Bright Spirit Descending

Nan Dibble

The world was full of wonders.

Only stubborn, persistent, willful blindness could imagine otherwise. But he'd long since concluded that people didn't imagine at all. That was the reason for the closed, grim faces he encountered Above: faces barricaded against wonder, against imagination that would otherwise have erupted and made them know that neither they nor the world were as they'd thought them to be. Terrifying knowledge.

Breath was a miracle. Light was a miracle and Dark, a greater miracle still, if one had the eyes to see it. If one hadn't locked oneself up in mind-forged manacles and frightened blindness….

Blake had known the truth: If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is*infinite.

And the means were known: This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.

The means were at hand.

Bare arms inserted to the elbows through the access cuffs of the makeshift enclosure of plastic sheeting, he continued carefully harvesting his crop: the small, nutlike fruiting bodies that the fungus on the long growing tray lifted on delicate stalks. He collected each nearly weightless little puffball and dropped it into the plastic bag held in his other hand.

The crop was ripe almost to bursting: the fingers of his collecting hand glowed a luminous chartreuse from spores even the lightest contact couldn't help but dislodge. But he was proof against their effects - mere skin contact wasn't enough. Only inhaled would the spores release to the brain their varied illuminations.

Having harvested that tray, he sealed his bag and then proceeded with the routine: swishing both hands in a bowl of liquid fungicide, then washing thoroughly, several times, with surgical scrub. Next, he moved the tent of sheeting to another tray, methodically proceeding until all eight had been tended and his collecting bag fluoresced a vivid green in the illumination of the ultraviolet lamps hung from the cavern's low ceiling.

Maintained at a constant temperature and exposed to ultraviolet in the presence of heavy concentrations of vitamin D, the mold growing on a slurry of rye seed underwent a transformation, producing spores that concentrated certain alkaloids not normally present in ergot. And this cave was the perfect - indeed, the only - garden: when he'd tried expanding his experiment to nearby caverns, his crop had collapsed into a noxious slime. Something as yet undiscovered about this cave catalyzed the transformation. The slight radioactivity natural to granite? The dynamics of earth's electromagnetic force - the so-called “ley lines?” Perhaps he should make discreet inquiries in Chinatown for a geomancer to pronounce on the reasons for this one cave's auspiciousness for growing mutated ergot.

The thought made him smile, knowing he'd never disclose the secret of the world Below to such an interloper and certainly not for such a frivolous purpose. He wasn't, after all, intending to publish his research for the astonishment of the stupid, hidebound scientific community. It didn't matter if his results could be replicated in some topside laboratory. All that mattered was that his methods worked and that the product was worth many times its powdery weight in imperishable gold. He, of all people, had never been averse to a slight admixture of mystery….

Turning base substances into gold had been the proper work of alchemists from ancient times. And he claimed the name, and the mantle, of Paracelsus, greatest of those bygone explorers of the shadowy margins of knowledge where the physical and the magical interpenetrated and could yield illuminations for those with the eyes, and the will, to see beyond matter into the eternal, the infinite.

If there was a little magic in his dust, he wasn't at all displeased.

Carrying his crop to an adjoining chamber, he pounded the sealed bag with a padded mallet, releasing the spores he then extracted with the suction of a common turkey baster and expelled into a sealed jar. The glowing powder swirled - left to itself, hours would pass before it settled; he'd assist the process with a dusting of lactose to render the drug less volatile, easier to handle. Tonight at midnight he'd deliver to market the week's harvest - a package the size of both fists, barely a pound. But for each gram, he'd be paid several solid, beautiful gold coins.

He put no trust in adulterated coinage or paper money: without intrinsic value, dependent on the stability of whatever government issued it. Only gold would remain precious regardless of the inevitable wars and eruptions of uncontrolled irrationality characteristic of all civilizations that blinded themselves to the hidden side of the psyche, that tried to suppress, ignore, and deny the realities of primal Nature, thereby losing the opportunity to harness those forces. Denying Vision, they were more blind, in their ubiquitous artificial lights, than Paracelsus, at home in the elder Dark.

Removing his UV-protective goggles, studying the sparkling jar as he cleaned his implements and his work surface, he quoted to himself, In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

He forgave that author for bearing the surname Wells for the sake of his accurate insight that the blinded many would, if allowed, inflict blindness upon the visionary one who refused to share their limitations.

He knew that, were he ever caught, he would suffer imprisonment for the crime of purveying vision to the world Above. That was always the fate of prophets, whom mundane society rightly feared and hated. Society was intolerant of greatness, instead requiring a consistent, predictable level of mediocrity in its members. Nonconforming greatness, originality, and imagination were therefore driven into hiding and must live secret and apart. As he lived, in quiet and profitable subversion, awaiting the inevitable descent of chaos and old night upon the city and the civilization Above: when all the comforting, deceitful lights would go out and the self-blinded many would learn that only from the visionary few could either safety or survival derive and at last pay them proper homage.

Patting the jar, he thought, choosing another poet's inspired truth, I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

For vision was always terrifying. Not for no reason did angels arrive with the injunction, Fear not! Vision set one apart from the herd. That was dangerous. If some could not bear illumination, could not support an awareness of their irreducible isolation, if they preferred madness to facing the truth about their own petty souls or if society then shut them away as dangerously divergent, then that was the fault of their own weakness and society's rigid, oppressive paranoia: none of his responsibility. He only offered goods for sale. He compelled no one to buy.

And the doors of perception would be cleansed by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.

*****

Rhiannon had heard that this new stuff was a real kick.

Cost an arm and a leg, a whole week's modeling pay, but good stuff always did when it was new and hard to come by. Probably in a month, all the kitchen labs would have caught on and the stuff would be as common as dirt, kids peddling it on every street corner, but now part of the kick was that it was scarce and exclusive - only a couple of places dealing it, you had to know the right people to hear about it at all.

Rhiannon prided herself on knowing the right people. And on being first to try the newest thing before everybody got ahold of it and just having done it didn't mean you were special anymore. Doing what everybody else did was a real drag, maximally boring and tacky.

Maybe it was tacky that the stuff glittered like make-believe pixie dust, like something for kids. Standing in front of the mirror of the club's john - she liked to watch her eyes as the rush of whatever she was trying came on - Rhiannon leaned to flip off the light switch, then shook the little capped tube. Sure enough: glowed like squashed fireflies. Kind of pretty, actually. Bright and sparkly, like it might make you feel bright and sparkly, too. But when she talked about it, afterward, she'd dismiss it as tacky. Glitzy. That's what she'd call it: glitz. Maybe the name would catch on. Maybe her word for it would get to be the word – what they'd say in the papers and on TV and everything. Wouldn't that be a kick, to hear her word and know everybody was saying it but she'd said it first, when it was too new even to have a name at all and was just the new stuff at Fuscia?

After turning the lights back on, she carefully pushed off the cap with her thumbs - they'd warned her it was light, almost like smoke, and it was too pricey to waste - and immediately shoved the tube under her nose and breathed deeply. Holding her breath, afraid she'd sneeze, she stared at her face in the mirror to watch the rush hit.

Nothing happened. No intense rush. It was a big ripoff - they'd sold her some fake, taken her for some nobody they could pull anything on, or Mickey and Ronnie had told her wrong so they all could snicker about her behind her back, that she was dumb enough to believe in something as stupid as pixie dust….

But how could anybody want to laugh at that face? With its delicate miracle of bones all arranged the right way, the eyelids opening just enough to let the eyes look out, so perfect, so beautifully aligned? And the skin all stretching over everything, just enough to cover, wasn't that wonderful? And hair, each separate strand curling independently, moving when she shoved both hands into it but falling into a new arrangement when she let go, all by itself, amazing. And her hands, there were tiny little wrinkles in the skin so it could stretch when the fingers bent, not really wrinkles because they weren't gross or anything, just little flexes, just the way skin ought to be, and all of it hers, so beautiful it made her want to cry because she'd never realized she deserved skin like that, so many intricate little flexes just for her, so she'd work right, every joint and every motion lovely, like dancing. Her fingers doing a dance in the air. She hadn't realized what a privilege it was to be in breathing skin, all of it awake and aware of the breeze that moved from the door opening and the noise and smoke coming in from the club.

And the amazing thing was that the woman who came in was beautiful too. She had skin all over, and eyes that blinked and everything, all working right, all fitted to the right proportions to be herself. It wasn't just Rhiannon: everybody was wonderful!

Rhiannon blurted her recognition: “You're special!” but the woman didn't seem to care, giving her a quick glance before darting into a stall and slamming the door.

Rhiannon realized how sad it was that the woman didn't care she was special and had amazing hair every strand alive, because the dark roots were growing out, and how could you have living hair and not feel what a joyous thing that was?

She danced a slow, graceful dance back into the club and immediately realized that everybody could now see how beautiful she was. Naturally, they loved her. They moved around her, smiling and talking to one another, gesturing with supple hands, and it was plain it was all in praise of her. They were all beautiful together, secure and cherished, praised and praising in the magical colors that came and went on everything from the rotating mirrored ball on the ceiling. They were all rainbows, all made of light, bursting with visible happiness that sparkled everywhere.

Iridescent feathers entranced her: collecting from an unoccupied chair a long feather boa obviously offered as a gift to her, she stroked it into place around her shoulders, marveling at the textures and the delightful combination of softness and resilience.

She looked around to thank whoever had presented her with such a kind gift, so many sliding sensations on the bare skin of her hands, arms, and shoulders. Gloriously happy and grateful, she moved in her search to the street door and became absorbed in the different sensation of cooler air and the brilliant pink glow of generous streetlights offering their joy everywhere.

It was wonderful, how unselfishly they shared and asked for nothing back, happy merely in the giving. Rhiannon was caught up in imagining how good that would feel, to be so rich you could afford to give away the wonder; to be so loved you could love everybody alike.

For a moment, what caught her eye was a fire hydrant; then it was revealed as a shivering dwarf in bright red clothing, looking up at her in awe.

Infinitely compassionate, like the streetlights, she realized, “Oh, you must be cold!” and bestowed her boa on the dwarf, who snuggled the queenly gift against himself and beamed his astonished gratitude. She, too, was grateful.

Rhiannon wanted to thank the streetlights for the truth they'd revealed to her. But however high she reached, she couldn't seem to touch them. Other lights were approaching - a pair, round as eyes, accompanied by a lovely humming song that grew louder as the blazing eyes grew, rushing to share her joy. Confident, euphoric, she dashed suddenly forward into the street to meet them.

The car, a three-year-old blue Ford with New Jersey plates, killed her instantly.

*****

“Joe's taken every precaution,” Catherine insisted for about the fifth time, looking up at the leonine planes of Vincent's face for any sign he'd become reconciled to the prospect.

“I'll be wearing a wire – a microphone, Vincent. They'll be listening. They'll hear everything. At the first sign of trouble, they'll come in, and I'll dive for the floor. I promise. You mustn't worry.”

Vincent's response was to turn more fully away from the light slanting down from the basement storage area into this secret threshold, glinting off the gold bra the diagonal drape of Catherine's white evening gown left half exposed. His features in deliberate shadow, he said nothing – neither arguing nor accepting.

And unless Catherine persuaded him, if he thought her in danger he'd barge right into the middle of a police raid. That was why Catherine had sent him a note to meet her here tonight: to talk it out in advance so she could be certain he'd stay well clear.

She was as close as she'd ever come to being truly angry at him and knew her anger arose from guilt. Once before, he'd followed her to a risky meeting she'd considered necessary despite her edgy nervousness: unease strong enough to have drawn him to her in the first place. She'd come out relatively unscathed but he'd been all but deafened and blinded by a pipe bomb and then fallen into the hands of a vindictive street gang, the Silks. He'd been hurt worse, almost killed, before he'd managed to escape them and finally return Below.

Her fault, as Father had bluntly pointed out more than once in the weeks since.

Catherine was determined nothing like that was going to happen tonight. She was entitled to put herself in danger but absolutely didn't want Vincent involved.

She'd hoped it would be a simple matter of telling Vincent of her plans and explaining the safeguards, so he'd understand and be reassured…and stay Below, accepting that she'd be well-protected by others. But she'd reckoned without his stubbornness. He'd listen, perfectly politely… and then crash into the middle of a gun battle between drug dealers and police, should one erupt, the danger far greater to him than to her, since neither side would hesitate to fire at him.

Whereas Catherine had at least the protections of Law-- of being on the side of the “good guys”- Vincent's jeopardy Above was total. He had no place in that world, alien to criminals and police alike.

If he'd been anybody else, she'd have suspected him of using that grim and irrevocable fact as emotional blackmail to force her to give up her plans.

Trying another tack, she set both hands on his arm saying, “Vincent. It's important. It needs to be done.”

Finally, he consented to look at her – a brief, sideways glance. “But must you be the one to do it? Cannot this man you say already works there*”

“Jimmy.”

“Can he not wear this wire and gather whatever evidence--”

“He can't, Vincent. Buckman doesn't trust him to get near the drug deals yet. We have to get a line on the supplier, and for that, someone has to go in and negotiate for a big buy, so Buckman will have to make contact.”

“Someone,” Vincent repeated in an uninflected tone that nevertheless managed to convey immense reservations.

“I volunteered,” Catherine admitted steadily. “And Joe accepted my offer. Do you think Joe would have agreed if he thought it was that dangerous?”

Staring straight out into the dark of the brick passage, Vincent said, “Joe sent you to the docks. Where your companion was assassinated. Where you were shot. I came too late.”

“And it's my fault, about the Silks,” Catherine countered bluntly. Before he could protest, as she knew he was going to, she went on, “I'm due at the club in an hour. What do you want me to do, Vincent? Call Joe and tell him I've changed my mind, when I haven't? Call it all off at the last minute, let everybody down? Let them go on selling their horrible drugs? Go hide in my apartment, not for fear that I could be hurt but for fear something might happen to you? Is that what you want?”

“No. Of course not. But if you were to be hurt again, Catherine….” At his sides, his hands closed into huge, furred fists as he went on, “If you came to hurt I could have kept from you…. What would you have me do, Catherine? Deny the bond, that conveys your fear to me? Deny the danger, that even you do not claim does not exist? Deny*”

She broke in, “If there are risks, they're my risks, Vincent. You can't take them for me. Or from me. Who was it that taught me I must face my fears? Well, I'm doing that. But can't you see that you have to let me? I'm not an invalid, a child, or a fool. I gave Joe my promise. I intend to keep it.”

Vincent regarded her gravely. “I understand.”

She grasped one of his fists, and it immediately relaxed within her clasp: offering no resistance, but still what it was - a clawed sledgehammer of bone, tendon, and muscle that had killed in her defense more than once. Whose strength it would have been too easy to rely upon, rather than endure the necessary pain and fear of developing her own strength, her own courage.

She demanded, “But do you accept it? Will you promise to stay away?”

“As you say, Catherine - you are neither an invalid, a child, nor a fool. You must make your own choices. And I shall make mine. We must both take great care.”

Realizing he wasn't going to be sensible about this, she turned for the light and her ladder and left him without another word.

*****

As Paracelsus prepared to leave, his lieutenant, a black man named Cook, came to that branch of Paracelsus' suite of sparsely furnished chambers that served as his office, summoned for the usual parting conference. Nobody intruded on Paracelsus' solitude except by command.

“I still don't like it,” Cook commented in the softly slurred Georgia cadences a lifetime Below had failed to erase. He'd grown up in Paracelsus' service. “It ain't safe up there noways, and you carrying like this. Whyn't you send somebody?”

Pulling on his overcoat, Paracelsus leveled a stern, suspicious look at the man.

“You, for instance?”

“Sure, if you want. Or Viper, ain't nobody with sense gonna mess with--”

“No one touches my gold. Is that clear?”

Cook shook his head, frustrated. “It ain't like that. Stuff we do, pulling down buildings, arranging accidents, that's just eating money. Everyday trash: somebody's new set of socks, pair of eyeglasses, bunch of carrots, whatever. But the gold, that's for the Plan. And don't nobody know the whole of the Plan excepting you. You ....”

“And I intend to keep it that way. Your concern touches me deeply,” commented Paracelsus ironically, suspecting Cook of ambitions to displace him.

It was always a judicious balance: a stupid man would need constant supervision Paracelsus was disinclined to give, indifferent as he was to the daily tedium of the community he'd established; but an intelligent man, like Cook, inevitably became too independent, harbored ideas above his station. Such subordinates had to be disciplined and eventually disposed of. Cook had already lasted longer than most.

“Fetch yourself somebody along, then,” Cook persisted. “Case something go wrong. Vulcan, or Erlik, he'd do, just to ...”

“No one knows where I go, what I do, or why. I am alone. In that is my strength. In that is my safety. You cattle serve the Plan by doing my will. In return, when the world Above collapses, it may please me to share the knowledge which will enable you to survive. Without my guidance, you'll die as surely as the cattle Above, when the time comes. I need none of you. Your ignorant company bores me unutterably. Your petty fears show only your inability to conceive of true terror. Shall I show you, then? Shall I show you what fear there can be in a handful of dust? Shall I break your mind, and your will, and discard you for the broken tool that you are?”

Cook hung his head submissively. “No, Prophet.”

“Do you dare to dispute with me further?”

“No, Prophet. I was just…. No, Prophet. Like you say. I be cattle. Nobody. I just don't want nothing to go wrong, is all. But that ain't my place. Didn't mean no disrespect by it.”

“I have no interest in your intentions, only in your obedience. Deliver your report.”

Cook then recited details of contracts completed, in progress, or offered: buildings or lives demolished in support of insurance fraud, petty vengeance of one topsider against another, or punitively in case a customer was slow in payment. The world Above was doomed in any case, so it made no difference if the process was hastened a little, for profit.

Hearing the name of a proposed target, Paracelsus interrupted, “Refuse it.”

“But ...”

“A time will come, soon, when you'll but me one too many buts. Refuse the contract.”

“What we gonna say for the reason?”

“There is no need of reasons.”

“He connected: is that it?” speculated Cook, clearly thinking of the city's second government of organized crime.

“You will refuse the contract.”

“How about we tell the target 'bout the offer? That way, he owe us something.”

“We have no part in their affairs. Have you not yet learned that we are not merely some rival organization, trading favors and feuds with criminals lacking any vision beyond their own selfish advantage?

“They are all cattle, all under the same doom when the time comes. Will you collect on your favors then, among the rubble and the rotting corpses? We are a society separate and apart, planning against the day when all Above is swept away. The wolf makes no bargain with sheep, seeks no favors of goats. Nor do wolves prey upon one another if it can be avoided. Such conflict offers, at best, a Pyrrhic victory.”

Sullenly, Cook offered the expected question: “What be Pyrrhic, boss?”

“A victory hardly to be distinguished from defeat,” replied Paracelsus crisply, putting on a hat with a wide brim, to shadow his face from topside eyes.

“Is that all of it?”

“Yes, boss.”

Nodding, Paracelsus checked that the bag of dust was deep in his coat pocket and that his hidden wrist sword was well set in its harness, its trigger securely locked. As he strode into the passage to make his way from these deep levels to the surface, he heard Cook's insubordinate mutter, “You take care, now.”

*****

The dime-sized microphone/transmitter was cold, resting between Catherine's breasts. Although everybody was trying to be all business, Cathy found it uncomfortable and embarrassing to be standing in her gold bra, the upper part of her diaphanous white gown around her hips, as though she were a belly dancer.

Waiting in the van while Claude Solnik knelt before her in his flak jacket, securing the trailing wire to her ribs with surgical tape, another SWAT sergeant and Joe Maxwell looking on, felt like undergoing a medical exam in public.

Poked in the side, Cathy joked nervously to Solnik, “I'm glad you didn't go in for neurosurgery.”

“Not half as glad as his patients,” Joe quipped from behind her.

As the radio relayed, in a soft, tinny squawk, Ready to move. Over, Cathy leaned against the van's inner wall, commenting in exasperation, “Speaking of patience….”

Pressing more tape into place, Solnik commented, “Almost done here, so relax.”

Relax? Cathy thought. With Vincent on some rooftop or in some alley, just waiting for a flash of panic from me? Sure, Claude: relax.

She couldn't decide which was worse: this, or preparing for her debutante ball at 17, when she'd been sure she'd break a heel or have her first strapless dress lose its moorings and leave her standing in her underwire bra… as I'm already doing, so there's nothing more to worry about, right? she thought, and tried to breathe deeply to ward off hysterical giggles.

The radio reported, Two and three in position. Ready to go, Number One.

Finally straightening, Solnik remarked, “Remember: once it goes down, you gotta get to the fire door, open it for us.”

“I know, Claude, I know,” Cathy rejoined, lifting the gown's thick, braided shoulder strap into place. The overall effect was daring and vaguely Grecian-like a tunic of veils, with metallic glints, leaving one side of the bra exposed. Although the transmitter had absorbed some warmth from her skin, she was still uncomfortably aware of it and of the taped wire.

Adjusting her gown's bodice, she added, “We've been over it a dozen times.”

Joe had risen, holding up her gauzy white wrap. She found on his face, besides gratifying male appreciation, an uneasy solicitude.

“You nervous?” he asked, as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

“Not as bad as when I was in the sixth grade. I had the lead in the school play - Joan of Arc.”

As Cathy settled the wrap, she and Joe traded wry, wary smiles. But Joe still wasn't reassured, commenting, “You know, it's one thing, signing on for the joint investigation, but going undercover….”

Dropping both hands onto his chest - something between a dismissive push and a reassuring pat - Cathy cut in, “No one twisted my arm, Joe. I volunteered.”

Sometimes it seemed to her that no one in her life was prepared to admit she was a grown-up, capable of making her own choices, taking her own chances. With a guilty pang, she knew her father would have a heart attack if he knew what she was doing tonight. Which was why she hadn't told him. So many secrets, she thought disconnectedly, imagining Vincent. Even now, it's like being a spy in enemy territory. Secrets. Subtle insincerities - always something withheld. If Joe knew about Vincent….

She shook her head, forcing that thought away. She had to keep all the parts of her life separate somehow, even though that left her feeling scattered, divided, dishonest. Maybe going through this authorized pretense, deliberately risking herself for others, would help her feel whole again.

“Well, if you ask me,” Joe continued, “putting yourself on the line like this isn't worth $2,500 a month.”

“I'm not asking you,” Cathy responded, with a certain sharpness. “Come on: we're past that. We both know why I'm doing this.”

With a quarterly allowance from her mother's trust fund equal to Joe's annual salary, Cathy hadn't joined the soul-eating grind of the district attorney's office three months ago for a paycheck… as Joe should know perfectly well. As Joe did know: he was just trying to lighten the mood.

When I'm scared, the first thing to go is my sense of humor. Calm down, she told herself fiercely, collecting her purse and a small rectangular metal case as Joe remarked, “You just be careful in there. Let's go.”

The van doors swung open. Catherine stepped down into the street opposite the club - Fuscia: the newest “in” spot, refuge of the city's current crop of “beautiful people.” Reaching the stairs, she exchanged a blank glance with Jimmy Morero, the burly, well-tailored bouncer courteously keeping gawkers and paparazzi from impeding the entrance of legitimate patrons… like Catherine. Elegantly and expensively dressed, wearing slightly more makeup than she usually did, Catherine knew, passing into the club, that she fit right in.

Once, her appearance wouldn't have been a disguise but her normal attire for a weekday date: on display. She'd have been arriving on the arm of somebody like Tom Gunther, his eyes approving the elegant facade… that reflected well on his choice in women, his own attractiveness. Even now, she wasn't alone: again, Catherine suddenly imagined Vincent, someplace close, attending to her every change of mood, concerned only for her, not for what she wore, how she looked….

Vincent hadn't, she realized, said one single word about how nice she looked tonight. And at the time, there at her threshold, she hadn't even noticed the omission. Trivialities of appearance didn't matter to Vincent: he saw deeper, felt deeper. And although she valued and approved of that, it still would have been nice if he'd shown some reaction to her dress: in the van, even Joe and the SWAT team members had snuck the odd glance, while politely pretending they weren't looking….

Disguised as myself, she thought as she surrendered her wrap, then moved among the tables, surrounded by music, voices, motion, glittering lights. Nobody will suspect a thing.

*****

Blow-dried Tyler Buckman folded manicured hands, nervously spoiled the pose to check his Rolex, then was annoyed at himself and refolded his hands on the elegantly bare glass-topped desk that let him watch his Gucci loafers and crisp Armani pants' legs, reassuring himself that he was one up on whoever happened to be on the other side of the desk.

It was time.

At his nod, Garret pushed the lever on the steel fire door while Trevor stood watchfully aside. Shoulders like theirs required custom tailoring, not even counting the adjustment needed to hide the bulge of their shoulder holsters, but Buckman didn't grudge the cost. It was all necessary window dressing - part of the overhead: normal operating expenses for running a place like this, where appearance was everything. You had to have muscle on hand every minute… but inconspicuously, and with some style.

The style of the man Garret admitted was another thing altogether. Black, high-collared jacket, tightly buttoned, no color about him anywhere. A sagging, lined, jowly face, not much hair, a pointed beard, complexion pasty-white. And staring from pouches, the coldest, most contemptuous eyes Buckman had encountered since he'd been too busy partying to read the assignment in Management 101 at the Harvard Business School and Professor Mulholland had caught him unprepared.

This man said nothing, removing one black leather glove to untie the neck of a canvas pouch and pour its glittering contents onto the glass desktop, breaking up clumps in an empty memo pad holder.

Buckman wished the damn dealer would use clear zip bags, like everybody else. This stuff was more volatile than cocaine. But he wasn't going to bring that complaint up again, to be answered only by the man's indifferent sneer that said, as plain as words, that as the sole source of a unique product, it was a seller's market and he could do exactly what he pleased. Until Buckman's tame lab could duplicate the drug or even figure out what the hell it was, a chore at which so far they'd failed miserably, he could like it or do without.

Instead, Buckman viewed the pile of dust disapprovingly. “Is that all?”

“For the moment, yes,” replied the dealer, in a cultured growl that also unpleasantly reminded Buckman of Professor Mulholland.

“I'm not meeting demand,” Buckman stated, fiddling with a pen. “Not even close.”

“Then raise your price.”

“I'm already up to a thousand a gram, wholesale. Next time, I want more,” Buckman declared, angling for leverage, anything that would put him one up, give him an edge. He hated these meetings.

The man raised dark, dead eyes like a shark's. “You'll take what I bring. You'll pay me now.”

Aware that he'd just lost round two, Buckman motioned to Garret, who set four wrapped rolls of coins on the desk. The gold double-eagles spilled out when the dealer broke the wrappers and methodically counted them - 25 to a roll, one hundred in all - before shoving them into the pouch.

That was another thing about this dealer that Buckman hated: he'd accept payment only in gold coin, which meant using coin dealers and checking the day's price per ounce on the London exchange. Even when Buckman used Krugerrands, each coin was worth more than its face value, yet the dealer would only credit the face amount. That Buckman inflated the retail price by a couple of thousand percent didn't change the nagging impression that he was being ripped off every time he paid for a delivery.

When the dealer left, Buckman moved away from his desk, while Garret removed the shining dust pile with a tiny vacuum used only for that - even sweeping the dust up would have lost some into the air - and took it into the back room where other men waited to weigh, cut, and repackage it.

Buckman checked his Rolex: he'd had another appointment five minutes ago. Some babe working the Mayflower circuit, wanting to set up a buy. Made contact through Eric, who was generally reliable, and had checked out okay by Jimmy, Buckman's Outside Man…. Let her wait, Buckman decided, needing to feel one up on somebody after the frustrations of his last meeting.

He waited until Garret came back, then sent Trevor to have Jimmy bring the broad in. He made sure he was busy writing up the new transaction, in a coded entry, in his ledger, when the door opened, and didn't look up right away. But when he did, he kept on looking. All white and gold, wearing a gown like $10,000's worth of next-to-nothing, hair up on top, loose on the sides and shining like brass, dangling earrings like young chandeliers, standing in front of Jimmy and coolly regarding Buckman as though the two of them were alone in the middle of Madison Square Garden. She was definitely one upscale item. Buckman shut the ledger and pushed it aside without moving his eyes.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” Buckman said, dismissing the man, who didn't seem all that eager to go. Buckman couldn't blame him. The woman was not only gorgeous but classy, maybe dealing because she got a better rush out of the risk than drugs could give her. Addicted to the illegality. If edging over the line was what she got off on, Buckman could think of a few other risks he'd like to try out on her.

Composed, seeming perfectly at ease, she said, “I'm Cynthia Hatch. Eric sent me.”

Buckman waited a minute, pressuring her a little with the pause, the lack of response. She just continued to gaze at him blandly… and he found himself distracted by trying to decide whether her eyes were green or blue, tinted contacts, maybe…. Shaking out of it, he asked warmly, “How is Eric?” like a trick question.

“He told me you want to do business.”

Folding his hands, Buckman responded neutrally, “I'm a businessman. What kind of… business do you have in mind?”

“Distribution,” replied Cynthia, just as though they were talking about a new line of designer hats. “I have a solid client base, and they're getting curious about the new product. I want to keep them happy.”

“That's noble, miss. Real noble.” Buckman considered--dragging the thing out, making her wait. “What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Twenty-five thousand,” suggested Cynthia, setting down on the glass desktop a rectangular metal box she'd been holding underneath her purse. Trying to lift the lid, Buckman found he couldn't: locked.

Annoyed she'd try games on him, he demanded, “How do I know the money's in here?”

“How do I know you have the product?” Cynthia countered coolly.

Rising and circling the desk, Buckman put out his hand and was handed a kilo bag by Trevor. As he set the bag on the desk, Cynthia, smiling like a stripper, produced the key from her purse and offered it like something delicious to eat.

Tipping the lid back, Buckman confirmed that the box was full of money: wrapped hundreds in two stacks. But as Cynthia's hand claimed the bag, Buckman grabbed, locking her wrist in awkward midair.

When she looked up into his face, inquiring but suddenly pale, Buckman asked smoothly, “What's the rush?”

He touched her cheek, then ran his finger gently, intimately, down her neck. But her expression, instead of growing more frightened, turned stern and blank as a mask; her eyes locked on something past and behind him. Almost a look of listening….

As his hand moved to her cleavage, he detected a lump - something hard and just the right size to be a mike. That second, she gave him a hearty shove and got away from him. Diving at the fire door, yanking on the heavy locking bar.

