waiting to devour the unwary. Even now, in this age of enlightenment, it is still believed by the ignorant.

Well, I say, there be no dragons here...

So, please be kind to us, America. For we stand sorely in need of a brave New World…

“There be no dragons here, either, Vincent…” Catherine said softly, finally setting the pages aside. She settled down to sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

A New World

“When the American spirit was in its youth, the language of America was different. Liberty, sir, was the primary object.”

Patrick Henry

May, 1792

After more than six weeks upon the ocean, we have finally arrived in New York City. I was not prepared for anything so big, or so noisy! Dear Diary, they bustle and chatter incessantly, night and day. It is all a body can do to find any respite in sleep!

My love healed well on the crossing. His stomach is more mannerly than mine! The pirates allowed us to stay on the ship until darkness fell, before we slipped ashore. My cloaked love kept to the midst of His people, and the ill-lit alleyways were dark, and sheltering to us.

Vincente (I can write his name at will, now we are free) halted me with a hand upon my arm as soon as we were safe, hidden ashore. His confession was that He had done many things to survive.

Most recently He had been haunting the highways and lonely places where foolish, wealthy men sometimes ventured. Men who had looted great fortunes of the dispossessed, for the rebellion, or for their own personal gain. Murderers. Charlatans who took from others, simply because they could, because there was no one left, to stop them. Horrible men, who killed the women for what remained of their jewellery, or the men, for their gold.

Vincente’s cave had become a place for refugees. And people who could tell where the evil men lurked. People who tried to help Him redress the balance in any way they could.

A highwayman’s life had been how He kept His people fed, and safe. The week we left, the pickings had been lean, but…

From deep inside His great cloak He produced what was left of the money He’d used to keep them all fed, and bring us here. A small pouch of jewellery remained, and a bag of coins, mostly silver, but some gold. Then, finally, He produced a battered chalice that had been flattened for easy concealment. Also a jewelled cross, crushed in upon itself. The Bishop’s missing treasure!

We all stared in disbelief. No-one would be going hungry that night!

“These could not be sold in France, without drawing the attention of the authorities. Here, it is a different matter,” He said.

My smile was bright, as one of His comrades clapped Him on the back. Vincente passed coins into his hand, that he might go and buy us food.

“Then it was you,” I said, my voice breathless with wonder.

“Your Bishop was taking from everyone. A greedy fool who robbed all he could find, to pay for these. He attacked me, so I was forced to lay him low,” Vincente explained.

“He fell and broke his arm. As his guards carried him away, he screamed that he would soon have his revenge.”

He shrugged His unconcern, and tucked the bounty away. It would be divided, later.

I did not know how long such money would last, divided among the large lot of us. But I knew it was good to not be utterly penniless, on this foreign shore.

His fingers then dipped inside the dark velvet bag that seemed to hold some small pieces of jewellery.

“Now, this is for you.” He deftly pocketed the little pouch, before holding out a small, golden ring.

“There is safety to be found in being a respectable, married woman, or even a widow, fleeing the troubles in France with her family. No one will question you too closely. I will keep out of sight, and no one will know if your husband is with you. We will come together only at night.”

It was necessary, I knew that, but still my heart quailed. To have come so far…

Before I could speak, He took my hand between His and slipped the ring over my knuckle. It warmed my chilled skin, and glowed softly, in the darkness. “It will grant you whatever protection marriage gives, among these people,” He said, quietly, touching my cheek with His fingers. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Does this mean you’re married?” A small, dark head intruded between us. “I like weddings,” the little girl cooed in delight.

“You need a priest for that. Thankfully, we don’t have one of those here,” her father admonished her, and no more was said.

~ ~ ~

Incredibly, we have found a modest premises to rent, where we can all live in the small rooms above an abandoned shop. Not everyone who ventured to the New World decided to stay. And what they left behind could be had for no more than a promise to maintain the property, plus an adequate amount of silver. So we can all live in the small rooms above the place where I will set up my very own chandlery, making special candles, soaps, and curatives.

Many here make their own candles and lotions. But they will soon see that mine are exceptional, and are worth the modest price I will set.

It is cramped and we live on top of each other. Twelve people living in three rooms is not ideal, but we have our freedom, so no one complains. It will soon be made into a home.

~ ~ ~

We exist on the edge of the city, where we make and sell my candles, and no one thinks to question a poor French wife/widow, who lives frugally with her extended family and some few friends, and bothers no one.

But I create beauty as well, and my fame is spreading. Everyone, it seems, wishes to own one of my carved candles.

Faithful replicas of my beautiful Christ figure are becoming highly sought after by the wealthy ladies of the city…

Oh, and yes, when pressed, I could say my *husband* is anything from a sailor, to a trapper, to an explorer. Rumours abound, but they have not yet approached me for the answers. Even in this brave, new world, I am only a woman.

So many of our friends come and go, it’s assumed one of the men must be my husband. Those who have at least pierced that they are not… well. I must been seen to be waiting patiently, for His return. I am modest in my person, and cause no one to gossip. I am often spoken of as “a good-wife”. It seems there can be no higher praise…

If I am pressed for answers, I wave an apologetic hand. “My English…” I emphasize my accent for effect. And shrug my shoulders, in the French style.

I pretend my English is not very good, though I am learning, and grow in confidence every day. I understand more than I speak. Even though I still write in French in your pages, my Diary, some new words of English now slip from my pen.

The children, running wild in the streets of the city, are my teachers. Little sponges all, they soak up this new culture as if they have been born to it! They find their impudent way into anything and everything.

We must see that they are schooled. But lessons are expensive, and getting any of them to stay still for long, is an ongoing challenge. I teach them, where and when I can, being the most literate among our group.

Serving in the shop, I overheard once that Vincente is a Huron warrior. ”No, he’s a Seneca, a civilised Indian. Not some heathen savage! Madame Chandler would not allow!”

I smiled behind the shield of my lace handkerchief, and went about my business, pretending not to understand. I do not know when my profession, written in bold legend above the shop doorway, became mine own identity. “Chandler,” it says.  And it is taken as my name, as well as my vocation.

Once given, it would not allow me to deny. Who else could I be, now?

“’Madame Chandler, how much for this carved rose?’  Or ‘Madame Chandler, your white tapers are so very fine.’  Or ‘Good Mistress, the Chandler, are these Christ figures carved by you?  Such art!’  Or ‘Madame Kate, my little one suffers the grippe. Might you have a medicine sachet, for her? Or some scented candle? They speak of your chandler’s skill…’”

And so now I am known by the thing I loved to do, always. Kate, the candle-maker, it is fitting…

Some say I am a nobleman’s daughter, others a poor peasant farmwife.  Still others have me pegged as a midwife, and one, as a simple nun. Though the latter is closest to correct, I confirm little, and work hard, all the while hearing the language I must learn more of.

And if anything, the rumours about my “husband” are more varied than the ones about me. “No! He’s not an Indian,” came a customer’s certain reply. “He’s a French nobleman who’s been dispossessed of his lands, and is trying to regain his fortune trading furs. He will be home any day now. Madame awaits in pious certainty.”

I raised my brows at that one. It was as if I did not exist, and no one thought to ask me the truth. Are those who cannot speak the native tongue always thought to be invisible?

“Well, I heard he’s a proud Spaniard fleeing the remnants of the Inquisition. He speaks to no one, because he speaks no English.” That one got my attention. It was nearer to the truth than the customer ever knew. For my love is from Portugal, and very proud of his heritage.

In the evening, my Vincente brings home game for our table, and at supper we always tell Him the rumours of the day. And He tells us of the wild, beautiful land which spreads far outside our door. And sometimes of the natives, He meets.

They do not fear Him, saying He is a spirit who walks like a man, and brings them good fortune. They vie with each other, like the children in our group, for His undivided attentions. Vincente hunts with them, and they have made an honoured space for Him at their council fires.

Sometimes, late in the night, when the others are all abed and the house is quiet, He tells me stories of His travels, or reads me poetry by candlelight. But He shares little of His own personal story. He named the country of his birth, and the monastery they named Him for, but it was all He would say.

He sleeps near me, as He did on the ship. His is a pallet on the floor. He is always close, but we do not share a bed through the night, as others in our group do. Lovers are being married, and children are then born. But yet, I wait...

My saviour will not speak of a future with me, though I know His love is true. It is as if He cannot believe in a day that will see us as one, even though I think He longs for it as much as I.

Last night He related to me the Persian fairy tale of the nightingale that fell in love with a white rose. A romance forbidden by their God, but they did not listen, and from that illicit union came the red rose. A beauty their master had never meant the world to see. I wept for the tragic beauty of the story, held safe within the strong shelter of my love’s arms.

We have a corner of the largest room to ourselves, and a blanket to hang over a rail at night, for a small measure of privacy. It must be enough.

I do wish it could be more, but for now, we must abide…

Catherine assembled all the diary pages carefully. She had sorted them into order as well as she could. Some of the dates they had guessed at.

She glanced at her wristwatch. Vincent would be here soon, to help her with collating them. A three day weekend stood before her.

She felt as if she had run a marathon, and yet it also felt as if she had been standing still.

For the three years she had known and loved Vincent. She smoothed her hands across the assembled pages. It seems that the time had finally come to make a radical change in both their lives.

Either that, or to accept that they were all they were ever going to be, to each other.

Like Vincent, on the one hand she had great hope. And on the other, she knew any outcome was possible, even a negative one.

Chapter Nineteen

A Map is Not Permission

“It is better to beg forgiveness, than ask permission.”

Grace Murray Hopper

Vincent, meanwhile, was similarly conflicted, as he refused to budge from his writing table.

The ongoing rumours about my husband are allowed to fly, and everybody thinks they’ve got the correct story, and of course I just nod, smile, and go to church on Sundays, making sure to tithe just the right amount.

Then I offer healing remedies, soaps and candles, to my customers, on Monday.

The money from my carved candles increases every week. I am now teaching others my skills, to keep pace with the demand. Soon we will need to look for a larger shop. Perhaps a house of our own…

But, above all else, my love is my business and no other’s. I turn the golden ring He placed upon my finger. I lie within His embrace at night and smile, listening to His voice as He reads to me. I feel Him tuck the blanket around me as I drift off to sleep, and I hear Him settle on the pallet near mine. And, with Him so near, I often dream...

I dream of the day He will be truly mine, and I His…

I cannot wait for that day to finally arrive! I fancy that I must find a love potion, again, but I think none of the old recipes will work, for one so special. I long to draw Him closer…

But my love is stubborn. I experiment with certain fragrances, touched to my wrist, and behind my ears. I think He knows I am trying to draw Him to me, though He resists. There are some scents He prefers, and some He does not.

We shall have to see what else I can concoct from new herbs to be found in this land.

Our life is changing. We do not know where our limits are. Last night I showed Him my scent bottles, and we both knew I was trying to tease Him, in my own way.

“Do you like the rose, best, or the lavender?” I asked Him, holding up each bottle to His very sensitive nose.

He can detect the tiniest fraction of any scent. It is how He knew I used jasmine in my oils, the first time we met.

But now, rather than replying, He put the covers on both.

“Katherine… I know what it is you wish. But there are things we must speak of. Powerful things that will affect us both.”

“Lily of the Valley?” I teased. But His face became so grim, I knew this was no time for jesting.

“Katherine… you are beautiful. And I will always stay near you, always protect. But…”

“But…?” I prompted. I sensed such torment from my poor love!

“But… you are so young. And beyond fair. You have a skill to make a new life in this place. I already know my place. It is out there…” His hand swept out, indicating the great, green forest that could be seen from our bedroom window. “What can a man like me offer a woman such as you?”

“A new life, together,” I prompted, giving Him my best smile. It hung on my lips, feeling brittle and forced. “Cedar-wood, perhaps? I know you like that one,” I prattled on, as if He had not spoken of painful things.

He shook His great head, and remained so sad-looking, I did not know what to think. “Katherine… this new life. This new world… You can tell them you are widowed. If I step back, you would yet have a chance at happiness, with another. A man featured as all men should look…” His eyes lingered on the forest, outside our window.

“No!” I confess that I jumped to my feet so fast, the bottles were scattered across the table. I should leave Him? He should leave me?  Unthinkable!

“But… we love each other!” I could barely choke out the words. Tears swam before my eyes, and His beloved face blurred, lost to them. To think that I would never see Him more! I would die!

I had to make Him hear me. ”I know we belong together!” I grabbed His beautiful hands. His beautiful, terrible hands. The hands which saved me. The hands which will always … save me. If only He would allow it to be so…

I reached for my courage, and found only bitter sorrow. To think of a life without Him! “No.” I shook my head, and could say only that word. My only word of refusal to Him. And it was given in love, and with my whole heart.

He must have felt the depth of my pain. Or perhaps it simply mirrored His own. My eyes still shimmered at His forlorn words. I could not help it.

His voice was low, in the room. “I have injured you, twice, now. Once when I saved you from the ruffians, and once when my nails pierced the shoulder of your gown, when I was shot. You were so brave that day. But I don’t think I ever put tears in your eyes… until now?” He touched a fearsome nail to my white face, and caught a diamond, from my cheek.

“I don’t think you ever truly hurt me… until now. Please stop. Please, never let us speak of such things, again. I cannot bear it.” I shook my head, in negation. I couldn’t help it.

He beheld my tears, and I saw the choice, in His eyes. He looked once more at the deep forest. And then He looked at me.

“I will stop. I will say it, no more. If this is your will, then I will make it my own.”