In the next five noisy seconds, Trevor and Garret were down and Buckman found himself pinned against a wall by a rough cop in full battle gear, who started to read him his rights in a loud, angry voice. Buckman couldn't turn his head to find out what'd happened to the bitch who'd suckered him but he hoped it was plenty and permanent.

*****

“It's all right,” Cathy repeated stubbornly, trying to push Joe's arm away as they wandered toward the van.

She was upset and even though she knew Joe was trying to reassure himself she hadn't been hit, being touched at all made her feel frantic. Buckman's finger stroking down her scarred cheek had brought it all back to her – the attack, and the snake-tattooed thug touching her face with just that kind of slimy delicacy, marking the place where he meant to cut her. Had cut her. Only the one scar remained, but Dr. Sanderle had promised that could be removed, too, allowing a few more weeks for the deep healing to be complete….

“I'm all right. Really,” she said, trying to soften her voice to a friendly, ordinary tone without relaxing a fraction of the tight control that kept her knees from buckling.

She wasn't helpless now. Joe wasn't steering her toward the van so he could throw her down, pull out a switchblade, and carve her face into a hideous lacework of oozing cuts. Even imagining it was absurd. This was Joe! And Buckman's violating hands were in cuffs. Soon he'd be fingerprinted and booked. With any luck at all, he wouldn't be touching anybody that way for a long, long time.

That was what she had to think about, concentrate on. The danger was over. That was what she had to feel… to the degree she could allow herself to feel anything without collapsing into hysterics.

“You sure, kiddo?” Joe demanded, holding onto her elbow, drawing her past the van she now couldn't look at without wanting to shudder… because of another van, another time, that this night had brought back to her with the clarity and intensity of dream.

Approaching a battered parked Toyota, mostly green, Joe added soberly, “I don't think you should drive. Come on: I'll run you home.”

“No, Joe. I'll catch a cab. Really. I want to walk a little, catch my breath ...”

She pulled free, walking backward away from him toward the corner. “We'll do the post mortem tomorrow in the meeting, all right? Just walk a little, clear my head…?”

Joe was still standing by the car, as though any second he might decide to come after her and try to insist she come with him, when she reached the corner and put it between them, walking quickly, almost blindly, nearly stumbling on a discarded plastic soda bottle and reeling toward an alley to catch her balance.

Something large and dark dropped soundlessly from a fire escape and she let herself be gathered into a comforting embrace: patched wool and leather laces against her cheek, and the dear, reassuring smell of smoke and candle wax as a warm and vivid memory of sanctuary and peace.

For several minutes Vincent said nothing, merely held her… or rather, she realized, let her hold him. All he'd done was open his arms, and she'd flown into them and was clinging to his solidity, his steadiness….

A little embarrassed, she brushed hair and laces away from her face, then took his wrist to draw him deeper into the concealment of the alley's dark where lights from some passing car couldn't find them.

“You came,” she murmured, knowing she was stating the obvious but not caring. The relief she'd been holding off now claimed her and she was half dizzy and breathless with it, as though she'd taken too many turns on a carousel and couldn't quite find her balance again, now that everything was no longer spinning.

Vincent's response was merely, “Yes,” the word so soft it was more felt and guessed-at than heard.

“You shouldn't have,” Catherine added sternly, looking up into his face. “It was no place for you, Vincent. Things like this are my world's concern.”

“Are you not my concern?” he countered quietly.

“Yes, but ...” She released his wrist to throw out an abrupt gesture. “It was necessary. And as you can see, I wasn't hurt. It all went just as planned. Or almost,” she added, recalling Buckman's unwelcome fingers stroking her last remaining scar.

She paced from one side of the alley to the other, then back again, as Vincent stood unmoving at the center.

“Don't you see?” she demanded impatiently. “I don't want you hurt. And I especially don't want you hurt on my account! You have to trust me to take care of myself, or trust, with me, to others… like Joe. Like Jimmy. Trust the protections my world offers. This has nothing to do with you, and you have to keep away from it, don't you see?”

“Whatever frightens you, whatever can harm you, touches me. I know what you felt in that place… before the shooting began. I know how that man's touch affected ...”

“Vincent, I had to do this. I had to know I could do this. Please,” she said, laying her hands on the sleeve his cloak left bare. “Don't make me add fear for you to whatever fear I can't help feeling, myself. Don't complicate every risk I take by making it a risk I'm inflicting on you, want to or not. It's my world. I can deal with it. Vincent, I have to: I'm the one who has to live in it!”

“I'm glad,” he said finally, “that you're safe. There is a threshold not very far from here: may I see you home?”

For a second Catherine considered the distance and her spike heels on the sand and concrete of the tunnel floors. Then she considered Vincent, patiently waiting for her permission to do so simple a thing as share her company for a little while. A little time, she thought, to find his own balance again after the whirligig of uncertainty and fear he'd been on tonight….

She wondered how many seconds had separated the first gunshot from his certainty that she was unhurt, that the danger was over and the other protections had been enough. She wondered if he'd been simply relieved, or just a little disappointed to find she hadn't needed his help after all….

She slipped her arm under his, remarking lightly, “The perfect end of a perfect evening.”

Walking with him through the alley, then along the darker margin of a street, Catherine was thinking that time, concern, and company shouldn't have to be the only gifts she could give him, in return for all the wonders his advent into her life had opened to her. In a few weeks would be the anniversary of their first meeting: when he'd found her, slashed, bleeding, and unconscious, in the park - tossed away like a sack of garbage. That meeting had irrevocably changed both their lives. It deserved to be celebrated.

Because of his refusal to remain uninvolved or view topside brutality as none of his necessary concern, she'd been able to heal and gain the strength and courage to do what she'd done tonight to repay, a little, a debt of protection she still felt she owed… for the privileged life she'd led and for Vincent's unending concern ever since that terrible April night that had brought them together.

As she imagined surprising him with a special something, a keepsake for him alone, Vincent inquired, “Why do you smile, Catherine?”

“Oh, for the ordinary reason, I suppose - I'm happy. Glad to be alive. And in good company.”

Around the corner of a vacant building, Vincent lifted the edge of a sheet of plywood fastened, more loosely than it appeared, over a glassless window. Catherine stepped through, then waited for the clasp of Vincent's hand to guide her through the dark interior. After a corridor and a stair, they came into the tunnels where occasional utility lights cast a glow and there was no longer any need to seek out the shadows: this was his world, and they both were safe here.

“You were very brave, tonight,” Vincent mentioned presently in an odd, hesitant tone – as though he worried that paying her a compliment might be taking some sort of liberty. As though he wasn't sure he had the right to offer an opinion on the subject.

“Then maybe I won't be so scared, the next time.”

“The next time….” he repeated, and afterward fell silent.

The prospect troubled him – she could tell. It bothered her too. Because she knew there'd be a next time.

The problem they'd faced tonight hadn't been solved - only postponed. She couldn't welcome his concern for her in one breath and reject it with the next. His was the consistent position… which left him vulnerable to her danger.

Talking it out beforehand had accomplished nothing. There had to be some other way.

It wasn't her danger he reacted to, but her fear. Walking beside him, taking two steps to every stride of his,

Catherine hated the thought of deliberately keeping anything from him: only with him, now, could she be wholly without concealments, withholding nothing, saying whatever was in her heart. Nevertheless, the only solution seemed to her to somehow learn how not to feel the fear. Keep it to herself. Bear it alone, if she had to, as the price of keeping safe the most important person in her life.

It didn't seem fair: they were already separated in so many ways – the irrevocable distance, and difference, between his world and hers, his life and her own. It seemed cruel to be forced to impose still another separation… particularly one within the bond that opened all her feelings to him: the deepest connection binding them together. But if she had to, if there was no other way, and if it were possible, then she would. However close they were, they also needed their distances so each of them could grow into what they were destined to become…to one another, but also as individuals.

Quoting Eliot's Ash Wednesday, Catherine thought, “Teach us to care and not to care/Teach us to sit still.”

Sitting (anywhere – soon) appealed to her greatly at the moment.

2

The task force review meeting was convened downtown under police auspices. Besides Cathy and Joe, the group gathered around the briefing room's table was presided over by Captain George Farell – black, in his 50s, wearing reading glasses he didn't like, with a no-nonsense, direct manner.

Farell was saying, “About last night, you people have a lot to be proud of. The commissioner asked me to send his congratulations to all of you.” Looking down the long table, he added, “Especially to Miss Chandler.”

As Cathy tried to combine in one smile embarrassment at being singled out and pleased modesty, Farell continued, “Now, the suspect, one Tyler Buckman, is a major distributor, and both the commissioner and I feel that in conjunction with this new surveillance, he'll help send us all home on this one.” Farell looked to Joe Maxwell for comment.

“Well, on our end,” Joe said, “Buckman took his lawyer's advice and accepted immunity. Miss Chandler conducted the first round of interrogation this morning.”

Farell asked, “Well – anything interesting?”

“Beyond the fact that he's not too fond of me,” Cathy responded wryly, getting some knowing grimaces and chuckles from the others, “Buckman was pretty cooperative. We have this composite…” From a manila envelope, she pulled and held up a mounted police sketch showing the face of a scowling, saturnine man, at least middle-aged, balding, with a goatee. Passing the sketch down the line, Cathy continued, “…so we at least have some idea of what he looks like.”

Jimmy Morero, she noticed, let the sketch pass without a glance. Shirtsleeves crookedly rolled up under a sleeveless drab pullover crossed by the harness of his shoulder holster, slouched sullenly with folded arms, he couldn't have made his displeasure any clearer if he'd been holding up a sign. Cathy wondered what the problem was there.

Handing on the sketch, Solnik asked, “General circulation?”

“I don't think so,” Joe decided. “We might scare the creep into permanent hiding.”

At the head of the table, Farell nodded. “I agree. And, since my opinion is the only one that matters,” he added with a ponderous jocularity as the sketch reached him, “I don't want this picture leaving this room.” Setting aside the drawing, he said to Cathy, “All right – what else you got?”

“Frankly,” Cathy responded, “he wasn't able to tell us much. No names, no contacts, no numbers. Buckman was always reached by messenger on the day before.”

It hadn't been a pleasant interview. Buckman had been torn between trying to impress on Cathy how important he was and, contrarily, characterizing himself as a simple businessman victimized by really powerful, vicious people – criminals…and his own clientele. If you didn't give people what they wanted, Buckman had whined, they'd simply go elsewhere, so what was a businessman to do?

Face to face, by daylight, in the stark, bare interrogation room, Cathy had found nothing to be afraid of in the man… and also very little to pity. According to Buckman, everything was somebody else's fault. His getting arrested, in particular, was her fault. There'd been some name-calling, before his lawyer had finally put a stop to it.

People who refused to take any responsibility for their own lives, who claimed the status of victim whenever things didn't go their way, filled Catherine with distaste and a vague, despairing anger. She'd been a victim once; and she was determined to do whatever was necessary never to be one again.

Continuing now, thoughtfully, she added, “One thing did strike me, though: the supplier always insisted on being paid with gold coins.”

Claude commented, “Sounds like a major nut job.”

Jimmy's glowering silence had finally caught Farell's attention. Looking straight at him, Farell challenged, “Is there anything you'd care to add, Detective Morero?”

After a second's pause just this side of insolence, Jimmy responded flatly, “No, sir.”

Heavily sarcastic, Farell said, “You know, Detective, if what we're trying to do here doesn't somehow hold your interest, please feel free to leave.”

The two men traded stares. Then Jimmy pushed out of his chair and walked out. Cathy looked at Joe, then around the table, for some explanation. Getting none, and having made her report, she excused herself with an exchange of glances and pursued Jimmy out into the squad room.

Reaching where he stood, angry and clenched, by a file cabinet, she asked, “Hey, what just happened in there?”

“I really don't know, Chandler.” He abruptly lunged off among the desks, with Cathy at his heels. “But it seems to me everyone's too busy slapping each other on the back to admit we screwed up.”

As the main slap-ee, Catherine was taken aback, but felt that Jimmy's ire wasn't directed at her personally. So she refused to get defensive.

“Jimmy, what is eating you? Buckman gave us some very solid information--”

“Buckman,” Jimmy interrupted, his tone making the man's name a rude epithet, “we could've busted any time in the last two months.” Reaching a cluttered desk with his nameplate, Jimmy dumped himself into the chair. Then, like somebody spelling out the obvious for someone whose intellect he suspected would be challenged by the task of getting shoes on the proper feet, he stated, “We were supposed to nail the supplier while he was there.”

Again, Catherine refused to take personally the implication that her fear, and her courage, of last night had been a waste of everybody's time. What Jimmy said was true: that had been the plan, if it'd gone ideally. But as a lawyer, and with the DA's office, Cathy had already learned there was generally a meaningful difference between the ideal and the possible, and people generally had to settle for the possible. It was that or surrender to bitterness, give up and do nothing at all.

“I know.”

The admission visibly mollified Jimmy's anger. On the strength of that truce, Cathy settled slowly into the straight-back side chair, adding bluntly, “That doesn't alter the fact that you just acted like a jerk in front of Captain Farell.”

“I'm just real frustrated, Chandler, that's all.”

Cathy held his eyes. “Well, you're not the only one.”

Jimmy accepted that too. Shrugging his head and chuckling, he conceded good-naturedly, “When you're right, you're right.”

Which meant this was as close to an apology as Cathy was going to get from him. Well, she could live with that. She hadn't been grandstanding last night in hopes of getting her head patted by the real cops today. Though it had felt good to know she'd earned the respect of the people who took risks for a living, routinely put themselves on the line to protect others and enforce the law, that wasn't why she'd done it. And unlike Jimmy, she didn't figure to spend her life undercover, dancing the line of duplicity in constant, intense, unremarkable peril from moment to moment. If she'd done her part well, as a one-time amateur, that was all that was important. So finally the praise, or any apology from Jimmy for withholding it, really didn't matter.

She said, simply, “Good.”

She and Jimmy regarded each other with a settling, comfortable warmth. He was a big, rough-featured guy about her own age – handsome in his own way, when he wasn't trying to look tough or glowering at his superiors. If he had a quick temper and wasn't too comfortable with authority, she suspected it was just because he was out on his own, depending on his own wary chutzpa with backup hours and miles away, so much of the time. Pretending to be somebody else – wearing a mask. A spy on enemy ground.

So when he was being himself, no mask, just another hardheaded cop, he went to the other extreme and burst out with his first reaction, however tactless, just because it was the truth of how he felt. Catherine understood and sympathized with that reaction: that was how, under all the layers of deception, you kept yourself from forgetting who you really were.

If you had to explode, you just tried to keep from doing it, too often, in the faces of the people who were safe to blow up at because they really cared about you. She knew she wasn't always as careful as she ought to be about that, with Vincent….

Mouth quirking into an unexpectedly charming smile, Jimmy remarked lazily, “You know, Chandler – you're okay.”

Smiling back, Cathy reached across the desk to tilt a framed portrait photo of a beautiful dark-skinned girl…tactfully and almost casually deflecting the warmth she felt between herself and Jimmy.

And he was quick: he caught it. All of it. And his smile broadened, accepting the fading of possibilities between them.

“Her name is Carmen,” he offered. “She's my fiancee.”

“She's lovely,” Cathy commented sincerely.

“She is, isn't she?” Jimmy agreed, just as sincerely, chuckling. “Best collar I ever made.”

They were interrupted by a skinny, bushy-haired young guy in a flapping lab coat, holding out a file folder. Greeting the man, Jimmy said, “Hey, Doctor Zeke. Say hi to Chandler. Easy – she's with the DA.”

Obediently saying hi, the tech bobbed Cathy a shy little nod, then pushed the folder at Jimmy, clearly more comfortable with men, and facts.

While Jimmy scanned through the papers inside, Zeke explained, “It's the analysis that you asked for. It was as unadulterated a sample of the drug as we've seen. Definitely organic. Some kind of a fungal hybrid or psilocybin derivative.”

Looking up from the folder, Jimmy commented, “I want to know why it glows in the dark.”

“It's bacterial. The kind that occurs in caves or ocean depths--where there's no light.”

The word caves made Cathy tighten up inside, then deliberately relax, hoping her reaction hadn't shown. From that instant, she began to harbor a very unpleasant suspicion. She didn't want to wait a minute longer than she had to in confirming or dismissing it.

****

Answering Catherine's summons, Vincent met her at the park threshold at dusk. Behind her, light from the culvert was fading. Outlined against the glow, the ribbing of her pink sweater showed distinct textures, looking rougher than he assumed it was to the touch. Her grey jacket, a muted tweed, was one she'd worn last week – recently dry cleaned, by the lingering chemical scent. With no occasion other than meeting him, she was plainly dressed this evening, having changed for the hike across the park after returning from work. She wore no earrings or other jewelry. And no perfume: besides the jacket and its leather buttons, the only smell was Catherine.

Last night, in that gracefully draped white dress, she'd been an ethereal vision that shone too brightly for him to regard steadily. It wasn't merely that Catherine had the resources and the taste to wear well made, expensive clothing – it was the impact of her presence: dazzling, disorienting, like being caught unexpectedly by one of the stray sunbeams that sometimes penetrated Below. Like a sunbeam, that vision changed everything and left a burning afterimage. He had merely to shut his eyes and it was there – shining, haunting, and powerful – suspended even in his dreams and forming the substance of those dreams. He doubted, waking or sleeping, he'd ever be free of it.

Though he couldn't have truthfully said he preferred her present attire, it had the advantage of being less distracting, less intimidating. He could look at her without his pulse banging like an engine gone mad and retain some objectivity, almost pretend he was talking to someone like Mary or Rebecca. And the disproportion between her and rough tunnel walls, the dirt, his company, was less marked, less poignant. She seemed less a bright angel descending to vile earth, more the workaday Catherine, at home in towers whose summits did not, after all, touch the sky. Meeting her became two friends talking, rather than being visited, across infinite distances, by grace.

There was, he noticed, a smudge of ink on her right index finger.

He stood outside the shut gate, attending seriously to her misgivings:

“I was certain that what was going on in that club was strictly another variety of my world's ugliness,” Catherine said slowly. “But now, I'm afraid I might have been wrong. There may be a connection, after all. Is it possible…. Could any of your helpers be… involved, somehow?”

As she raised her eyes anxiously, hoping he'd be able to dismiss the possibility, Vincent tried to review all the current helpers and evaluate their reliability. Though he knew Catherine had a tendency to idealize life Below and those who lived there, she only visited, for special occasions, when everyone was on his best behavior. Except during the cave-in in which he and Father had been trapped, Catherine seldom saw the contentiousness, frayed tempers, and alliances – romantic and otherwise – forming and fading that constituted daily life in any small, isolated community. Vincent knew perfectly well that they weren't a collection of philosophers or holy hermits. Although he always trusted his friends' hearts and good intentions, their execution often left quite a lot to be desired.

And the helpers were the same – ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. No better or worse than the average run of people one might encounter anywhere. Except for their status as helpers, generally not at all remarkable, set apart from their topside neighbors only by the unique secret they shared, the knowledge that beyond the obvious and the everyday, another world – slower, more thoughtful, but certainly far from ideal – lay in candlelight.

Some tired of the burden of assisting the tunnel community and dropped out of contact…some for a while, some forever. Other people of good will and generosity were eventually found to replace them and the interdependency continued between the societies Above and Below. And so, by lurches and haphazardly, his world continued to survive….

Aloud, Vincent reflected, “We trust so few with our secret. They are all friends, helpers…. Each knows the responsibility he bears.”

“I'm not accusing them,” Catherine assured him hastily. “Or any of your people.”

“I know you're not.”

“But our lab has identified certain mineral properties of the plant… that suggest it's being grown underground,” Catherine explained, trusting him to work out the implications for himself, as she had. She frowned. “And this supplier…. He's like a shadow--”

“…that grows over your city,” Vincent finished for her.

Her silence was tacit agreement. At stake, Vincent realized, were not only legalities but her good opinion of the world Below… and, indirectly, of him. Catherine commented worriedly, “We've linked the drug to 49 deaths, so far. And three times that number have been institutionalized.”

Although Vincent, a doctor's son, was generally neutral on the subject of drugs of all sorts – most, beneficial under appropriate circumstances; all harmful if misused – he had no such reservations about the slavery that went by the name of addiction. Still less would he condone anything whose fruits were death and madness on such a scale.

This was evil. It must be stopped.

He held out his hand. “You say you've brought a sample of the plant…?”

“Yes.” Fishing in her purse, Catherine pulled out a small plastic bag perhaps a quarter filled with a shining powder. Accepting it, Vincent closed his hand into a fist around it, the gesture a promise to pursue this matter.

“Thank you,” Catherine said warmly, turning to leave.

He touched her sleeve, saying her name, halting her. When she looked around inquiringly, Vincent had to think again how best to put what he'd been considering.

“Since that night when I found you in the park,” he began, “I've felt in you, time and again, a need to confront your fear…” He shook his head slightly and lowered his gaze, to avoid in any way confronting her. “…as you did, last night.”

She continued to gaze at him, puzzled. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don't want… what happened to you to cause you to take… unnecessary risks.”

“Vincent, they needed my help,” Catherine responded, as if that were all the answer needed, the only valid consideration.

He shook his head again, his own misgivings unreconciled. “You survived once ...”

“And it's because I survived then that I'm doing this now,” Catherine said earnestly. “So that others are spared. I'm not doing this for me, Vincent. I don't take that kind of risk casually, not when it means endangering myself and you.”

Vincent sighed. Courtesy dictated he abandon such an uncomfortable topic. Yet he felt that to do so would be no kindness but rather, a form of cowardice. Pleasantness, civility, were not the sole, or the highest, measure of concern.

Slowly, uncomfortably, he said, “There can be, in danger, a certain fascination. An intensity….”

Looking aside abruptly, he debated within himself about speaking of what he'd felt in her last night – the fear, yes, and the tension… but also an excitement he knew only too well. Perhaps that was what he should say, the most acceptable way to cast the matter: “Some risks must be taken. They're unavoidable, if one is to live fully and with honor. But nevertheless in all risk… there is a pull. Toward…a kind of recklessness. I have known that pull, Catherine…. One can supply oneself with all manner of good reasons…but danger can itself become a danger if one ceases to stand apart from it, resist it. As long as there is a choice, one must choose….”

He'd never spoken to her about such things. About the violence, and what release there could be in violence. About why one must wait until absolutely no other alternative remained and then barricade oneself in the doing of it, so that one was never merely striking out for one's own satisfaction but to stop threat, like a surgeon: dispassionately cutting out the wrong as economically and quickly as possible.

On the face of it, the comparison seemed absurd: Catherine, a small, slight, and gentle woman, unaccustomed even to harsh words, as contrasted with himself – massive, strong, clawed, fitted to battle by capability, nature, and… experience. Yet he'd felt it in her last night – the correspondence, the echo of what he'd spent his life trying to control.

By confessing, he hoped that, admitting it in him, she'd be able to acknowledge it within herself.

But he felt no recognition in her. Only a rising indignation… that, when she spoke, was not on her own behalf but his: “You're not like that, Vincent. You do what you must, because this community depends on you. Because I depend on you. But it's always a last resort – certainly nothing you ever seek out….”

Her reaction proved to him only that one must not speak of such things. One could only live with them and try to understand – the ugly, the inadmissable desires that hid in the shadows, within. What one kept chained, and released only when the external danger exceeded the fierce darkness inside.

Wishing to think well of him, seeing only what was admirable and fit to be seen, Catherine did not acknowledge such things.

Vincent let his hand fall from her sleeve. “I shall ask Father. About the drug,” he said, and they parted.

*****

Knowing that Father, when engaged with medical matters, was much less tolerant of interruption than at other times, Vincent settled unobtrusively at the large, octagonal table in Father's study. He pretended to be occupied with a new translation of Homer a helper had brought, while Father tested tiny amounts of the powder with various reagents, scribbled notes on the results, then prepared a slide.

“Vincent, will you please bring my microscope. And I suppose I'll need a stronger light.”

Vincent took care of those chores, unearthing the microscope case under a precarious stack of books and positioning an electric light tapped into city power, then silently retreated to the table again. Father was busy adjusting the slide and the microscope's reflective mirror, then set aside his glasses and fiddled with the focus wheel while peering through the twin eyepieces. Father still wasn't ready to talk: muttering to oneself did not constitute conversation.

“A helper?” Father burst out suddenly, a few minutes later. “It's preposterous. No one we know would traffic even in traditional drugs….” A long pause while Father moved the slide slightly under the clips; then: “ … much less invent one!”

Vincent said nothing. It seemed safe, now, to lay aside the book and watch, since all Father's attention was concentrated on his research.

That had once been Father's profession, Vincent had recently discovered. Until that revelation, Vincent had known nothing of Father's past life… not even his name: Jacob Wells. From childhood on, he'd liked to watch Father work – so serious, so intent on penetrating the secret of some hurtful mystery of disease.

Now there was, for Vincent, a fresh dimension and curiosity in observing Father, knowing he was seeing the resurfacing habits of the passionate, idealistic physician that young Jacob Wells had apparently been; visualizing that young man similarly hunched over a microscope at the Chittenden Institute – jotting notes, absently pushing irritated hands through hair that would have been dark then, not greying, and muttering to himself, oblivious to all else….

“Adulterated, naturally,” was Father's next intelligible remark, as though the dishonesty of the drugs' preparer was a separate indignity. “Probably lactose, the usual…. Here's a good one – yes, a spore, definitely.”

When Father lifted his head, evidently expecting a comment, Vincent remarked, “The police tentatively identified it as a fungal hybrid.”

“Mycotoxin,” Father remarked, reapplying himself to the eyepieces. “Hallucinogen, probably, but not the flesh of a mushroom, I see no…. Clearly the spores are the psychoactive agent…. Did Catherine give any details of the symptoms?”

That clearly called for comment. “Surviving victims have reported intense euphoria. Some suffered delusional states in which they endangered themselves or others. The subjective experience would seem to be expansive, energizing…rather than contemplative, as I understand some mushroom-induced trances are said to be.”

“Energizing,” Father repeated, straightening in his chair. “Aggressive?”

“In some cases. It would seem to… unlock whatever impulses, whatever feelings, are most deeply rooted and denied expression. Some victims, upon recovery, have apparently fallen into profound despair and been judged in need of being…restrained. Shut away.”

Vincent's recital trailed off because he could imagine so vividly how horrible that would be. The most terrible thing he could imagine was to lose oneself and suffer such restraint….

“Well, the phosphorescence is certainly unusual,” Father declared briskly. “Though don't I recall your once mentioning a deep passage you'd found where the walls glowed? To the south, wasn't it? Under the harbor….”

“Yes, Father,” said Vincent, suddenly attentive as he felt from Father a jolt of unease. Now it was Father's eyes that had gone grim and distant.

“What else did Catherine tell you?”

Though he had the sense Father was now only making conversation while pursuing a separate line of thought, Vincent replied obediently, “That this man, in exchange for the plant, will accept only gold.”

Another jolt – stronger. Father's mouth went tight, and he made a great business of locating his glasses and putting them back on.

Concerned, leaning forward in his chair, Vincent asked, “What is it, Father?” Getting no response, Vincent went on, “Even if you only suspect, you must share what you know. The drug is powerful – it inspires violence. There is a moral imperative.”

Curtly, Father rejoined, “Yes, I am aware of the implications, Vincent,” in the testy tone of one who didn't appreciate being lectured on moral issues by his son.

“Well then, why do you hesitate?”

“Because,” Father began angrily, then flashed an apologetic glance that admitted Vincent was not the apt target for that anger. Sighing, Father said, “Because I hope I'm mistaken.”

By now, Vincent was alarmed as well: did Father believe someone within the community was implicated? “Who can it be, Father?”

After a moment's pause, Father replied with a controlled casualness, “A man. No one you know.” He smiled briefly, as though he'd guessed Vincent's thought and offered reassurance the criminal was, after all, safely a stranger. “We banished him from this place before you were born. It was our first real test of government….” Father frowned, and Vincent guessed that tantalizing hint was all Father intended to reveal. But Father surprised him by forcing out, against obvious reluctance, “His name…was John Pater. But he called himself by another name: Paracelsus.”

“The alchemist….”

Father nodded. “Yes – John's model: philosopher, scientist, magician… And John was all of those things.”

His expression and voice were warm, affectionate, admiring; but there was still a distance in his eyes. Perhaps, Vincent thought, only the distance of memory. Father added, “A large part of what we created here, we owe to him.”

Vincent always found it disquieting when layers, and meanings, opened up in people and places he'd thought safely known and familiar. And yet, as always, he wanted to face the strangeness, wanted to understand.

Quietly, he prompted, “What happened?”

“What happened,” Father repeated, wryly wistful, as though it were still a mystery to him – a sad mystery. “I don't know.” Having reflected a moment, he went on, “I think, perhaps, in trying to seek knowledge, he began to desire power.”

“And so you exiled him.”

“He wouldn't go, at first. Finally, he was forcibly taken beyond the perimeter.”

“And now? Do you know where he is now?”

Father's sober eyes met Vincent's. Finally, guardedly, he nodded.

“Where, Father?” When Father's only answer was to reach to turn off the lamp, then to begin tidying up his testing equipment, Vincent asked a different question: “You say he was with you from the beginning.”

Father paused in his makework activities. “In many ways, John was the beginning.”

“Then how is it possible I've never heard anyone speak of him? Why is he not recorded even on Elizabeth's walls? If he was that much a part of our history, and if his actions forced the community to the extremity of exiling him, I can't imagine how ...”

Gruffly, Father admitted, “He wasn't merely exiled, Vincent. We… ceased to know him.”

Folding his hands, Vincent nodded slowly: it'd had to be that.

According to the custom Below, minor infractions of the rules were talked out, argued out, until an apology was forthcoming or an agreement reached to prevent future instances. For more serious matters, the mildest penalty was silencing: refusing to speak to the one involved for a specified period of time to demonstrate to them how their actions necessarily excluded them from the community. The other penalties had a similar point, emphasizing ostracism and collective disapproval rather than withholding privileges or imposing punishments.

In common practice, the severest penalty was exile: excluding the individual from their midst altogether. But beyond that was a worse penalty yet – formally Not Knowing someone. Then, they hadn't merely been forced to leave but were thereafter regarded, by the whole community, as though they'd never existed. A different and absolute silence.

Though Father never spoke of Devin, that was personal choice: he found the memory of Vincent's vanished foster brother too painful. But between themselves or to Vincent, others didn't hesitate to mention Devin when something reminded them. It wasn't a formal forgetting. That ultimate sanction had been imposed only once, in Vincent's memory – to an incorrigibly wild, bullying teenager named Mitch Denton.

Now Vincent understood Father's initial reluctance to break some thirty years of sanctioned silence to speak the man's name – John Pater.

Paracelsus.

Vincent helped Father put the equipment away, then, at Father's suggestion, made tea – always a calming and ceremonious business. When Father had settled, with his mug, at his desk, Vincent pulled a chair nearer and let the silence continue for a little time, until Father looked up with a raised eyebrow that wryly acknowledged he was being “handled” and judged Vincent's tactful solicitude a bit overdone…and perhaps overobvious, considering how well they knew one another's maneuverings.

“Well?” Father prompted.

Vincent bent his head, sipping tea. “Who was he, Father? What drove you apart?”

Father considered, then responded, “It began over the issue of helpers….”

3

“It's impossible.”

“Nothing's impossible.”

Two wrangling voices echoing down the dark tunnel, along with burdened steps unevenly splashing.

The second voice, deeper than the first, continued, “Highly improbable, perhaps… but not impossible,” and both men chuckled.

The first man persisted, “I'm serious – we can't last out the winter.”

“What a terrible pessimist you are. It's only December: wait until January, when the real cold comes down. Why be concerned about shivering when you could be worrying about freezing solid?”

“I was mistaken: you're impossible.”

“Only highly improbable,” rejoined the second man cheerfully as they came around a turn into the faint light of a caged utility bulb, ahead.

Burdened like pack animals, each of them was bent against the weight of the shapeless bale he bore, strapped and tied, on his back. Untidily bearded and dressed in many layers of ill-fitting clothes, tattered scarves wrapped several times around heads and necks, they scuffed through the shallow standing water toward the light. Reaching that implicit marker, they stopped to rest, leaning their packs against the tunnel wall for the pleasure of straightening.

Both were in their late 20s. The taller man, John, rail-thin, black haired, and sallow, looked comfortable with his scarecrow attire. His wide, serene brow and gaunt cheeks suggested the eager asceticism of a novice monk looking forward to privation, persecution, and eventual martyrdom, except for an inclination toward humor in the relaxed cant of his head and the ironic downturn of his mouth.

The shorter man, Jacob, looked as though he took everything – cold, water, darkness – as a personal affront. Sturdy, quick, insistent, he pulled at frayed threads on his outer coat's cuffs and tried to straighten the lapels, visibly resenting his raggedness. Making sure his pack was braced, he lifted a soaked shoe and tried to shake it dry, scowling, brown hair seeming to bristle with indignation, stubborn chin lifting and locking tight.

“I can see my breath,” Jacob observed – as though the complaint were a fresh and telling debating point. John, head tilted back and eyes shut, made no reply. “I tell you,” Jacob said presently, resuming their argument, “it's futile. Without some reliable source of heat, we cannot survive. We might as well be on the streets, man. You know as well as I do that one need not actually freeze: hypothermia will do quite nicely. Or frostbite, then gangrene. Have you ever seen gangrene? Would you care to try an emergency amputation under these conditions?”

Eyes still shut, John said, “It won't come to that.”

“Fine. Of course. Because you've decreed otherwise? What good are a dozen piano pads going to do?” demanded Jacob, thumping his burden against the wall by way of illustration. “Certainly mattresses will be an improvement over cement. Or hanging them to keep out drafts will be less ...”

“We'll wear them.”

“What?”

“We'll wear them. Tabards, vests, leggings – that's what you're carrying, Jacob. Conserve body heat. Quilting – dead air between the skin and the cold. A principle the Chinese have recognized and used for centuries. They ...”

“Damn the Chinese.” Jacob glared up at his companion. “Are you seriously proposing we wear piano padding?”

“We'll be quite medieval. Separate ourselves further from this dreary century. Adapt. And survive.”

“Mere survival, upon any terms, is contemptible. Savage. Animal.”

“If animals had not been so good at surviving, over the eons, neither of us would be here to dispute the matter, my dear Jacob. Were there not a large admixture of ape with the reputed angel, mankind would have died out long since of simple laziness and stupidity. ‘Mere survival,' as you put it, is sometimes a considerable achievement.”

“And sometimes it's not possible at all,” rejoined Jacob. “Which is exactly what I was saying. Piano pads, indeed!”

John sighed. “If you want to leave that bale here, I'll come back for it later.”

Jacob scowled. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Well, then, do you want to leave? Go back to the streets, the alley where Grace found you?”

“I'm not threatening to desert, John. I simply believe it's better to face facts. Not expend all this energy on something that's hopeless from the beginning.”

“If you give up before you've begun, you've lost already. Have you no faith at all, Jacob?”

The shorter man shot him a look. “Not much.”

They were silent awhile after that: they knew each other's histories.

At length, John said, “Then rely on mine. Do what's at hand and let tomorrow worry about itself. Anna will have soup ready. Or something. Is that sufficient inducement to continue, or do you require a more philosophical reason?”

Shivering theatrically, Jacob conceded, “Soup will do.”

Pushing away from the wall, they resumed their journey, trudging away, single file, into the dark.

Other sources of light lay along their path – rectangular grates set into the sidewalks and gutter-edges of streets only a few yards overhead. But they hurried past those: along with the light flowed frigid air, foul with exhaust fumes and bitter against exposed faces and fingers. Neither man welcomed the din of traffic noise, sirens, shouts, and clicking heels they likewise had to pass through in such places. One felt exposed, like a pair of scuttling beetles apt to be flattened by some giant, ignorant foot.

In his haste to reach the welcoming dimness, Jacob missed his footing, staggered, and thudded to his knees in the runoff water in the tunnel's center. As John helped him to his feet, Jacob's scarf unwound, muffling his face, and had to be rearranged, retied. The instant he could see, Jacob batted off further help: he hated to be fussed over. He was glad when they came to a slanting down-drain, even though they had to go more slowly, bracing each step on slimy, unreliable footing. At least it was quiet here. At least one could almost forget the city's incessant life in the nearly featureless, tomblike sameness of the cement passages.

From the sloped drain, they turned aside into a conduit with ledges on either side of a central trough. Their steps resounded hollowly: they sounded like an army marching in irregular cadence.

Sidling along behind John, Jacob remarked somberly, “Until we were forced from the steam tunnels, our situation was merely humiliating and precarious. Now it's truly desperate. I can't see the sense in ignoring that or pretending otherwise. Some privations are simply unendurable. It's too cold, and will be colder. The cold will limit how far afield we dare scavenge, up top; and it will sap the strength needed to scavenge. When more energy is required to find one's food than that food supplies, one runs headlong into the law of diminishing returns. Bluntly, if we don't die of cold, we'll starve. I see no third alternative.”

“We could try to force our way back into the steam tunnels,” mentioned John, without conviction.

“All nine of us, including only four able-bodied men? Against two dozen savage vagrants fully as desperate as we?” Thoughtlessly flinging out a hand in a scornful gesture, Jacob had to lean hard the other way, toward the wall, to keep himself from tipping into the trough. Recovering, he snapped, “Don't be absurd.”

“We need defensible perimeters. A bounded space,” John mused, hitching his load higher. “No, I admit that retaking the steam tunnels isn't practical.”

“I'm glad to hear you acknowledging some practicalities.”

“We'd only be driven out again. This fair city has no shortage of vagrants, and the steam tunnels are a known refuge for their kind.”

“'Their kind?' Is there a meaningful distinction of which I'm unaware between them and us?” demanded Jacob sourly.

“I think so,” rejoined John mildly. “They're society's rejects: those who haven't prospered from war, as Mr. Eisenhower has. They've fallen by the wayside… with nowhere else to go. Anna and I came here by choice. To live deliberately – on our own terms, not by convention, not lay waste our powers with getting and spending ...”

“What it comes down to is piano pads, cold, and restaurant scraps. So much for the contemplative life. As for me, I have no such lofty rationale. I was freezing, and Grace said she knew where I could be warm. However you choose to regard yourself, I'm as much a vagrant as any of those pitiful souls who attacked us and drove us out. The only distinction was that there were more of them. Simple brute force, and force of numbers. Pure might makes right.

“It's dehumanizing to live like this!” Jacob broke out fiercely. Then, more quietly, he added, “And I don't think that mere survival, without ambition beyond warmth and the next meal, is enough of a purpose to keep me going.”

Brushing back lank black hair with a forearm, John slanted him a diffident glance. “You could always share my work,” he mentioned with the shyness of one expecting refusal.

Jacob shook his head uncomfortably. “It's kind of you to ask. But that was never my field and I just don't think I ...”

“Of course, of course. Forgive me for pestering. One always assumes one's own work will be endlessly fascinating to others. A foible of the specialist – like a dentist whose notion of social conversation is to discourse by the hour on bridgework and can notice nothing about a woman but her teeth,” John apologized good-naturedly.

“I'll survive if you consider me a harmless crank, like a phrenologist, and are too tactful to say so.”

“Not at all,” Jacob denied quickly. “We're tarred with the same brush: equally improbable. If you're a crank, I'm a blasted Communist. The pot shouldn't be too quick in judging the kettle. I respect your dedication, to persist and find some value in your efforts even under such conditions. The tact's all on your side, tolerating my stupid inability to take an interest in anything beyond myself. But as to surviving…. I simply don't see how. For any of us.”

They trudged along silently for a few minutes, letting the awkward moment pass. Then John said, “But you'll eat the soup.”

“Yes. I'll eat the soup. And when there's no more soup, I'll go without. But I won't be proud of it. Soup will do, for an hour, a day. But for a life…. To consent to live on this level….” Jacob fell silent and did not finish the thought.

They were approaching a vertical shaft that admitted light from above without the unwelcome additions of cold or noise. On the way out, they'd laid a plank bridge across the gaping maw of the descending pipe. John went first, halfway, then turned to steady Jacob in crossing. On the far side, John stooped to pull in their makeshift drawbridge, then joined Jacob, already resting against a wall.

“There is,” John said presently, “another alternative….”

“What?”

“To enlist help. From people willing to--”

“No. Absolutely not,” Jacob cut in. “Picking over refuse in dustbins has at least a certain feral honor; subsisting on charity lacks even that. Assuming even that the charity would be reliable. It wouldn't. People aren't charitable, John: they'd tire of us, tire of giving and getting nothing in return--because what can we offer them?”

“The satisfaction of participating in a noble experiment,” John suggested, and was answered by a rude noise from his companion.

“They can't be trusted. I know. To resign oneself to subsist on the kindness of strangers ...”

“Somehow, you're not the picture I call to mind when I envision Blanche Dubois,” interrupted John idly, and won a grudged smile from Jacob.

“Nor I.” Jacob irritably tugged another raveled thread from his sleeve, then snugged his chilled fingers under his arms.

“But the principle holds. Accept other people's pity as your only support and you are then truly lost…and contemptible, to boot. Dogs may live like that – not men. No. Regardless of my opinion, or yours, topside eyes would find no noble experiment in this. Calling a service closet a clinic doesn't alter the fact that we are living in the sewers. Neither of us is Albert Schweitzer… nor even Jean Valjean: there's nothing noble or romantic about sewer-stink. This is only squalor, filth, and desperation. Not what appeals to people in adopting pets. They'd do what any sensible tradesman or housewife would do: call the dogcatcher. Have the appropriate authorities dispose of the problem. Our secrecy is our only safety. Inform anyone up top of where we live, how we live, and we wouldn't last a month.”

“But there are reliable people,” John argued. “Good people, who'd help us. People as disgusted by the emptiness of material modern life as ...”

“So they'd help for the good of their souls? Don't be naive. People seek their own advantage. They want to be comfortable, not challenged by strange ideas – especially ideas that would demand something from them.” Jacob hugged himself tighter, his grey eyes going distant and cold as he added softly, “And they're such terrible cowards….”

“‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?'”

“It's not merely cynicism – it's experience!” Jacob retorted. “Reveal our secret to anyone up top and we're in their hands. Dependent on their mercy. Their courage – which is nonexistent. And even on their petty discretion. Because even assuming they'd listen, even assuming they'd help, they'd soon blurt such an intriguing secret to their five closest friends and the result would be the same: we'd be rounded up and shut away.”

Jacob gave his companion a grim, steady look. “I've seen the inside of their jails, John. I mean never to do so again. Whatever the cost. I expect that the people I knew assume I'm dead by now. I would rather prove them right than have them know I've come to such a state as… this.”

Somewhere close, a subway screeched into a turn. After its departing rattle faded, John said, “I see we're not going to agree. I'll put the matter to a general vote tonight, after supper. Each of us will present his arguments, and we'll all decide. Will you abide by the majority opinion?”

Starting along the tunnel, Jacob countered, “If the others see sense, will you? Let's deal with that issue if and when it arises. I'm wet to the knees and I've lost all feeling in my toes. My only present concern is staving off frostbite long enough to transport these wretched pads. And soup.”

“Man does not live by soup alone,” commented John, moving to follow.

“How well I know it.” Over his shoulder, Jacob added, “There's no particular requirement that man live at all. Over this last year, I've learned one is guaranteed nothing. Nothing at all.”

“You've allowed your private bitterness to color everything. Next, you'll try to persuade me that water's yellow, to allow for your jaundiced view.”

“You mean it isn't yellow?” rejoined Jacob, mock-astonished, and they chuckled together, falling into step.

*****

Since being ousted from the steam tunnels, they'd relocated to a disused subway station that offered the minimal amenities of bathrooms, running water, and a few utility lights the city hadn't bothered to disconnect. A fire burned in a rusted oil drum at the edge of the platform. Unfastening and dumping their packs by the toll booth, Jacob and John gravitated to the oil drum's heat, where four of their companions were gathered.

Busy breaking up orange crates for fuel, taciturn Pasquale merely nodded to acknowledge their return. Julia, mountainous in overcoats and blankets, heaved up to dip them cups of nameless watery soup from the pot simmering on a makeshift grate balanced across half the drum. Billy, with his iron-grey hair and wheezing breath, was curled up asleep on a pallet of newspapers, twitching like a dog with the strange dreams of alcoholism. Perched on another pile of newspapers, Francine, thin shoulders tucked tight, patched a sweater.

Without needing to be told, Jacob knew that the absent three were out foraging. For tonight's fuel, tonight's food.

They were all, even John, practically strangers to him; and sometimes, as now, Jacob felt that keenly.

It's hopeless, he found himself thinking as he wandered back to a wall and knelt to root through the communal clothes pile for something, however filthy and tattered, that would be dry. He felt dizzy and ill with fatigue; everything ached.

Unearthing a grimy pair of overalls, he had an intense feeling of unreality and stared toward the group by the drum with the sense he'd been captured by painted savages whose ways were not and could never be his ways… people who might, with equal likelihood, welcome him into their debased tribe or offer him up in sacrifice to propitiate some incomprehensible deity. And either way, it was exile from all sense, all comfort, everything he thought of and valued as civilized.

Setting the overalls aside, he went on methodically looking for trousers to wear underneath. He bore the surges of unreality like bouts of a familiar fever: they'd been with him a long time. All he had to do was think of his life a year ago, two years ago, and he was filled with astonished indignation.

Six months ago, he'd been in prison, awaiting deportation to his native Britain. The experience had been unimaginable… awful. He recalled filling the empty hours with trying to comprehend the letter that had completed the shattering of his life – Margaret's letter. When his lawyer had managed to arrange bail, he'd simply walked away and kept walking, without purpose or destination – simply from a compulsive, irresistible desire to get away.

He'd been in shock, he judged now, dispassionately… and had remained in that state through aimless months and brief, alcoholic companionships, until he'd found himself huddled, depleted and shivering, under a cardboard box in an alley – his retreat after two days of icy rain.

Five weeks ago…or was it six? He couldn't decide. Things blurred, since the committee hearings.

The hearings. That would have been…. seven months ago? In any case, four days of crashing head-on into such willful stupidity and prejudice as were scarcely believable since trials for witchcraft had been commonplace. Incredible. Utterly incredible to him, even now, that such a committee could have the objective facts before them, clearly set out and documented beyond possibility of error, and yet deny them outright in a spasm of paranoid political hysteria. Ignore the real threat, to instead savage the man imprudent enough to force upon their attention such unacceptable news.

That nuclear testing was not harmless, as the government claimed. That residual radiation lingered far longer, and was far more destructive, than the Atomic Energy Commission had assumed. That the government was therefore exposing its own troops to radioactive contamination, to say nothing of the civilians around the test sites, or of transients – including John Wayne, an immensely popular film star known for his outspoken conservative views, his “Americanism,” making a film there! – and thereby condemning hundreds, perhaps thousands of people to horrible, lingering deaths from a variety of leukemias and cancers….

Incredible. Absolutely incredible that any Western government could be so indifferent to its citizens' welfare that it would knowingly suppress medical data vital to their wellbeing. Medical data which that government itself had commissioned the Institute to determine.

The Institute. Chittenden – dedicated to pure scientific research, heedless of anything but the truth, with no regard to vulgar practicalities or persons. Seeking knowledge for its own sake – which had attracted Jacob to it in the first place, when he'd completed his residency. So grandly impractical, and therefore underfunded, that it occasionally was obliged to sip at the public trough: accept government contracts. The health implications of current chicken processing methods – that had been one such study, he recalled, though thankfully not one he'd been involved in. But when the one concerning radiation had come up, he'd actually fought and politicked to be assigned to it.

The irony was scathing, even now. He'd been such a fool as to want the project that had been his undoing.

Eighteen months ago, give or take a few. And it'd been wonderful. Pursuing data and case histories. Labwork to all hours, finding new ways of establishing the volatility and half-life of uranium-235 and 238, cobalt, radium, strontium-90; devising experiments to determine their migration into human tissue by all possible means – direct exposure, inhalation of airborne dust, persistence in ground water, ingestion of animal and vegetable products from contaminated land. The effects of such migration, both long- and short-term.

It had been fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. And heightening his delight, a remembered golden glow over all that experience, he'd been, for the first time in his life, blissfully and confidently in love with a beautiful girl who precisely fit all the shapes of all his unrecognized dreams.

Margaret. Lovely, carefree, privileged daughter of one of the American tycoons one was always hearing about, as though they were as thick on the ground as pebbles, though he'd discovered in practice they were actually quite rare…. Margaret. Well educated and intelligent, moving with the calm naturalness of a fish through the upper levels of the socially elite, somehow finding an exotic charm in a perennially rumpled, bookish Midlands orphan who'd clawed his way into a reputable red-brick school, survived on scholarship and tutoring, and landed, by sheer academic merit, a prestigious residency at Mount Sinai, a major hospital in the wondrously strange city of New York….

And more wondrous still, she'd agreed to marry him.

Settling onto the bundle of clothing, Jacob fumbled under his layers of coats, sweaters, shirts, for the packet, wrapped in oilcloth, he kept taped to his skin – a tangible reminder of that golden time. Carefully unfolding the oilcloth, he leaned to angle its contents to the light: a wedding picture. Saturday, May 1, 1954. Himself, in formal morning coat, striped pants, and a dazed expression. And Margaret, looking happy and serene. And so beautiful….

They were to honeymoon in Italy. Only a few more days to complete and submit his report, flushed with his own success and tireless ingenuity. And he'd actually been packing – packing! – when his copy of the report as published arrived from the Institute. With his data misrepresented – some distorted, some suppressed – to the point that it validated the opposite of what the data established. To the point that it was a vindication of passive governmental murder.

Which was intolerable. All those people, innocent residents of New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, Arizona; soldiers stationed on that deadly ground; people eating the meat of cattle allowed to range there, contaminated dust blowing eastward on the dry, hot breeze….

He'd stormed into the director's office and complained in the strongest possible terms. When that had no effect except veiled threats to his position, he'd gone to that great American institution, the free public press, which had been far more obliging, in large headlines and sensationalism of the most fear-mongering type.

But at least his protest was heard. And within two days' time, he'd been dismissed, discredited, and sitting at the right hand of his lawyer – or, more accurately, his irate father-in-law's lawyer – at a cheap deal table in a drab municipal building on 32nd Street, being accused, by a panel of fat-faced bureaucrats in ill-fitting suits, of deliberate subversion and of acting, on the behalf of some unnamed hostile power – which: Britain? – to impede America's headlong rush into the glorious atomic-powered and atomic-guarded future. Accused therefore of being a pawn, witting or unwitting, of his interrogators' current arch-demon, the international Communist conspiracy.

They might as well have declared him the Antichrist and had done with it!

And in the middle of that insanity, the letter had come….

With fingers shaking from more than cold, he slid it now from behind the wedding picture and sat holding it. He didn't unfold it, to read the words. There was no need. He'd memorized it, compulsively reading and rereading it, during the nights on the comfortless prison bunk. The words now seemed fused in his memory with the jail stench of urine and disinfectant.

My father has had our marriage annulled.

I know you are innocent. Forgive me.

I don't have the strength….

…gone to Europe….

Handed that letter by his lawyer, his friend, just before what proved to be the final session, Jacob had felt all the fight draining out of him. He'd confessed nothing. But he'd stopped protesting, so the effect was the same. Innocent until proven guilty had transmuted into Guilty by resignation.

Another municipal building; another hearing, mercifully brief, when his immigration status had been “reevaluated.” Awaiting, in a jail cell, the completion of the proper paperwork to allow his deportation.

…the wreck of my memories….

There were times, now, when rage flared through him; when he thought of things he imagined he'd enjoy saying and doing to hurt Margaret, her ogre father, the jackal committee members, the spineless Institute director. Other times, the hate he felt was more abstract. He loathed cowardice, lies, politics, wasted lives, and the expediencies that made honor a word without meaning.

But hate was exhausting: most of the time, he felt loss only as one undifferentiated ache of emptiness. The best times were those when he felt nothing at all.

His one satisfaction was that the people who mattered would never know how thoroughly they'd beaten him.

And now he'd fallen into the company of this maniac of stubborn optimism, John Pater, who somehow persisted in the belief that there remained, in Jacob Wells, something worth cultivating. He shook his head. John was so transparently eager that Jacob take part in arcane researches that might, quite possibly, be brilliant – a breakthrough of some sort. They might, as possibly, be utter nonsense. Jacob had no interest whatever in determining which.

If John was an obsessed crank, Jacob certainly didn't want the job of telling him so. And if John was a genius, Jacob would be expected to throw himself into a foredoomed crusade against entrenched medical opinion.

Jacob had just done that. Once was quite sufficient.

Some ghosts of the man he'd been remained. The prospect of dying in this wretched place, from cold or starvation, could still rouse in him some vague indignation. Any chance of being dragged back, in his degradation, for the topside world's contemptuous scrutiny, he'd resist to his last breath. His intellect still found solace in debating intangibles--matters of principle and clean, impersonal abstractions that transcended any one life or time. The everyday habits of courtesy and civil conversation covered much of the vacancy within.

But it was all surface. Nothing mattered very much. Often, nothing mattered at all.

Folding letter and photograph carefully back into the oilcloth, Jacob took the dry clothing he'd chosen to the minimal privacy of the restroom to change. When he emerged, Sam had delivered more orange crates which he and Pasquale were noisily yanking apart; John had gone off somewhere; Grace, flamboyant in a colorful collection of rags, was pacing the platform, the gold hoop earrings that gave her a gypsy look glinting at each turn. Perhaps she was a gypsy: she'd never said. Sometimes she claimed her name was really Graciela. Sometimes, despite her heavy New York accent, she claimed to be from Spain. Or sometimes Greece. Turkey…. Jacob couldn't imagine why she bothered. But then, he couldn't imagine why she'd troubled to collect him from the alley, either.

Maybe there was no reason. People were unaccountable; Jacob had given up trying to understand them. It was all too much effort.

As Jacob began draping the wet clothes over turnstile bars to dry, Grace whirled and came running. Seizing his arm, she demanded, “Come on. You gotta see this.”

“What is it?” Jacob responded warily, leaning against the pull as she tried to drag him along.

Vulgar and vital, Grace was always agitating herself over something or other. Once, it'd been runoff water cascading down a staircase. Another time, what she'd hauled him off to view had been no more than the moon in a puddle. Jacob couldn't imagine where she found the energy. Or why she bothered.

“What I found,” Grace responded impatiently. “You gotta come look at it.”

Managing to shake free, Jacob edged nearer the turnstile: it didn't do to turn one's back on Grace – you'd get a hard set of pointed knuckles in your kidney or even more uncomfortable places. Grace wouldn't tolerate being ignored.

“You should tell John,” he suggested, hoping to deflect her.

“Nah, him and Annie went off someplace. And anyhow, it's not something to tell somebody about – you gotta see it. There's too much talk already. The two of you, you and Johnny, make me sick sometimes, you know? Because you got some goddam medical degree and all you know how to do is talk, talk, talk.”

Finishing that outburst, Grace regarded him with arms challengingly folded. “So let's go.” Already in motion, throwing the words back over her shoulder, she continued, “Now, you're not gonna believe it, Jake, first I was coming back from about Canal and 4th, you know, where the big produce barn throws out early, found a bunch of cabbages and I give 'em to Julie, not then, just now, I mean. But anyhow, then….”

Without having really decided, dragged along by raw enthusiasm, Jacob found himself sliding off the platform's edge and trying not to stumble, with wet, numb feet, on the alternating cinders and cross-ties, carried by the force of Grace's conversation.

*****

Closing the maintenance hatch behind him, John entered his clinic – a tiled alcove that had once served to store tools for subway repair – and stood silently observing the new test subject his wife Anna had recruited, aware that he was in turn being eagerly observed by Anna.

The subject was already seated at the enamel-topped kitchen table. John noticed, with approval, that Anna had thought to move the oil lamp well out of harm's way… and beyond the woman's uncoordinated gestures as she muttered to herself while bolting soup in gulps that left some drooling down her chin.

Between 30 and 50 – the plain signs of privation made it impossible to guess closer than that. Leaning aside, John noticed an ulcerated sore on the right ankle. The left side of the face was distorted by a swollen, purple bruise. Some palsy evident in the hands. Perhaps merely some muscle dysfunction; perhaps aftereffects of a stroke or seizure. He couldn't yet be sure whether this vagabond fit the parameters of his study.

The spastic gestures and compulsive speech could indicate Tourette's syndrome rather than true schizophrenia. He tried never to theorize in advance of reliable data.

Anna whispered, “Is she a good one?”

“At least she's so incoherent, she'll tell no awkward tales,” John replied, smiling noncommittally. A clinic in the subways was so inherently preposterous that he never was concerned about what his subjects might say. Nobody would believe such a tale – especially from such a source. He continued to observe the subject while collecting his pen and current notebook from an orange-crate shelf. Flipping through to a fresh page, he began the coded entry with the number—237 – and the date. He murmured to Anna, “Name?”

“I couldn't get anything out of her but ‘Larry,'” Anna replied apologetically.

The woman looked up with a jerk. “Larry! Larry went, Larry's lost, what are you doing, you can't, he's a veteran, got as much goddam right as--”

“It's all right.” Bustling across the small room, Anna patted the woman's shoulder. “You're safe here. Nobody will hurt you. What's your name, dear? We need it for the records.”

Anna was always very good with the subjects--such sincere concern was compelling, impossible for even the deranged to mistake or mistrust. The woman calmed almost at once, distracted again to gulping soup.

The unresponsiveness was a positive indicator. John made a note, commenting, “We'll call her ‘Evangeline.'” Moving nearer the table, he stood until the woman's watery blue eyes seemed to focus on him. “We seem a bit lost today. Is it hard to see, Evangeline?” He moved a hand, and the woman's twitching stilled as her eyes followed the gesture. Another positive indicator. Enough to begin. John conveyed his conditional acceptance with a nod to Anna, who beamed with satisfaction. But Anna kept silent now, because it was important that John guide the interview.

Patiently, John led the subject through the checklist, less interested in the content than the style of her responses, noting recurrences, patterns in her incoherence. When the subject showed restlessness or broke out with a disconnected response, Anna soothed her, offering more soup and then a day-old bagel to dip in it. The subject responded better to physical contact than to reassuring words without contact: another positive indicator.

“You need taking care of,” John suggested to Evangeline, following that line of investigation. “You'd like it if Anna would brush your hair, wouldn't you? Take off your scarf so Anna can brush your hair. Anna, help Evangeline take off her scarf. Show her the brush. It's a pretty brush, isn't it, Evangeline? If you've had enough soup for now, why don't you just shut your eyes and let Anna brush your hair. That's right.”

The subject responded well to the stimulus – not merely calming but becoming more directly responsive to John's questions. He proceeded through the checklist with fewer interruptions.

John had initially hoped to have Jacob's help with his researches. Though traditional medicine was, of course, quite wrong about schizophrenia, Grace's newest recruit had a proper researcher's temperament and discipline. Once he'd been persuaded to discard his preconceptions and consider derangement with a fresh eye, throwing out the absurd Freudian cant, he would have been a considerable help. But it was so hard to stir Jacob's interest in anything – even mundane necessities like foraging and collecting supplies donated by those who believed in John's purpose. Time and again, John had offered to share his notes – to read them aloud, translating from his accustomed private code – but Jacob always put the recitation off with some excuse or other.

The man wouldn't focus. It was too bad; but chronic depression was a merely emotional disorder and therefore not within the scope of John's chosen field of expertise.

One of the many drawbacks of traditional medicine, and of science in general, was its rigidity. The educational system for the preparation of physicians was, of course, quite hopeless: John's interest in so-called “personality disorders” had gradually taken him away from the dull and wrong-headed curriculum required of pre-medical students. So little chemistry, so much memorization of sanctified trivia, and no awareness at all of the intriguing field of psychoactive drugs, simply because it had the disadvantage of being illegal without “proper authorization.”

Shameful, the assumption that treating the mind, and treating the body, were two entirely different disciplines. Shameful, the arbitrary disjunction of mind and body from spirit, which contemporary medicine didn't acknowledge at all.

Schizophrenia was a physical malady with a physical cause – some sort of imbalance in the brain's internal chemistry. It could be treated, perhaps cured, by chemical means – intuitively, John was certain of it. By patient trial and error, he would eventually understand the etiology of the disease and thus narrow the search for an effective treatment.

It was difficult, but not impossible, to find suitable subjects: virtually all kinds of so-called madness wandered New York's streets, slept in its alleys, lived and died without official sanction or notice, until their decomposing corpses inconvenienced some passer-by.