I was made to feel content. But my tears took a long time in drying…

Ben looked into the Chandlery. “Hey, ‘Becca. Have you seen Vincent, today? He’s missing from work detail. They sent Mouse to get him, but he came back saying ‘Vincent said, couldn’t come. He’s too busy.’ That’s not like him.”

Rebecca glanced up. “I’ve been in here all morning. I haven’t seen anyone but you, for hours.” She went on dipping tapers with fluid ease.

Ben strolled to her side, and slid one arm around her shoulders. “Did I ever tell you, you look really gorgeous when you’re all warm and glowing?” he teased, nuzzling into her curls.

Getting no response, beyond an impatient sigh, he leaned down to kiss her. Rebecca responded briefly, before pulling back, and shoving him gently in the shoulder.

“Look out! You’re making a mess, and my wax is getting cold.” She laughed lovingly, rising to hang the tapers to dry. “Please, go and annoy someone else, for now. Keep all that honey for later.” She dropped her lashes coyly. “Maybe it’s time we had another date night, in the bathing chamber. Just the two of us…”

“Okay…” Ben breathed. “I guess I’ll go down to Vincent’s chambers, and interrupt him, instead.” He waved a hand. “I’ll be seeing you, later…”

June, 1792

My love seems to have resigned Himself to remaining with us. I pray it is for good. I wish with all my being for no more talk of His leaving for that great wilderness that beckons beyond the city limits. Once free and running, I dread He may never look back again. The world is so large. There are so many possibilities, out there…

There is a sense of a great wildness in Him, which thirsts to be unchained. It is almost as if another being lives with Him, beneath His own skin. But He does not share that side of Himself with me.

I only know His mood has become contrary and puzzling. He watches me, as if I am a complex riddle for His solving. I smile as best I can, and go about my business, keeping my thoughts to myself.

In desperation, I take the time to anoint my body with the essence of night-flowering jasmine, a costly and expensive oil. So I am forced to use only a little. I hope it will be enough. I wish to evoke powerful memories.

The rose scent my love favours, I keep at hand, just in case. I secret the tiny bottles within the pocket of my kirtle, where I may find them quickly, if I ever have need of them at any time.

But my wait seems to be in vain. His deepening silence has become deafening. I have almost given up. Almost… But, then my love truly surprised me with a stunning gift.

He purchased a bed for us, today. It is hand-made and very handsome, with a real feather mattress. He smiled when I chided Him over the expense we could not afford. An old straw mattress would surely suffice.

He said we needed a warm nest if we are to survive our first winter. My poor heart soared! He had chosen to stay for the coldest months of the year! Surely this was a sign of better things to come…

And He also said He would be sure to make the bed pay its way. This last left me confused, and more than a little intrigued. We have a large fireplace, and enough dry wood to burn. What need did we have of such a wide and deep bed?

We have said no more about joining our lives, since what I can only describe as our one quarrel. But He stays near. And I think I am starting to sense His wants, as my own. Such an odd feeling, that, and it is different than what I thought I felt when we were in France, even as it is the same.

He keeps much of Himself contained, as if held on a fraying tether. Once more, I sense that same wild spirit in Him, and understand about that turbulent life-force wanting to run.

Will it run to me? Or away, into that great forest? Though I think I know the answer, I also know some measure of fear. What would I be, without Him?

And then I am only left to wonder: Is it His fear I am tasting? Or mine own?

~ ~ ~

Ben came into the chamber without calling out, or otherwise announcing his presence. It was a gesture that would otherwise have been considered rude, to enter another’s chamber without asking some sort of permission.

Vincent became aware of him when his slender shadow cast itself across the table.

Vincent knew he was late. Again. And likely to become more so.

Steady brown eyes regarded the chaos before him, scattered across the desk.

The larger man expected some sort of rebuke, and knew it was richly deserved.

Ben simply inhaled. Whatever it was Vincent thought the other man was about to say, it wasn’t what he said.

“You know, my old man used to beat the crap out of me, regular,” Ben stated, as he turned the chair around that Catherine had used, recently, and straddled it.

Vincent set down his pen. His hand was cramping, he’d been writing so steadily.

“I know,” he replied. “I’m sorry, Ben. That shouldn’t have happened.” Vincent flexed his fingers.

Ben shrugged. “Wasn’t nothing I wasn’t used to, by then. Not all of ‘em broke my nose.”

Vincent remembered the scared, angry, yet often quiet young adolescent Ben had been.  A little older than Vincent, he’d tried to find a safe place to sleep in the park one night, and had been brought down by Eli. Father had bandaged him. He’d never returned.

“There was never enough money for booze, and the rent. Somehow, that meant I was gonna get a whuppin’. Or there was enough money for booze. Which also meant I was gonna get a whuppin’.”

Vincent nodded, not sure what this had to do with his current situation, but he content to listen, if the other man wanted to talk.

“The thing about getting’ told you ain’t good enough for this or that, is even if you don’t believe it, you can’t not hear it,” Ben said, tugging a page over to himself. The French dialect might as well have been written in Chinese, for all he could understand. He pushed it back.

“All this don’t mean nothing to me. But it’s plain it means somethin’ to you,” Ben said, keeping Vincent’s blue eyes trained on his own brown ones.

Vincent nodded. “Catherine’s ancestor. She was… unique. And she loved someone. Someone who was perhaps… like me.”

Ben touched the pages again, but could glean no more from them than he had, before. He shrugged almost casually, as if the stunning information was all but unremarkable.

“If it’s so, it’s so,” he replied. “You can’t change what must be. Or what has been before.”

He drummed on the back of the chair, a moment, calling up a memory. “That night I went to Winterfest, I knew ‘Becca was for me. I don’t know how I knew, but I just did. I was almost sixteen to ‘Becca’s thirteen, and there was a world’s difference of experience, between us. I knew it meant I’d have to wait. I knew it meant a lot of things. Patience was not one of my virtues, but I learned.”

Ben rose from the chair, and flipped it back around, so it would be usable by its next occupant.

“I’d been told I was… nothin’… too many years to count. But ‘Becca, well. ‘Becca was somethin’. And there was a voice inside me that told me she was too perfect, and that she was a somethin’ I should never try to have.”

The blue eyes flickered. “And did you listen to that voice?” Vincent asked, knowing he hadn’t.

“I did, actually,” Ben confessed. “Like I said. You couldn’t not hear it. I just listened to the one that said ‘Go get her,’ louder.”

“It’s okay, Vincent.” Ben backed away. “I’ll cover your shift. You got things you have to do. Right?”

“Thank you, Ben. You and Rebecca… you have both been most generous, with us.”

Ben moved to leave, but indicated the diary pages with a jerk of his head.

“Vincent… Use it for a map, if you think you need to,” Ben said. “Some kind of guide, maybe,” he allowed. “But don’t use it for permission.”

Vincent watched his friend leave.

Is that what I’m doing? What we’re doing? he wondered. Asking permission?

He had no clear answer, and he sat there for some time, before picking up his fountain pen, and continuing his methodical translation.

He didn’t want to misrepresent a single, revealing word, or telling phrase.

But his fractured thoughts were not entirely on the task at hand…

Use it for a map. But not for permission. The words echoed, even as he worked.

~ ~ ~

Our small band of helpers and friends had all gone to the docks this evening, looking for any family who may have escaped France on the latest ship to dock, today. My love and I were alone, and the hour seemed late.

He’d bid me close the shop, for the lack of customers, and come to bed where we may be warm. He’d said He would read to me.

That is a sweet pleasure I could not deny. His voice is His most abiding beauty, and I never tire of hearing Him speak.

Diary, you are the only one I can tell. How can I begin to make the words, which will say it all? But I must try. I must. My heart is too full, to lose all that contains it.

Mon belle homme…my Vincente took my hand and led me up the staircase. Only a small fire had been lit, more for light than warmth, and the room was close-shadowed and cosy. Curtains of bleached flour sacks sewn together, covered the only window.

He bid me sit on the bed while He knelt and removed my shoes, before frowning as He studied my stockings. I did not comment, but watched Him.

After a time, I reached beneath my skirts, and removed the woollen hose for Him, rolling them down and off my feet. It was easier than sitting on the bed, waiting for whatever He had in mind.

I looked up from my simple task, not daring to speak, for fear of breaking His strange mood. He seemed intent on my comfort above all else. I waited to see what He would do next. I looked towards the book on the bedside table, but He did not touch it.

Usually, Vincente would draw me between the sheets with Him, and we would cuddle beneath the warmth of our black bearskin cover until exhaustion claimed me. His voice, quietly reading to me, always gave me over to deep sleep.

One recent morning, I awoke to find myself still cradled in His embrace. His eyes were open, and He was watching me sleep. My breath shuddered, even as surprise kept me quiet and still. I could feel His heart beating against my cheek.

I did not wish to move. Even though it was past time for me to go below, summoned once more to my day’s labours. The morning sunshine was strong at the window, indicating the lateness of the hour. I could hear voices below, in the shop. But still I did not stir. The busy world beyond the bed no longer existed for me.

Had He simply held me all night, then? Awake and… what? Thinking?

I wanted to ask Him. But when I moved to sit up, He avoided my eyes. He said nothing. Not a single word about his thoughts or feelings.

Knowing I was awake, He simply pushed back the covers and rose. Leaving me alone, bereft and confused. I had shivered in the sudden chill.

Tonight, for a moment, I wondered if that was what was about to happen, again. He seemed so… intent. I longed to lie again in His great arms, and listen to his heartbeat.

But no, not tonight.

He rose from his task to stand before me, His eyes fixed on mine. It was as if He was silently begging for my permission. For what, I did not know, then. Not truly. How could I?

Then, I saw the look in his eyes, clear, and pure. And more… I felt it, in my heart.

“We have but an hour or two, before they return,” He said. “I wish…”

“Hush…” I rose then, placing my fingers across His unique mouth, sealing His unspoken fears within. “I am yours, and you are mine. It will always be so…”

“I know…” He nodded, taking my hand within His, bringing them to rest against the fastenings of His shirt. “You must know this, my love. Fate has always been mine enemy. I must warn you, I have not been fashioned as other men…”

“That is the very reason I love you,” I replied, my fingers making swift work of His buttons.

My virgin heart was beating so fast it felt sure to choke me. I finally understood His need to purchase our bed. He was bolder than me. This was his way of asking. And now, the choice would be mine, had to be mine. If only I possessed the courage to continue…

“I wish we had more time…” I whispered, as I pushed aside the two halves of His shirt.

Exposed to my deeply curious gaze for the first time, His chest was covered in fine, dark hair. Thick and curling, it arrowed down, towards the band of His breeches. Strong masculine darkness met my wondering gaze everywhere, in the flickering firelight.

Beneath its fine covering, His body was as powerful and sculptured as I imagined the Gods of old to be. Great muscles flexed to the command of mine eyes, and His pale skin ran with shivers.

He stood still, His hands hanging at His sides, strong nails curled into His palms. It truly was as if some great beast had come before me, trapped by its own wish not to take flight and flee.

My heart quailed that it had been so for Him, all His life. A maiden’s soft caress I doubt He had ever known. But I did not ask.

Having gazed my fill, I looked up into His dark visage. He still watched me like a hawk, gauging my every move by some standard of His own. As if He had still to trust me fully with all His secrets…

“We only have an hour or two…” I repeated His words to Him.

I laid my hand over His heart, and felt it pounding, as if He had just run some great race. I smiled, and He answered me in kind. Relief flooded His green eyes, which glowed in the firelight.

“It is enough…” He heaved a mighty sigh.

His hands went to the laces that fastened my work gown at my shoulders, undoing them swiftly, even as my own hands dealt with removing His shirt, to expose more of what I wished, with all my heart, to finally have laid bare before me…

Beneath my seeking hands, His skin was warm, warmer than mine. Though who could say if that was how nature made Him or if I was trembling, not with cold, but... wanting?

The dark hair of His body lays deeply, in places, and my glorious wolf has a pelt that makes my fingers itch to caress it, yet His fine throat is exposed to me, as bare as any man’s.

It was only when I watched Him swallow did I realise He was as nervous as I, and oh, did I long to place my lips against His Adam’s apple! There, His pale skin looked to be finer than silk.

His long hair remained bound by its leather thong at the nape of His neck, and the tops of His magnificent shoulders were mine, for the viewing. The place I’d often laid my head was now open to see, and the power of His arms was to be enjoyed fully.

There was an old, jagged scar, up near his shoulder, not far from where He had so recently been shot. It looked to be an animal bite. Something from long ago. Something large had grappled with the man about to become my husband, in all the ways there were.

“Something bit you,” I gasped, my eyes transfixed. And I felt stupid. What an inane thing to say.

“It wasn't you,” He said, in that voice which always makes my knees utterly weak. “It was only a hungry bear, who wanted to eat me for supper.”

My eyes sought His, and I swear His grew lighter, by the firelight, as if they were absorbing all the light in the room. Their grey-green, colour reminded me of that unique shade of the roiling Atlantic, the day we approached New York Harbour.

I’ll now always associate that colour with coming home. To the only place I truly belong…

“We may change that, my love…” Was that my voice, making so ... wanton a promise? “I too, have teeth…and I am very hungry.”

He caught His breath, on a startled inhale, and the barrel chest that had help bear me away from the hell that France had become, seemed to grow even larger, before my wondering eyes.

He was hesitant at first, and I teased Him that was my role. But He looked at me so sincerely, and with such great love in His storm-coloured eyes! He had misgivings, and did not hesitate to share them.

“This will change us,” He said. “Even after all that has come before, this will change us. It will bind us forever. Irrevocably,” He told me solemnly, as if He were frightened for me. I think He meant it as a warning.

“So be it…” I took it as a joy, and held it to my breast, even as I wished to hold Him there…

Yet He stood so still, waiting. Waiting for me to act upon my bold words. I know that, now.

“I feel what you are feeling,” He whispered, and He had to close his eyes, or be rocked back from it.

I thought He would reach for the fastening of his breeches, but He reached for my hand, instead.

“It is for you to do,” He whispered, drawing my hand forward to the simple draw-tie. “For you, and only you.” He smiled, lovingly giving me complete control of His body, and of His desire. “Always…”

“My Vincente…” My loving, yet inexperienced hand brushed Him, through His clothing. “Mon belle homme…” I finally gave Him my secret title.

“Belle..?” He whispered, raggedly. “Merci, mon petite…”

“Always…” I smiled, even as I watched Him through the shield of my lashes, seeing His bemusement.

How He trembled! How I did, as well! I cradled the hard shape of Him, and His great arms came around me. He pulled me to Him and moaned, and I knew His pleasure as my own.

He must have feared I would be overwhelmed by Him, for He set me back from Him, the barest pace. The back of His hair-covered hands brushed my cheek, talons tracing across my skin with infinite care.

“Have mercy, ma Belle. For my need is great, and you tempt me so…”  His hand traced down my arm, stopping to caress the scars on my upper arm, before He covered my hand, with His own, keeping me against Him. He surged against my touch, and I longed to free Him.

“Love thy servant,” He implored me, as I untied the fastening of His breeches.

“There are no servants here,” I whispered, holding His most fevered skin.

I blushed furiously, at my boldness, and brushed my fingers along His silken length, learning to know Him in all his glory. There was no touch I gave which did not make Him moan, or sigh. Raw heat and latent power lay within my emboldened grasp.

“I am burning…” We both said it, together. Because we knew it was true.

Unable to prolong the torture, He laid me back gently upon the bed, moving to lay beside me. In the firelight, His warmth surrounded me and encompassed me.

Soon, as bare as the naked desire we both felt, nothing stood between us and our final union…and there are no words to describe my new being…

I must sleep now. Must put out the candle, and rest. Next to my husband.

Our stolen hour has passed…

~ ~ ~

I am a maid no longer...not in body, or spirit. I can say those words, thanks to my love. The welcome joy of His body held deep within mine in no way resembled the torture which Father Damien had described to me so vividly, in that hateful confessional.

Truly I feel as if I have grown wings, so high into the night did we fly together. If only we had been blessed with more time…I would do it all again, uncounted times. My body so craves the beauty of His…

Dressed once more against intrusion, He held up my hand with its gold band. “This is now real,” He said, turning the ring slowly. “We have no need of a priest’s blessing, nor any man’s.”

“Then I am content,” I reassured Him. “Read to me, my love, please…”

He was doing just that when our friends returned, quiet, and respectful, as if they all knew what had happened. They had given us all the time they could.

I could not stop smiling, and as each of their candles went out, and I heard their own soft murmurs, my love still whispered love-poetry, in my ear, from His book.

As He turned the page, I pushed my leg between His thighs, beneath the covers, and behind our blanket wall, so that the other occupants of the room would not see. I moved it gently against His quiescent manhood, and felt the hiss of His breath between His tightly drawn lips, as His body hardened anew against mine.

“Witch…” He muttered, into my hair, the book falling to the covers.

“Mayhap…” I teased, moving my leg once more, before He stilled it with an iron grip upon my thigh.

“Another time…” He rasped, his taut, emotional control sounding whisper-thin. “Pray to your God, that it will be soon…” His fingers smoothed to the junction of my thighs and His seeking touch made me tremble. His revenge was so sweetly tempting…

“Soon…” He withdrew His hand from my quivering body, and picked up His book. His point had been made.

“I will pray…” I whispered, settling happily against His chest, once more.

I sighed, knowing a great battle had been fought and won. Delight moved through my body. I smiled my woman’s smile against His neck. Another snatched hour had best present itself, and soon…

Father took an agitated turn around his chamber. “You truly think, that you and Catherine have a future? Together? After all you have read and grasped about Kate Chandler, and her lover?” The old man spread his hands. “From what you have told me, they did not have an easy life. He had to hide away from being seen.”

“It could have been far worse.” Vincent turned with him, watching his father closely. “They could have died alone and lonely, without ever finding each other. They had a life, Father. That is the difference. They chose to step forward into the light, and made it work for them.”

“Those were different times, Vincent.” Father threw in his next objection. “There was room enough then, to hide such a terrible secret. But now…” He raised his shoulders.

“Use it for a map, if you need to. But don’t use it for permission…”

“Your objections are noted, Father.” Vincent went to him, taking him by the shoulders. “But Catherine and I would rather have your understanding, if not your blessing.”

I am not asking your permission, for this. I can’t. Please understand. I love you, too.

Father’s breath hitched with surprise. “It really means that much to you both?”

“If we must go on without it, then so be it,” Vincent replied evenly. “But yes, it does.”

“Vincent…” Father paced to his chair and sat down heavily. “Sometimes you… exasperate me. But others… you humble me, and make me think. Perhaps this two hundred year old story has taught me the value of love, against all the odds.”

“As you and Margaret never had?” Vincent approached him, placing a kiss into the old man’s hair.

“We were never given the chance,” Jacob replied heavily. “Her father was a powerful autocrat who ruled his family with a rod of iron. He would never have agreed to…” His voice trailed off, suddenly seeing the point his son was making. “Ah, Vincent. Hoist firmly with mine own petard?”

He rose from his chair to enfold his son in a close embrace. “I taught you to play chess, and even something about how to love. How to be everything you could be in this very judgmental world. You may have my blessing, for what it’s worth.” He sighed. “I truly must be getting old…”

“Thank you, Father,” Vincent acknowleged, smiling.

My last confession (for now)

Now is the morning after the night, and it was our night, and I am forever changed. Those sisters at the convent, who live in fear of this sublime act, live wrongly, though I am no longer there to tell them so.

Was there ever a man as sweet and patient as mine? Was there ever anyone with more tenderness? I think the depth of His gentleness surprised Him more than it did me, and I swear His tears were falling on my neck, before our hour was done. His sweet release, echoing within mine, was strong enough to rock us deeply within our feather nest.

Acceptance of one’s own self alone, is a hard-won battle, one which some chose not to fight. To find the other half of our mutual souls, is indeed a gift from God.

The shifting sands of fickle fate threw us together. So be it, together we shall always remain.

I wanted the night to never end, this night we both came to understand had to happen, for us. We now accept, each of us, who and what the other is. Love dictates our course. We will accept no other master.

Now, we can never be apart. And in my heart… there is only joy.

February, 1798

This then is the bed in which our four sons were conceived and born. The bed which will always hold the memory and the beauty of the man I love beyond everything.

He lies beside me now, sleeping. I know the hour is late, but I plan to awaken Him soon, when I finally put you aside, Dear Dairy.

Writing in you now is more of a luxury, than a necessity. My life is full, as are my days, and nights.

I am at peace. In this new house, in this new life. We have our own room, and we have enough for our needs. More than enough. We now help others to find their way, in this ever-growing city.

I even have a small rose garden outside our back door. A place where I tend the plants others gift to me, or remove from the great wilderness beyond the city. I no longer hate working in the garden. Such a difference, when the garden is your own to plan and tend.

I grow borders of forget-me-nots, so they will remind me of all I have left behind. And all I have now. I pressed a butterfly from their tiny petals, and added it to my diary.

The roses are so beautiful. All the flowers are. And yet, it’s the roses I caress, and return to. They smell different, from the other flowers, and even different from each other.

Their mingled scents often drift into our bedroom in the summer nights, when the windows are thrown wide open to the breeze. My favourites will always be those wild and red. Also the white ones, which my love says stand for the purity and beauty of my soul…I think He jests, but His beautiful face is always solemn.

It is in that garden that He can roam free in daylight, and though He also loves the forest beyond it, I know it is our rose bush He treasures. Red blooms with white, against everything the God of the Persians intended.

And I thought I heard a nightingale sing, that first night. Mayhap it was only my imagination, or perhaps a sign…for I was sure then, that I was pregnant…

Despite the intervening years, Vincente still brings me the blooms from our rose bush, and begs me to keep their fragrance in my oils.

As if He needs to beg! I would do anything for my love. Our souls are so well matched now, it is almost as if we are one…

~ ~ ~

Last week, my love ordered a gown to be made for me. It was a gift for my twenty-fourth birthday. I do admit I had forgotten the date, but He had not.

He presented the box to me, as I was closing the chandlery for the day. I was so touched by his thoughtfulness, I was lost for words for several moments. A sight that my love seemed to find very amusing.

By necessity, the present was put aside until my chores were done. It tantalised me all evening, as I fed our children, and asked them to go to bed, early.

They protested long and loud, wanting to see what their father had bought for me, but they finally consented to go their room. I sensed young eyes watching us as we retired to our own bedroom, and closed the door.

Once there, Vincente again handed me the box, and asked me to open it. I did as I was bid, and beauty met my disbelieving eyes.

I dipped into the folds of blue material, and held my present up to the light. My throat closed tight with unshed tears. It was the first new gown I had ever owned. I was so touched, it was all I could do to stop from crying.

“How have I upset you?” He demanded to know. “Tell me.”

“It’s only because I already have all I could wish for,” I whispered. “You, and our children. This is too much.”

“Katherine, you give too much, and ask for too little,” He said, watching me hold the dress to my bosom. “You deserve everything, and more.”

I sniffed. “I wish…” I could not finish.

He saw my wistfulness, and I knew He sensed the trend of my thoughts. His hand touched my cheek. “We’ll be daughtered, yet, ma Belle. I have enough sons, for now.” He wiped away the tears that escaped my eyes.

It was a sweet promise, and I planted a kiss in his palm.

“Fate, and God, will decide. But I am content.” I smiled through my tears as I kissed Him.

We settled for that. He went on to say He did not know the date of His own birth, so He was doubly happy to celebrate mine, with me.

“Merci, my love. And my dress is very beautiful.”

I held it out. The gathered sleeves were trimmed with white lace that would fall to my wrists, and the collar was ruffled. I confess I spent some time before the mirror in our bedroom, simply turning and gazing at my reflection.

My love retired to watch me from our bed. From there He made His next revelation. “The blue is for the forget-me-nots you gather. And the russet red is from the roses you love so much. So, your new dress says that I love you, and I'll never forget you. Not if I live to be one hundred years.”

“Nor I…” I turned to look at Him, the hem of the dress whispering softly about my ankles. Was there any man more considerate and caring?

“Would you like me to wear it for you? Or … not wear it for you?” I asked, seeing the light come immediately into his jade eyes.

“It is for you to choose. Still,” He replied huskily, watching me enjoy my lovely gift.

I nodded, understanding what we both wanted in that moment. But then I always did.

Slowly, making sure to keep His gaze fixed on me, I began to fold my new dress. I smoothed it out carefully, before laying it across the blanket box at the foot of the bed.

Then I moved towards my love, slowly shedding my work gown and under-things as I walked to Him.

He never looked away, even as He began to undress. I made it to the bed before my knees gave way entirely. His strong arms welcomed me into His close embrace, as they always will. Always…

My love was thanked very well that night…

~ ~ ~

At other times He brings His wild friends to our door, to break bread with us, and swap stories. These are the native peoples who inhabit the wilderness, and they are clothed in fine, beaded skins and furs.

Men and women come frequently to our home. They are truly magnificent individuals, and not at all as others see them. They have a refreshing honesty, and an engaging sense of humour. They adore our children, and cherish them as their own. I would trust these supposed savages, above some others of my own race.

Our good Christian friends often decry our wild company, saying these people are nothing, but thieves and liars, and we should not entertain them. I do not think it so, and we welcome them, among us. Our circle of friends grows wider, and we will need that, as the city grows. We must always make certain my love can reach me, wherever I am.

Despite the years that have passed, Vincente still searches their legends and lands for the stories of one like Himself. But though they respect Him as a great warrior and wish to help, no news comes.

I once asked Him if He wanted to leave, and go searching for the person the pirates spoke of, the blonde one, like Himself. But my love simply laughed and called me a loving fool, for thinking He would wish to be parted from my side for any length of time, much less one so long, and so fraught with uncertainty.

He then asked, where else could He go?

So we sometimes go for walks in the forest together, and other nights we spend in our special garden, for it is high-walled and secure. The times we have removed ourselves to that place when the children were asleep…it makes me blush even now to remember our wild and passionate loving in that sweet place of escape from all our fears of discovery…

As ever, our small group of friends and family changes and grows with the years. Those who know my husband exists at all keep our secrets, and guard Him well. As He guards them against those who would harm us.

The business continues to thrive, and each finds their place within. Our children have all taken my surname. The name I had first been given by those we now live among. We have become a family of Chandlers.

It needs to be so, since my love possesses no family name of His own. He never knew His father, and His mother died soon after He was born, so He was told.

It took me no small amount of prodding to hear his story. I only set it down here, knowing these books will leave this world when I do.

Found abandoned outside the gates to the monastery, He was given over to the care of an old, blind Italian woman. It was she who named Him, for the beloved son she had lost, many years before, and for the monastery, where she tended the animals.