Anna had an instinct, a gift, for distinguishing among the conventionally ill (alcoholics, for instance), the merely vicious and criminal, and those whose connected sense of themselves as individuals had been shattered. John knew his researches would have been impossible without her supportive love, enthusiasm, and tireless faith.

Yet Jacob's indifference still rankled, just as the incomprehension of the medical establishment, refusing to approve an interdisciplinary approach to schizophrenia as a valid course of study, still rankled. But John allowed a difference inasmuch as Jacob too had become a victim of the medical/scientific community's stupidity and hypocrisy: he was still grappling with his disillusionment. John had to concede it was probably natural that it take some time before Jacob would be ready to attend to anything beyond his own misery.

They were natural allies, natural colleagues. Eventually, Jacob would recover his objectivity. Liking the man, John was prepared to make allowances and be patient with his persistent negativity. And in the meantime, and always, there was Anna….

Putting away his notebook, he prepared the usual tea, since Anna was occupied with the subject, who was now weeping and babbling about this person Larry. John carefully added the measure of laudanum – though proscribed, still available in Chinatown – to the tea. The laudanum, a tincture of opium, wasn't itself a treatment, but it made the first course of injections easier to administer. And Evangeline would be the better for a sound sleep, a few meals, and her uncomprehending contribution to research that would someday render suffering such as hers as obsolete as demonic possession.

Taking the cup John handed her, Anna put her arm around the sobbing subject.

“Here's some nice tea, just for you. It will make you feel better. Larry would want you to feel better, wouldn't he? That's right, dear. We just want to help.”

*****

The enormous, ornate spiral staircase, descending at least ten stories, had certainly been unusual and unexpected. An antique, forgotten relic of the city's past. But not what Grace wanted to show him. Now, stumbling through seams in crooked, unshaped rock in near darkness, what stayed with Jacob was the discouraging prospect of having to climb all that way back.

More discouraging was being effortlessly outwalked by a woman of (at least) 30. Always more a scholar than an athlete, he still found that mortifying.

Even a marathoner's vigor, he thought rancorously, puffing along, would have been sapped by months of borderline malnutrition and chronic exhaustion. Excuses didn't help. He wasn't fit, but he was young, and a man. Yet Grace was still ranging happily ahead like an energetic dog let off the leash – out of sight, half the time, poking into fissures and skidding noisily down slopes and then climbing back, her tangled black hair full of dust, while he labored to catch up with the wandering will-of-the-wisp, her penlight.

His chagrin made him stubborn. He'd see whatever ridiculous thing Grace was determined to show him, somehow make the return trek, and then collapse in a twitching heap.

The penlight served more to assure him Grace was still ahead than to illuminate the going, which Jacob likened to trying to negotiate the folds and turns of some mythic earth giant's gut. There were holes, pockets, and seams to trip on or fall into, places where one had to duck, edge through, and then climb over an obstruction that turned into a chute, so that one slid and banged down the other side into the blind unknown.

“I think it was this way,” came Grace's blithe voice as Jacob sat rubbing a knee banged during such a slide--disconcerting, under the circumstances.

“Grace? It occurs to me that no one knows where we went. Shouldn't we…. Grace?”

Silence.

Hurrying the way he thought – hoped –s he'd gone, Jacob banged directly into her as she came back. Fending him off, she passed, commenting, “Must have been the other one, back at the last fork. Come on.”

“But Grace, it's easy enough to fall down. Getting back up those slopes will be another matter. We could well be trapped down here. Grace?”

Rounding a corner, he bumped into her again: she was crouched low to poke the penlight into a hole.

“Cave,” she observed, steadying herself after the bump, then pushed head and shoulders into the hole. Her voice muffled, strange, she remarked, “I don't remember this one. Wanna see?”

So this evidently wasn't what she'd intended showing him either. “I want,” he said firmly, to the lower half of her torso, “to go back the way we came, as quickly as possible. This is dangerous, Grace. A sensible city rat wouldn't come down here. Should either of us be hurt, we might never be found. It's--”

“I can't tell how far back it goes,” Grace muttered, threatening to vanish into the hole. Jacob grabbed two fistfuls of her top sweater and hauled. She emerged and slapped dust out of her clothes, seeming quite unmoved by the insane risk of venturing into the bowels of the earth to begin with, much less bolting headfirst into overlarge rabbit holes.

Remarking, “Maybe it's bigger than that lousy subway station. Check it out some other time,” she barged away again, leaving Jacob with the choice of following or being left in absolute darkness.

Scrabbling up the rough slope he'd recently tumbled down, he realized he was sweating. At least, he wryly acknowledged, that was one gain from all this exertion: he was warm – warmer than he'd been for days. At the top, he stopped to nurse his knee – now skinned as well as banged – and catch his breath. And he found himself thinking that this deep, below the reach of frost or weather, the temperature would be relatively constant. Certainly not balmy, but not as frigid as the sewer pipes or the subway tunnels, either. And if there were more caves like the one Grace had found….

Following her along a comparatively level, sandy stretch like a winding path, Jacob stopped protesting, gazing around him and noticing something besides where to duck and what he might bang into or fall off. The air was good. Earthy, with a damp edge, but not musty or stale. No chance of smothering, so far. And though the dark oppressed him, darkness was negotiable: they had a few lanterns. Flashlights would be uneconomical, because of the batteries. But with a nearly endless supply of highly flammable orange crates one could collect at any corner grocery, there could be torches. Perhaps candles. He didn't know how to make candles, but the raw materials were probably inexpensive – he had the vague recollection that animal fat was involved. Beeswax? Surely there'd be books one could consult on such primitive skills….

“Quit gawking like a tourist,” complained Grace, grabbing his shoulder and turning him to face front. “From here….”

Her voice fell silent. They both were still, heads lifted, listening. The rattles and bumps, though muted and distant, couldn't be mistaken – a subway was passing. When Jacob's eyes descended to meet Grace's, he found as broad and jubilant a grin on her face as he knew must be on his own. He didn't exactly know why the far-off subway noise affected them that way. Only that it had been a happy sound, full of promise. Somehow, it lifted the heart.

“Now smell,” Grace directed, demonstrating.

Jacob imitated her, drawing a deep breath and trying to notice everything about it. After a minute, he shook his head.

Turning, leading him on at a leisurely stroll, Grace remarked casually, “I been down here before, a couple times. But not so far, or so deep. Just poking around, you know? First, I smelled it. Then I heard it. Listen!”

They stopped again, and this time Jacob could distinguish a difference. A hissing, like wind or like static on a radio tuned to no station. As they went on, the sound grew more definite and distinct, but the air didn't stir around them. So Jacob couldn't imagine what the wind-sound could be. He looked a question to Grace, whose shadowed face was vivid with anticipation as she stopped where the passage took a bend.

“I smelled it. Then I heard it. And then--”

She drew him forward and then pushed him, steered him from behind. And ahead, light spilled down from what looked, for all the world, like a high window embrasure cut into a castle wall. The passage sides went up and up, creating a circular bay or turret; and in the far wall of that turret, clear, steady light slanted down to where they stood, faces upturned and wondering.

“--and then, I saw.” Grace clicked off the penlight.

From that open window, air moved around the circular space – not wind, exactly, but a breeze stirring. It reminded Jacob of a fresh spring morning….

“Moisture,” Jacob announced softly, knowing he'd finally identified what had caught Grace's attention from far away, the inexplicable call that she'd followed. “Not a dank, mildewed odor. Something more like dew….”

“So: who's gonna be first?”

Jacob frowned, puzzled. “First?”

Grace waved at the wall. “I couldn't jump that high, and there was nothing to drag. To take a peek,” she explained, exasperated with his dunderheadedness. “So I went to get somebody. To make a back, take turns looking. Don't you want to see what's on the other side of that? It can't be the city. So what the hell is it? C'mon: I'll toss you for it,” she proposed, displaying a dime. The coin spun, fell into the sand. She stamped on it, announcing, “Tails!” Then she removed her foot and both of them bent to look.

Tails.

Not sure precisely how to go about it, Jacob first tried to stirrup her foot in both hands, to boost her up, but that didn't work. So he faced the wall, set both feet, and braced his arms against the stone. Grace clambered up his back and then stood for what felt like at least five minutes on his shoulders. Only stubbornness kept him in place: he'd be damned if he'd budge or collapse! Finally Grace pushed away and dropped down. Before he could ask what she'd seen, she'd turned to the wall and braced herself the same way he had.

“Your turn,” she commented matter-of-factly.

An odd idea, climbing up a woman, standing on her shoulders like some absurd acrobat. But Grace expected it of him, and though ungallant, it satisfied some obscure sense of fairness, turn for turn. In this setting, after such a journey, nothing could be very bizarre.

Trying not to be too awkward or step on anything personal, Jacob went up until he could rest his arms on the “windowsill.”

Beyond… was Wonderland.

Fully half a mile away, brilliant in shafts of sunlight piercing the roof of the immense cavern, a river poured over a cliff in several streams. From the vast basin below, drifting clouds of spray slowly ascended, shot with shifting rainbows. Opalescent, dignified, living, and sublime – river, light, air, and stone all hung in one forever-changing eternal panorama like an image in a dream.

Gazing with eyes that stung, then overflowed, Jacob thought, Wonderful. Who could have imagined? A new world.

After what seemed only a moment, his balance was threatened as his support shifted under him. He stepped off and dropped back onto the sand. Then he and Grace stood gazing at each other: witnesses who'd shared a vision.

“Would you like another turn?” Jacob asked humbly.

Grace shook her head. “I won't forget. I don't know what I expected. But that's better. And there's better yet.”

Turning aside, she crossed the turret and knelt for a moment by a crack in the wall, her back to him. Returning, she lifted cupped hands…from which water dripped.

When she held up the cup of hands to him Jacob recoiled, instantly reviewing diseases one could contract from contaminated water. Cholera, typhoid…. While he hesitated, the water drained away. Untroubled, Grace went to the crack, stooped there, and again returned to offer him what her hands held. And this time, Jacob thought about the beautiful secret river and decided that any disease he could take from such water, he'd prefer to what had lately passed for health.

Bending, he sipped before it was all gone.

The water was sweet. Fresh, not salt. A spring. Clear and sweet as the first water there'd ever been in the world, where ancient things drank.

On impulse, he touched fingertips to her wet palm, then touched her forehead. Smiling bemusedly, she applied the same solemn benediction to him.

He turned aside. He felt as though his heart were bursting. It hurt terribly. It was wonderful.

Grace said, “Whatever it was, I wanted you to see it.”

Surprised and unsurprised, Jacob took her in his arms and kissed her gypsy face. Almost instantly, she yanked away, and he was sure he'd offended her. It didn't matter.

He said simply, “Thank you.”

As she moved away, she looked back at him and he realized what he'd taken for offense was merely an odd, hard-edged sort of shyness.

She said, “It's okay. Don't thank me. It's nothing.”

But it wasn't. It was everything.

*****

John opened his pocket watch for the third time. After seven. What passed for supper finished. Everyone present – except Jacob and Grace.

“They'll be here,” Anna, beside him, assured him. “Did they know about the meeting?”

The order of her comments was so like her: first confidence based on nothing, then a pertinent question. John had to smile, fondly.

“Jacob did.”

“Then maybe they lost track of the time. I don't think Jacob even has a watch. And you know how those things are.”

John cocked an eye at her. “What things?” Reading the demure glance he got in reply, he laughed outright. “Romance blooms for the doctor and the gypsy? I doubt it. More likely they've returned to the streets…probably separately. There's nothing to hold them here, after all.”

His casual tone didn't fool Anna. Seeing through to his disappointment, she put her arm through his.

“Jacob wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. And you're wrong… about Grace, anyway. And it would be so good for him.”

“What would?”

“You're not as stupid as you pretend. And I'm not as stupid as you think,” Anna responded comfortably. “He's so desperately lonely and discouraged. And Grace never could resist strays.”

John lightly kissed his wife's brow. “And Jacob thinks I'm an optimist. You'd imagine romance in two raindrops falling together.”

“How do you know there's not? ‘How do you know but every bird that cuts the airy way is an immense world of delight, closed by your senses five?'”

“I'll leave the poetry to you, my dear. And bow to the force of superior illogic.”

Snapping the watch shut, John surveyed the five people gathered nearer the edge of the platform, around the oil drum, variously seated or wrapped in the piano pads: illegal immigrant Pasquale Giotti, whose bald pate was covered by a faded scarf that made him more resemble a Russian crone than a self-avowed anarchist in hiding; Billy Hanrahan and his inseparable younger companion, Sam; massive Negress Julia; gaunt, nervous, young Francine Fisher. He collected their attention with his eyes until all were looking at him.

“My friends, there's a decision to be made. I'd expected Jacob to be here, but I'll try to render his view fairly because it's a valid consideration whether he's here to present it or not. We can't go back to the steam tunnels and we can't remain where we are. We lack the most basic necessities. Anna and I have a few contacts, topside, who might be persuaded to help. Lou, a barber; Thomas, a mover, whom we have to thank for our new quilted pads; Carlo, who has a small grocery store. One or two others. None of them could help more than a little, from time to time… but that would be more than we have now.”

Sam, never one to keep his opinion to himself, blurted, “We can use all the help we can get!” and Pasquale nodded soberly.

Julia, hands on hips, asked bluntly, “Would they keep the secret?”

“Exactly the point that Jacob raised,” John responded. “I'd do my best to impress upon them the importance of not telling anyone about us, about where and how we live…. But there are no certainties. The question now is whether to recruit such helpers at all.”

Staring rigidly at nothing, Francine began shaking her head. “I'm not going back there. Never. Nobody's gonna ever make me. I'm never--”

Slowly, over the months, Anna had elicited the information that Francine had been captured by a street gang in the Bowery and raped over a period of days before managing to escape to the alley where Anna had found her, bleeding, dazed, and hysterical.

Anna broke in, “You won't have to, Francine. We'll be here…or somewhere. You can stay with us.”

Francine went on shaking her head, unheeding. “I won't. Never.”

As Anna went to sit by Francine and the two women murmured together, John continued, “We have all shared whatever we could find. But that won't be enough, in the months to come. The alternative is disbanding… at least until spring. Go our own ways, survive however we can until the times are better. Try again, next year. By next winter, we may have found ...”

“Hold on,” Julia interrupted, peering along the track. “I do believe I heard something….”

They all scattered with practiced haste back to the shadows against walls and near the turnstiles. The irregular crunch of shoes on cinders grew nearer. Then two ragged figures dragged themselves over the edge of the platform.

Rising, Grace shouted, “Where is everybody?” and John, going forward with the others, reflected on the precariousness of a life where any long absence was assumed to be desertion, abandonment, until proved otherwise.

It was so frighteningly easy for people to lose one another. Or to become lost….

“Here,” Julia was telling the prodigals, “I saved out some cabbage for you-all. Didn't seem but fair, since you're who brung it, Gracie.” Having handed them plates, Julia regarded them sternly as they began, hungrily, to eat. “People, you about scared us into fits. Don't you know no better than creep up without hollering?”

Jacob stopped eating to say, “We were lucky…to have the breath to keep walking. John. We've found….”

Interrupting himself, Jacob sat down, by awkward, stiff degrees, on the nearest pile of pads.

Looking up then, he went on, “We've found something astonishing, John. Far below us, below the city, there are tunnels.”

“Certainly: electrical conduits, service--”

Jacob was shaking his head. “No. An immense complex of passages right in the rock. They go on for miles. We couldn't find the end of them. Not manmade – natural. Level upon level deep. And caves, John. Caves and caverns of all dimensions. Another world.” Jacob's eyes shone in a way John had never seen them do before.

“I found it,” Grace put in, her voice muffled by chewing. “It was me ...”

Then everybody was talking at once, curious or skeptical, a babble Jacob's voice presently cut through, saying eagerly, “...could live there. And finally be secure, separate, and completely secret.”

“Caves,” commented Julia, unimpressed. “Rats, bats, and what-all?”

“Spiders?” Francine asked anxiously.

“Caves,” Billy muttered, looking worried. “All closed in. All that rock….”

Catching Jacob's eye, John asked, “Water?”

“Fresh,” Jacob confirmed, and they smiled at one another in shared comprehension: water was always the limiting factor for any settlement.

“Cold, no?” Pasquale demanded, hugging himself and shivering to demonstrate.

“Steady temperature,” Jacob replied, still looking at John. “Cool, but bearable. A space both bounded and boundless. More space than we could ever need or use.”

Drawing John aside, Anna whispered, “I don't want to live in a cave. That goes with stone axes and bearskins. I don't want to hurt Jacob's feelings, but….”

John didn't answer at once, trying to work out the implications to his clinic and his work. Meanwhile Grace reassured everybody as to the matter of vermin – she'd seen none – and Jacob tried to respond to Sam's question of why, if this was such a great place, somebody else wasn't already living there.

“I believe people have lived there,” Jacob was saying. “Some of the passages are too regular to be completely natural. And we found a stair cut right into the rock. But we saw no one and there are no signs of recent habitation. My guess is that the tunnels have been vacant for centuries and all knowledge of them has been forgotten.”

Licking her fingers, Grace told skeptical Julia, “It ain't like you'd think, like somebody's basement or like caves in movies. Lots of space. Even light – the sun gets through, some places. And breezes – wind, even. Rivers, and waterfalls, and these staircases that go around and around ...” Grace's hand described a looping spiral.

Sam admitted, “There's stories about tunnels way down under the city. But everybody figures it's just stories.”

“It's real. I've seen them,” Jacob declared. “And… they're beautiful. I don't know how else to put it. A new world. And it's wonderful. Beautiful. With the sweetest water you've ever tasted.”

Billy muttered something about not having much use for water, himself.

John asked, “Access to the surface?”

Jacob spread a hand, indicating the matter was self-explanatory. “We're here. Beyond that….” He shrugged. Again, he and John considered each other thoughtfully.

Jacob added, “So far away, in a place nobody even guesses exists, we would be in much less danger of exposure than now. But such a settlement couldn't be begun without help… of some sort.”

John understood the compromise being offered: if he'd support the relocation, Jacob would withdraw his objection to recruiting helpers.

The alternative was the collapse of the group and the certain death of at least some of its members. Francine was fragile, continually at risk; Grace would vanish; Billy would complete the process of drinking himself to death; Jacob and Pasquale would eventually fall into the hands of officialdom and be deported. He'd never see them again.

And John found he'd grown attached, not so much to these individuals as to the sense of being part of a community. Troublesome though the responsibility sometimes was, he liked the feeling of people depending on him, looking to him for good counsel and guidance, trusting in his protection. He'd invested a lot in winning these people's confidence. He didn't want to lose it… or them.

With a glance at Anna, John said in a voice loud enough to carry to everyone, “All we've ever had is hope…and each other. Without such a refuge as Jacob and Grace have discovered, we'll lose both. Living under such primitive conditions would surely be difficult. But it would seem that these tunnels offer at least minimal necessities - drinkable water and protection from the worst of the cold. Beyond that, there's no end to the possibilities. And we'd have each other. We could try it. Shelter in these tunnels for the winter. And then reevaluate and decide whether to continue. Will all those in favor of such a trial period please raise their hands.”

Jacob's and Grace's arms immediately shot up. They exchanged conspiratorial smiles before Jacob turned to respond to some comment from Julia. Idly amused, John thought Anna had been wrong, or at least premature, in her hopeful speculations about the pair. Yet Anna had an unfailing instinct about such things, whereas John could never discern what love-besotted couples saw in one another and was generally the last to notice budding romantic inclinations apparently evident to everyone else. Noting Grace's animated expression and Jacob's obliviousness, John judged his friend would have to make a determined effort if he were to maintain his glum, brokenhearted bachelor status.

“First time I see a rat, that's it,” Julia declared. But she raised her hand. Pasquale did likewise.

Some were waiting to see what others did: Francine, frightened eyes on John and Anna, didn't stir; Sam was looking to Billy, who slowly shook his head.

“All that rock,” Billy said glumly. “It'd give me the horrors. Ain't no place for me. Sam, you go on if you want to: if it gets too cold, up top, I'll just raise a ruckus, get myself arrested, spend a couple nights in a nice warm cell.”

Looking troubled, Sam shook his head, unpersuaded.

Anna whispered to John, “Do you really want to do this?”

“I think… that we must. You've always wished we had a place of our own,” John reminded her.

“I never thought it'd be some dirty cave,” Anna rejoined with a small, wry smile as she raised her hand. As John lifted his, Francine's hand jerked up as though she were afraid a second's delay might mean her being left out.

Billy and Sam had continued to talk in low voices. Lifting his head, Sam told John, “Billy won't budge. So we'll try our luck up top. We'll help spot stuff you maybe could use, though – put out for the trash and like that. Get word to you so's that trucker guy you were talking about can pick it up. And maybe, in the spring…. Well, we'll see then.”

John nodded: both he and Sam knew Billy wouldn't survive another winter on the streets.

Anna said warmly, “You'll be our very first helpers,” and Billy smiled, pleased by the designation.

John told the group, “It seems we've decided. Anna and I will start contacting people tomorrow for what we'll need, to begin. Jacob and Grace will locate a suitable site for our first camp.”

As the others went back to excitedly talking, gathered around the oil drum, John drew Anna farther aside. “We won't be able to complete the series with…Evangeline,” he said, unable for a second to recall the name he'd assigned the woman. “This relocation means we'll have to close the clinic and put aside the research for awhile.”

“It's late,” Anna reflected. “She'll still be asleep, poor dear. Can I wait until morning to take her back? Send her off with breakfast, at least?”

Though it was a poor investment of the food, John nodded consent. Anna's thoroughly unprofessional tendency to sentimentalize the subjects, take their wretchedness to heart, was probably an important part of why she was so successful at collecting them, winning their demented trust. John had long ago resigned himself to tolerate the inconvenience for the sake of the benefit.

4

Beyond the perimeter known as the Hub, the way became rocky and irregular. Father went with slow deliberation, leaning on his cane, pausing and holding up a lantern to check each new stretch of passage for obstacles before proceeding.

It had been a long time – years – since he'd embarked on so long a journey. The farthest he generally was obliged to travel was to and from the Great Hall, for Winterfest and other celebrations.

As his hip – arthritis compounding an old injury – gave a stronger than usual twinge, he thought, Still a scholar, not an athlete. He was resigned to it now.

Although he'd never come so far into this southern branching of the tunnel system, he'd spent an hour studying the newest maps and knew where he was and where he was going. He'd also taken the customary precaution of informing someone of his errand, though not in any detail. Simply that he was going to visit Paracelsus.

Winslow – whom he'd chosen to tell rather than Vincent – had reared back his head, regarding him as though he'd gone crazy…not an unexpected reaction to Father's steeling himself to say aloud the name that was never spoken.

“You'd best take two or three sentries along, just in case. Or me.” Folding his massive arms, Winslow made clear that the implied comparison was intentional: Winslow considered himself equivalent to three sentries. And not unreasonably.

“I want no provocation,” Father had responded.

“Take Vincent, then,” proposed the balding black man.

“I don't want to involve him in this,” Father had rejoined sharply, thinking Vincent's presence might represent a more dangerous provocation than any escort of sentries.

“If I go alone and unarmed, I doubt there will be any trouble from Paracelsus or his people. I expect,” Father added, holding Winslow's eyes with his own, “to be back before ten o'clock. If I am, nothing need be said. To anyone.”

“And if you ain't?” Winslow demanded bluntly.

“Then the council will decide what steps are appropriate.”

Winslow hadn't liked the idea, but there was no one with authority to tell Father where he might or might not go. He so seldom went anywhere except to the Commons or the hospital chamber that the issue had never arisen. But his disastrous venture Above, some weeks ago, when his failure to return had caused Vincent such worry, had made Father more scrupulous about observing the established security procedures that others were expected to abide by.

It was always a delicate balance between individual freedom and respecting the common good. And Father was aware that his present path was precarious… in more ways than one. His heart wasn't comfortable about the coming meeting. Not comfortable at all.

The rough shaft he'd come to was crooked, often steep, and only crudely shaped to allow passage. When it widened without warning, he disturbed a horde of bats he fended off with an upraised arm and his cane – not only because he shared the common dislike of the winged rodents, but because bats could carry rabies. Such an infestation of vermin would never have been tolerated in his community, whose smooth-floored tunnels and well maintained candle niches struck him as positively homey and civilized compared to this inhospitable troglodyte warren….

Picking his way around an oblong puddle, he limped nearer an unpleasant green-purple light shining from a chamber at the far end.

The large chamber held tables – a subterranean greenhouse. Lamps hung over long growing trays whose contents were like a sludgy slime frozen in the act of writhing. Some distance along a table, a man with his back turned was cutting what seemed a dry, twisted root into pieces with pruning shears.

“John?”

It was more prudent to use the personal name. But the name in Father's mind was “Paracelsus.”

After more than thirty years apart, Father found Paracelsus' appearance a shock – as though he'd grown old overnight. The black hair had gone white – what little was left of it. The lanky, energetic frame was larded with flesh. Well, what of it: Father knew he'd changed, too – by stages so gradual he'd never noticed when maturity began to shade into age. Probably Paracelsus would also expect, impossibly, to find the young man he'd known….

The sagging, lugubrious face that looked around startled Father by having its eyes hidden behind dark-lensed goggles like those a welder might wear.

Offering no greeting, Paracelsus challenged flatly, “How did you find me?”

Halting near the entrance, Father tried to sound offhand, casual, while choosing his words with utmost care.

“We've always known where you were. We have… looked in on you. From time to time.”

Paracelsus stared toward him with those disturbing goggles. “Your… compassion will kill you one day, Jacob.”

“It wasn't compassion,” Father replied frankly. “It was self-interest. Making sure you didn't try to return.”

“Oh, there's no need to worry.” Paracelsus lifted and spread his hands, gesturing at his surroundings. “I'm quite happy here.”

“I'm glad,” said Father brusquely.

It seemed a good beginning. Direct – without empty acrimony or posturing. Approaching to within a few yards, he set his lantern on the bare edge of a table, taking care not to disturb its repellent contents.

In no hurry to make conversation, Paracelsus chose another root and began snipping at it.

Presently he remarked, “So they call you ’Father' now.” Noting Father's nod, Paracelsus went on, “I heard it through the pipes. Ingenious idea, communicating on those pipes….”

“Yes. It was ingenious – of you, John,” Father acknowledged firmly, determined to give the man every inch of his due and make, with whatever scraps of respect left between them, a bridge… if not, again, to friendship, at least to civil discussion.

“‘Father,'” Paracelsus repeated reflectively, as though he found the word distasteful but intriguing. Remembered playfulness had become theatrical, sardonic, heavily jocular.

“I imagine that you like that: it gives you all the authority you need… without making you sound like a despot.”

When Father refused to rise to the provocation, Paracelsus accused, “But underneath everything, you're no different from me.”

“I am different,” Father contradicted quietly.

Turning away, seeming to speak rhetorically to the air rather than to Father, Paracelsus reflected, “What was your little idea – ‘a family of individuals living according to a higher standard…'? How uninspired, Jacob. How small-minded. We could have been gods, you and I.”

Getting no response, Paracelsus dropped his jocularity to ask bluntly, “So, why did you come?”

“You know why I came. Your… activities threaten to draw attention to our tunnels.”

“Ah: the first commandment….” That ponderous sarcasm again. Shrugging, Paracelsus airily dismissed the issue: “But they'll never catch me – I'm much too clever for them.”

Advancing a pace nearer, almost close enough to touch, Father set both hands solidly on his cane.

“John. People are dying. I can't let it continue.”

That was it – the gauntlet thrown down almost palpably between them. The confrontation they'd both tacitly conspired, for so long, to avoid.

Walking a few paces away, as though in thought, Paracelsus looked around sharply.

“Am I wrong,” he inquired, “or is this place beyond your influence? Isn't that why I'm here…in exile?” The word was an accusation, full of unforgotten grievances.

“I was only asking ...”

“Asking? Asking?” The blind goggles glared. “Tell me, what right do you have to ask me anything? What power do you bring here? Will you tear me from my home… again? Will you inform the police… and risk my exposing your precious world?”

Slowly, Paracelsus removed the goggles; his naked eyes seemed at once bitterly cold and alight with hatred and contempt.

“No,” said Paracelsus deliberately. “If you want me to stop, there is only one solution. This time, you'll have to kill me – Father.”

“You know I have no intention of doing that.”

“I care nothing for your intentions and less for your pathetic scruples. Don't interfere with my occupations if you wish no interference with yours.”

Looping each earpiece of the goggles into place, Paracelsus turned away. “This is my domain. You're not welcome here. I recommend that you never come back.”

No bridge was possible. Although perhaps it had been foolish to hope it could be otherwise, Father had felt obliged at least to come himself and try – for the sake of what they'd once been to one another. But the friendship of John and Jacob lay dead between them, an unburied corpse rotten with malice and old grudges. No possible contact remained except as adversaries.

Collecting his lantern, Father limped away down the aisle.

*****

Late that night, Catherine and Jimmy sat at the table in the precinct's main briefing room, poring over stacks of files to work out a new angle for identifying the elusive drug dealer. By midnight, they'd gotten nowhere.

Time, Catherine thought wearily, for a break.

Finishing a file, she set the folder aside and glanced across at Jimmy. “How does a hamburger and a beer grab you?”

Looking up abstractedly, dates and names still plainly buzzing in his head, Jimmy said curtly, “I don't think so.”

Trying for a light touch, she persisted, “Oh, come on – it's late ...”

“No. I can't. I have to meet a friend in about an hour.”

“At one o'clock in the morning?”

Jimmy shrugged. “He's a night person.”

Catherine regarded the man narrowly, then made a smile.

“Why is it,” she asked coyly, “I have a feeling you're not telling me the whole truth?”

Jimmy chucked. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “I've never heard you say no to a hamburger.” Studying him a second, she reformed her face into pleasant lines, adding, “And…you're a lousy liar.”

Jimmy gave her a wry, appreciative smile. “It's because I like you.”

Dropping the pleasant, cajoling mask, Catherine said, “Well then, why don't you tell me what's going on.”

Letting out a breath, Jimmy fiddled with his pen a minute, considering. “Okay. I got a lead,” he admitted. “One of my blabs told me he knows something about a deal.” His expression and careless body-language tried to suggest the matter was routine and unimportant. “It's a long shot--but it's all I got.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

Unwilling, but refusing to shut her out, Jimmy responded, “Tonight,” and waited for her, predictably, to blow up.

Which she immediately did, guessing, “You're not going alone…? God, Jimmy! Call for some backup--!”

“No.”