Vincente learned to fight for everything He needed, to barely survive. The old woman kept Him close and never allowed Him the freedom to roam as the other children did. She knew He would be killed, for she had felt His small face with her old fingers, and knew the awful truth. She bid Him become a night-time roamer, only, and so He was.

He was only seven years old when the old woman died. Cast out, by necessity, into the world, He was forced to make His own way. He became a wanderer, a side-show freak in the fairs. A face with which mothers scared their disobedient children.

He learned what He needed to survive, how to mask His face against discovery, so he could make his way to the coast, and somehow, He thrived. He learned to read. And hid there, inside the pages of any story He could find. I well understood that deep need.

As a young man, He stowed away on a ship bound for France, and came ashore near Calais. The captain was young, but already destined for piracy, and they were ever friends.

Then came the revolution and the hard times, where He could trust no-one. A highwayman’s precarious existence became His stock-in-trade. He found shelter among His ragged band of fellow refugees, and then later stayed, to help them.

My heart broke, when He finished the sad tale of His boyhood and youth. He held me as I cried for Him. He said His regrets were none, and He did not speak of His trials again.

“And then I found you, that night,” He said simply. “After that night, I was forever changed…”

For an eternity, His green eyes stared into mine. Everything He felt, and yet could not say, He spoke with that silent communication of our matched souls. When we each could both bear it no longer, He leaned down and kissed me.

“My Vincente, mon belle homme…” My arms went around His neck, pulling Him lower, and closer still.

“Katherine…my wild white rose…” He whispered raggedly, against my mouth. “Always…”

As His great body covered mine, I knew an abiding sense of peace. Both mine and His. Once again, together, heart to heart, we travelled back to that beautiful garden where both our souls are free, and so very eager to run…

~ ~ ~

And so I think I will set down my little book, for a long time. It is not that I wish to neglect you, Dear Diary. I would write more, but I think my life now wants to be lived, more than written about.

If my tale is fantastical, I can only say my life has been more so. I can only repeat the words I kept saying, throughout these scattered pages. It is all right if we sometimes don’t know what to believe…

It’s all true.

Chapter Twenty

The End of the Beginning…

“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.

But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning…”

Winston S. Churchill

To promote the healing powers of a good dream:

Mugwort Oil is the best to be used here. A classic tonic for settling the nerves, mugwort serves to both physically relax your body, while stimulating your mind to alertness. It promotes a full sense of your dream’s life.

Therefore, it is one of the better known lucid dreaming oils…

Vincent slumped into his great chair, set before his desk. He had been reading Kate’s words, and they resonated deeply with him. He too possessed such a night, where he had been forever changed…

He passed a weary hand across his eyes. He’d spent all day, locked in his chair, frantic to know it all.

Now the hour was late, and he needed to sleep. A faint trace of scent, drawn from the pages he had been reading, teased at his senses. He lifted his fingers to his nose and inhaled. Mugwort?

He frowned, looking down. His own diary lay open at his hand, neglected the past few days. He hadn’t even felt like writing in it, which was most unusual for him.

He loved to spend time at the end the day with his thoughts and feelings, and he knew he had too many to even… sort, right now.

He was very like Kate in that writing things down seemed to help… clarify them, in his mind. His thoughts were his own, and not to be read by others. He wrote things in his diary that he did not even share with Catherine. They spoke to his frustrations and deepest fears. His hopes and dreams for the years still before them…

Idly he picked up his fountain pen, the one Catherine had given to him. It felt light, almost weightless in his grip. He inclined his head, studying it. The pen began to swim before his eyes. That elusive scent seemed to be luring his senses toward oblivion.

Tiredness suddenly overcame his need to remain alert. Leaning his head back against the chair, Vincent closed his eyes.

Only for a moment…he would rest here, before changing for bed. It had been a long day, fraught with angst and unresolved issues that gnawed at the very fabric of his thirsty soul…

The dream began almost before he was sure his eyes were fully closed…

The Chandlery Chamber was warm, nearly hot, and he knew she was inside it somewhere. Vincent stepped quietly through the stone doorway, half-knowing what he’d see, inside.

It was Catherine, but not dressed as she normally was. Instead, she wore a pretty silk gown, straight out of 18th century France. It rustled as she moved purposefully about the room.

It was a modest gown, brilliant blue, with a russet underskirt. The gathered sleeves were trimmed with white lace, and the edges were ruffled. She moved around the pillar table, pouring wax from an earthenware pitcher, into the moulds. She worked with the ease of long practice, as though she were quite at home.

Vincent frowned at her seeming ease of sure-footed movement. ‘You don’t belong here,’ he thought.

“Are you so sure of that?” she said, not stopping her movements.

This was Catherine, wasn’t it?  Or was it Kate?

Her hair was loose, and flowing. A red flower, a rose, perched above her right ear, nodding, as she moved.

‘They haven’t cut her hair, yet. She hasn’t taken her vows,’ he realised, knowing now that she never would. Her future had been re-mapped by a fresh, and willing hand.

The length of her curls reminded him of the style Catherine had worn the night they’d walked all over New York, on Halloween. Or the dream vision he’d once seen of her when he thought he’d lost her, lost them, forever.

“Remember Love,” she’d whispered.

But this vision before him was neither of those Catherines.  Nor was she Kate, though part of her seemed to be.

Yet, this was Catherine, even as it was Kate, and she was beyond lovely. It made sense, within his dream. His whole body thirsted for her touch…

She hummed as she worked. A lilting French tune he did not know. And the air absolutely hung, with fragrance. It felt like a living presence in the heat of the room, drawing him onwards, unresisting.

“What is that… heavenly fragrance?” he asked her, knowing she wasn’t afraid of him, that they knew each other. She was measuring oil into the vat with an eyedropper.

“Sandalwood mixed with rosemary. Rosemary is for remembrance,” she said, sending him an alluring smile. “Other things are mixed into it, as well. My secrets. I wrote them down. I knew it would bring you to me.”

Yes, yes of course it would. But was such a thing needed? Was he not already hers, body and soul? Forever?

“Such a silly thing to think. You know you aren’t,” she answered gently, even though he knew he hadn’t said it. Dream logic. She could hear his thoughts. The bond worked for her the same way it worked for him, sometimes.

He also knew she was talking about his body, rather than his soul. His body wasn’t ‘hers.’ His will to defend her was, yes. But his body? Naked, and in the dark? No. He knew better. Or thought he did…uncertainty stirred…

“Were you frightened… at first?” he asked, knowing it was a thing he dreaded feeling from her. The bond would ensure he felt everything she did.

Her laughter was husky, yet it also managed to tinkle. “I was as much a virgin as you are. More so. My whole life had been given to a higher purpose. I had not been prepared for the intimacies of physical love. Of course I was afraid, my love. Only a fool wouldn’t have been. I had heard such things…” She raised one expressive shoulder. “But, in time, I learned to unlearn them. If that makes any sense, mon cheri…”

Yes. Only a fool. Because part of him was a beast.

“Your beast would not hurt me,” she said. He realised that though she spoke English, it was with more than a trace of a lilting French accent. “It is the man who may yet break my heart, mon amour. Not my beloved, Le’ Bete’.”

“I would never--” It was a vow he wouldn’t complete.

“But of course you would. And so would I, for you. It’s not malice, my Angel. It is life. All in love have such a terrible power over each other. A terrible, wonderful power. N’est pas?”

“Yesss...” he said, aware that somewhere in his mind, the word ‘Oui’ echoed.

“Are you Kate?  Or are you Catherine?” he asked her, aware that the combination was confusing him, a little.

“You know who I am,” she said, offering him her scent-laden fingertips.  They were dusted with wax. Their scent made his heart race even faster.

He wasn’t sure he did, but the moment he took the scent into his nose, he knew he was all but lost.

He reached for her faster than he intended, and her blousy sleeve caught, on his talons. There was a sound of tearing cloth, but she only smiled, reaching up for his neck. He saw the scars on her arm, through the sleeve. Concentric lines, not unlike the ones Devin sported on his face.

She saw the direction his eyes went, and glanced down. Then lifted her shoulder in a shrug so negligible, they might as well have been looking at nothing, rather than at a place she’d carry scars, forever. She wore them proudly, as if a symbol of her life. A badge of honour.

‘It means nothing. Only you mean something.’ He felt the words from her. And the forgiveness they contained.

He blinked, and the scars on her arm were gone. There was, however, one on her face. A thin, jagged line, just before her ear. The mark of her assault. The one she’d kept, willingly. As a reminder of how much she had changed, and been changed. Forever…

‘It means nothing. Only you mean something.’

The voice was utterly Catherine’s, even if the dress wasn’t. This was her. This was his love.

He wasn’t sure if she said it or only thought it. He was only sure he was dying for a taste of her parted lips.

“I’ve made you wait,” he said, aware that his Catherine’s scar shimmered, on her cheek. Or was that the candlelight, playing tricks with the shadows?

“You always did,” she said, with no trace of a French accent, whatsoever.

Her kiss, when it came, was heady and sweet. Nothing like the chaste one Catherine had given him what felt like so long ago. He knew it was Catherine’s mouth, beneath his, or at least what he’d told himself such an intimate kiss from her would feel like. Her tongue chased his, then found it, much to his deep delight. Vincent was struck by an odd pairing of words. French kiss.

He stopped for needing to breathe. No other force could prompt it.

His voice dropped so low, he barely recognized the sound. “Catherine. My Catherine. You’re mine. We belong to each other.” He threaded his taloned hand into the hair at her temple. Her smile was serene.

“It took you a long time to understand that. In this century and that one. We belong together. It has been written…”

Was she both of them, then, standing before him? Was he?

“Am I Vincente?” he asked.

She laughed again, and he found he liked the sound, even as he wanted to cover her mouth and kiss her senseless.

“You are Vincent. My Vincent. There is no other. There never could be. Be content with that, my love.”

Very well, then. He was Vincent.

“Are there others like me?  Anywhere?” It was a question that burned his heart.

“Who can say?” she answered, pulling free of his embrace. “I cannot tell you what there is. I can only tell you I am here. And I am yours, if you will it.”

He swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?” he asked, dreading an answer he already sensed was coming.

“Then I never will be. Either yours, or anyone else’s. I would never be so cruel.” Her green eyes were gentle. “And you would never survive it, if I were. I’m not sure either of us would. But then, you already knew the answer to your question. No one should live a life conscripted to their own aloneness.”

The lilt of her accent returned. “Didn’t you say as much, to my girl?” Vincent knew he’d see scars on her arm, if he looked for them.

She smiled a woman’s smile, older than time, and twice as knowing. “You must awaken now. You have things you must do, and I have to return to my tasks. I have a man’s needs to tend, and my shop to open. I cannot be late…”

Kate the Chandler tossed the full length of her curls over her shoulder and straightened her gown. “I will remember you, Vincent. And you will know I am always here, if you need me…always…”

“I smell roses.  Just like the ones on her balcony.  How is that fragrance trapped in the pages of your book?”

She gave him a subtle wink.  “People aren’t the only things who bear young, Vincent.  I do love roses. I always have.” She touched the one in her hair, as she drifted back to the table, humming that same tune once more. “But then you already know that. Be good to my grand-daughter, Vincent. That is all I ask of you…”

“I will…”

The dream image faded, and Vincent came awake with a start. His words echoed within the chamber, dying away somewhere in the darkness above his head.

He heard tinkling laughter, and sensed the soft drift of a rose petal feathering across his cheek. But when he turned, it was not there. Traces of jasmine, mixed with other, headier fragrances remained, hanging lighter than the very air he breathed.

They stayed with him, teasing at his heightened senses, long after he had laid down in his bed, finally managing to claim a fitful slumber fraught with sensual dreams.

In the morning he awoke without answers. But as he lay thinking, he swore he could now smell the scent of roses, every time he turned his head upon the pillow.

And the sensation of being watched was still there…

Kate’s special oil for sustaining love…

Jasmine essential oil is sometimes known as the ‘King of Oils’. In my opinion, a reputation well deserved. Although it is known as the 'king', it is very much a woman's oil...although, both men and women can be deeply attracted by the exotic scent.

With its wonderful soothing and sensual aroma, this has been a favoured oil for thousands of years. The name Jasmine comes from the Persian word ‘Yasmin’ which means “a gift from God”.

Jasmine grows as a creeper with white or yellow flowers with an absolutely exquisite scent. It is often used (along with Rose) in the most expensive of perfumes.

It is so because it is costly and difficult to extract. The blooms need to be picked at night as their aroma becomes more powerful after dark.

Although it is an expensive purchase, you do not need much because of its rich concentration.

In France the common method of extraction was either a pure essential oil is obtained by traditional enfleurage of the flowers. An absolute is obtained by solvent extraction from the flowers.

The heady aroma is sweet, floral, warm and exotic. It blends well with bergamot, cypress, sandalwood and rose.

Properties suitable for the mind, spirit and body are many. Jasmine is a very soothing, calming and revitalising oil. This makes it useful for severe depression. It soothes the nerves whilst restoring optimism and energy.

It is probably most famous for being an aphrodisiac...bringing out feelings of love and emotional warmth. Jasmine oil is uplifting and euphoric, and so helps boost confidence, whilst at the same time reducing fears and anxieties

Therefore jasmine is the perfect oil for lovers…

“Wax roses are different than the other carved candles,” Rebecca instructed. “And there’s more than one way to work with two colours. Or more.”

“Am I reaching too high, then?”  Catherine asked.

“No, I don’t think so. But they are different, especially the roses. The candle isn’t as tall, and there are a lot of cuts, but they’re thicker ones.  You want the wax to ‘lay open,’ not curl back in on itself, all the way around.”