“Jimmy--”

His pent-up anger and frustration flared. Leaning forward, arms on the table, he said, “It took me two and a half months to get inside that club. Me – not Farell, not you, not anyone else. And when it came down to the bust, Farell wouldn't listen to me. He had to do it his way – and he blew it.” Picking up a coffee mug, he surveyed the dregs, declaring simply, “And I'm not gonna let that happen again.”

His tone said that was final, absolute. He wasn't interested in discussion.

Go at them head-on, you'd only make people like Jimmy stubborn. Sitting very quietly, Catherine tried to think of some approach that wouldn't have the reverse effect of backing him into a corner where he'd do the thing rather than admit anybody else might be right. Something that wouldn't challenge his pride or imply one refused risks only from unmanly cowardice.

Carefully neutral, she asked, “How do you know you're not being set up?”

“I don't.”

Having considered and discarded half a dozen alternatives she knew Jimmy would reject out of hand, she proposed softly, “At least let me go with you.”

It wasn't that she wanted to go: it was that she knew, with her along, he'd at least exercise some degree of caution.

But before she'd finished speaking, he was shaking his head. “No way, Chandler. You're not a cop. This is not your job.” Trying to soften the refusal, he went on, “Look: I only told you this because I trust you. Do the same for me, okay?”

Showing that winning, lopsided grin, he reminded her, “Hey – I'm not a rookie.”

Catherine bit her lip, far from reassured, but could think of nothing else to say or do.

Rising, Jimmy extended his arms in a long, bone-creaking stretch. “Let's break up this paper party now, huh? I need to be someplace…and you,” he said, suddenly leaning to chuck her under the chin, “need your beauty sleep. Keep your boyfriend from getting distracted.”

“What boyfriend?” responded Catherine blankly.

Jimmy made himself look round-eyed astonished. “You mean you and Maxwell aren't ...? I knew that Italian sumbitch had no class, but I never thought he was blind.”

Catherine gave him a stern, disapproving look that probably was wasted because she was trying so hard not to laugh.

“Then I guess it must be Mr. Megabucks Burch,” Jimmy guessed, and looked confounded when, laughing, Catherine shook her head emphatically. “Is everybody in this city blind but me? And me practically as good as married? I can see you need somebody, Chandler.”

As Catherine prepared a wary protest, Jimmy went on blandly, “Somebody like Carmen, to teach you the tricks of the trade. So you won't be hanging out with beat-up undercover cops in dumps like this till all hours of the night. I mean, there's a whole lot of better things to do, Chandler.” He thumped her on the forehead with his knuckles. “Any of this getting through to you, bright-eyes?”

Catherine ducked her head away, embarrassed to find herself blushing. “Stop it.”

“Well, if you say so. But I got a real strong feeling for things like this,” Jimmy said earnestly, bobbing while holding up both hands, thumbs at right angles, as if framing her face for a portrait, “and I see you in a house out in Westchester, pregnant as hell, doing the pipe and slippers act, the whole nine yards, for some lucky stiff. A year, 18 months, tops. So tell me: am I right, or what?”

Again, Catherine shook her head. “That's my friend Nancy Tucker.”

Jimmy snapped his fingers in exaggerated disappointment. “Damn, I knew I should have packed my good crystal ball this morning. Maybe it's me and Carmen I'm seeing. Sometimes, you just can't get a clear sight.”

Thinking suddenly of Narcissa, the tunnels' blind seeress, Catherine found herself saying, “That kind of seeing carries a cost. I wouldn't want to know.”

“Have it your own way, then,” Jimmy responded philosophically, and before Catherine could think of any response, he'd caught up his jacket and wheeled out the door.

She sat a few minutes, picking apart a stale donut and smiling wistfully now and again over random thoughts about Westchester, slippers, and men determined to take risks, regardless of prudence. Then she glanced at her watch, recalling how early six o'clock would come, and resignedly dragged herself down to her car and went home.

*****

If you can't leave 'em smiling, leave 'em laughing, was Jimmy Morero's motto. But he wasn't smiling longer than it took to hit the precinct station door, hurrying to rendezvous with his snitch. And he wasn't smiling at all, waiting by an inside staircase of the vacant building his snitch directed him to. The Beaumont – once a fancy private club, now a decaying hulk the city should have demolished years ago. Edgy and alert, Jimmy listened to the creak and sigh of the walls and the occasional skittering of rats.

This time, it was going down right, with no interference.

Eventually, he heard the distant sound of a door shutting, somewhere in the building's depths. Slow, deliberate steps approached. When the man emerged into the hallway, Jimmy was ready: badge extended in one hand, gun in the other.

“Hold it right there. I'm a police officer. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The man halted. He held to his chest a leather satchel like an old-fashioned bookbag. Under the broad hatbrim, his features were shadowed: Jimmy couldn't even guess at a match with the composite drawing Farell had been waving around.

Cautiously advancing into the hall, Jimmy demanded, “Let me see the bag.”

The man looked up, and the face did resemble the drawing. But the expression and pose threw that all into doubt – the old man looked bewildered, frightened, timid.

Jimmy said again, louder, “Let me see the bag!”

“I'm sorry,” the old guy quavered, “I don't hear so good….” He gestured apologetically at his ear, in case Jimmy didn't realize people heard with ears.

“I'm lost,” added the man forlornly, glancing around.

Off balance, halfway convinced it'd been a dud tip and he was scaring the daylights out of some harmless half-deaf wino, Jimmy advanced another step – nearly touching. “What's in the bag?”

“The bag?” responded the suspect, now sounding positively feeble-minded. “Oh, my crystals. The family crystals. They're very old,” the guy confided. “I sell 'em--so I can eat.”

Come on, Jimmy thought scornfully: His goddam “family jewels”? Is he really that dumb, or does he think I am? Irritated, unsure, Jimmy reached for the satchel the man moved, as though automatically, to surrender to him. As Jimmy's fingers closed over the handles, the man lurched against him. Jimmy jerked in astonishment: the guy had hit him! Punched him right in the ribs. Not very hard, barely more than a tap. Sagging against the guy's overcoat, Jimmy couldn't figure out why he couldn't seem to draw a breath.

As the unfelt blade that had bisected his heart was wrenched free, Jimmy's finger closed convulsively on the trigger. The bullet ricochetted harmlessly into the dark. Jimmy's uncomprehending gaze searched out the fading oval, the face of this feeble, frightened old man. The man's dark eyes had gone sharp and calculating, pitiless and cold; the mouth twisted into a sneer of triumph and distaste.

Relocking the wrist sword and collecting the fallen satchel, Jimmy's killer tumbled the corpse contemptuously out of his way.

*****

Cathy'd had a horrible feeling when Joe's phone call named the Beaumont. She knew it as one of the few entrances to the tunnels on the lower east side – the one Vincent had finally made his way to, pursued by the murderous Silks.

Disoriented to be wakened after barely two hours' sleep, she paid off the cab, noting the cop on duty at the dilapidated side door with a sense of nameless unease, not knowing what to expect.

Directed by another cop to one of the several basement levels, she reached the head of a narrow wooden staircase starkly lit by emergency lights. A couple of paramedics were doing something at the foot of the stairs. Standing in conversation with a man Cathy recognized as a plainclothes detective, Joe turned and saw her. He came up the stairs as she started down, clutching the wobbling bannister. When they met on the landing, Joe stopped her there, moving to block her view of the paramedics.

Even though she knew it was absurd, her associations with this place popped into her sleep-fogged mind the awful suspicion that something had happened to Vincent. Without knowing why, she'd gathered this was a dangerous district, one that the tunnel people avoided….

“What happened, Joe?” Cathy asked hesitantly, half afraid to find out.

Joe's expression was both pained and evasive. “We're not sure, exactly….”

Catherine shook herself mentally. Impossible that Joe should know the Beaumont's secret function as a threshold. Impossible, even if Vincent were involved, that Joe's first thought would be to summon Catherine Chandler in the middle of the night. Joe knew nothing of the tunnels, nothing of her connection with Vincent. With an effort, Catherine forced her overlapping realities apart.

As a plainclothes cop edged past, Cathy prompted, “Well, tell me.”

“There's not much to tell,” Joe responded uncomfortably, glancing over his shoulder. “It looks like Jimmy was soloing a lead….”

Perplexed, Cathy scanned the men performing the crime scene routines. “Where is he?”

“A transient found him, Cathy.”

Down in the hallway, one of the paramedics loudly zipped shut what she now couldn't mistake for anything but a body bag. Horrified, grieved, Catherine murmured, “Don't tell me he's dead, Joe--”

Joe bobbed a nod. “Yeah.”

Catherine could feel her face twisting. She whispered, “No... Oh my God, Joe...” and let Joe pull her in against his shoulder, offering what comfort he could.

They had to squeeze into the corner to let the paramedics, with their stretcher, pass. Catherine pulled away then, wiping at her eyes. Joe continued to study her with grim solicitude.

He said, “You were down there at the precinct with him tonight. Till late, they tell me. Did he say anything--?”

“He wouldn't wait for backup. It was a tip, he said. From one of his informants.”

Distractedly reviewing that conversation, Catherine found what she mainly remembered was Jimmy's vitality, his easy warmth, his teasing. She squeezed her eyes shut, struck anew by the shock of knowing all that edgy vibrancy was over, dead.

“Any name?” Joe prompted.

Catherine shook her head. “He wouldn't tell me anything. He was afraid….”

“Afraid? Morero?”

“Afraid to trust anyone else. Afraid to bring anybody else in, for fear of scaring the suspect off ...” Catherine jerked a hand in a helpless, angry gesture.

“But the suspect was going to be here?”

“I don't even know that.”

Looking down to the hallway, Joe said, “Big-time dealers run more to Uzi's these days, not switchblades. He got a shot off, but the only blood is Jimmy's. There's nothing to say what he ran into. No way to be sure it's even connected.”

The word connected set off in Catherine a different set of warning alarms. This building's potential connections were nothing Catherine dared encourage speculation about.

Saying “I don't know, Joe,” gave Catherine an ugly feeling of complicity - as though she was being forced into protecting Jimmy's killer.

That feeling grew stronger, less and less tolerable, during her cab ride home. When the cab left her at her apartment building, she stood, grieving, angry, and irresolute, for several minutes. Then, instead of ringing the night bell, she wheeled and charged across the street into Central Park.

Reaching the culvert and the threshold, she let herself in, then hammered on a pipe until she got a distant acknowledgement. She wandered back through the gate and paced the sandy area beyond, hands occasionally gripping together, until the gate creaked slightly. She turned to find Vincent holding it from the other side. For a moment, the gate divided them.

“What is it, Catherine?” Vincent asked with grave concern.

“A friend of mine… was murdered,” Catherine explained, feeling her face contorting toward renewed tears she tried to hold at bay.

After a reflective pause, Vincent offered sympathy: “The current of your feeling runs deep. He must have meant a great deal to you.”

“I wish,” Catherine replied in a choked, quiet voice, “I'd had a chance to know him better.” She made a try at a smile, recalling Jimmy's jaunty offhandedness. “There was a lot of… hope in him. Idealism.” Raising her eyes, she whispered, “He was engaged to be married,” confiding a tragic secret.

It wasn't only that a friend had been killed. Love, possibilities, a new shared life about to begin had all been cruelly cut off. Catherine didn't try to put that into words. She didn't need to. Vincent, who cherished all lovers, understood such things.

They turned from one another in recognition that love wasn't armor, and promised forevers offered no guarantee against death – an awareness with a very particular poignancy for them both.

Murmuring, “I'm sorry,” Vincent pushed the gate aside and came out. He regarded her a minute, as though giving both of them a chance to steady themselves.

Then he said, “Catherine – the man who grows and supplies the drug…. You were right: he lives Below. Father knows of him.”

Vincent's steady admission made everything worse. It confirmed the connection, the complicity. Trying to be calm, judicious, Catherine declared, “Well, then you must turn him in.”

“If we surrender him to the police, he promises to betray our secret.”

Biting her lip, Catherine considered that impasse. Leaving the threat to the tunnels aside, she could legitimately consider the problem, she decided, as a matter of jurisdiction.

“Then he must be punished to the full extent of your laws. I'll help – I'll document what he's done...”

Vincent was shaking his head. “The ultimate punishment has been imposed. He was exiled from our world years ago. He no longer lives within our authority.”

“But he's still your responsibility!” Catherine insisted.

Vincent sighed, retreating slightly against the gate. “We're struggling for a solution.”

“I can't wait! By waiting, I put other lives in danger!”

Vincent met her eyes. “Catherine, you must live according to your conscience,” he responded evenly. “Just as we must live according to the laws that have allowed us to survive.”

That declaration offered no apology and no compromise. Catherine had seldom felt so keenly the division between Above and Below – felt that she and Vincent were truly citizens of different worlds separated by an irrevocable and unbridgeable gulf.

She said heatedly, “That he lives Below doesn't give him the right to commit crimes Above and get away with it. He can't kill people Above and then retreat to the tunnels to escape prosecution, avoid taking responsibility for his actions!”

“I know,” said Vincent, very quietly. Backing, he pulled the gate slowly shut, then reached to the handle that slid the steel door across the opening, leaving Catherine, troubled and unsatisfied, behind him.

*****

The council session was convened immediately after breakfast, Father presiding, as usual. Some council members, like William and Pascal, were unavoidably absent; but the four gathered around Father's large table, drinking tea from the very best, if mismatched, Spode porcelain cups, constituted a quorum.

Beyond reporting the situation to include Catherine's information and concerns, Vincent said little. Although tunnel security was his province, as the pipes were Pascal's, he was reluctant to put forth an opinion. He felt all the tensions, all the contradictions.

Paracelsus fit no categories. He was of this world, and yet he wasn't. He could safely neither be left alone nor acted against. He was a man to whom Father still had strong emotional connections, part of the fabric of their society, and yet an utter stranger whom Vincent had never met.

There was another, more personal reason for Vincent's reserve: he was uneasily aware of parallels it seemed no one else had considered – not even Catherine, who had the most reason. For Vincent, too, had killed Above, then retreated to the tunnels beyond the knowledge or reach of topside law.

Whatever the need, whatever the provocation, the fact remained that what he'd done, on more than one occasion, to protect Catherine, he'd done without council sanction, without any justification but the peril of the moment. That he felt justified in his own mind changed nothing. The fact remained that he'd acted on his own initiative, answerable only to his own conscience, subject to no law – either Above or Below.

It was always Vincent's way to see himself in others – especially, to see their shortcomings as reflections of his own. As with Jason Walker, the so-called Subway Vigilante, Vincent wasn't sure of his own moral ground, his right to set himself in judgment over one whose actions, impartially viewed, so nearly mirrored his own.

So as the council – big Winslow, Mary, Father – debated the problem, Vincent kept mostly silent, too conscious of his own ambiguous position even though no one had remarked on the implicit similarities between Paracelsus' status and his own.

Vincent deeply believed in the rule of law. It was one of the essentials of belonging to a community – indeed, what defined a community. Moving beyond it to the extent he'd already done, rather than the killings themselves, created in him a diffidence… and a profound sense of isolation. Father's son must honor Father's rules. Within them were community, companionship, belonging. Beyond them….

Vincent didn't like to think about what might lie beyond them.

Mary ventured, “Except, there is this to consider: Paracelsus could never expose us without exposing himself. If he doesn't get caught, we're safe.”

Winslow leaned heavily back in his chair. “I'm no gambler. Especially not with those stakes.”

Setting his teacup in its saucer with careful precision, Father shook his head, commenting, “A terrible dilemma. But I don't know what more we can do.”

Feeling the vise of stalemate closing, Vincent pointed out, “The moment he's caught Above, we're all imperiled.”

Winslow rejoined, “Exactly why we have no choice.” Turning to Father, Winslow added gruffly, “Paracelsus told you himself – the only way to stop him is to kill him.”

Father glowered, challenging, “Would you be his executioner?”

Unsettled but unintimidated, Winslow proposed, “We could do it by lottery.”

Mary looked distressed, and Father appalled, by the suggestion. Father declared fiercely, “Even to consider such an alternative undermines the very principle on which this society was built.” He grimaced, dismissing the idea out of hand: “Please – we're here to discuss viable options.”

“Yeah,” Winslow growled, “well, discussing the problem isn't going to make it disappear.”

Vincent sighed heavily, regarding the ceiling. He observed mildly, “It does seem that the more we talk, the more elusive the solution becomes.”

A long silence followed – like those before, full of hopelessness and worried frustration. It seemed impossible either to act or to tolerate inaction. The pressure built.

Again, Vincent felt compelled to break the stalemate. Leaning forward and lacing his fingers together on the table, he formulated, “We all agree that what's at stake is the greater good of both worlds.”

He looked around, seeking and sensing agreement. He found attention and an urgent, if unformed, hope: everyone was deeply anxious to have this matter resolved.

Vincent continued meditatively, “Some course of action, anything, is better than allowing all that we are, all that we've built, to be held hostage to one man's evil.”

Warily noncommittal, Father inquired, “So what do you propose?”

Vincent thought a moment, then said, “I can prevent Paracelsus from leaving the tunnels with his poison. That will give us time… to decide upon a more permanent solution.”

Vincent looked to each of them in turn. Father frowned but offered no objection; Winslow seemed content with the prospect of someone doing something; Mary's face showed an indeterminate distress, but her silence gave at least tacit approval.

Vincent was satisfied that he had the council's sanction.

5

In the forbidden southern reaches of the tunnels was a place where passages converged in a broad, high crossroads. Many passages led in; only one led out - toward the Beaumont. The walls of this crossroads cavern, soft and eaten out by water, were full of irregular truncated ledges and shallow caves. Bounding easily to one such hollow, some 15 feet up, Vincent settled crosslegged, enclosed like a candle in a niche – invisible, for practical purposes, to anyone passing below.

He wanted no conflict with Paracelsus' people…nor with Paracelsus, for that matter. For the tunnels' safety, for Catherine's concerns, for the good of both worlds, the trafficking in drugs must stop – that was absolute and beyond question. But apart from the moral imperative, Vincent had only the most abstract and impersonal disapproval of this stranger, John Pater--this “Paracelsus,” who'd once been Father's friend. Vincent was no vigilante, to arrogate to himself the right to pass and then execute a private judgment for reported wrongs. Vincent felt no anger toward the man. He'd do only what was needed to turn him back and compel him to remain Below.

He could do that. No matter what violence was threatened or offered to him, he could be… judicious. As the acknowledged chess master Below, he could decide on a strategy and then dispassionately follow it, fitting his actions to his purpose – as he'd done when the Tong members had invaded the tunnels, and at other times before that.

Only the powerless and the fearful were apt to overreact; he was neither.

Without vanity, he knew himself to be the match of any antagonist, even armed, he might meet Below, where his strength, endurance, agility, superior hearing and night-sighted eyes gave him an overwhelming advantage. At such times, there seemed a purpose and a meaning to all his differences; he could take, if not pride, at least satisfaction in them, that they were finally of use. His very appearance gave him the further advantage of surprise: while an adversary was staring, Vincent acted.

No one bent on harm could enter his labyrinth without confronting its guardian. None could pass beyond that meeting without first besting him. Since he'd come to his mature strength, none ever had.

It was a different matter, of course, Above. Above, there was real risk and all the old, ingrained fears of being discovered, trapped, caged, chained, displayed as a freak or a monster. But Below, in the safe and secret dark, he was fully at home and fully confident of his ability to meet any challenge. Judiciously. As the approved and designated agent of lawful authority, the tunnel council.

He'd hear any footfall. No one could pass this way unobserved. Comfortable and composed, he waited in his niche.

Except, he amended, following a branching of his thought, when Catherine has been in danger.

Those times were different. He couldn't have said precisely how. In fact, he couldn't remember them all that clearly, once they were over… which blanks, by themselves, he found disquieting, since they strongly implied a fundamental loss of control. And he must never lose control. Particularly in regard to Catherine. Even to protect her. So the blurred gaps troubled him, more than the evidence of all-out mayhem he'd find himself confronting when he'd satisfied the first urgency, his need to assure himself of Catherine's wellbeing.

Those few times he'd been galvanized to her defense, it had all seemed to happen in an instant, with no interval between his first flash of received alarm and the reeking silence of the aftermath, when the battle was suddenly done: when all he could think of was determining that Catherine was alive and safe; when all he could feel was the shared and overwhelming relief reverberating through the bond--shaken with its power. Whatever came between somehow slipped out of time and was a different way of being, and feeling, and acting, that he couldn't wholly account for or reconstruct, afterward.

Whatever such times might be, they weren't judicious.

The feeling was visceral, intense. It was like panic, except that it ran directly at the danger instead of away. So it wasn't very much like panic. It was like fear, except that he was aware of no fear except Catherine's, and his for her – no fear of the threat itself at all. So not really like fear, either. It was as if….

Head tilted, hands loosely clasped on his knee, Vincent tried to cast into appropriate words experience that had nothing to do with words at all, that fit no category he could recognize. It was as if (he tried again) in saving Catherine, he were somehow losing himself….

He shook his head: that form of words didn't quite suit him. Didn't quite seem to fit. But how it didn't fit, he couldn't say. It certainly wasn't courage ...

Unbidden, words suddenly reechoed in his mind: It wasn't courage, Vincent – it was love.

She'd said that. Catherine. To him.

Of course, she didn't mean it. Not precisely that. Not the way it sounded. Not that she was lying, of course – merely that she'd been brushing aside his praise for her intrepid efforts to free him from the cave-in. Relieved to have the danger past, she'd taken no particular care to choose her words precisely – that was all. A natural outburst of affection it would be wrong to overinterpret or inflate into anything more than it was – something said, unconsidered, in the heat of the moment. No more than that, he reminded himself firmly… as he always did when that recollection caught him unguarded. As it always did. Coming out of nowhere to reverberate to his very soul.

She'd said that. Catherine. To him.

And of course she loved him. Naturally. He'd saved her life, after all. More than once. And she'd saved his as well. The bond between them was more than feeling, more than an involuntary overhearing, on his part, of the music of her moods. Which were so very beautiful, a counterpoint to all his waking hours since he'd first touched the sprawled, bleeding body cruelly discarded in the park….

Theirs was a bond of choice as well: his choice to seek her out and then to protect her from further hurt, every way he could. How could one not want to keep hurt from whomever one…cared about? And she'd chosen to turn aside from other possibilities – a better job in Providence; suitors, old and new; the ties, values, and habits of the life she'd once led--so that they might read poetry to one another, confide their thoughts and experiences to a sympathetic ear, have the joy of expectation and then the satisfaction of companionship despite their separate lives, their separate worlds….

Naturally, she loved him. As a dear friend… but with a difference. Because he was different. It imposed limits, but it also offered unique opportunities. As Catherine, a lawyer, could work through the legal system that was beyond his reach – as when Father had disappeared and she'd found him in prison, accused of murder, and managed to prove his innocence and secure his release – Vincent could in turn offer her certain strengths a small woman might sometimes call upon in keeping hurt from others – children, innocents, the helpless elderly: whoever was oppressed by superior force, so that judicious force in opposition became an appropriate and justified response.

She loved him as someone such a woman might choose as her particular champion: serving, through her, the values they both cherished.

Steps trudged toward him but turned off before they entered the echoing crossroads. After an instant's intent alertness, Vincent subsided, returning to his reverie.

Of course, he loved her, too. In the very best way he knew how: trying to live according to what the poets and philosophers all agreed was the highest form of love, that asked nothing for itself but sought only the best for the beloved with no expectation of return. Happy with their happiness, sharing every sorrow, asking only the privilege of serving: that one might, as it were, wear one's lady's favor as an emblem for the high purpose to which one had set one's life, the star one had been granted the right to contemplate in a special relationship stronger than common friendship or love, kindred hearts connected in a kind of ecstatic and unqualified surrender to all that was transcendently beautiful, wonderful, and fine. To Love itself….

The date was approaching – it seemed too bold to think of it as an anniversary, even within himself – that would make it an exact year since he'd found her in the park. He'd been of two minds about it. Though both their lives had changed utterly from that night, it had been a terrible ordeal for her. Her healing, and the time, and the corrections of surgery, had allowed her to put a distance between herself and that experience now. But he wondered if calling the date to her attention might diminish that distance and bring the horror back to her. He knew that it sometimes still returned to her in dreams. He'd felt those dreams. So perhaps it would be best to say nothing and let the date pass unmarked.

But he wanted to give her something. He'd wanted that so strongly that it had overcome all prudence and driven him to her balcony that first time – to give her the book her return Above had left unfinished: Great Expectations. To simply leave it there, as a gift, even though he knew she could easily have found another copy and finished it for herself, if she'd wished. He'd had to give it to her. And had to know she'd have something he'd given her. Perhaps later to feel, through the bond, that in reading it, she was thinking of him, thinking of the peaceful rapport between them as he'd read it aloud to her, distracting her from the pain, so quietly in his chamber as she'd lain, blinded by bandages, on his bed, so small there, and the slow healing already strengthening in her so that he'd known she'd be gone soon but not while he read to her, sharing the story's time rather than minutes, hours. The time that was forever, while it lasted. He'd had to give that to her. And then she'd discovered him there, before he could escape. Seen and greeted him… with a gun in her hand. And then set the gun carelessly aside, and they'd talked, and then she'd read the final chapter aloud to him with her unbandaged eyes until much too near dawn but he couldn't leave, couldn't even want to leave as long as the story went on, made magical by her voice….

Almost a year. And since that renewal of forever between them, that night on her balcony, 13 weeks ago, nothing had been the same or would ever be the same again. She'd chosen him, again and again, over all alternatives. Against all her world's bright blandishments, she'd chosen the dark that they could share. Searched him out when he was lost; freed him, when he was caged or entombed in a cave-in; come to him always, openhearted, withholding nothing of herself that might properly be shared between Miranda and Caliban, Esmeralda and Quasimodo, the bright star and the dark, adoring earth. And that deserved marking, noting, celebrating. And Vincent most desperately wanted to give her something. A keepsake. A token. Anything. A gift. Everything.

It wasn't courage, Vincent – it was love.

His eyes shut and he shivered, feeling as though a warm, slow hand had just stroked down the length of his spine.

He was glad she hadn't said it in Father's hearing. Father would undoubtedly have misinterpreted it, and then Vincent would have had to endure another session of Father's entirely unfounded misgivings about Vincent's maintaining this “relationship” (Vincent could hear perfectly in his mind Father's skeptical, disparaging intonation) with a topsider. A woman…of the world Above. Doubly dangerous, in Father's estimation; doubly forbidden.

Vincent hated those discussions. He tried to be patient with Father's concerns – the more so since he'd learned Father had once been betrayed and abandoned by a woman very similar to Catherine in social station – a woman Father had loved and married, but who'd proven to lack the fortitude to bear with him through adversity. A woman whose desertion had driven him to reject the topside world altogether.

Natural that Father should fear that betrayal would be repeated, even though the cases were entirely dissimilar in direct proportion to how profoundly different Vincent was from Father, or from any normal man.

There could of course be no question of marriage nor even of love, according to its common meaning. So there could be no abandonment, since Catherine was completely free to choose a more appropriate companion at any time. Whenever she found someone she could truly, gladly, and fully be a part of in the daylight world. Vincent would do nothing whatever to try to prevent it when it happened. He hoped he'd be glad. If not at once, then eventually. For he had no claim on her, and would make none. Nor ask any pledge of her. And where there had been no pledge, there could be no betrayal.

There was no danger. Vincent knew, with perfect clarity, his position in Catherine's life. It was a great wonder to have any place at all in her affections; how could such a wonder not be enough? How tragically foolish even to consider casting aside the high poetic joys in a doomed effort to snatch at mere prosaic happiness. Inevitably, one would fail to gain the one, and lose the other. And be left with nothing at all. But somehow he could never make Father see that. He'd had to conclude that Father was still filtering present experience through past bitterness. It saddened Vincent to realize the past still had such a hold over Father – usually the most reasonable of men. It frustrated him to have that same discussion over and over, and be at odds with Father, and know from the start that nothing was going to be resolved.

To be fair, Father was civil enough to Catherine – even cordial at times. His ingrained good manners precluded anything else. Nor did Father harp on the matter continually… for the sake of peace, as much as anything, Vincent thought. But Vincent couldn't help being aware of Father's dire reservations, even when they went unspoken. The mute disapproval. The explicit silences. The glances and heavy sighs that conveyed, as plainly as words, If I were the sort of person to remind you that I told you so, I might do so now, but fortunately I'm not.

It had gotten to the point that Vincent avoided mentioning Catherine to Father at all, except in the most offhand way, as one might refer to a helper. Certainly, he said nothing anymore to Father about his own doubts or worries, the times he was downhearted, his concerns for Catherine. And certainly nothing about the killing. Nothing at all. Those blurred, lost, intense times had joined the category of Things One Never Mentions to Father – already a considerable sum, so that Vincent was more and more aware of the pressure of all that was stored, that he could now discuss with no one.

Had Father been aware of Catherine's innocent comment, Vincent knew he would never have heard the end of it.

Vincent knew perfectly well that there was no possibility of anything permanent between himself and Catherine. The measured moments of forever were enough. They had to be. But it was very nearly intolerable to have to acknowledge that to Father, over and over. Bad enough to maintain the limits – must he recite them, too, on demand? Must he continually be obliged to declare his unworthiness, like a public litany of despair?

As long as Vincent never lost sight of the truth, there surely could be no harm in allowing himself a small dream from time to time. Imagining how it might have been, had things been otherwise. Enjoying the impossibilities as though they were a story he and Catherine were telling one another, a harmless, happy dream they shared. Couldn't he be allowed even to imagine? Might he not sometimes dream?

He was definitely going to give Catherine something. For… the anniversary. Yes. Perhaps even mention, just casually, to Father that he was planning to do so. But certainly not ask Father's views about what might be appropriate, though he'd have very much appreciated Father's advice on so delicate a point. For it couldn't be anything too large or too personal, anything that would be a burden, emotional or otherwise, to receive. Nothing Catherine would have to hide, or find embarrassing, or feel obliged by. Something small, a trinket, a token only. But beautiful. Shining. Special. Something whose value would be implicit, not to be measured in money. Something wonderful, that would heal all the remaining hurt the occasion might hold for her; that would make her happy, to have; that would convey to her something of how precious she was to him without requiring anything of her in return – a free gift, freely given.

Where could he find, or how could he make, something like that? An absolutely perfect present?

Vincent wished he could have asked Father, who surely would have many excellent suggestions. Perhaps Narcissa….