“How would I make the petals both red and white?” Catherine questioned anxiously.

“That part is actually easy. Pour a red pillar, let it dry and then dip it in white wax, like you would a taper. When you cut in, you’ll get both colours.”

“Oh, I see.” Catherine nodded. “How neat.”

“Or, you can do a short, white pillar, then cheat, and run some red wax in between the petals with this.” Rebecca held up something that looked like it had once been a squirt bottle for ketchup.

“Squeeze it right in the creases. Not too much, it is wax. It will fill up the petals. But it looks pretty, and you can direct just how much, and where.”

“That is so clever.” Catherine realised the different advantages of both styles.

“You’re really getting in to this,” Rebecca commented, as Catherine cut the tapers off the drying rack for her.

“I think I discovered how much I like helping. And making something useful.”

“The law isn’t useful?” Rebecca asked, pouring red wax into a mould, for her. They probably wouldn’t start to carve it until tomorrow, but at least Catherine could dip the white layers, later.

“It is and it isn’t. Not like this,” Catherine answered. “Practical use, I’m talking about.”

“Ah, I see.” Rebecca simply nodded, at that. “You came down early,” she said. Topsider quitting time was still a few hours away.

“I told my boss I’m having headaches and I needed some time off. I have some ideas in my head, and I couldn’t get them out.” Catherine settled herself at the table and slid one of the day’s pillars over, and picked up a sculpting tool.

“Were these ideas of yours about candles? Or about Vincent?”  Rebecca winked.

Catherine set down the knife. “They seem like the same thing, lately. He’s all but finished translating my ancestor’s diary.”

“Ben said as much. That, and that he was on a tear, about it.”

Catherine accepted the description, knowing it was true.

“I guess we’ve both been… obsessed, lately.”

Rebecca said nothing to that. There was no sense denying it, and little to say about it, otherwise.

“My mother made the first candles for the first Winterfest. The night Ben met me… it was her work that lit up the room. So… I do understand about legacies, Catherine. It’s okay to have one.” Her smile was steady.

“Did you ever want to be something else?” Catherine asked, wondering how much this woman’s life had been defined by her forebears.

“You mean after fairy princess, or circus acrobat?” Rebecca winked. “No. Not really. I always liked being in this room. I liked to create, and my mom always made it fun.”

“My mother worked as a librarian, for a while. It’s part of why I love books, to this day,” she mused, turning the short wax candle around.

“And your very great grandmother was the first real chandler in the family. It’s all been pretty fascinating, I guess,” Rebecca replied.

Catherine chose her next words carefully. “Did Vincent say that she might have been in love with somebody? Somebody… kind of like him?”

Rebecca scoffed, not meaning to be unkind. “Catherine, this is Vincent, we’re talking about. There is nobody ‘kind of like him.’”

Catherine’s answering silence told Rebecca all she needed to know.

“Do you really believe it?” Her soft eyes widened.

Catherine folded her hands in her lap, knowing the only thing she’d do to the candle was gouge it, right now.

“I’m the one that didn’t even believe candles could cure illness, or help mend a broken heart. I don’t know what to believe, anymore, Rebecca. But if he wants to believe it, then I will. Does that make any sense?”

“Perfect sense. The kind women in love make. The kind love makes, in general.”

She busied herself around the chamber, sifting the fires so they burned well. “So… that’s what’s got him all tied in knots.”

“He’s been in knots?” Catherine asked.

“He’s been… distracted. Maybe even abrupt. Late for work assignments, or skipping them altogether. Pondering. The kind of thing an honorary sister would notice.”

Not to mention the rest of his family, Catherine thought.

Catherine could only nod her understanding. She was having the same troubles, with her work.

“I guess it’s contagious, then,” Catherine replied, regarding on of the taller wax pillars before her.

“So you came down for a little aromatherapy, and to let your hands work while your mind wanders.” Rebecca guessed correctly. “Don’t feel bad. I do it, too. Half the carved candles on that shelf are from when I was working through something.” Her smile was generous.

“You’ve been… amazing, just letting me invade your space like this,” Catherine said. “And I’m… waiting for him. I checked on him, before I came in. He’s asleep.”

“He needs it. Ben says he missed work detail. He was supposed to drop off his laundry, then meet the others for pipe repair. But when I went in to check on him, he was still with your pages. Quite the obsession.”

“He didn’t sleep at all?” Catherine asked, suspecting as much. She wondered what was in the last of the diary pages, and hoped she knew.

“He does, but only when he can’t avoid it. I took his quilt down for him. I don’t think he even noticed.”

“I didn’t realise he kept going, all day.”

“You did,” Rebecca observed, knowing she’d gone to work.

“Yes, but I had an ornery judge, and a client who really needed me.” She pulled a face. “The story of my life.”

Rebecca did not bother to list what she thought Vincent had. She just tugged over a small bottle full of coloured wax, and touched it here and there, to the piece Catherine was working on.

“Did he stop to eat, at least?” Catherine asked. She’d grabbed a hot dog from a vendor before heading down into the tunnels.

“Not as of lunch, no. He’ll be all right, Catherine. He’s a big boy. If a very stubborn one. He will still hold your hands, in all the scary places.” She sighed.

Catherine knew that was true. And decided to continue to wait, Below. “You’re still very kind to let me sit here. I thought about waiting in his chamber, and just reading. But…”

“But that didn’t feel quite right, and you didn’t want to have to field questions from Father. It’s okay, Catherine. I understand. I think we all do.” She arranged the tools she thought Catherine would need, for this task.

“Do you? Catherine asked. “Sometimes… I’m not sure I do, anymore.” She frowned at the candle. “He’s setting great store by all of this… this diary talk. In a way, I don’t want him to make a decision he wouldn’t have made, without it. And in a way, I don’t think it matters what brings him to me.”

Rebecca inclined her head in a gesture that looked very much like Vincent’s. “Seems to me something pretty terrible brought you to him,” Rebecca pointed out.

Catherine nodded that it was true. “We talked about that just the other night.”

“See, now, me and Ben owe it all to a blue ribbon somebody threw out.”

She tugged Catherine’s candle over, and scored where the next cuts would go, with the tip of her own knife.

“A blue ribbon?”

“Uh-uh. Just something from Mary’s cast-off box, for sewing. She let me have it, to tie up my hair, for Winterfest. Ben swears it was the first part of me he saw, that ribbon, half buried in the curls.” She tugged a lock of hair, which sprang right back. “He asked me to dance. Don’t want to think what might have happened, otherwise.”

“The butterfly effect…” Catherine’s eyes flickered with memory.

“And terrible as it was, if I hadn’t gone to Tom’s party that night, hadn’t been mistaken for someone else…” She shivered slightly. “It makes me so grateful for what we have now.”

“Remove a single grain of that sand…” Rebecca nodded. “Yes, Vincent told me about all that chaos theory years ago. Life is funny. And by ‘funny,’ I mean a really different word. I just don’t know what it is. Cut there. And there.” She said, pushing the candle back.

“Thanks,” Catherine said, again. “I know I’ve been a help. But kind of a bother, too.”

The blonde shook her head. “You are welcome here, anytime. Please know that, Catherine. You’re not a ‘guest,’ and you’re certainly not an intrusion. You’re one of us. You’re family, too. Okay?”

“William said something like that the other day, as well.” Catherine was almost moved to tears. “Okay,” she replied, as the two women embraced.

“Now. I’ve got stuff to do, and so do you. I’ll leave the vat to warm, if you’re going to stay.”

“I am.” Catherine settled purposefully on her stool.

“Shut things down for me, then, please. Before you leave?” Rebecca asked, indicating the low flame that burned steadily under the vat.

“You know I will.” Catherine nodded.

“I must dash then. I’ve made a very important date with my husband, and a long, hot bath. There isn’t always enough time to indulge.” Rebecca laughed in anticipation. “There might even be singing.”

“I know what you mean about not having enough time in the day. Have fun,” Catherine responded happily, hugging her new friend once again.

Cathy set about working on the pillar, and Rebecca was right. She let her mind simply wander.

There’s so much to think about.  It’s all so… overwhelming, in a way.

It was, and it had been. And in defence against that, Catherine’s overworked mind began doing what those are prone to do. She compartmentalized, and concentrated solely on what was before her, while her sharp, attorney’s mind worked through other things.

I think I’ll make a gift for Jenny. She bought me the book, and I owe her a present made from it. I hope Kate had girlfriends. People she could count on, and smile with. Jenny always smiles. So bright, and cheerful. Something lemony, for her. Something that reminds me of the sun.

She knew that meant she’d need to make another trip back to Scents for your Senses, and she put that on her mental “to do” list. Even better, she needed to get onto their mailing list. If they went in for such a Traditional Age thing. She chuckled to herself.

My work will be there when I get back. Joe could do with a gift. But he doesn’t strike me as a “candle” kind of guy. Kate ran her own business. Smart. Joe is smart, too. And dedicated. Maybe I just owe him an apology.

Joe had frowned direfully at her when she’d pleaded for time off, but he’d let her go home early. After saying she had better return fresh and ready for battle.

Ready for battle. It seemed like she’d been on the front lines of the war for too long, now, without much in the way of respite.

Manipulating the soft wax did indeed soothe, her. Rebecca was right about that. Where once she’d had to concentrate, terrified to make cuts into the wax, now she was surer, more able. Rebecca’s softly scored marks indicated just where her knife should go. She felt supported. She liked the feeling.

Today was Friday, and she had three whole days to talk things over with Vincent, find out what he’d discovered, and even to spend time in here with him, either just talking, or learning more of her family’s craft.

It had become almost an addiction to know, and understand more. About everything from the diary to candle-making.

If I do this right, will I understand you, more? Catherine thought, not sure if she was asking the question about Kate Chandler, or of Vincent.  Or even, for that matter, of herself.

She set the knife down and stood, rubbing the back of her neck. It was time to start mixing scents. Jasmine? Rose? Sandalwood? She wanted the next batch she dipped and poured to be fragranced with love and intoxication.

“You look… intent,” Vincent said, from the doorway.

She jumped, at the sound of his voice. “How long have you been --”

“Only a short time. You were holding the knife, and I didn’t want to startle you.” He crossed to the clothesline, and noted his quilt. Ah. Laundry day. Mine. I will have to thank Rebecca for seeing at least some of my chores got done, today.

Catherine watched him cross to the large quilt over the line, then tug it so that it was even. When he turned back to her, his gaze was… fathomless.

You should be wearing a blue and russet gown. With a red rose in your hair…For just a moment, when he’d seen in her in the room unexpectedly, he’d had to blink.

Catherine answered his look. “I…um… I just felt like being here.”

You don’t have to explain, Catherine. You really don’t. My world has always been yours... Vincent studied her creation. She’d finished the bottom. It looked even, and smooth.

“Is this the work of the woman who was afraid she could not do this, well?” he asked, admiring it.

“This is the work of the woman whose friends are all probably going to get a candle, for Easter,” she answered. “I am getting quite creative.”

They were passing light banter, back and forth, to avoid speaking of other, more serious things. They both knew it.

“I have a couple of days,” she said, quietly.

He tilted his head. “I met Rebecca in the hall. She mentioned as much. And we have much in common, today.”

She paused, in what she was doing. “I saw the pages, when I went to look in on you. Well. Most of them.”

And I think I saw your grandmother… he thought.

Vincent said, “They… became lovers. And were never married by a priest. For what are probably obvious reasons. Nor did they see the need for such a blessing.”

Catherine kept her gaze forward, on the wax. “Was she happy? In the end?”

If I tell you she was miserable, does that make you afraid, for us? He had the thought, for a reason he couldn’t explain.

“She was,” he answered. “I think there was no other, for her, even though either large pieces of the journal were possibly destroyed, or… never written at all. She had a life to live. She lived it.”

Again, Catherine nodded. And Vincent decided to do just as Catherine had done. Compartmentalize, and respond to what was before him, rather than what had happened in the past.

She began measuring out cedar wood oil, with an eyedropper. Just three drops, she thought. There was no reason why she chose that one. Just that it was the first bottle her hand hit.

“You’re going to try more of the fragrances?” he asked, already liking the smell. It reminded him of old steamer trunks, and long voyages. The kind he could never actually take, but the kind that made him feel… free, and fanciful, anyway. His room had such a trunk. He’d memorized the travel stickers on it, in his youth.

“I thought I would,” she answered. “Vincent, do you think Vincente ever went looking? Found more people like you?”

Vincent shook his head, and made a staying gesture with his hand. “Don’t. It’s all right, Catherine. It just is. No matter what the pages would have said.”

He tilted his head, regarding her newest creation. It looked far different than the other, taller candles. “Tell me about what you are making.”

She blinked, and looked back at the short, circular wax form, on the table. “Rebecca’s teaching me how to do a rose, for my Father. But…”

She tugged a tall pillar close to her. It was the large one.

“I’m toying with the idea of making something for Jenny.  But I think I need something for the base of the candle. Seashells, or pebbles. No, not that heavy. Something… I don’t know. Something to stabilize it some, make it look like it has weight. Jenny likes bright things. I don’t want glitter, but… something.”

She uncapped a bottle and the smell of a deep forest hit Vincent’s nose. Spruce. Her concoction was going to smell very woodsy, for lack of a better word. More for a man, it seemed, than a woman.

Still, she seemed content with what she was doing. She was on edge, some, and needed to keep her hands busy.

He withdrew the summary of the few remaining pages from his cloak pocket.

“I will leave this for you. I wish I could stay, but I need to take Sam his medicine, before the day escapes me completely. It’s not a thing I should trust to others. His neighbourhood is too… marginal.”

Catherine nodded, knowing what it was to want to be in two places, or more, today.

“You will be well? Come back and see me, when you return?” she asked.

“I’ll see what I can find, for your project. Will you be all right, then, for a few hours?” he asked, as she shrugged out of her jacket. Like always, it was getting very warm, in here.

“Of course. Take your time.” She glanced up, her face open and happy. “We still have days we can spend together… if you want.”

“I will be as quick as I can.” He left, as quietly as he’d come in.

Catherine was now alone. But she didn’t feel alone. She felt eyes on her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, there was no one there. “Okay…” she mused.

She wiped her hands before reading the pages Vincent had left her, shedding a small tear, here and there. Oh, Vincent, they are so like us. Yet… completely themselves. She held the knowledge to her, with a steady surety.

Looking at the candles on the table, she knew Kate had made gifts from wax, just as she was doing.

You were amazing. Thank you...

‘You are most welcome, mon cheri,’ a soft voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere. Jasmine seemed to float on the very air.

Catherine resigned herself to the ongoing mystery of the elusive scent. It must be the magic of the chandlery, it was playing tricks with her nose.

The tapping on the pipes was busy chatter, right before the dinner hour, then settled down to something more intermittent.

She knew she could stop, but chose not to. Catherine knew she had no appetite for food.

She felt both unsettled, and calm, and found the combination beyond strange. The impulse to simply grab one of the taller candles and carve it took her, and she followed it, liking that she now felt she was more able, with those.

She carved a pretty, even design on a pillar, then added rosemary to the fragrance, deciding that if it was indeed for Jenny, that the rosemary would signify remembrance, for them. They had been friends since girlhood. They had much, to remember.

By the time she’d returned again to the rose candle, the wax near the top had almost hardened too much to work with. She cut it only once, on each side, rather than the three she’d been planning.

“Not that good at this, after all,” she chided herself, knowing better than to stop and play with anything else, once she’d begun to carve.

Still, the small bowl where she was mixing oil seemed to beckon her.

‘Roses. Roses, for the warm nights in summer. Something sweet, to take down the smell of the forest. Do it.’

She knew the thoughts were her own, but felt as if someone was near, making suggestions.

By the time her hand reached for the bottle of sandalwood oil, she knew just what she was making.

‘This is the favoured scent. He will enjoy this…’ Again a soft chuckle.

The warm aroma seemed to envelop Catherine’s senses. No wonder this was Kate’s favourite fragrance, she thought, knowing she wanted to work on her Father’s candle, as well. He’d like having a candle scented with Kate’s favourite one.

Even if the smell was making her think things that were a bit far from ‘daughterly.’

I should make one of these for Vincent, she thought, realising it meant she should have poured more pillars. Oh, well. No time like the present.

She poured red dyed wax into a pair of short moulds, realizing how much time must have slipped by. She’d left her watch at home, but the pipe traffic was markedly decreased. Dinner was done. If she wanted to eat, she’d have to get something later.

Still not hungry, she lifted the stout red candle clear of the mould, and dipped it eight times, in white. It would be thick one. The room grew quieter, and she sensed the tunnel world settling down, for the evening. It was story time and quiet time. Soon, the candles most of them were burning would be snuffed out, for the night.

She knew Vincent had to wait for nightfall, before he could see Sam Denton, and that he was likely to stay, to see how the older man was getting on. Then there was the return walk, and that was subject to there being no street traffic, to hold him in the shadows, before he reached the safety of the closest tunnel entrance.

She rotated her neck, realizing she’d been working for a while, then began tying wicks to rods, deciding she’d dip some tapers, so Rebecca would have a head start, in the morning.

The large chamber was warm and close-shadowed. Richly scented and kept dry by the constant heat. She cuffed her blouse, and seriously considered setting it aside in favour of her camisole. It was warmer in here than it had ever been, the result of the vat now staying warm all day, and into the late evening.

Catherine stirred the fire, knowing it would finish drying Vincent’s quilt. The patchwork blanket she so easily recognized was nearly ready to be taken down. She wondered if it would hold the scents she was using, and realised it probably would. Perhaps it would need to be rinsed, again, or perhaps just aired, away from the Chandlery.

Rebecca didn’t work with scent, very often, and the smell of the unscented wax always permeated the fabric, anyway.

She stood back and regarded the thick cloth wistfully, then returned to her worktable, keeping Vincent’s blanket in sight. It had kept the chill at bay, when she’d convalesced, from her attack.

She had slept beneath it more than once, on those few times when she’d been too tired to return Above.

Vincent had slept in his great chair on such nights, despite her protests to the contrary. Catherine knew that all that had happened in the last few weeks, all he had learned, was leading him to measure whether or not that would be necessary.

She’d be a fool to say she hadn’t been wondering the same thing.

Can we have more?

She didn’t honestly know.

For better or worse the tenor of their relationship had become what it was. It was a thing they both allowed, and seldom questioned, at least each to the other. He was “comfortable” there, perhaps, though she knew that not only was that the wrong word for it, it might be the exact opposite of what he was, actually.

We’ve felt… safe, where we’ve been. That’s no small thing, she mused.

But when he chafed, he sometimes left.

Catherine well understood Kate’s early fear that Vincente would simply… flee, then.

And though she knew Vincent wouldn’t do that, now, just what he would do was still something of a mystery, to her.

Maybe to him, as well. Maybe we’ll go back to the way things have been, for a while. Take all this in. Think. Maybe we’ll make… slow steps toward each other. Next month is our anniversary…

He was like some beautiful creature, held there before her, by the strength of his own will. Truly he was her belle homme…

She didn’t hear Vincent’s soft-footed return. She was too intent on sifting through her own thoughts, while she all but pretended to plan on working with her next creation. The picture of Charles’ rose hovered, in her mind’s eye. She felt confident with plain white wax. This one held two colours, red, and white.

Like the roses on my balcony. The naming of the colours was not lost on her.

She stretched, getting the kinks out of muscles that had felt long taxed, today. She knew she only had so much time to start, now that the candle was ready for carving. Now it was time to experiment with colour, and new forms.

Vincent held himself perfectly still, rocked to a halt by the scene before him, and what all of his senses were telling him.

He could see her there, and could smell an incredibly heady fragrance, in the room. His palm itched to touch any inch of exposed skin, and he actually rubbed his fingertips across his palm, in a half-closed, fist.

Her gentle breathing seemed both soft, and loud, in his ears. She was concentrating. He knew if she turned her head, he’d see the look he’d come to associate with her, lately. Her white blouse was cuffed past the elbow. Her jacket was long-discarded. One foot remained planted on the floor, her slight weight perched on the edge of the seat, while her other foot rested on the bottom rung. He’d registered that she was wearing denim, earlier. But now…

Had jeans always made her legs look so… shapely?

He’d finally found the cardboard box he’d be searching for. But it was forgotten, in the moment.

She was beautiful, and was exactly where he’d left her, cutting layers into the wax of a fat pillar. Fragrance warmed the air. Perspiration dampened her forehead, and when she got off the stool and moved around the table, a little, he saw that she’d unbuttoned the top part of her blouse. Her hair was pushed firmly back behind her ears, and she was working with steady surety.

Snagging the forgotten turntable Rebecca used only when she was carving, Catherine settled a red and white pillar upon it, and kept working. She returned to the stool, half-sitting on the flat circle of oak, one foot hooked back around the bottom rung, the casual jeans moulded to her legs like a second skin.

Her waist looked small, her torso lean, and feminine, her hips flared out like a signal of womanhood. Which in a way, it absolutely was.

The sight moved him in ways, and places, he dared not define.

He cleared his throat, before saying, “You told me you needed something to finish the bottom of your gift. So I brought you that ‘something.’”

“Thank you.” The knife was moving, and she could barely glance his way.

She remained seated at the table, unable to stop, at the moment, lest she need to start over. Her hands were busy, and the heat from the warming fire had forced her to open her blouse to the point where the top of her camisole was clearly visible. A swatch of lace ran across its top.

Though she was still very modestly covered, Vincent thought she could not have looked more alluring if she’d tried.

The white camisole she wore beneath the blouse was snug to her skin, and a line of perspiration was trailing down her back. It accented her subtle movements.

She dipped her head forward, concentrating, and her soft hair fell forward with it. The nape of her neck was exposed. Perspiration sheened the ivory surface of her skin, and Vincent fought the urge to put his mouth there. To taste. He became very aware that “taste” was the one of his five senses that felt utterly deprived, at the moment. He wanted to fix that.

“What did you find for me?” she asked, cutting and manipulating her creation. Her manicure was ruined, but her fingers were nimble and strong.

What must it feel like to have those on my skin?

The thought was there before Vincent could bid it away. The sculpting tool was like an extension of her index finger, and it was only when it clattered to the table, did he realise he’d not answered her.

The area around the work bench was narrow, thanks to the dowel rods and spools of cotton twine. He reached just past her right shoulder, and set down the cardboard box with great care.

“Beach sand,” he said, hoping the timbre of his voice didn’t give away his sudden discomfort. It had perhaps been a mistake to step so close. Perspiration beaded her lip, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

She put her hand inside the box that had once contained his shell. She lifted out a handful, trailing it back into its container. “So pretty, and white! It’s perfect! Wherever did you get it?” she asked.

“California,” he replied, seeing the granules stick to her skin as her hand emerged from the box.

He knew how the sand tasted. He’d sampled it. Salty and tangy.

His narrowed gaze lifted to her soft neck, to where a single, glistening drop of perspiration ran from under her chin, down into the shadowed valley between her breasts. He envied the drop, and its casual invasion of such winsome beauty.

“Calif-- Oh,” Catherine said, realising where it had come from. Even the box looked familiar. It was marked “Los Angeles.” From the week she’d spent there. The gift she had sent him, hoping he would understand the need for their enforced separation, and the longing it had caused, in her.

She gently dusted her hands so that the remaining sand fell back into the box, saving it as if it were something precious. He’d not moved, from behind her.

She turned her head to look at him. “Vincent, I can’t use that for this.”

“Why?” his voice was a rasp, near her ear. And her pheromone-laden scent was starting to drive his thought processes into orbit. “You said you wanted texture for the bottom of your friend’s gift, but nothing too garish. So ... beach sand.”

She shook her head, and a gesture that should have sent the soft hair stirring, but failed to do so. The dampness of her back caught the fine strands of honey and held them fast. He didn’t like that. He wanted the line of her backbone to belong to his eyes, again. Her bare neck glistened, in the firelight.

And the urge to kiss her there was causing his mouth to water.

He picked up her intended gift candle and moved to set it in the box. Allowing it to sit in the sand would embed the fine granules into the wax, and give the bottom of the large pillar a ‘grounded’ look.

She reached, to stay his motion. “If I... If I were to use that sand, it wouldn’t be on something I was going to give away,” she said, putting one hand over the back of his, as the other one held the candle, trying not to do any damage to it.

An electric current jolted up his arm. He knew she felt it, and was pleased. She seemed to want him to be aware of her.

“It would be... for us,” she said aware that her voice wasn’t as strong as it should be.

“Us?” he husked near her ear. Wax shavings littered the table, and the floor. Their sandalwood aroma was dominant, and was combining with her own. She smelled like a call to sin. And suddenly Vincent very much wanted to commit one or two of those. He truly didn’t mind which.

“Y-yesss...” Her voice grew unsteady. “S... something from my world. And something from yours. A wedding can-ah!”

She never got to finish the word, as his arms came around her, his right hand gripping hers, on the tall pillar. His mouth hovered above the warm skin of her neck.

And then claimed his right.

It was like tasting lightning. Every sense seemed shot through with blinding light…

He tore his mouth away, needing to give her words. “You are my love,” he whispered raggedly. ”My lover, if God wills it. My mate. My wife. My life.” He ghosted a smile, then nuzzled the skin just behind her ear. “My beautiful … white … rose…”

His whole body, soul, and being became centred on her. Her beauty and fragrance blotted out the entire world.

He felt her back arch, the half-buttoned blouse slipping to one side. And though the pillar returned to the table, his hands didn’t move, from hers.

His arms aligned with her own, just as it had when he’d been teaching her how to work with wax, and a marauder’s kiss was claiming the top of her right shoulder, and then the side of her throat.

Head tilted back, he could sense her racing pulse, in the vein of her neck, and he touched his tongue to it, appreciatively. She moaned, and he felt himself harden, at both groin and thigh.

His lips trailed after that errant drop of perspiration, right into shadowed indentation he had so admired, and envied. She did indeed remind him of the taste of the sand, salty and tangy by turns.

His eyes closed, and a memory came, driven by the scent, and circumstance, and for a moment, Vincent knew it was a memory that belonged to neither one of them.

Forest. Deep night, and entwined branches. She was laughing, softly, as He pursued her, and she’d startled a deer. It leapt out of hiding and bounded on the path before Him, for a moment, before it dove for scant cover.

The deer had gone right, while she’d veered left.

There was no doubt which path He would take. Though both were prey, she was by far the more delightful one; and the one He wanted most. If He’d been starving, He’d have felt no differently.

As it was though, he was not starving. At least... not for food.