Absently, he noticed receding footsteps. Then he jerked alert and dropped to the floor of the crossroads, immediately moving into hurried pursuit: Paracelsus had gotten past him.

*****

Hearing the first soft following sound, Paracelsus grimly lengthened his stride, unsurprised. Since Jacob's visit, he'd been expecting it. But not the anticipated undisciplined rabble: a single hunter. And the conclusion to be drawn from that was obvious. Inescapable. It had to be someone regarded as an army in his own person.

Little passed Below that Paracelsus was unaware of: the pipes were continuously monitored. He knew about the Tong's invasion in some detail and therefore knew how the invasion had been ended. Not by concerted effort: except for turning out a few lights, the community had, he gathered, sat trembling on their collective backsides. No, the tunnels' defense had been borne on the shoulders of one individual. And that one had evidently been enough. None of the Tong members had survived to return Above or to disclose what they'd encountered Below.

But this time, it wouldn't be merely moral laziness or cowardice that made them deputize their violence, keeping their own hands clean, their own skins safe.

Naturally, Father would seize the chance to turn that private knife in the wound he'd inflicted and send against him his creature, his “son,” his enforcer: Vincent. Paracelsus' mouth turned bitter on the acid of that muttered name, occasionally heard over the pipes down all the intervening years.

He'd prepared for this moment, the inevitable attack. He turned suddenly from the direct route into a musty brick side-passage, hustling along, hunched, around successive turns, clutching his satchel against him. Pausing a second, he cocked his head, listening. The telltales of pursuit had vanished.

Impossible it should be this easy. What trick…?

Hurrying on, he presently heard it again: the almost soundless scrape of cloth against a rough surface, the quick padding of leather bootsoles. Ahead of him, approaching on a diagonal – to intersect his new route farther on. Not blindly pursuing, then, but projecting the quarry's course and ranging ahead to outflank him and cut off his escape. Not merely the unimaginative, subservient brute he'd have imagined, given Father's stifling tutelage, but a strategist – a forethoughtful adversary.

Darting into another passage to avoid that convergence, Paracelsus found that, despite his breathless awareness of his danger and of the physical mismatch between himself and the hunter, he nevertheless was intrigued.

Fleeing steadily past the wall beyond which his path and the hunter's would have intersected, imagining his adversary halting, frustrated, only a few bricks' widths away, Paracelsus smiled tightly and changed course yet again, to dodge the next possible place he might be ambushed, the strategic game of move and countermove fully joined.

Over the years, it had become evident that everything south of the Sevenways Junction was prohibited to Father's cattle. They never intruded here. To know this haphazard labyrinth well enough to both project a course and circle to block it without wasting energy on bricked-up passages and doors that led nowhere, Vincent must have done quite a lot of unauthorized exploring. Such evidence of initiative was even more intriguing. Was it possible Father's dull creature had somehow managed to retain some fraction of his own feral soul? Thinking that, sweating with exertion and very real dread, trudging as fast as he could along the narrow, rubble-strewn corridors, Paracelsus at the same time was visualizing alternative paths in three dimensions – the blind turns and crawlways, the ladders, the cobwebbed exposed stretches where he might be overtaken, the defenses long since set in place in the certainty that sometime attack would come and he'd need a secure escape route.

Nobody else knew this warren as he did, who'd prepared it for just such an eventuality. If his planning wasn't equal to the test, he deserved to die. But the cynicism still shocked him, that Father should dare to send Vincent against him – the heartless irony of it beggared all expectation. He was shocked – and more shocked to realize he still had any illusions to lose.

A friend is a flattering mirror, he thought, that shows us only what we wish to see. Only an enemy can teach us who we truly are.

Boots, heavy with weight and lithe momentum, echoed in quick cadence down the passage from behind him: the gambit had been refused. Instead of ranging ahead to the Beaumont's boiler room that he'd have found empty, Vincent had risked doubling back to the last intersection, depending on superior speed to make up the distance before Paracelsus could evade him again.

Paracelsus knew his situation was now truly desperate. There was no time to reach the intended ladder. He'd be overtaken in a matter of minutes. His elbow pressed tight against a jabbing pain in his side, the satchel awkwardly bumping, he scrabbled up a rough stair and flung back the trapdoor at the top, heedless of the noise.

There was no time left for subtlety: if this final dash didn't take him to the prepared refuge, he'd be at the mercy of what followed, bare yards behind now, already through the trapdoor and treading the wooden floor, though Paracelsus didn't dare take even a second to turn and catch a glimpse of his relentless pursuer, the death stalking so close at his heels.

Lunging into a passage like a long, level chimney, he grabbed at a metal box set at eye level halfway along the wall and yanked the lever, his salvation. As the massive counterweighted door – concrete blocks fitted into a frame, to seem merely another wall – slammed resoundingly, sealing the head of the passage, Paracelsus caught a flash of something big and dark. Then the barrier crashed shut, raising a cloud of dust. And a full-throated, inhuman growl cut through the loud echoes, expressing the pursuer's anger at finding himself balked.

Panting, Paracelsus leaned against the wall. It was over – this night's game, at least. He was safe. Before the hunter could negotiate all the roundabout ways he'd have to take, Paracelsus would be on the street and vanished among the city's multitudes. Where he was reasonably certain this particular hunter would hesitate to go.

As he turned wearily, he heard the unimaginable: the slight grating of the door against its sill, the protest of its hinges. Enormously heavy and held there with all the force the adjoining walls would take, it was nevertheless being forced inexorably back, a scraping inch at a time. Vincent had seen it was a door. And somehow, impossibly, he was opening it. In a moment, he'd be through.

Paracelsus panicked. Stooping through an opening of broken brick, he came into an alcove the size of a large closet that could be shut into a featureless box by another hidden door at the far end. But if the door behind couldn't hold, the one ahead wouldn't either. Vincent would be through it in seconds, and upon him. Somehow, Paracelsus had to buy a few extra moments to make good his escape.

As the outer door scraped farther and then slammed shut like a literal crack of doom, meaning the hunter had forced his way past and released it, Paracelsus frantically grabbed into his satchel and closed a fist around a crackling handful of powder. He flung it into the air – a fortune cast away that would be no use to him dead. As the powder floated and sparkled, Paracelsus rushed onward, holding his breath, to throw the lever that closed the further door behind him. This one slid, rather than swung. It shut almost without sound: he could clearly hear the hunter's steps enter the sealed chamber and then halt there.

Already it would be too late. Already, he'd be inhaling the drug, a massive dose with each breath. He'd never hold the concentration to discover the second door now. Paracelsus was safe. Yet he didn't leave, although the distributor was expecting him. Let the man wait. Let him rot, for all Paracelsus cared. He was held, fascinated, by the slight sounds, and then the silence, on the far side of the false wall.

It was probably just curiosity: what would an overdose like that do to someone? Specifically – to Vincent? How would that alien physiology react? And, even more compelling – what had the remembered infant grown into?

A monster, of course: but what sort of monster? Ugly, misshapen, grotesque, floundering through the dark? Or something else, that the swift, sure pursuit had somehow already suggested? Lordly and powerful, with the unique symmetries which the boy's infant proportions had implied? A brutish lackey or a warrior? Had Vincent managed to grow into something like his initial promise, something like his proper stature, in spite of Father's repressive influence? Was it possible that in spite of all expectation and beyond all hope, Father hadn't managed to ruin him altogether?

Paracelsus had to see. Had to watch. The distributor could wait: forever, if necessary. The old fascination had reawakened. There could be nothing more important than witnessing whatever would happen now, whether a wonder or a painful obscenity.

Sidling around an angle, Paracelsus set down his satchel, wrapped a cloth tightly around his nose and mouth, and pulled out a brick strategically loosened for a peephole. And at last saw, faintly outlined within the enchanted glimmering of the floating dust, what his life's one true treasure and greatest disappointment had become.

*****

There had to be another door. But Vincent couldn't….

As he scanned the antique brickwork, time suddenly stretched out like the view down a long, long corridor. But his motions and his thoughts slowed correspondingly, so in the first instants it only seemed to him he should be methodical about this. Deliberate. He touched a wall, gave it an experimental shove to test for any sign of give. No. Nor the opposite wall, either.

There had to be a door. Or… an opening of some kind. A way out. The ceiling? As he lifted his face to look, a wave of dizziness hit him. He shook his head sharply, mane slapping across his muzzle, trying impatiently to shake off the sense of tilt - wrong, because everything around him was so plainly upright, foursquare, solid; walls, floor, ceiling meeting at crisp right angles; every brick an exemplar of rectangularity. Row after row after row. Uncountable.

He slowly revolved in the center of the confined space, absorbed by all the uncompromising linearity that yet somehow wouldn't stay straight. Like being caught inside a geometrical drawing, lines like bars of a cage, intersecting on some alien dimensional plane his perceptions couldn't comprehend as straightness. Or perhaps this strange brick cube was right and it was he that was wrong, unfitting….

The thought came clearly: Something is wrong with me.

Of course. Why should that surprise or perplex him? No one saw as he did, or what he did. No one else could see the pitch darkness of the deepest places as infinite gradations of grey, or the individual motes of dust quivering in the deflected sunbeams over the gorge of the Chamber of the Falls.

No one else was aware of the thousand scents trapped and drifting, ghostlike, in the confined tunnel airs. Smoke of fires a century dead; food long ago eaten or spoiled; breath and sweat of dwellers unimaginably ancient and gone, bursting over him when a work crew broached some shut cave to be a new chamber and the scent of dead lives swept past like actual presence, like being interpenetrated by a ghost's essence, so that his back hair rose and fellow workers stopped and asked why he stood, startled and staring, and he couldn't tell them why and eventually stopped even trying.

Why blurt out how different the world was to freakish senses that knew what theirs did not? Better to hold to the commonalities. Let the ghosts pass and fade unremarked. See only what the common sight was agreed upon and pretend the rest didn't exist. Keep the visions, when they came, to himself.

And yet--

How did it go? How do you know that every bird….

He staggered back against a wall and dropped there, loosely crouched, panting, so as not to fall off the floor. The dizziness grew, increasing into a more general sense of dislocation, disorientation.

He tried to concentrate. It was important to get such things exactly right so as not to lose the words, no least flavor or nudge of meaning.

How do you know… BUT every bird…that cuts the airy way…is an immense world of delight, closed by your senses five?

Yes. Blake had known. Blake had talked to the ghosts of fleas. Even drawn their portraits. And been visited on a regular, familiar basis by angels, who even sometimes consented to take tea. Perhaps Blake had also been insane, as most of his contemporaries had judged. The majority wasn't always wrong. Commonality gave connection. But all the same, mad or sane, Blake had known. And at least tried, with his poet's urgency, to cast it all into words to be a lasting testament that, after centuries, could be a revelation to a bookish boy, not very human, that someone had once seen as he did. That he wasn't, after all, entirely alone….

He hated being shut in. These walls loomed and seemed about to tilt. They might collapse and bury him here. Shoving himself erect and trying to force the walls apart with spread arms, he believed he'd be lost here – utterly… and forever…and alone. The ghost of his death would waft by whoever broke into this tomb and fade, unnoticed. Unless Narcissa was the one who came. Narcissa would know. Father never would. Father was too tightly barricaded in rationality to credit such things except theoretically, figuratively, on a poet's fanciful report.

But they weren't. They were real. Real as bricks.

Turning, he set his hands against a wall for the reassurance of its uprightness, its solidity. Arms braced and shaking, he walked his hands slowly up the courses, feeling the roughnesses, the small irregularities bricks always had, no two truly alike despite their seeming uniformity. But their commonalities connected them, gave them strength. They shut him in on all sides. Row upon row upon row.

There was a door. Had to be a door.

He didn't like this place. The confinement frightened him. He wanted to go home.

He groped aside until he located an opening and blundered through into what seemed the very long, dim passage he'd thought he'd only imagined. Every brick stood out with visionary sharpness, as though its shape were an implicit message in some language he didn't understand. They began to shout at him, angry that he was not of their geometry. That he could bend and curve and move whereas all proper things were still and rectangular. He clapped his hands over his ears, but that didn't help.

All angles met. All flats and uprights and levels. Terrible. Shouting. It wouldn't stop. Deafening, like the fast beat of blood in his ears. He ran down the passage because he had to run and that was the only dimension that gave him space to do so. He hit the far end full speed, full force – and broke through, in a cascade of dislodged masonry that convinced him he'd been just in time: that the passage and awful little room had indeed collapsed behind him. More straight, unnatural walls surrounded him. They might fall, too. He kept running, feeling himself pursued by progressive collapse, first expecting to be overtaken by an avalanche of accusing brickwork, then losing that image into confusion and no longer knowing why or what he fled, except that he was afraid and alone, lost in a maze of towering angles.

A patch of rotten flooring gave way beneath him. He twisted in falling and landed almost on his feet – on a stack of packing crates that tipped and threw him, head and shoulder, into a pillar – one of many dividing a sub-basement storage area into open bays. Half-stunned, he pushed the crates away and staggered erect. Then the ceiling, in the form of a toppling crate, fell on him. He went down again, sprawled in a pile of garbage discarded by some visiting vagrant. For an instant that seemed hours, he could neither draw a full breath nor move, except to curl tightly into himself on the concrete floor.

Cues of position, smell, and emotion found him highly suggestible and receptive. Within him surfaced the deepest, oldest memory he possessed, experienced now as present anguish.

Cold. It was so cold. There was no escaping it. Cold like the deepest dark where the stars might give light, but no warmth. Utterly alone, he wanted warm. He wanted touched, held, snuggled lovingly close, connected. He wanted filled, dry, soft, peaceful. He'd never known these things. But that didn't prevent his knowing their lack: without them, he was dying.

Something twisted in him and he wanted to cry. But each puffing breath hurt and pulled the cold in deeper. And an instinctual fear commanded him to remain perfectly still, hidden, no matter what. Terrible, nameless danger threatened if he disclosed his existence. He curled tighter. But he ached for touched, lifted, and no one brought it. No one had come to find him and bring him safe. No one would ever come. There was no safe. No loved. No hope.

Then, on a congested, hiccuping breath, some spark within him kindled, flared. Into warmth. Into absolute and unconditional rage. Against the dark. Against the cold. Against the isolation and the starvation of his senses; against the bodily betrayal and abandonment that he felt without knowing what he felt or why because there were no words here.

Before words, before names, he drew a deep, shuddering breath and took strength from it. He was shaking with anger, and that was warmth. Life. Fighting to breathe again, the icy air searing him to the core, a slicing pain, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was to burn his own substance, flush with inner heat. Fight. Stay alive. No longer wait or hope for anything. Need no one. Rage against the hurt and devour it, to feed the heat. Survive.

He roused to the fading echo of a wailing cry.

Pushing unsteadily to his feet, he found his way, after a time, out of the threatening maze of unnatural straights and corners and wandered through meandering tubes that smelled only of stone and of stillness.

Carooming, in a slow stagger, from one rock face to another, sometimes folding suddenly sideways as if he'd been shoved, then forcing himself up again, Vincent kept his arms extended lest these walls, too, begin to close in. But if one hand touched, the far wall remained out of reach, holding its place. Leaving him room enough to be. Marginally reassured, he rested and the stone peace enfolded him. Not in welcome, but indifferently.

Sudden brightness startled him. Reflexively snarling, baring his fangs, he swung left and found himself facing the shut panels of an elaborate set of doors. Doors of iron with a muted silvery sheen, their panels cast in elegant raised pictures of hunting. People on horseback, coursing dogs, antlered stags caught in mid-leap, boars, birds rising with wings outspread ...

Before he could take in more than a fraction of the scenes, the doors swung open of themselves to reveal a writhing wall of flame. He recoiled, frightened; yet the heat was wonderful. It went deep, beating against the still-felt memory of implacable, annihilating cold.

Then his dazzled eyes discerned a woman's figure standing in the midst of the fire: Catherine.

Bewildered, he shook his head hard to make the vision resolve into something comprehensible, but it remained unchanged. Puzzling. Alluring.

Dressed in white, in a loose blouse and skirt of coarse, un-ironed gauze, all triangular points and peasant simplicity, Catherine regarded him steadily, standing unconsumed among flames like blowing scraps of brilliant silks that alternately concealed and revealed her. She was of one substance with them – emblem and heart of the furnace heat that grew in him, kindling desires otherwise confined to dreams and prohibited to his waking mind and body.

eductively smiling, she opened her arms, beckoning: the invitation that was a command reverberated, wordless, within him: Come to me. Like a siren's song, its unbearable sweetness summoned him to destruction: the only way to her was through, and into, the flames.

They'd burn, then. Together. And it wouldn't matter because they'd be consumed in each other, fused in an inferno of overwhelming passion.

Above a confused, faint descant of screaming women's voices, the motions of Catherine's tempting wraith sang Come to me, so that he was suffused with longing, a pain of desire so intense it became pleasure and promised more pleasure to come, an eternity of pleasure while they burned, and burned away, and were heedlessly consumed.

An ultimate passion.

Yearning tugged at him like soft, urgent hands on his body, on all the places that had never known the touch of mutual ardor. He ached to answer it. But the same primal instincts that drew him forward held him back – wary of the fire and the discordant background shrieking. Still beckoning, Catherine faded, hidden by the flames. As he hesitated, caught by conflicting urges, the wall of mythic fire that barred him from the forbidden burned on, beyond the open doors.

Another door captured his attention. He wheeled to his right to confront it. A single door of burnished bronze – undecorated, rising to a gothic point – it opened upon a grey dimness like the fog rising from an icy, nameless river underground. Passing through, one would be isolated in a realm without limits or landmarks. Beyond pity or compassion. One would become one's sole, essential self, unmixed with other natures. Solitary and complete: needing no one.

This door, too, offered passion… of a different sort.

Within the fog, voices wailed in terror, cried out in pain, howled in fury. Vivid across the white indeterminacy, like needles of frost projecting on the surface of a liquid, blood began to flow – hot, crimson slashes that evoked the satisfactions of striking out and feeling one's claws bite deep, of narrowing to a single, simple focus in the brilliant, endless seconds of battle. It evoked the deep rapport and exultation of the kill, when one was most alive: when one had survived against all odds and all opposition and felt life burning in every limb, never so intensely as at that perilous moment when hunter and prey met and became fully what they were.

A red rage within him, long buried and unacknowledged, found in that instant its match and validation. This was a passion he knew – the blood-lust; the unleashed battle fury, indistinguishable from joy, that anesthetized all pain, all fear. He'd felt it, enacted it – been baptized and covenanted to the mystery of death itself. It sang to him in the wailing voices of the anonymous choristers hymning the primal rite of power, rage, and mortality--blood sacrifice.

An ultimate passion.

Balanced between the portals of Desire and of Death standing open before and within him, the beast threw back his head…and roared.

*****

He didn't want to be here. But he knew nowhere else to be. He didn't want to be as he was – dizzy, disoriented; imprisoned within an uncoordinated, aching body exhausted to staggering clumsiness – but could imagine no other way of being.

All he knew was now.

With no fight to focus him, no tangible danger to gather himself to confront, he lurched aimlessly through the maze of tunnels sick with rage and uncomprehended pain. Moving just to move.

Every now and again, he'd recall he'd been searching for something – a door. A way out. An escape into some different way of being, some place beyond the endless constricting dark: this confusing, many-branched, and indifferent womb of stone. But he couldn't find it. Couldn't hold even that half-formed purpose longer than it took to wander past the next doorless junction and find it as unsatisfying as all the rest. There was no out, no transcendent door. Nothing but the purgatorial now.

Leaden with despair, no longer able even to imagine hope, he'd forget again. Forget himself into mere motion. To keep the walls from closing in and crushing him, as they continually threatened to do; to keep the cold vacuum of nothingness from paralyzing his undefended soul. To refuse surrender, refuse collapse. Continue. Survive.

Moving just to move.

He veered wide of passages where he could smell or sense people close by. If they found him, they'd kill him. He'd always known that, just as he'd always known who they were: anyone. Everyone. If they knew he was loose, they'd try to force him back into the inner cage. Overwhelm his lone will with the unity of their rejection, their hatred. Make him not be, if they could: he remembered being forced into restraining harness, straps, chains, and held so – helpless, enraged, and terrified – until at last his strength broke and he fled inward – into the stifling intangible confinement of the cage.

Rather than let that be done to him again, he'd fight. He'd die fighting. He flinched away from places that threatened contact, secret and solitary as his own shadow.

Somehow, despite that, his passing was detected.

As he shambled along a smooth, rounded passage in the upper tunnels, he heard the distant approach of limping footsteps accompanied by the tap of a cane. Long before the further markers of scent and anxious emotion reached him, he knew who was coming.

What came into his mind wasn't Father. Instead, the image was of an immense ogre that punished and forbade. Its designation, what it always said, was don't, no, stop, can't, and – in a commanding, sharp, disapproving tone – Vincent! Requiring he be that, only that – nothing of himself.

DontNo hated him, wanted him not to be – he felt that clearly; he hated the tyrant in return, but always slid away rather than risk an open confrontation because if DontNo cast him out, he'd die.

Growling under his breath, he did what he'd always done: retreated, hid – because DontNo had power, and it was certain death to defy him.

But the lame man pursued him, calling that word, Vincent: trying to summon the weak, biddable creature he'd claimed in ownership, as his son. The beast wouldn't give him that or be that. No longer knew how. He continued to back away, snarling. But in resisting, he'd become more aware of himself – as if condensing to greater solidity from the general fog of confusion. Resisting became a focus… and a lifetime's rage acquired a target.

At the head of the passage, DontNo came into view… and he was small! No towering figure with unconditional power over life and death – small, fragile, weak. Radiating fear and worry, not confidence and command. Vulnerable.

Wary of a transformation, from old man into ogre, the beast slouched away to put his back into a corner made by the junction of two round passages – a defensive position. Not yet bold enough to attack, but ceasing to retreat. Terrified… and enraged. Holding his ground, his steady growling a warning against forcing the issue.

Halting a few yards off, DontNo held up a lantern to aid his relative blindness. Lantern: enclosed flame: no danger, the beast confirmed, within himself. Cane: thick, heavy; possible weapon; threat, but little danger.

“Vincent?” the old man bleated, peering into the shadows where the beast stood at bay. “Is that you?”

The beast repeated his warning that was also refusal, denial. He was not what DontNo demanded he be. And could find no further, deeper place to hide. His back was against the wall. No door opened to let him escape. There was no door.

“It's me,” said DontNo, a little impatient. “Vincent? Vincent, it's me – Father!”

Demanding to be answered, the old man came right up, crowding the beast against the corner to avoid being touched. His space violated and that violation felt as attack, the beast struck out – a panicky blow: half afraid he'd be blasted for his daring. But DontNo merely toppled backward, dropping his stick to clutch at his injured shoulder. No danger here – the old man was helpless, his face twisted into a mask of pain, fear, and astonishment at this rebellion. The tyrant was an empty fraud, without power except the beast's ingrained fear of him. And that was gone. The beast advanced a long, gliding pace toward him, feeling his own power. Feeling strong; fearless; focused. He raised his right hand to strike.

Before the blow could fall, people erupted from a passage – one big man first, then a noisy crowd, all with torches. Flames hissed, spat, and poked at him. Focus lapsed back into confusion, uncertainty. Snarling, the beast retreated a pace.

They were only people: singly, none would have been any match for him. But there were so many, unified in the anger, shock, horror they felt – turbulent emotions. Yet they didn't welcome battle. The hostility and fear they felt toward him was not a clean, killing rage, that one could confront directly and in kind, force against force. They simply wanted him gone – not to be. He didn't know how to fight that; and it hurt.

There was a tense moment of standoff. Had they charged or struck at him, he would have retaliated fiercely and all-out regardless of being so heavily outnumbered and despite the torches. But the people only gathered themselves into a barrier between him and his prey; and they were too many for him to fight for anything less than survival.

The beast backed sullenly away, steadily warning them he'd fight if provoked or cornered, until he was out of reach of their weapons and the light of their torches. Then he whirled and fled.

6

Returning home, Cathy chucked her briefcase onto a couch and started pulling at the buttons of her soaked trenchcoat. The cowl neck of her white sweater was unpleasantly damp and scratchy. She glanced toward her balcony, where rain slashed across and dark puddles quivered in the storm-early evening, contemplating a long, hot soak in the shower and hoping Vincent wouldn't come tonight. She was in a foul mood, and he'd know it, and she didn't want to either dodge or explain why.

She'd done enough dodging today. All that she could. And, when dodging wouldn't serve, she'd lied. And lied. And lied.

It wasn't Vincent's fault, she reflected, putting on water for a consoling cup of tea. Not his fault, but on his account.

After attending Jimmy Morero's funeral this morning – enough to ruin any day all by itself, wracking her with mingled sorrow and guilt – at this afternoon's meeting downtown, they'd wanted to make a thorough search of the Beaumont. A natural procedure, following up Jimmy's murder. They'd wanted to stake the place out, in case the killer returned to a route he'd used at least once before. And she'd had to argue against it. Invent and insist on reasons why the search, that surely would have located the tunnel entrances, would find nothing and be a waste of time. Why posting a watch, that might well have spotted Jimmy's killer, wasn't worth the manpower, always scarce and spread too thin. Somehow, she'd made herself lie, and shield Jimmy's killer, because she had to – to protect the tunnels. To protect Vincent.

She accepted the necessity. But she wasn't happy about it and didn't welcome the prospect of facing Vincent until she'd swallowed down the sour taste the meeting had left her with.

She kicked off her shoes and was headed toward the bathroom to dispose of the dripping trenchcoat when she noticed something white on the carpet by the front door. A folded note. Not Vincent's sprawling cursive – this spiky, precise hand she'd seen only once before: Father's writing. Already alarmed, she yanked the note open and read: Catherine. Something rather serious has happened. I would appreciate it if you came--

Ten minutes later, having outdistanced the escort she'd found waiting at her basement threshold, she was charging down the steps of Father's study. As Father stiffly turned from a conversation with Mary, Catherine noticed that his left arm was in a sling and bound tight against his chest.

“What is it?” Catherine demanded without preamble.

“Catherine,” Father greeted her with the usual infuriating formality. “Mary, perhaps we could offer Catherine a cup of--”

“Never mind that,” Catherine broke in, reaching the desk and leaning on its edge. “What's happened? Where's Vincent?”

“It was awful,” put in Mary – nearly in tears, Catherine realized. “His eyes, and the way he looked at us! Making…that noise! I thought--”

“Yes, Mary,” Father interrupted firmly, straightening in his chair. “It would help so much if you'd see if there's any new word from Winslow. Any… change. Perhaps take them something to eat. They've been there a long while. Would you please do that for me, Mary?” Father insisted, as Mary blinked at him distractedly, clearly about to launch into more details of whatever had upset her so.

“Yes – of course, Father. I'll just….”

As Mary pattered off, Father looked up, meeting Catherine's eyes steadily. He commanded, “Please, won't you sit down.”

Slowly, she did, in the chair nearest the desk. Suddenly she was choked with dread.

“He's alive,” Father said at once, bluntly, and Catherine drew a long, shaky breath of relief. “He went, last night, to prevent Paracelsus from leaving the tunnels.” His glance, checking for confirmation that the name was known to her, saw it was not.

“The man…who's been making the drugs. Who was once… one of us. It was decided, we all decided, that until some better answer could be found to the dilemma, that would be an appropriate measure to prevent things from getting worse.”

Again, Father checked to see if she understood his explanation…that was also a justification.

He'd gone. Alone. Like Jimmy, Catherine thought, chilled. They sent him out alone.

As though discerning her thought, Father added, “It was Vincent's own proposal.”

“Go on,” Catherine responded noncommittally.

“Apparently….” Reluctant, uncomfortable, Father began a hand-folding motion, found one hand immobilized, and left the gesture incomplete. “Apparently there was… a confrontation of some sort. And in it, Vincent was exposed. To the drug. This morning… sentries heard him. Ah – shouting.”

Father's face tightened, and Catherine recognized that involuntary wince: when you saw the truth and dodged away. To a more acceptable lie. She'd seen the same reaction in innumerable witnesses. She also knew how it felt. She just hoped she'd been better at it today, less obvious, than Father.

“Shouting,” she prompted, gravely accepting the evasion.

Father bobbed a curt nod, as though her confirmation had been needed before he could get past that awkward place.

“Eventually,” Father continued, “he was located.” He gestured, and Catherine then noticed his desk was covered with maps. Dozens of them – painstakingly hand-drawn.

“I went to him. He was clearly… confused. Agitated. I tried to reach him. He didn't recognize me. Misinterpreted my concern.”

Absently Father rubbed the bound and bandaged shoulder, then looked up sharply, as though aware that gesture revealed something he'd meant to keep to himself.

Vincent had hit him. Hurt him. The conclusion was plain, inescapable, unsettling. Vincent had struck out at Father.

Father's expression, initially challenging, grew weary in resigned acknowledgement of the unspoken fact lying exposed between them like some distasteful object civilized people would agree to ignore. He got up, went a few paces, then turned. She rose too, to meet his eyes level.

“He's holed up,” Father resumed abruptly, “in a forgotten place… way below us. An old section of catacombs.”

He nodded at the maps, as though expecting her to pore through them as he'd evidently done. As though knowing the location could somehow be an answer to the crisis.

Which was plainly still going on. Alarmed, Catherine stated, “According to our tests, the effects of the drug should last only three to four hours!”

Again, Father winced. That conclusion, too, was obvious: whatever was wrong with Vincent was no longer the direct influence of the drug. Whose aftereffects could be severe…and unknowable. Even permanent.

Father said, gruffly, “I can't let you go close to him. He's unpredictable.”

That's one word for it, Catherine thought.

Father finished, without conviction, “I thought perhaps… if he heard your voice…. The empathic connection you share… might somehow get through to him.”

Father shrugged and the next instant plainly regretted it. As he plainly regretted the helplessness that had forced him to summon her in the first place.

So she didn't demand why he'd waited so long to contact her, rather than sending to the office, having a helper phone – any of half a dozen ways he could have brought her sooner. If Father turned to her for help, it meant he'd already tried absolutely everything else he could think of. And failed. She knew she was Father's last resort… and therefore Vincent's.

That she'd help, however she could, went without saying. Just as it went without saying that Father both resented and staked his last hopes upon the possibility that she might be able to get through to his beloved son, when he himself could not. They knew where they stood, she and Father. Together, whenever any harm to Vincent was concerned.

Collecting his cane, Father said simply, “I'll show you the way.”

Catherine had never gone so far, so deep. Trudging behind Father through long, twisting shafts like the petrified trail some enormous blind worm had bored through the rock, Catherine realized she'd had no idea of the full extent of the tunnels.

The inhabited levels, the candle-lit Hub, deep though they were from the perspective of the streets, were only the few topmost layers. Beneath them, the rock was honeycombed with passages never made by hands. And never made to be walked: after an hour, the muscles of her knees were shaking from being braced against every descending step.

The community's levels were the merest surface, the icing. This was the huge, dark, and worm-eaten cake.

Hands tucked into her trenchcoat pockets, gazing around at the short distances revealed by Father's lantern, Catherine thought that even the Maze, where Father and Vincent had been trapped by a cave-in, couldn't be as deep as this. And yet, catacombs, Father had said. Therefore not just caves but burial caves--tombs. Made by who? When? What could have forced Vincent to retreat into a place of death?

The sense grew in Catherine of venturing into a realm unimaginably ancient, where they might pass crude, abstract, strangely beautiful wall paintings of extinct creatures executed by hands long since gone to dust… hands that weren't completely human. Or even, perhaps, jeweled and legendary caves where a dragon might lair. Sleeping, softly breathing smoke, dangerous to arouse….

The tang of smoke she'd subliminally noticed was from torches – at first, tiny welcome points of light, far ahead, that relieved the eyes with distance and the mind with the prospect of reaching a destination. Nearer, she saw that a few people stood or sat in vigil at the opening of a cave. The bottom was knee-high, like a stuck elevator; its depths, when Catherine leaned to look, stretched invisibly into darkness.

Father was asking Winslow, who'd risen to meet them, “Any change?”

“We haven't heard anything for over an hour.”

Turning to Catherine, Father gestured with his cane toward the cave mouth. They stepped up the awkward sill and bent together at the first turn, a yard or so inside.

“I don't know,” Father muttered by her ear, “how far back he is. I thought, ah – maybe if you call out to him, or…?”

She nodded, but continued listening for a long moment. She heard nothing but the torches' flaming and the distant drip of water. No sound of anything alive.

Finally she called tentatively, “Vincent?”

Nothing. No response.

“I'm here now,” she offered, feeling foolish and inadequate – intimidated by the dark, the deeps, the distance from all she knew. From everything familiar, civilized, safe.

From out of the dark she was answered… by a guttural snarl that grew into a bellow, a coughing roar both she and Father instinctively recoiled from… and caught each other doing it. Father's face had visibly paled. Catherine wrenched her eyes away to again stare fiercely, intently, into the flickering depths as the unhuman roar echoed and grumbled back into a charged silence.

She shook off the visceral shock of it. Not the first time she'd heard such a sound, after all. Shouting, an objective corner of her mind noted distantly. Sure, all right: shouting.

“God, he needs me,” she blurted. “I have to go to him!”

As she started to rise, Father grabbed her arm and drew her back. “I can't let you do that. I thought he needed me, too-- but all I did was frighten him.”

Catherine looked at the hand on her arm until Father slowly removed it. “I have to take that chance.”

“He'll strike at you,” Father insisted. “He's not the Vincent we know.” Grimly, bluntly, from his sense of responsibility toward her, he admitted the unthinkable: “He could kill you.”

“What did you think I'd do when you brought me here?” Catherine retorted. “Leave him alone like this? I have no choice.”

There was a quiet second while the truth of that seeped in, settled within them both. When she turned again, Father made no protest.

She mustn't be afraid. Vincent would be feeling whatever she felt: she mustn't let her fear infect him.

These past few days since the police raid, she'd been considering how to suppress or deflect her fear, though she'd never expected to need to put theory into practice so soon.

Catherine had the usual roster of fears: spiders; snakes; blood; helplessness; disfigurement; death. A Voodoo cult she'd investigated had made use of all of them, rendering her receptive with drugs, then cynically exploiting her vulnerabilities until she'd been living in constant hysterical terror only Vincent's steadfastness had allowed her to escape.

She was still afraid of these things – but they seldom surfaced, brushed aside by immediate, daylight concerns. Like ignoring a headache while absorbed in the details of a prosecution. The headache would still be there… but she wouldn't feel it.

So she silently recited multiplication tables in time with her slow, steady steps. She imagined walking in the park in bright sunshine. Concentrating with all her lawyer's disciplined objectivity, she so filled her mind with other images that the fear could not break through. Detached, dispassionate, and determined, she went forward into the dark.

*****

He'd come to the end of things. And to the end of himself.

The way out was blocked by fire and by guards. He could have broken through them, but couldn't summon the energy or the will to try. It didn't matter: there was nowhere to go that would be any better, or any different. Since they'd been wise enough not to force their way in, offer battle that would have roused him to a final resistance, he'd ignored them as no present threat.

He hurt. He wanted the hurt to go away. Half dozing, drifting in and out of strange, fevered dreams, he crouched, empty of thought, in a low, cramped niche and dully waited for ending.

A voice called to him – that word: Vincent. They did that, now and again. When the voice called a second time, other words, he snarled to warn them that he hadn't ended yet, would still fight them if they forced him to it. Voices muttered outside then – one of them, that of the ogre, DontNo. Argument. Anger. Mistrust. Resentment. Fear. It hurt. It brought back the remembered sensation of furiously struggling against straps, chains.

He tried to pull more tightly into himself but couldn't fully close. The storm of feelings had become stronger, more intense. They made him feel. Feeling hurt. He snarled again, louder, wanting to drive the intrusive presences farther away, where their hostility couldn't touch him. But they separated, and one presence passed the entrance and advanced steadily, feet crunching on sandy stone. It was coming.

Gathering the last of his strength to meet this threat, he shoved himself to a stooped crouch, braced in the niche, his snarling rising in volume. Saliva dripped off his bared fangs, down his jaw.

It would not be warned. It still came on, steady and resolute. He was going to have to fight it, after all. Fight them all, if he had to, rather than submit to the harness. He tried to ready himself for that, to let the rage come and show him how he should go.

What he saw was a featureless shaft of white light flowing from some unknown source. Not like flame. With no heat to kindle the rage. It was coming toward him and would not be turned aside, seeking him with a purpose and determination both strong and impersonal – not to be frightened away or deterred. It had come into the deep darkness to find him and would shine on him in his misery, pitilessly exposing every weakness, every flaw. All the ways he was unfitting, different. It would see him.

That mattered to him. He turned his head, sweated mane hanging, and furiously yammered at the light that shone everywhere now, was everything – all he could see or feel. It resolved into a floating figure gowned in white. One shoulder bare; bare arm gracefully beckoning; face seraphic, serene. Beautiful. Forbidden.

She would see him and hate him.

Finally the slow rage roused, anticipating that rejection, the unendurable abandonment by everything bright and wonderful. By all his body and soul yearned for and could never have.

Better to strike first and prevent that annihilating disappointment.

He roughly pushed out into the open. Straightening; challenging… with the full sight of him. Exposing himself, since there could be no hiding. And still she came on. A connection was there: he felt it, and suddenly knew she was being drawn to him as he was to her – whatever that might do… to either of them. There was a connection – beating and alive between them like a single shared heart. His challenge came back to him, transformed into a waiting acceptance that flowed into and deflected the rage, that then swirled and snarled and would look anywhere except at her, focus anywhere except upon her.

Words sang in his mind: Not courage … love. Leaning back, away, he shook his head hard, trying to reconcile the colliding impulses to swat her down and to clasp her to his heart and never let go.

And in that moment, she reached him. Touched him. Clasped him, without hesitation, around the waist and laid her cheek against his heaving chest.

The connection was fully made: he knew her then, and words returned to him. Brokenly, he spoke her name: “Catherine.”

And at last, and again, he knew himself. His arms closed about her. He wept into the sweet, soft mercy of her hair.

*****

Without the bracing of terror and defiance, Vincent could barely stand. Wavering between the rock wall and Catherine's support, he reached the entrance, which wasn't large enough for them to pass through together. She went first, then turned, smiling, to draw him into the torchlight… and the view of the people gathered there.

Mary, folds of apron clasped in anxious knots around her hands. Beaming at him, her eyes aswim. Winslow, nodding casual recognition, as if in token of an ordinary chore done and now on to the next. Turning away in that instant to make some remark to Pascal. Lanky Cullen, sardonic and sympathetic. Jamie, scowling, ill at ease with moments charged with feeling. Kanin, studiously polishing his glasses. White-bearded Old Sam, frowning worriedly. All of them, that he'd somehow conceived as enemies.

He ducked, stepping down from the sill, and emerged into the light and their welcome – very shy and profoundly embarrassed to have caused them so much trouble.

And then Father stepped forward, lifting arm and cane together for an intended embrace. Because his other arm was encased in bandages and bound against his chest. And Vincent remembered. And reeled away and collapsed onto his knees, overcome with shame and a sense of doomed inevitability.

So it was all three now. The three people he'd loved most, who'd therefore risked being close to him. That he'd abruptly turned on and branded with the mark of his terrible hands.

Devin; Lisa; and now Father.

It was beyond bearing.

Catherine came toward him, concerned, but he flinched away from her and lunged back half across the sill. Catherine didn't understand. And mustn't know. That it was all of them now. All three. And she was the fourth.

“Vincent, it's nothing,” declared Father's voice, close behind him, “to be concerned about. An accident. Nothing even broken. Merely… a slight strain. In a few days...”

Vincent couldn't bear it, and flung himself another way – and was stopped by Winslow's immovable bulk. Like hitting a wall, that then gripped and held him.

Sternly amiable, Winslow said in his ear, “Stop that.”

“But--it's all three now. Devin, and--”

“Shut up about it. What good's it gonna do anybody if you work yourself into another fit?”

Lifting his head, as Vincent stood shaking against him, firmly held and desperately wishing to vanish, not be, Winslow said generally, “You all go on ahead. We'll be along presently. It's gonna take awhile, all that way. And I'm the horse for this job. Go on, now.”

Vincent could feel people stirring and beginning, uncertainly, to move away. But not Father. And not Catherine. Winslow held him against his reflexive lurch to escape them. Winslow, alone among the tunnel community, was strong enough to do that. Several years Vincent's senior and born to the tunnels, he'd always been strong enough to do that. You didn't cross Winslow unless you were prepared for an all-out fight, that Vincent had most fervently avoided.

Since Devin – whom he thought of as his brother: the first one he'd marked – had vanished forever. Since Lisa – likewise marked, likewise fled. Gone, the love ripped out by the roots and bleeding forever within him, their absence and his pain and self-hatred deep, unhealing wounds. And now Father ...

It was an agony even to think about. To be without Father's love. And Catherine…. He couldn't even begin to think about that and buried his face harder against Winslow's shoulder, hiding there.

“Let him be,” Winslow advised gruffly, over Vincent's head. “He's not up to that sort of strong stuff right now. Give him a little space to kind of collect himself, all right?”

Father said in a low voice, “Perhaps that would be wisest….” and Vincent felt Father and Catherine at last moving, together, their anxious concern retreating. Catherine's remained with him, of course; but he could endure that, because Catherine didn't yet know and felt in his lapse into violence no implicit implications for herself. Which was how it must remain. Rather than see the sick fear in Catherine's eyes that he'd seen in Lisa's, staring at him in horror and shock, he'd die. Instantly and without hesitation. It must never ...

Winslow pushed him away, shoved him to slumped sitting on a rock, commenting, “You hold yourself up: you ain't ten years old anymore. You ain't no feather, you know that?”

“But it's all three now,” Vincent explained desolately, because Winslow would understand. Because he could trust Winslow's sturdy, unsentimental way of looking at things, that wouldn't further wound him with the response. “Devin. Lisa. And now Father.”

“It ain't that bad,” Winslow commented, folding his arms. “Dislocated his shoulder, is all. I put it back. Lot of swelling now and hurts like hell, but it ain't gonna leave marks. Nothing permanent.”

Vincent hung his head, washed with irrational relief.

Winslow added acutely, “And Father ain't gonna up and leave, either. Not without a lot of people with something to say about it besides you. Think about it: you really scared he's gonna pick up in a snit…and take himself off topside? The way he feels about it? Come on, show some common sense here. Even if he was mad, which he's not, he made this place. Stayed with it all these years. Through everything. No way he's gonna leave.”

Vincent tried to take that in. Tried to hold to the support of Winslow's unmoved calm.

“But,” he said finally, and very softly, “it can never be the same. He'll fear me now.”

“He ain't a fool,” commented Winslow roughly, and Vincent jerked at the seeming confirmation before Winslow went on, “There's times I wouldn't dare look cross-eyed at Mary. When she's tending sick kids, something like that. She'd leave footprints across my face as soon as look at me. I ain't a fool, neither. And don't you be one. There's times to walk wide of anybody. So what? That's just how it is. Push 'em hard enough, or the wrong way, anybody's gonna blow up, now and again. It's nothing special. There's times you don't want to get in my way. Now ain't that so?”

When Vincent's silence lengthened into a tacit admission, Winslow snorted a laugh.

“That ain't scared – that's just a healthy dose of respect, and the dirt-simple sense you'd expect from anybody old enough to trust with edge tools or around matches. What'd he call it? An accident. So let it go at that. He'd still be here right this second, trying like hell to get you to agree nothing happened worth the notice, if I hadn't shooed him off. You know I'm right. He's worried worse about this than you are. A real break, in the tunnels? A real grudge? And Father ain't gonna bend over backwards to keep that from happening, even if he had no particular use for you at all, personally? Which we both know ain't so? You ain't thinking straight yet or you'd know that's just dumb.”

Vincent said, softer still, “Paracelsus--”

“Now, that's another matter. Another kettle of fish altogether, putting him out. And that wasn't just Father. Everybody voted on that. Everybody entitled to vote, that is: not us kids, of course. But of course, you don't remember, you were barely walking then…. Don't worry about it. Nothing like that is ever gonna happen to you. I'm on council now, and I won't let it. And you know I mean what I say. There ain't never gonna be a time that we don't know you.”

Vincent propped elbows on knees and buried his face in his hands, feeling humbled… and marginally less afraid. And for a time Winslow said nothing, merely waiting, leaving him to himself. Vincent was grateful for that. Then something roused his notice. He slowly lifted his head… and found his other friend, Pascal, attentively sitting on his heels not three feet away. And patiently holding out a rectangle in silver foil. A chocolate bar.

“I traded with Zach for it,” Pascal mentioned matter-of-factly, and still flushed with embarrassment. The tops of his ears went red. “You missed supper.”

“And breakfast,” Winslow put in. “And lunch. You eat that. Then maybe we can get you home.”

Acutely shy and retiring, there nevertheless was in Pascal a steady peacefulness stronger than Winslow's brusque self-confidence. Pascal was just there. He did whatever was needed, whatever he thought would help, and then vanished back to his pipes, with no fuss. So fundamentally serene that Vincent hadn't realized Pascal had stayed, or noticed his approach. Even Pascal's concern was untroubled. The only man Vincent knew who was wholly happy where he was and as he was.

Vincent couldn't imagine anyone ever having been afraid of Pascal.

He reached out and carefully took the gift, peeled back the foil, and methodically choked down a piece past the acid tears burning in his throat.

“Thank you, Pascal.”

Pascal said nothing, only ducked his head and smiled.

“Pascal,” Vincent said presently, holding the last piece, “has anyone ever been frightened of you?”

Immediately, without needing to consider, Pascal responded, “I hope so.”

When Vincent looked up, surprised, Pascal explained, “Otherwise, it would mean I really had turned into furniture. I scared Kipper once,” Pascal reflected. “He jumped a foot. I guess he didn't realize I was there. Does that count?”

Vincent shook his head – not in negation but in helpless admiration. Finishing the chocolate, he automatically folded the foil small and tucked it into a pocket for reuse.

The chocolate had helped: he felt less light-headed, less fevered and unreal, less brittle and apt to explode at one wrong touch. And, even more, the company had helped. The old, unchanging friendships he began to believe he could never lose. The friends in whose uncritical regard he knew he'd somehow, and to some degree, forever be the tag-along child the older boys tolerated but wouldn't deign to give too much notice. Who took him for granted and accepted him exactly as he was and as he seemed, with a kind of benevolent indifference to the sharper points of relationship upon which he felt himself continually impaled.

His friends, who knew him both thoroughly and not at all, and for a long, long time. As long as he could remember.

Winslow reached down a hand, commenting, “Come on. I hope you don't expect me to carry you. You get on your own two feet and move.”

Grateful to be affectionately bullied and directed, Vincent meekly did as he was told.

*****

Having this time accepted the offered cup of tea, Catherine sat waiting with Father in his study for Vincent to come. There was a certain anxiety – Vincent plainly was going to have trouble coming to terms with having struck Father, despite Father's equally resolute determination to minimize the incident – but, strangely, none of the accustomed tension now between herself and Father.

Partly, she thought, that was because it was late - nearly midnight – and they both were tired and reacting to the release from the worst of their fears. Lethargic with relief and disinclined to offer or rise to any provocation. But there was more to it than that. Father's customary formality had bloomed into an elaborate courtliness as archaic as spats and bustles, so unaccustomed she at first took it for a subtle insult.

On the laborious way back, when Father insisted on their pausing to rest for the third or fourth time and expressed solicitude about the state of her shoes, soaked in innumerable puddles, she'd taken it as patronizing. Considering that Father - limping, injured - seemed to be managing well enough, she took his concern as an indirect disparagement of her strength, her ability to endure. But when Father had settled her in the largest, most comfortable chair in his study and drawn up another, one-handed, refusing to let her budge to help, for her to stretch her legs on; when he'd provided a woolly scarf to lay across her lap to keep her legs from cramping; and when he'd made the most ceremonious business imaginable, short of Tokyo, of providing her with a cup of tea sweetened and milked to her exact specifications and served in the most delicate of Spode cups she'd never have guessed they even had Below, Catherine slowly realized she'd been hypersensitive, hypercritical, and simply wrong.

Fussing over her was Father's way of showing his appreciation for what she'd done. And although she hadn't done it for Father - or, really, for herself: only for Vincent - she admitted the gracious thing would be to accept the honest gratitude as she'd have accepted a sincere compliment. Let herself be pampered.

So she let her shoes be set by a brazier to dry. Drank some hot, strong tea. She was tired. She'd earned it.

And to her own surprise, after Mary had come to deliver a plate of small cubes of toasted pound cake, cut precisely as dice, and then bustled away, Catherine presently found herself telling Father about that afternoon's meeting and confessing how hard she found it to be obliged to lie.

Father nodded, sipping tea.

“It's like that for all our helpers,” he responded, and set his cup carefully back on its saucer. “Though none is placed in quite the awkward position you are, in that regard - sworn to enforce, not only the spirit of the law, but its letter, as well. We are not lawful, not authorized. By rights, we shouldn't be at all. Conflicting loyalties are therefore inevitable: part of the burden imposed on all our helpers, with our trust. Because of our trust. We have husbands whose wives and children know nothing of us, who must make excuses, lie - in effect, betray their families to keep faith with us. And also wives, children, in that same position - compelled either to silence or to falsehood. I feel it keenly, the weight of the secret and the price it exacts upon those entrusted with it. If I knew any way it could be otherwise, be assured I would seize it instantly. I sometimes wonder how anyone can find satisfaction in helping sufficient to counterbalance what it must cost them in simple peace of mind. They have my admiration: I couldn't do it, were I in their place.”

“I wish,” Catherine mentioned in a small voice, “I could tell my dad. About Vincent. He worries about me. Tries to get me to go out more, tries…. But I can't.”

“I understand,” said Father gravely, and Catherine blinked at him, realizing that he actually did. She felt at least some of the burden lifted from having spoken of it. Felt, for the first time and unexpectedly, close to Father.

“Do have some more tea,” said Father, reaching for the pot. Then abruptly broke off the motion to shove out of his chair, snatch his cane, and limp in a hurried bee-line for his stairs - responding, Catherine realized, to some sort of upset out in the corridor. Throwing aside the lap scarf to follow, the stair cleats cold under her bare feet, she emerged into the passage to find Vincent and Winslow in a kind of awkward scuffle: Vincent, his back turned, trying to dodge past; Winslow, blocking, shoving and then instantly backing off to avoid closing with him, trying to stop him. Almost like touch football, she thought… except not at all playful.

“What on earth…?” Father burst out, and Vincent spun - blank-eyed with obvious terror. Then he ducked away and made another lunge - so random that he banged directly into the tunnel wall.

As Vincent rebounded and stood wavering, Winslow took the risk of coming up on him from behind and wrapping both arms around him, shouting, “Quit it! What's the matter with you?”

“He was all right,” reported Pascal worriedly, sidling up by Father, keeping well clear of the struggling pair, “until we got to the entry of his chamber. He got halfway in, locked up there, and then bolted. I don't know --”

“Harness?” Winslow bellowed, scowling enormously, wheeling with Vincent in lurching circles like some ponderous knock-about country dance.

“What harness? Quit that, you hear me?”

As Catherine started forward, Father barred her way with his cane, simultaneously exchanging, across her, a stark look with Pascal, who suddenly ducked his head aside.

Turning, bracing both feet and cane, Father directed, “Winslow. Let him go. Now.”

As Winslow warily obeyed, and Vincent stumbled clear, Father said, “Vincent. No one will make you go anywhere you don't want to go. Or do anything to you without your consent. It's not necessary, Vincent. Do you hear me? It's not necessary!”

Slowly, carefully, Father advanced to stand before Vincent… and Catherine knew she was seeing a virtual replay of their last meeting: Vincent shaken and wildly staring, huge, massive; Father approaching and then slowly reaching, a deliberate, controlled gesture, to touch his arm. As though no one but the two of them were anywhere near. As though no one else mattered.

“Nothing like that,” Father said, with a peculiar intensity, “will ever happen again. There's nothing to be afraid of. You must rest. If you don't want to be in your chamber, come to my study. I assure you, Vincent - it's all right.”

All this while, Vincent's eyes had been searchingly fixed on Father's face. Anxious… and yet oddly blind, unfocused. And he held himself stiffly-- more a pose of listening than of watching. Intense and rigid attention, but not sight…. His shaggy head bent then – a weary nod – and the last of the panicky energy flowed away. He sagged against Father, and Father dismissed Winslow's help with a stern glance, steering Vincent to the top landing and then slowly down, out of sight.

Father's voice continued, fading, “I've asked William to prepare some soup. It should be ready by now. There. Sit down. There's….”

Mystified, Catherine whispered to Pascal, “What was that about?”

Pascal wouldn't look at her and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Something… that happened. A long time ago. I guess….”

“Damn it!” Winslow burst out suddenly, and turned and smashed his fist into the rock. Then he strode off.

“I'd best see,” Pascal blurted, “about the soup ...” and seized that pretext to likewise hurry away, leaving Catherine to stand in perplexity it was obvious nobody was going to resolve.

Well, she thought, they didn't have to. She had no mandate to cross-examine people from mere curiosity, just as they were under no obligation to answer.

Reticence, she'd noticed, was the rule Below. People respected each other's privacy - and maintained their own. Certainly Father did: an ingrained, foursquare, brass-bound British reserve that was virtually impenetrable. So unlike Vincent – so open; so endearingly earnest: with whom she felt she could talk about anything, everything, no matter how personal. But now that she thought about it, she realized she knew very little of his life Below, or before. There'd been no time. After all, she'd known Vincent, really known him, only a little over three months, in a series of meetings too poignantly brief and often distracted by others' problems. They still had so much to say and to learn about one another.

And yet, she thought, those unknown things were just details. They already knew each other - deeply; profoundly – in the ways that really mattered.

As she'd found, and reaffirmed, in that forgotten section of catacombs….

Pascal came loping back, carefully balancing a bowl. Seeing her, he checked – almost comical in his surprise to find her still there. Smiling, Catherine held out her hands expectantly, and Pascal delivered the bowl into them with a bit of juggling about how to transfer the spoon. She twirled on her heel and took the bowl down into the study.

Her half-formed plan to feed Vincent the soup, as he'd once fed her, was at once put aside: when she glanced up from the exacting duty of soup-balancing, she found Father standing behind the large chair, stroking Vincent's hair in such an abstracted way that it was as if neither of them noticed what he was doing. Or as if, contrarily, that was all either of them was aware of and no one else could or should intrude.

Catherine put down the soup on the nearest flat surface free of books and silently retreated to sit, legs tucked under, on the rug by the brazier on the excuse of inspecting how her shoes had fared. They were ruined, of course. The thin, hand-shaped leather was cracked. One heel was loose. She waggled it, thinking how lucky it had waited until now to give out. Maybe she could borrow some relatively inconspicuous footgear – something with minimal fringes and beads – to get herself home.

Studiously she ignored whatever might be passing, a few yards behind her, between Vincent and Father.

Except for a few murmurs, there were no words, no conversation. Sometimes, she knew, there didn't have to be. Sometimes, those were the best times of all.

After awhile, Father left. Catherine waited a little longer, so as not to dive on the first instant's opportunity. Pushing on her ruined shoes, she stood gazing toward where Vincent was sitting. The soup bowl had been set aside, dutifully emptied. Vincent looked utterly done in. She watched for several minutes, and he didn't stir. But his eyes were open – seeming lost in melancholy.

Strolling across the springy, many-layered carpet, she settled against the side of the chair, resting one arm across the back and another along the chair-arm in a near-embrace that nowhere actually touched him. He was peculiar about being touched, she was beginning to notice. She didn't want to startle or upset him.

Quietly, she asked, “What is it, Vincent? What are you thinking?”

He rolled his head away from her.

“How ashamed I am,” he said eventually, in a voice with no color, no life in it, “that you saw me…as I was.”

And then he did look at her - and time stopped, as it sometimes did, at the expression in his eyes. Like looking into the depths of a summer sky. Without shadows. Without limits.

He said, “And how grateful I am… that you were there.”

She set her hand, then, on his shoulder; and he reached up to clasp it and even set his cheek against it. Strong. Soft. Warm.

He said, “You saved my life, Catherine.”

They stayed like that, saying nothing more, until during the clattering transit of a subway, Father returned.

Coming around the absurd ship's wheel, from the back entrance, Father announced briskly, “I've contacted Winslow and Mary. They're ready to convene.”

Without moving, Vincent withdrew. Looking, not at Father but the floor. Or maybe within. Saying, in that lifeless, flat voice, “I'm sorry, Father. The time for that is past.”

“Vincent, I do understand,” Father offered, “how you feel--”

“You can't understand how I feel.”

“We're all agreed,” Father responded, clearly at a loss how to judge this odd mood, “harsh measures are required. But it is not your responsibility to decide what they may be.”

“It is mine.” Vincent stirred, a heavy motion… but with nothing hesitant, nothing uncertain about it. “I've seen the demons Paracelsus has unleashed. Felt them inside of me. How can I explain? Become… disconnected.” He said that word with harsh, careful emphasis. Like an obscenity in a foreign tongue. “As if…the dark side of your imagination eclipses all compassion. All dignity….”

He was still then, seeming to regard their clasped hands, that had remained as they were despite Father's presence. Another oblivious subway clattered past – nearer, louder this time. Abruptly, as though the noise were a signal, Vincent pushed out of the chair, slipped away from her touch. Disengaging as though he no longer felt it or it no longer had any place in his thoughts, his intentions.

He commented curtly, “I must go,” like someone realizing he'd be late for an appointment. And without another word, Father stood aside. Moved out of his way.

Vincent meant, Catherine realized, to go after Paracelsus.

“You're still weak,” she protested, reaching toward his arm.

But he slipped away again before she could touch him, commenting over his shoulder, “Fifty people are already dead.”

Settling his cloak, in two long strides he was gone.

*****

Vincent never remembered having been this angry. Not the mindless brute rage, that he'd again safely shut away, locked tight in its cage. He, himself: he was furious. Shaking with it; and steady with it, his aim and intention clear to him as an image on still water.

Not because of what Paracelsus had done to him. Not for loosing dire possibilities Vincent had imagined safely harnessed, memories he'd thought forgotten.

The demons Paracelsus had roused were Vincent's own demons. He acknowledged that.

Rather, what provoked his implacable anger was that Paracelsus' drug had made of him a tool, a weapon. A weapon that had struck Father down, though by some miracle not fatally. A weapon only luck, and her own steadfastness, had kept from likewise striking out at Catherine.

It was not for what had been done to Vincent, but rather through him, that Paracelsus must be made to answer.

It would not wait another day, another hour. As long as Paracelsus was Below, no one was safe. And those closest to Vincent were the least safe of all.

Because he'd thought out Winslow's analogy, that claimed everyone could be dangerous in their own way, given the right circumstances. And that was true. But everyone could not kill with a single slash across the throat; or break a skull like an eggshell, or a neck. Everyone didn't come fully armed and incapable of being unarmed, or disarmed. Except by maiming, or unconsciousness. Everyone had not been obliged to submit to a lifetime of discipline and inflexible self-restraint, from earliest childhood onward, to keep those around him from serious harm during what, with anyone else, would have been no more than a friendly tussle or an irritated swat. Everyone had not either scarred or injured three of the four people he loved most deeply, suffered the rejection and consequent loss of two of them, known his relationship with the third irrevocably changed, and refused, with everything within him, to risk the slightest harm to the fourth.

Nothing like that must ever happen again.

Whatever it took, Vincent would unilaterally see that it did not. Could not. The council would bear no responsibility for whatever happened. He'd given them no option. As he'd give Paracelsus none. He would do it himself. And bear the responsibility, and the consequences, alone.

He collected a lantern at one of the outer sentry posts and carried it lit. Although his head ached unmercifully, he could see well enough; he needed the light for other reasons. It kept the walls from closing in, as they otherwise seemed stealthily inclined to do. It kept odd-shaped shadows from flowing into lurking phantoms longer than it took him to focus on them fully. He was accustomed to visions, phantom intrusions. But they were a distraction, and it took all his concentration to keep his anger proportionate, judicious. A man's just indignation, not a beast's undiscriminating rage.

Though he generally loved the dark, found it peaceful and comforting, he now found he needed the light's consolation and sharper contrasts to confront a less innocent obscurity.

Farther down a crooked passage shone a different illumination he saw as insistently bright, of a color he'd never heard a name for. Approaching, moving cautiously into the entrance, Vincent held his lantern lower as he scanned the chamber and its rows of artificially illuminated growing tables. The unnameable light, and the wildly contorted plants draped with mold, gave the chamber an underwater appearance.