There were roses everywhere, nodding heads, watching them as they loved each other. Petals, both red and white floated down, to clothe them in scented beauty…and somewhere, in the darkness, a nightingale gave voice to song…

The impression of a night-time hunt ended, and took the striking moment of shared understanding with a long ago husband with it, and Vincent envisioned making love to Catherine in the park, enclosed in some wild-looking place. Some copse of close grown trees, or on a bed of lush grass, or pine needles. Pine. No, not pine. Spruce. Another scent he found he suddenly craved, and couldn’t get enough of.

He inhaled deeply, just to take the smell of spruce into his nose. Spruce was one of the trees that didn’t lose its colour, in winter.

Forever. We last, forever. Everyone does.

The thought made him feel heady, and powerful, and good. Wherever it is we go, we are always green, there. Evergreen.

Other fragrances invaded his sensitive nose, as he took in the spruce smell, and her moan sighed a welcome, in his ear.

I want you, he thought. On a bed of soft leaf fall and spruce needles, in the forest. I want to bring you a rose and trace your skin, with velvet. I want the smell, the smell of roses and evergreens, the smell of “love” and “forever” on your skin, as I love you, as I crush you into it.

The thought was an enflaming one, and he tugged her hand away from the candle, keeping her fingers still entwined with his. He trailed kisses across the back of her neck so that he could adore the other side of her throat. His taloned hands trailed up her arms, holding her where she was, yet caressing her at the same time.

“Vin...cent?” she whispered, as if she was no longer sure it was him.

“Yes,” he whispered near her ear, heading off the urge to nip her earlobe. “Just say ‘yes,’ Catherine.”

The smell of roses and sandalwood was richer than cedar, rosewood or spruce, though all their notes combined, in his awareness, all making him think of different things. Freedom.  Eternity. Privacy, and passion. The sensual side of love, as well as the deep-seated emotional one.

His erection was hardening to adolescent proportions, awakening memories of a past where he could do almost nothing about that. He felt urgent, and sore, and pressed against her back for the sheer relief of it.

They both groaned, Catherine from understanding the question, and Vincent from the temporary bliss of having her warm body pressed against him. On the one hand, he knew he was a long way away from orgasm. On the other, the tip was so sensitive, he wanted to scream, and beg for her hand, just there.

“Please,” he punctuated the request, trying not to push into her further, desperate not to seem crude.

She bowed her back, deliberately caressing him with her spine.

“Yes. Of course, yes,” she breathed. “Always…”

The word was a trigger, and this was not the place for a tryst, even as it was the very place for it. The warming pot continued to heat the oil, and diffuse it. The room smelled like sex, to him, and she had just ... flooded, with anticipation. It came off her in a wave so strong, he almost lost his balance.

It was going to be either the table or the floor, and though he wanted neither, in particular, he pushed the items on the table aside. She barely managed to catch the box and keep it from spilling the sand she’d declared all but priceless, a moment ago. She let it drop to the floor as she turned to him. The pillar she’d spent time carving clattered over, forgotten.

His arm swept a clean space for her, scented wax embedding itself on his fingers, and forearm. He knew the wax was under her nails, just as it was under his, and revelled in the thought of rubbing her down with the silky shavings, in his palm. Her skin would be so soft.  So...heavenly.

But it wasn’t thoughts of heaven that had him lifting her shirts. Staggering again, he realised the bra was built in. He was unprepared for the sight of her naked breasts, before him so quickly. They were pebbled roses, and again, he longed to touch, to taste.

She crossed her arms, covering herself, half nude, unexpectedly.

He tilted his head to one side, understanding her need to cover, even as he prayed against it.

“Don’t…” He simply shook his head back and forth, the pleading look in his eyes telling her all it needed to. Slowly, she dropped her arms.

Her smile was shy, and she was blushing, a little. He blessed her for the warm colour in her cheeks. So much.

“This is the favoured scent,” he quoted Kate Chandler’s diary, as he trailed his hand across her chest. Pheromones and fragrance covered her, along his with his large, warm palm, and she leaned back to allow whatever ministrations he cared to perform.

The favoured scent. Understanding darkened her grey-green eyes.

“Is this because of the--”

“No.” He cut her off. “It is because I have been starving for you for three years.” His voice was rough, almost hoarse, though they both knew he hadn’t been shouting. “I say it is enough time wasted…”

He felt her struggle with the decision to continue, even half-nude and perched on the edge of an old work table.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, again. “Don’t question it. I’ll beg, if I have to.”

She knew he would, and she knew she’d never bring him so low. Not over this. Not over anything.

“I’ve always been yours,” she answered, sitting up enough to finger his vest. One of them was half naked, while the other was fully clothed.

“Have you always been mine?” she asked, running a single finger under his vest. The invitation to disrobe was clear.

“With everything I am, and from the first,” he replied, tugging at the fastenings so hard he nearly tore the top one. In another moment, the shirts followed, and he was as bare-chested as she was.

He pressed them together, for the earth-shaking joy of it. The wax he’d scented her skin with was now entwined with his chest hair, and again, the aroma exploded, all around his sensitive nose.

Roses seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. The rich scent rode on the drenched air, like summer mist.

“You like the smell of the wax. There’s something about it…intoxicating….” Catherine was no fool. And though nothing she’d used was a narcotic, he clearly preferred the incredible fragrance.

“This is the favoured scent,” he quoted once more, tracing the side of her face with the back of his fingertip. His nails brushed her temple.

Understanding dawned in full. “So that’s what she meant,” Catherine said, a moment before his mouth claimed hers.

Their kiss was intoxicating and long. Catherine clung to him, as he pushed her back on the table. She heard the cutting tools clatter to the floor, and realised he’d cleared the space with another swipe of his hand.

She clung to him, aware they were about to make love for the first time in the most unlikely of places.

“We can… we can go somewhere else, if you want. Not that I do.” She needed to say the last, quickly.

They could be on a bed of nails, for all she cared, though she’d be the first to say this was far from how she’d pictured this, for his sake.

He shook his head. “No. Here. Here, where it’s warm, and where we were when we discovered… so much,” he said, the understanding of what was to come, shaking him to his core.

He echoed Kate’s diary. “We only have an hour, before someone comes.” The double entendre made his pounding heart race even faster.

“Time enough,” Catherine gasped. “For our first time…”

Vincent swallowed roughly. Their first time… Reading Kate’s diary had been both humbling and amazing. This was going to happen, again? Could he live through it a second time? Even as it was his first?

It’s a map. It’s not permission.

Indeed it wasn’t.

“Here, then…” He pulled her up to a sitting position. The flap and tie that held his pants closed was still fastened, and he stood before her, knowing he had to let her look her fill. She had to know what it was she was about to take to her bed. Even if there was no bed, here.

He thought her eyes would travel his form. Take in the wealth of blonde body hair, the designs drawn by both the set of his muscles and the lay of the down.

She barely gave his chest a glance. It was his eyes, she held. And her look all but unmanned him.

Vincent had a moment to realise that Vincente was a better planner than he was. The man had gone out and bought a bed, against the future need for one. But Vincent’s chamber was just too far away, and his need…

Catherine saw hesitation cross his blue eyes and her heart quailed.

“Vincent… if this is a thing you’re not sure you want…”

Vincent shuddered with denial. “Kate Chandler took a lover to her bed, though she was never married by a priest. They had four children, and she loved him all her life, and thought of him as her husband, just as he thought of her as his wife.” He began to breathe in more deeply.

“He was like me, Catherine. Though Father swears I’m imagining it, I know it’s true. Vincente was real, and he lived to love her. An incredible woman. His very own beautiful and glorious white rose.”

“Yes…” Catherine closed her eyes, over the understanding of it. “I’ve been afraid to hope. I guess, believing in the fairy stories that promise you a happy-ever-after, takes some doing.”

“I’m terrified not to believe,” he replied, reaching for her hand. He guided it very slowly, toward the tie of his pants.

“It’s for you to do,” he said. Vincente’s words echoed, in his mind. “Only you. For what… damn little it’s worth… all of me is yours.”

She tugged gently, on the leather fastening. He looked down, and saw the thong looped between her fingers, as she pulled it loose. Then her hands stopped moving.

He glanced up to see her head down. Her hair was forward, and he could sense her disquiet.

Don’t stop. Please, Catherine, please. Be brave with me. We’ve come so far…

“I wish… I wish there’d never been anyone else,” she admitted. “For me,” she clarified unnecessarily.

“I don’t,” he said honestly, knowing they couldn’t be mirror images of Kate and Vincente, and never would be.

Catherine had known far more of the world and its wonders than Kate Chandler had ever dreamed of. There was no sin in that. Nor in the experiences which sometimes accompanied that knowledge.

“I truly don’t,” he husked, knowing no one held her heart but him, now. “I love you too much to feel like I need envy any other man. Your past experiences, both the good and the bad… they made you the woman you are today.”

Her eyes grew so bright, he thought he’d be blinded by the shine of her banked tears. His belief in her had always been her guiding star, and her talisman.

“We should be in some… huge four-poster bed, covered with pillows. There should be firelight and beeswax candles. I want to give you so much. I should be tracing a strawberry, across your lips,” she drew the image with her words, as she continued to open the flap of his trousers.

When she touched him there, all thoughts of anything but her hand fled his mind.

“You should be tracing my lips with nothing but yours,” he swore, as he covered her seeking hand with his, own blessing her for its sweet pressure.

He wore no underwear, and would never need any. Her fingers told her he was finely made, larger than any previous partner she’d known, but not overly so. Also that he was rock hard. His breath hissed in, as she brushed his tip.

“Have mercy.” The words were out before he could recall they hadn’t originally been his, and he thought he very much understood something that had happened in a certain bedroom, not so very far from here. He fought the urge to go down on his knees.

“Love your ser—”

“There are no servants, here,” she said it before he could finish the word, and she caressed him with the gentlest brush of her fingertips, and a half-smile on her lips.

“We aren’t them,” he said, still inhaling the fragrance that hung heavily, in the room. He knew his pulse was racing.

“No, we aren’t,” she pushed the trousers farther open, adoring the firm skin of his thighs, and the wiry curls that protected his scrotum. “They only had four children. And you’re not the only one who’s been considering the possibilities.”

He tilted his head back at the image she presented him with, and she watched the light of a dozen tapers paint his hair with gold. All of it.

She slid off the table and he kept his hands on her forearms.

“If this is a dream, let me not wake up. Please, let me not wake up,” he prayed, knowing she was pushing his jeans down, making him naked.

Boots, socks, jeans, his and hers, and they were gone before he could register that they were being removed. He reached up to drag his dry quilt to the floor, as she settled the pillars she’d made around it. It looked like an altar, fit for a loving sacrifice.

He wasn’t sure just which one of them that would be, at the moment. “Je pourrais rester heureux toute ma vie, tant que tu seras a mes cotes…” he whispered, seeing what his love had created. [3]

Driven by instinct, he turned to brush the wax shavings on the table into a small pile, scooped it up, and then pressed them together so that they made a loose shape, in his hand. It was full of ‘their’ scent.

There is a truth beyond knowledge, the old words came back to him, and he understood he was supposed to offer the oddly misshapen gift to her, somehow.

“Is there?” Catherine asked, drawing him down by his free hand.

He traced the odd totem along her collar bone, as she lay beside him, on his quilt, both of them aware she’d just read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d just spoken aloud. The bond was humming, between them.

“I think there is,” he confessed, knowing that the word ‘love’ could scarcely contain all he was feeling. He set the wax aside, to trace the same skin with his fingertips. The beast he feared lay quiescent, inside him, feeling positively gorged, by her nearness.

The satisfied growl he heard, deep in his own throat, was his. There be no dragons here…

Catherine echoed his touch with her own. “Show me?” she asked.

He hesitated but a moment more. “It will change us.” He knew he wasn’t echoing a distant groom, just agreeing with one.

“I pray that’s true,” she answered, reaching down to caress his firm buttock, then pull him over, to her. “I yearn for another stolen hour or two…”

He struggled to remain slow, and knew it was the most losing battle he’d ever fought. She seemed as malleable as the wax, and twice as warm. At some point she slid her hand along his forearm, up the quilt, encountered his small bundle of wax, and pressed it into his palm as his hot lips feasted on her breast.

She clasped her hand in his, the wax between them, the moment he made them one person.

He cried out at his own entrance, and lifted away, only to feel her follow him up, urging him back down to her warmth. Her legs locked around the small of his back, and she held him, her gentle prisoner.

He came back down, and the soft lay of golden, silky hair on his abdomen brushed her bare belly, and she purred her contentment, the sound a low, utterly feminine thing, in her throat.

My Cat drinks cream…

It was a ridiculous thing to think. And yet, when her green eyes narrowed, he knew it was utterly the right sentence. She no longer looked wanting, nor even hungry. She looked fed. She looked full, and sated, and utterly wanton. Like she’d already climaxed, though he knew she had yet to achieve that.

Husband. He heard it in her mind.

“Wife,” he swore, moving inside her, feeling her shift, and change. She squeezed her fingers, still linked with his, and he felt the wax move, even as he felt it conform to their mutual palms.

Then he felt her squeeze, and he knew they were both lost.

He tried to slow his orgasm, tried to stop it, only to find that not only was that not possible, but that the bliss he achieved seem never-ending.

He stayed inside her, riding the utter rapture of their mutual climax, only to find himself swamped by another wave of that, then another. The roll of his hips was a call to another spasm of rapture, and he barely had time to realize that this experience was so far removed from anything he’d experienced prior, as to be something else entirely.

This was not the furtive, frustrated explosion of a pent-up adolescence, or even the less satisfying inevitability of a night-time dream. Once it began, it simply refused to stop, and his huge frame shook, with the passion of it.

Three… four… and the joy of it obliterated any imagining he’d ever had of what lovemaking must be like. Five… six… he prayed for just one more even as he struggled to find his control, to make it stop. On the seventh, she came again, her muffled scream of delight burrowing itself into the skin of his neck. Eight. Nine. Done.

He was groaning, and heavy on her, his buttocks tense, and forearms as well, trying to keep his weight off, yet, dazed, and wondering if that was it, or if there was, impossibly, one more hint of ejaculation, inside him. He knew the last three had been all but dry. And utterly… devastating.

This is the favoured scent. The words echoed, in what was left of his conscious mind.

He had no idea if sex between them would always be so utterly … cataclysmic. But he had a feeling it might be, when her incredibly heady fragrance hung in the air.

He knew Catherine was as dazed as he was. And that her free hand was drawing random circles, on his back.

Catherine. He thought it, rather than said it. And he knew she heard it as loud as if he’d shouted.

Vincent, she returned.

He wanted to lay like this, just like this, for forever. Or at least until he hardened, again.

One of the pillars sputtered, and its crackling sound reminded him where they were.

Despite the rich temptation to do so, they could not remain here, on the floor of the Chandlery, to be found by any passing adult. Or Rebecca who may have forgotten something…

Despite there being no power, or will in his legs to rise, Vincent got to his feet, Catherine clasped to his chest within his blanket.

“I must dress. We must leave, before we are found,” he croaked, setting her gently aside, in the tumble of bedding.

He settled the candles from the floor back on the table. Then set about finding his clothing.

She made no demur beyond a small sound of disappointment.

He noticed she did not reach for her scattered clothes, seemingly content to watch him with his own. There was a new possessiveness now in her gaze; one that he enjoyed. It fed a place inside him that had never known so much as a crumb.

He tried to hold her adoring gaze and dress at the same time, finding it impossible. Her beautiful face registered disappointment as his long, firm flanks disappeared, inside his pants. When his arms reached up to tug his shirt on over his head, he actually heard a small sound of protest, as his abdomen disappeared from view.

No fair, he all but heard her think it.

You’ll have it back again, I promise, he replied, hastily donning his boots.

Still, she seemed in no mood to dress, but was rather enjoying watching him try to.

She was relying on him to make it all safe for them both. Vincent’s heart leapt with joy. Catherine would not be returning Above tonight…he knew that for a certainty. And he would not sleep in his great chair again…

His whole body hummed, as he snatched his vest from the floor. Thrusting his arms through the armholes, he yanked it down, flipping out his hair, before returning to where he had left his love.

Huddled in the quilt, she watched his haste with ravenous eyes.

She obviously has more in mind than sleep, then, Vincent decided.

He crouched down before her, like a willing slave at some distant altar, gathering her slimness into his arms, naked and hidden, within the quilt. His heart pounded against hers.

“Don’t move, or speak.” He tucked her head in against his shoulder, grabbing up her clothes with his free hand.

He’d taken no more than two steps when a voice asked from behind him, “Oh, has Catherine gone for the night, then?”

“Yes, she has…” Vincent glanced back at Rebecca, watching him from the chamber’s rear entrance. “I’m just here to fetch my quilt.”

“Pretty candle.” Rebecca advanced to the table to stroke Catherine’s creation. “She’s a natural. Tell her that from me, when you see her again, Vincent.”

“I will…good night.” Vincent turned away, hurrying towards his own chamber, keen to not be seen or stopped, again.

But the hour was late and thankfully, no one else crossed his path. Once safe in his chamber, he held his sweet burden in one arm as he dropped the leather privacy curtain, securing it firmly over the doorway. It was a thing he almost never did. No one would enter unless they knocked and asked, first.

Settling her onto his bed, he unwrapped Catherine like a precious gift parcel, slowly and with care. Her head rose from the quilt, her hair mussed and her cheeks bright with colour.

“That was close.” She giggled. “And fun. Are we going to do that all again, Vincent? Soon?” She arched her brows. “Tomorrow is Saturday, and I still have the whole weekend off. I don’t need to go Above until late Sunday night.”

“I know…” Vincent eased away from her only long enough to discard his clothing into a heap on the floor next to hers. He returned to the bed, with Catherine now sitting in the middle, the quilt smoothed and tidy.

“Move over.” He nudged her with his knee, and Catherine willingly obliged.

“Now, where were we,” she teased, settling close against his chest, her slender body draped across his.

Her leg pushed between his parted knees, moving upwards to draw slow circles against his quiescent manhood. He stilled her movements with a firm grasp on her satin thigh.

Witch. He thought it, but didn’t say it.

“I heard that.” She smiled at him.

Somewhere, Vincent got the impression someone else did, too.

He tugged her leg down, pulling her soft body against his own. The quilt was full of their scent.

“Catherine…” his voice warned.

“Later. We’ll talk about all of it, later,” she said, pressing against him, loving being able to do so.

“Somehow, I rather doubt that,” he said, knowing exactly what they would be doing, later.

“Then we won’t talk about it,” she said, tracing the cord of his neck with an incredibly soft forefinger. “Maybe we’ll just… live it, instead. There’s a particular garden I’m very keen to explore again, right now. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. That place where we can be free, together.” Vincent found the idea perfectly acceptable.

An hour later, it seemed there was no part of him she hadn’t tasted, hadn’t explored. She’d traced his inner thigh with the wax, even as he’d grasped it from her, and drawn a line from her collar bone down to her belly. Their loving had been both slow and fast, and Vincent had nothing to compare it to but their previous time, and knew he’d never need one.

He wondered if a nightingale had ever sung, outside the stained glass of his window. He wondered if he’d ever get enough of hearing Catherine make soft, whimpering noises under it.

Once again, the wax totem was clasped between them, as they climaxed, and this time had a deeper flavour than the first, soul-shaking one.

They were learning each other.

“I think you need to rest, for now. I know I do…” Vincent pulled the quilt around them both, against any drafts, while keeping his other hand entwined with hers.

Their wax totem still lay in her palm, a memento of their first night, together. Vincent lifted it into the candlelight, smoothing the texture, inhaling its perfume.

“Je t'aime de tout mon coeur, tout mon ame, tout mon etre…” he whispered, kissing her fingers that still held the wax figure. [4]

“Je t'aime,” Catherine assured him, simply. “Always…”

“Yes, always…” Vincent nodded, as he settled back, making a growling sound of utter contentment, as he felt her nod, even as she began to drift away.

I want to dream with you, he thought. I want to dare… everything.

Come find me, then, she answered, already starting to drift.

Eager to keep this new connection alive between them for as long as possible, Vincent closed his eyes and quickly followed her lead...back to that beautiful garden, where their matched souls were finally free, and so very eager to run…

Chapter Twenty-One

What We Have is all That Matters…

“If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours.

If they don't, they never were.”

Kahlil Gibran

“Do you really think he’ll like it?” Catherine turned the carved candle she had created with agitated fingers. “I mean, I didn’t just go out and buy it like I usually do. Or order it from a Macy’s catalogue.” She stilled her hands. Her shoulders slumped. “He’s going to hate it, isn’t he?”

“Your father will love it.” Vincent caught her lowered chin, turning her face up to his. “He is going to love it because you made it with love. You are too hard on yourself.” He kissed her open mouth lingeringly. He now owned the right, and revelled in it.

Drawing back from her wonderment, he looked with respect on what Catherine had achieved. A red and white rose candle, complete with green leaves, and intoxicating perfume. He knew Charles would not be as aware of the symbolism as Vincent himself was.

A rose by any other name…

It had taken Catherine many careful hours to create it. And it was uniquely lovely.

“It is very beautiful. And there is no other just like it,” he voiced his thoughts.

“It’s not as good as one of Kate’s,” Catherine prevaricated. “We both know that. I really don’t know what to do for the best--”

“The only candle-maker as good as Kate, was Kate herself.” Vincent shrugged. “But then she’d spent her entire youth in a convent learning the skills and perfecting them. You have only been carving candles for barely a month.”

His mouth quirked. “Of course, if you would rather go into a convent to learn the necessary skills, you could. But that could take years…”

“You’re not helping me decide.” Catherine hit him softly in his shoulder with her fist. “And you’re not making it any easier for me. Do you think I should just go out and buy him something? There is still time…”

She turned her gaze back to the candle she’d carved. There had been others, but their challenge had quickly waned. The results had been good, but they did not satisfy the growing thirst in her soul.

She’d finally decided to take a leaf from Kate’s book, and make something realistic. Like that long-ago Christ figure, only not nearly as ambitious. Catherine was too aware of her own limitations.

So she’d finally decided on red and white roses, scented with sandalwood and rosemary…powerful symbols. They meant far more to her, than her father would ever know.

“He will love it,” Vincent reiterated, taking her hands, and opening them, closing them again gently, to encircle the delicate flower candle…

The Tavern on the Green seemed so appropriate somehow. The place where this amazing journey of discovery had first begun. A journey that had taken Catherine far beyond her limits, in both time and her own personal life.

This time, she was the one who had phoned to make the arrangements. The new Catherine, who tried her very best to make herself more available to those she loved. Catherine the candle-maker…

She watched her father, as the waiter cleared the table, and left them alone with their wine. Charles told her all about Europe, and that it had brought him and Kay closer. Neither one of them knew what was next. But they knew they would find out, together.

That seemed just as it should be. And Catherine now knew how good it was to discover something just that way.

It was now or never. She reached into her bag, and pulled out her gift.

“Happy birthday, Dad.” She pushed it quickly across the table between them.

“Let me guess…” Charles assessed her offering.

He took it and turned it, frowning at it from all angles. But he came up empty. This hadn’t been bought at any of their usual places…where extensive gift lists were kept, and just the right items purchased for appropriate celebrations. It had none of the usual hallmarks for clues.

It was a game they often played, trying to guess where the purchase had been made. It was also the moment Catherine had dreaded. What if her father truly didn’t like it? No matter what he said now.

“Hmmm. Kay bought me a painting, on the Left Bank. I’m guessing this isn’t another one.”

It clearly wasn’t.

“Golf tees?  Monogrammed?  No…too heavy.” He tested the box for weight. There was some, to be sure.

“Can I shake it?”

“Please don’t.”

Catherine laced her fingers tightly together on the tablecloth. “It’s not from a department store, Dad,” she admitted, her eyes fixed on his puzzled expression. “I took a leaf out of Grandmother Kate’s book, and I…made it myself. I wanted to give you something, for giving me the gift of Kate’s diaries. They have been very…inspirational.”

She indicated the package with a quick flick of her hand. “Open it, please…”

“You made this…for me?” Charles looked stunned and excited, all in the same expression. “Oh, Catherine…”

He made short work of the ribbons binding it, then carefully slit open the paper to reveal a box. He lifted the lid and peered inside. The first thing that hit him was the incredible scents. Sandalwood he knew from the aftershave Kay had given him, but the rest defeated him.

He pushed aside the soft gift paper, inside the box. “What is it?” he asked, even as he dipped his hands inside to lift out his present.

He stared at the carved candle he held in his hands. “Catherine…it’s beautiful…” His eyes rose to his daughter’s face, both of them now close to tears. “If only your mother could see how far you’ve come…” He shook his head in amazement. “Who knew my daughter was so gifted, and so giving? I am a very lucky man…”

“You really like it?” She felt eight years old again, and suddenly aware that they had years before them, together. Happy ones for both of them, she prayed.

“It’s incredible…” He placed the candle carefully between them, turning it slowly, as Catherine had done. But for different reasons. “I will treasure it always…”

“Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.” Catherine stood to walk around the table. “And I’m sure, wherever he is, Uncle Daniel is wishing you every happiness.”

Her arms went around her father’s neck, and she hugged him close, kissing his cheek. “I truly wish Mom was here too, right now…”

She wished with all her heart that Vincent could also be here to take part in her love and joy. If only she could share her incredible love, with her father. She knew instinctively, the two men would like each other.

Somehow she also knew Charles would understand, and accept all she had to tell him. If only for the sake of the grandchildren who were yet to be…

But she had secrets…secrets she had sworn to keep. She could never tell, no matter how much she wished to do so, right now.

I can never tell. I must never tell. I have made a solemn promise to the man I love, with all my heart and soul…

Kate’s diary whispered across Catherine’s awareness, even as her Father’s smile warmed her.

Well, perhaps I can tell one or two people. Once our beautiful babies start to arrive…

~LE FIN~

“Sensual pleasure passes and vanishes, but the friendship between us, the mutual confidence, the delight of the heart, the enchantment of the soul, these things do not perish and can never be destroyed…”

~ Voltaire ~

Wherever your journey takes you, may you always go with love…

~ C.J. La Belle ~

"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face"

The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the dark and the endless skies, my love

To the dark and the endless skies

And the first time ever I kissed your mouth

I felt the earth move in my hand

Like the trembling heart of a captive bird

That was there at my command, my love

That was there at my command, my love

And the first time ever I lay with you

I felt your heart so close to mine

And I knew our joy would fill the earth

And last 'til the end of time, my love

And it would last 'til the end of time, my love

The first time ever I saw your face

Your face, your face, your face…

EWAN MAC COLL

Page 225: [1] “I think you are a beautiful man.”

[2] “You're the most beautiful woman in the world, there are no words to express it.”

Page 323: [3] “I could be happy my whole life, as long as you were by my side.”

Page 329: [4] “I love you with all my heart, all my soul, all my being.”