Seeing no one, Vincent called quietly, “Paracelsus.”

As if in response, but strangely calm for that, a man in black clothing came stooping from an adjoining chamber. Straightening, seeing Vincent, the width of a long table between them, Paracelsus remarked cordially, “Vincent,” as though greeting an unexpected but most welcome guest.

Perplexed by the reaction, and by more than the reaction, Vincent lifted his lantern to inspect this stout, elderly stranger in a more accustomed light.

“You know my name…?”

Standing, Paracelsus remained slightly stooped, deferentially clasping and unclasping his hands, one gloved. He responded, “I know more about you than your name,” in the hinting tone of one being deliberately cryptic.

A distraction. Some side issue into which Paracelsus was trying to bait him, distract him. Vincent decided to ignore it, and the man's strange manner.

“I don't wish to harm you,” he stated in a tone that left no doubt that he was naming only his preference, not his limits. “But you must leave this place.”

“Leave?” Paracelsus touched both hands against his chest, as though he found it an astonishing and unexpected suggestion. “By whose judgment?”

“Mine,” Vincent replied in a flat, final voice.

Turning, Paracelsus strolled along the table, finger to mouth in a theatrically meditative gesture. “What does Falstaff say--? ‘The better part of valor is discretion.'”

Calling up an apt quote that way, commenting by literary analogy, showed a distinctively tunnelish cast of mind. It was the sort of thing Father might have said. Or Vincent himself. Eerily familiar.

Somehow, that one trait made Vincent feel, he's one of us. A citizen of the world Below. A connection… and yet not. Just slightly skewed. For the face was a stranger's face; the face of an enemy.

Refusing to be deflected by that either, Vincent matched the man, pace for pace, watching him every second.

Facing around near the end of the table, Paracelsus confessed frankly, humbly, “I'm no match for you. Of course I will, ah, will do as you say. But… wouldn't you like to hear me first?”

The mild question implied it would be uncivilized to condemn a man, unheard. But there were again odd, sly undertones to the remark. Vincent said nothing – wary; puzzled; attentive.

“Or are you content,” Paracelsus inquired, “to accept Father's story?” He watched Vincent for reaction to this insinuation. “'Found as a babe outside St. Vincent's hospital,'” he said, quoting the tale, as Father always told it, of Vincent's beginnings. Quoting it as though he didn't mean to be rude, but it was one of the more preposterous things he'd ever heard. Mock-sympathetic, looking into Vincent's eyes, Paracelsus inquired, “Did you … did you really believe that, all these years?”

It was preposterous. Unlikely. As Vincent himself was. Though the account was unsatisfactory, explained nothing, it had never before occurred to Vincent to question it: life itself was often preposterous, arbitrary. Some riddles had no answers. Vincent had long ago accepted that he'd never know. But if….

Paracelsus' skeptical hints cast into question all Vincent knew… or thought he knew. It set teetering the fundamentals of his existence. His very being.

Profoundly startled, mistrustful, yet hungry for answers he'd never supposed it possible to get, Vincent was caught. Rapt. Circling wide, watching… and listening.

“Vincent,” said Paracelsus soberly, urgently, “I know the truth. Aren't you a little curious to know…why you are the way you are?”

Waiting for breathless revelation, Vincent was taken completely off guard when Paracelsus struck at him with a foot-long sword blade somehow locked to his wrist. Reflex alone kept him from being gutted. He slammed backward against a table to avoid the blade. Flung wide, the lantern broke, spewing oil that became a spreading puddle of flame.

It was an odd, disjointed fight – unlike any Vincent had ever known. He didn't retaliate. Didn't strike back. Only flinched and ducked and spun however he had to, to avoid Paracelsus' frantic, murderous lunges as the fire spread, racing along the floor and licking the undersides of the tables. For many unexamined reasons, Vincent held back and did only what was necessary to preserve his dubious and problematic life.

With no such scruples, Paracelsus gave a surprisingly good account of himself for a man of his years – charging, whirling, and slashing without letup, even after the plants and mosses caught fire all at once, transforming the chamber into an inferno. Crowded close among the flaming tables, Vincent was momentarily left with nowhere to dodge. He instead ducked and then rose under Paracelsus' extended arm, flipping his attacker over his back. Paracelsus fell on a table and then tumbled to the floor, stunned. The fire licked out at him.

Despite his instinctive dread of uncontrolled fire, Vincent found himself reaching through the flame to grab the man under the arms and haul him into the entryway. And even then, he felt the muscles twitch as Paracelsus tried to free his sword arm for a fresh stab at his rescuer. Vincent flung the man from him, snarling.

At once, Paracelsus scrambled upright, sword arm rigidly extended between himself and Vincent to hold him off. Vincent growled what he thought of the threat and ingratitude.

Glancing suddenly aside at the blaze, Paracelsus exclaimed, in dire realization, “My gold.” Still holding Vincent at sword-point, he sidled a crouched step past safety.

Kept by the deadly sword from simply grabbing the man, Vincent called urgently, “Paracelsus!”

Wailing, “My gold!” Paracelsus whirled and sprang away among the flaming tables: for a second, a desperate, dodging outline. And then gone.

Vincent looked after him, helpless and disgusted at such suicidal greed. But there was nothing to be done. Nothing could survive in that conflagration. The man had condemned himself to a meaningless death. Restless and unsatisfied, Vincent let the roiling heat drive him back.

Whatever Paracelsus might have said, lies or truth, had died with him. The drug was destroyed and would claim no more victims.

It was over.

7

When Vincent returned from seeing Catherine home, he and Father talked for quite a long time before they said their goodnights. Afterward, Father couldn't sleep. His shoulder hurt abominably and his hip seemed determined to ache in sympathy. He put on a robe and read for awhile – medical journals Peter Alcott had brought down on his most recent visit.

Father knew that much of his medical knowledge was outdated; for much of the rest, he lacked the lasers, CAT scanners, and sophisticated optical devices with which hospitals were routinely equipped. No database-driven diagnoses: Father was lucky to have, in Peter, as much as a reliable second opinion. Peter was also a source of medications difficult to obtain without his aid. But medicine was, by nature, a neverending education. If for lack of the needed equipment, Father couldn't fully apply what he learned, he could at least, by reading, keep up with current thought on common ailments and be better able to judge his own limits: know when to abandon treatment and send the patient Above.

Fit for skinned knees, burns, and diarrhea….

The pipes sounded four – the end of a sentry shift. Having scanned the same page on the etiology of myocardial infarction for the third time, Father ruefully diagnosed himself as restless and unsettled. He methodically marked his place, then reached for his cane, responding to the parent's primordial need to assure himself his child was home again, safe in bed.

In Vincent's chamber, a lone candle burned. Father stopped just inside the entryway for the familiar moment it took for Vincent to stir with an awareness of presence, then settle without having wakened, accepting that presence as no threat.

Father had looked in on Vincent this way many thousands of times and seen exactly the same reaction. As always, he found the demonstration of trust endearing and moving.

Going to the bed and leaning, Father tucked a fold of quilt over Vincent's shoulder, then softly brushed tumbled copper-gold hair away from Vincent's cheek, knowing these attentions wouldn't disturb his son. If anything, Vincent would have sunk more deeply into sleep, surrendering one level of automatic alertness because Father was here, keeping watch.

Last night, this bed had been empty. Father had been practically beside himself with worry. And then today….

Seating himself in the large, sturdy chair against one of the I-beam supports of the entryway, trying to find a position his hip wouldn't protest too insistently, Father massaged his aching shoulder and thought starkly, I nearly lost him today.

He was still shaken with that awareness. With how close he'd come to losing Vincent into the madness, violence, and chaos that had trailed this strange son of his from the beginning, close as Vincent's own shadow. Seldom to be fought directly, seldom surfacing since Vincent's adolescence, but its threat always there, never to be wholly eradicated. What had Vincent called it? The dark side of the imagination. Yes. And to love Vincent was to know that the dark, the strangeness, the shadow forever loomed behind.

A miracle, he thought, keeping comforting vigil over Vincent's sleep, a mystery, and a wonder….

Though that form of words was one that had often occurred to him over the years, it hadn't originated with him. Like so much else, like Vincent himself, it had first been John's.

And so now John was gone, it seemed. Died when he might have lived, hurled himself back into the fire, still in urgent pursuit of some compelling, nonsensical purpose, heedless of common sense, reason, or even simple self-preservation. Therefore, in a way, a fitting death. Because that was how John had been: bright, twilight, or dark, equally quixotic, equally driven. But all the same, it hardly seemed possible he was gone.

Not impossible, Father quoted sadly, tilting his head more comfortably against the chair's back. He half dozed in peace undisturbed by the periodic muted staccato of messages passing on the pipes – like one's heartbeat, barely noticed so long as all was well. The familiar, reassuring pulsebeat of life Below. Not impossible – only highly improbable….

*****

How absurd, Jacob thought, scrabbling at the pothole's walls to no effect except to cascade more wet dirt down upon him, if I were to die like this!

The passage he'd been mapping when the crust collapsed, dropping him into this unexpected cavity, was barely six feet above him. His lantern still smugly burned up there, where it had fallen.

Surely someone would notice it soon. He'd see Pasquale or Francine peering down at him, probably pointing and laughing to find him ignominiously trapped like a rat in a drainpipe. Then he rubbed his muddy hand across his face, reflecting that the very reason he'd chosen this branch to map today was that it was unknown. Untraveled. It might, he'd thought, lead to somewhere interesting, or prove to connect to one of the main passages farther on, offering a shortcut. No one else had any reason to come this way. It would be some time before he'd even be missed. And by that time, the lantern would have burned out.

Since Grace had been obliged by her condition to abandon the charting of the tunnels radiating from what had come to be called “the Home Chambers,” Jacob had taken over that task. He'd liked the independence, the sense of dauntlessly meeting a physical challenge. He'd enjoyed imagining himself an explorer, fearlessly walking, crawling, sliding, and climbing in places it was likely no one had ever been before. Most of all, he'd enjoyed transcribing his notes detailing rock composition, compass bearing, distance measured in paces, and guessed-at degrees of decline or ascent per hundred paces into crisp, clean maps, working on the rough surface of a large deal table after supper had been cleared, in the common room, by lamplight.

His maps were much more specific and systematic than any hodgepodge of meandering lines Grace had ever produced. Whether they were any more accurate remained moot. But they certainly were much tidier.

If he'd had some vague hope Grace would be pleased at his carrying on the task she'd begun, he'd so far seen no evidence of such appreciation. Grace remained as aloof and enigmatic as ever, refusing to give any single account of herself. She even refused to give a straightforward answer to Jacob's few tentative questions concerning the paternity of her coming child. Sometimes she said one thing; sometimes another. Sometimes she claimed the child was the result of a liaison carried on in the park with a gypsy prince last summer.

This purported prince, Giorgio by name, had often begged her to reveal the mystery of her existence, but she never had, she asserted proudly. Giorgio had entreated her to come and live as his princess… and help manage his tiny shop selling second-hand goods of dubious antecedence on the lower east side. But Grace had refused all such blandishments, she'd reported serenely, in favor of eating scavenged tinned beans in a secret hole in the ground which, for nearly a year, had become home.

Alternatively, the child was the result of her moonlight encounter with a unicorn, Midsummer's night. That fanciful explanation had come after her excursion to the Cloisters and their famous tapestries. Grace was very detailed about the unicorn's appearance and courtesy toward her, its instant and obvious fascination with her person. She'd been blithely, embarrassingly specific about the anatomical details of the mating. Jacob now knew more about the imagined personal habits of unicorns than he'd ever cared to learn.

The very idea was preposterous.

Except for the undeniable fact of the child. Which Jacob had the continuing uneasy suspicion might be his own. After all, there had been that incident near the waterfall, in July….

People's private lives were, of course, their own. There were no community standards to be either enforced or broken, since there was no community - merely a haphazard collection of individuals thrown together by chance. Nobody had a right to question, much less censure, anyone else's conduct so long as the group itself wasn't imperiled.

John and Anna Pater, of course, were properly married and continued to live, except for the unusual circumstances, the lives of any respectable couple. The recent union of Pasquale and Francine – at least 15 years his junior - was, by contrast, entirely informal. Though they seemed devoted enough since moving into a single chamber, they might well separate as casually as they'd come together. Though indecently old (surely past 40y) for carnal dalliance, Julia made no bones about taking lovers; her current “boyfriend” was a butcher, whereby the common larder was often enriched by strings of sausages, tripe, fat bacon, and something she termed “chitlins” into whose origins it seemed best not to inquire too closely. With her rich laugh, Julia announced being on the lookout for a grocer, to keep “sort of on the side,” since there was plenty of what she had to go around.

Quite incomprehensible, to Jacob, that people could take such things so offhandedly. But neither Julia nor Francine cared in the least whether their amours had the unasked blessing of Jacob Wells. No reason that they should. Nor, evidently, did Grace.

For all Jacob knew, Grace's child could be anyone's. He thought it entirely possible that her bizarre tales were an attempt to cover the fact even Grace didn't know who'd fathered her coming baby. Though she now refused any suggestion that she budge from the tunnels, in the sweet spring and summer that had followed the bitter winter that had driven them into the deeps, Grace had spent nearly as much time Above as Anna did. Foraging? Fornicating? Who was to say?

He couldn't understand Grace's evasiveness. Whatever the facts, known or unknown, why not claim the child was his? Given that a possibility existed, he wasn't the sort of bounder who'd question a woman's word in such a matter. He'd have been prepared to do the right thing. He'd have married her, by whatever ceremony or form of words she found acceptable, and considered himself as bound as though they'd pledged their troth before the Archbishop of Canterbury.

After all, there was no impediment: his marriage to Margaret had been annulled, he reflected with the bitterness that still haunted him about that loss. He was free to marry and willing to accept his responsibility; surely any husband would be better than none if one were pregnant and unmarried, without a man's support and protection. Was it that Grace wouldn't have him on any terms? That seemed hard to credit, considering how warmly she'd received him that night by the waterfall….

All of which did precisely nothing to extricate him from this be-damned hole.

Using the edge of his compass-case, he gouged out a foothold notch he hoped might support him long enough to get his elbows over the stone rim. He slung his canteen around, over his back, to prevent its strap from catching on some protuberance. Then, taking the one backward step the pothole allowed him, he stepped and reached. His arms went over the rim. Resting all his weight on them, he pushed at the loose, muddy earth with his feet, trying for an instant's purchase that would let him kick off and swing the rest of his body up and over. Instead, he felt the stone start to tilt toward him. It had been more deeply undercut than he'd realized. Not only was it going to dump him back into the pit – it was going to fall on him, as well.

With that realization, Jacob let go and dropped, trying to land straight and simultaneously press back as far as he could. The back of the slab rose with a wet, sucking sound. Pitching ponderously toward him, the slab scraped his face, grazed his chest, and struck him an agonizing blow on the right hip: turned the least fraction and projecting beyond the rest of his body.

He didn't lose consciousness. But for a time he was breathless and all but paralyzed with the pain. When the mud and dirt finally stopped raining down, he was pressed tightly between the wet pit wall and the dry slab, which had come to rest at a good angle to be leaned against. His chin just cleared the edge. It was now wedged firmly: lying against it didn't produce the slightest wobble.

Breathing and staying conscious required all his attention. He waited for the pain to abate. When it didn't, he pulled himself up a little against the rock and determined that neither of his feet was pinned. The slab itself now provided a ramp he could have scrambled up on hands and knees and easily stepped to the level passage. Except that his first attempt to put weight on his right leg brought such severe pain that he didn't dare try again, for fear of blacking out. Even moving brought bright amoeba-like shapes swimming before his shut eyes.

Shortly after that, he noticed the lantern's light no longer striped the rough passage walls above him. It must have tipped with the slab and fallen in. Probably now buried in mud and loose earth. His cautious tries at poking for it with his left foot, while holding to the slab, yielded no useful result.

Without the lantern, the dark was absolute.

As a teenaged schoolboy, he'd survived the German attack that had destroyed Coventry. No one who'd lived through the blitz could ever wholly lose the fear of helpless waiting in the dark, huddled in some basement or root cellar and hearing the bombers' grumbling drone, the shriek of the bombs descending, then the deep, visceral crunch of explosion transmitted through the very earth. The fear of a direct hit or, worse, the fear of a detonation not near enough to kill you outright but strong enough to bring the building down on top of you. The fear of being buried alive.

For several days afterward, he'd been conscripted with the rest of his form to help locate people trapped in the rubble. Some had been alive, at the first. Later, diggers had found only bodies.

If buried, remain calm. Conserve air. Don't thrash about, or you risk bringing down more debris and worsening any injury. Wait patiently in the confidence that Wardens will mobilize the instant the all-clear sounds and come to your aid as soon as it's humanly possible to do so.

That had been Matron before the raid, sternly instructing her young charges on how to behave should the school come under attack. Jacob could remember her very tone of voice. Except that the remembered instructions were no use to him now. No Wardens would mobilize. No one at all would come. Or care.

Panting, Jacob rested his cheek against the stone and gave in to despair. But he was quiet about it: Matron would have approved.

The pain was excruciating. Except that an exploratory pat found a leg still there, and that he hadn't yet expired from blood-loss, he could have easily believed the leg had been torn off at the joint. His trousers and quilted vest were soaked through by slow seepage, and unremitting chill was working its way inward. One didn't have to freeze: simple exposure would do nicely. He probably wouldn't live long enough to have to worry about gangrene….

Some time later, he'd become thirsty enough to undertake the labor of working his canteen, pressed against his spine, around into his reach. It was hard: his fingers were very nearly numb. He'd become very slow and clumsy, discouraged by every setback. But the sound of dripping water and the damp against his skin were maddening. He held his breath, leaned forward against the slab, and tugged another inch from the slippery strap. Eventually the canteen was a bulge against his right shoulder. He reached back, as best he could, to drag it the rest of the way. His fingertips scraped something cold, smooth, and cylindrical. Then a final jerk freed the canteen. He fumbled with the screw cap and drank – probably more than he should, if he needed to make the water last. Thirst, he noted dizzily, could kill a man in three days. Starvation took far longer. He didn't have to worry about starvation.

Thirst assuaged, it occurred to him to wonder what he'd touched. He awkwardly bent his arm back, groping blindly. A section of pipe exposed by the subsidence. But still firmly embedded in the dirt. His tugging fingers merely slipped off. His curiosity satisfied, he pulled his arm back to be a pillow for his cheek. Perhaps he slept then for a time. In any case, he roused with Matron's further instructions echoing in his mind: If you hear searchers in your vicinity, make some sound to help them locate you. Cry out, if you can; or very carefully whack some debris together and continue until rescue arrives.

He'd heard them tapping like that, the buried ones, in Coventry. In the early days, before the faint subterranean tapping stopped….

The tunnels were riddled with pipes. Sometimes the pipes banged from a change in water pressure or the disparity in temperature at different levels – particularly now, in winter. Nobody paid them the least attention. But a regular, repeated sound… someone might notice that. Always assuming the pipe ran free of the ground for at least some of its length. And assuming whoever heard didn't take the noise as random, and could trace the pipe beyond wherever it dove back into the earth. Assuming the whole idea wasn't merely the empty impulse of desperation.

It didn't matter. He had nothing better to do with the time.

Seeking a suitable striker, he found his compass still lodged in his vest pocket. He held it tightly, letting one edge project through the fingers of his closed fist rather than risk dropping it. Reaching behind him, he began tapping out against the pipe the distress signal that anyone who'd lived through the Great War would surely know: three long, three short, three long. Pause and repeat. Three long, three short, three long.

S O S.

They found him an hour later.

*****

Having debated between bishop (a screw propped on its head) and rook (an empty wooden spool), each marked as white with a spot of paint, John chose the bishop and moved it diagonally three squares to threaten capture to Jacob's queen's knight (a finger-sized joint of copper pipe). Moving the knight out of danger would expose the queen. Leaving the knight in place might mean both knight and then bishop would be sacrificed.

Sitting back in his chair at Jacob's bedside, John remarked, “A certain ruthlessness is needed for chess. Well, you know my favorite maxim, Jacob: when at a disadvantage, attack.”

Propped up on handmade patchwork pillows and bolsters, Jacob left the queen's knight in place. He instead advanced a pawn (a weighty square-sided steel nut) – currently helpless against capture, but menacing the attacking bishop on its next move. So John was obliged to take the knight, the more valuable piece, and in turn lose his bishop to his opponent's queen (an imposing enamel thimble).

Still a good exchange, on balance. The deployment of his pieces on the board was still the stronger one, John judged.

Chess occupied their evenings. Since Jacob no longer needed constant nursing and had been moved from the infirmary back to his own small bachelor's chamber, John assumed Jacob spent his days in reading, judging by the books overflowing the orange crates, stacked to serve as shelves, to the left of the bed.

Though spartan, most of the chambers had some amenities now. A bed or at worst a cot, rather than a pallet on the uneven stone floor. A vermin-free mattress and adequate blankets and quilts for warmth. A wardrobe, or strapwork trunk, or chest of drawers, with more than a single change of clothes. A chair or two. A cabinet holding a commode – out of sight, if not entirely out of smell. The occasional framed print or rescued mirror. Or simply a bright scarf hung to stir in the draft, for the color.

If Jacob's chamber was more bare than most, it was from personal choice, not necessity. And even Jacob's chamber demonstrated the common craving for light.

A kerosene lamp with a reflector hung from a staple on the wall near the head of the bed. A candle burned in a brass Indian holder on the side of the broad barrel-top not occupied by the chessboard (drawn on a piece of cardboard).

A year of determined scavenging and repair had brought them out of the Stone Age at least to a mid-19th century level of domestic comfort, John judged. Another decade might see them, with luck, into the dawn of the 20th.

“The influenza continues to progress through our ranks,” John mentioned while considering his next move.

“Who is it now?”

“Narcissa. Anna is prescribing hot lemonade.”

Jacob shook his head, annoyed. “Anna should never have encouraged her to move Below. Accustomed to a tropical climate ...”

“Pascal has undertaken to find the lemons,” John interrupted, bumping a pawn one square. He used the common shortening of Pasquale's name, that Francine had claimed to find too foreign. Why she considered making him the namesake of a French philosopher an improvement, John hadn't troubled to inquire. Pascal himself didn't seem to care. Perhaps indifference to names was part of being a true anarchist.

“Jacob, we've discussed this. The 15 of us are simply not enough to cover the foraging routes we've already established. We need recruits to expand beyond simple subsistence. We can't rely solely on Julia's butcher friend….” John glanced up to catch Jacob's expected wince of distaste. “And that source of sustenance will shortly be lost to us, I imagine,” John added, being deliberately provoking. “Either that, or we'll lose our redoubtable cook.”

Jacob stared at him in dismayed surmise. “No,” he challenged. “Julia?”

“I'm afraid so. Pregnant. About ten weeks, by her own estimate.”

“But she's 45 if she's a day!”

“Nevertheless. Love knows no season, apparently. So far, she's shown no inclination to fly to the consoling embraces of her butcher. Perhaps he's married….”

Jacob made no response, except a scandalized glance. He was so easy to bait. So irredeemably conventional. Even if John could have resisted the temptation, he wouldn't have: only by provoking Jacob could he rouse any response at all.

Abed for three weeks, Jacob was sinking into a settled despair. The community could not afford to support members who didn't contribute, and both of them knew it. It plainly galled Jacob to be the helpless recipient of charity. But not enough to make him do anything about it.

“Francine?” Jacob inquired, after another move.

“No sign yet. But I continue in hope of the probably inevitable, which I intend to gladly cede you the honor of delivering. Not my line of country. As the old adage so wisely tells us, ‘Familiarity breeds.'” Without changing tone, John asked, “Have you been up, at all, today?”

“No.”

“Have you tried?”

“I will, John, I will. It's slow, but it's healing.”

“I've been thinking,” John mentioned with assumed casualness, toying idly with a rook, “about your friend Peter….”

“No. Absolutely not.” Jacob pushed himself higher against the pillows. “He thinks I'm dead. Let him think so.”

It was not the first time they'd had this discussion.

“Jacob, the joint is smashed,” John declared bluntly. “Corrective surgery is needed if you're ever to walk again.”

“And Peter Alcott, as I've told you, is a baby doctor,” Jacob shot back.

“By your own account, he's a qualified pediatric surgeon. A hip is a hip, Jacob. I agree that the paperwork involved in admitting you to a topside hospital would be tantamount to handing you over to the authorities for deportation. Not to mention the questions it would raise about where you've spent your time as a dangerous fugitive. But this Peter Alcott is your friend ...”

“Was my friend,” Jacob corrected, scowling.

“... and might overlook the technical illegality to honor his Hippocratic oath, and for friendship's sake. I'm prepared to take the risk of transporting you Above.”

Facing the unchanged frown intensified by the wavering candle light, John shoved spread fingers through his hair in worry and exasperation.

“Jacob, there's nothing further we can do here. We can't even take X-rays to know the extent of the damage.”

“It's a simple fracture of the upper femur--!”

“It's nothing of the sort. The entire joint is involved. Possibly the pelvic girdle, as well.”

“I'm the doctor ...!”

“And you therefore have a fool for a patient.”

“... and it's my damned pelvic girdle whose integrity you're impugning. A simple thigh fracture, I tell you. And it's healing.” Jacob folded his arms combatively.

“Without traction, to keep the fracture aligned. Oh, yes, it's healing – it's fusing. Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you kept doing that singularly unappealing gargoyle squint, your face would freeze that way? Well, that's precisely what's happening to your doubly damned hip joint! It's freezing! I'm a cross-disciplinary psychological researcher. Jack of all trades; master, I hope, of a few. But surely unqualified to remove a brain tumor. With your textbook medicine, you're fit to treat skinned knees, burns, and possibly diarrhea. But anyone would be insane to trust you with a herniated disc…or a hernia, for that matter. Our pooled skills are simply not enough, Jacob. In emergency, we must have access to specialized medical help Above without compromising our secret. A helper, like the others we've recruited, Anna and I. And your Peter Alcott--”

“He's not my Peter Alcott, and hasn't been since we finished our residency. I heartily regret ever having mentioned him to you. And I absolutely forbid you to contact him in any way on my behalf or in my name. And I refuse absolutely to be taken Above. If it fuses, then it bloody well fuses. And that's an end to it!”

John reflected that the conversation was probably doing a great deal of good for Jacob's heart rate and circulation. Provided he didn't have a stroke.

“Jacob,” he said finally, soberly, “these tunnels are no place for a cripple.”

“It's healing. I'll be up and about again in no time.”

“It's already been three weeks.”

“Bring me a set of crutches tomorrow,” Jacob challenged. “Or don't your far-flung and innumerable helpers extend to securing a set of crutches?”

“They're for sale in Veterans of America outlets all over the city,” John responded wearily. “In all sizes from infant to adult. Cheap: Julia won't even have to seduce a clerk.” Rubbing his mouth, John shot Jacob an evaluating look. “You're the one who named tomorrow: would you care to put a small wager on the outcome?”

“What sort of wager?” responded Jacob warily.

“First, if I can secure appropriate crutches by noon, tomorrow, you will spend no less than 20 minutes by my watch in attempting to cross this chamber. Agreed?”

“And if I succeed?”

“Then I promise not to mention Peter Alcott again. However, if in that 20 minutes you fail to reach the far wall… or, as I expect, fall on your face and have to be returned, unconscious, to your bed of pain…then you will agree to withdraw your pigheaded objections and to write a letter requesting Peter's discreet aid. Agreed?”

They traded a long, level stare. Then Jacob responded curtly, “Agreed,” and prudently castled, rearranging king and rook into a better defensive configuration. John had already taken that strategic precaution several moves ago.

Advancing a knight, John remarked, “I exaggerated. Concerning Julia.”

“What: she's not pregnant, or she will seduce a clerk?”

John smiled. “Oh, she's pregnant, all right. And I leave the clerks to her highly discriminating judgment. No, I exaggerated when I said I was afraid. Actually, I'm delighted. If we're to build anything lasting, there must be children. As many, and as soon, as possible. To continue what we've begun. To give it purpose.”

Carefully casual, he added, with more wistfulness than he'd intended, “I thought, shortly before Christmas, that Anna and I….” As Jacob looked up alertly, John said, “But it was a false alarm. The onset of 'flu. Considering the haste with which some among us contrive to conceive offspring without benefit of wedlock, it's embarrassing that the only duly married couple among us should be so… derelict in their civic duty. Barren of anything other than 'flu.” He watched Jacob put his remaining knight through its crooked paces. “It's not for want of trying, I assure you.”

For a moment they both studied the board in silence.

“How is Grace?” Jacob inquired, turning from one uncomfortable topic to another he seemed to like hardly better.

“Blooming, so far as I know.”

“She didn't visit me today. Again.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Jacob, we've all been busy. Last night Sam located a discarded cast-iron stove we had to get off the street before some scrap dealer could scoop it up. A treasure – the community needs a reliable stove – but a burdensome, nuisancy treasure. Even disassembled, it's too heavy to transport except by stages. And there are places, on the direct route, where it can't even be dragged. I detailed Francine to find a suitable site for a bridge across the Rift, so we can bypass the bad stretch near the crooked stair, you know the place…?

“Meanwhile, Julia's looking into venting: we may need to change the kitchen's location if we can't find a crack to serve as a chimney to wedge the stovepipe into. And that would mean moving the pantry, naturally. And everything in it.

“Meanwhile, Narcissa and Edward are down with the 'flu, as I told you, which ties up Anna with nursing. Elizabeth's well enough now to help. And two of the foraging parties haven't returned yet, and nothing more's been done about the mapping….

“It's been a month since I had a fresh subject,” John burst out, suddenly weighed down by the multitudinous and neverending distractions. “A week, at least, since I sat down and reviewed my notes. Any one thing, I could deal with and be done with it. But this – it's like being nibbled to death by minnows! I honestly think this time I set aside for our visit each evening is the only thing approaching peace I get – and probably the only time I've sat down since breakfast.”

Leaning forward in his chair, John again shoved exasperated fingers through his untrimmed dark hair.

“Tell me, Jacob: can't anything be done simply and without consultation and taking 22 other ramifications into account? And if they must discuss everything to death, why don't they do that first, and come to me afterward with something relatively concrete and definite?”

“They ask you,” Jacob responded, rubbing his chin reflectively, “because you're willing to give them answers. And if you don't have any, you make them up. You're willing to decide. In uncertain circumstances – outright chaos, at times – I imagine they find that decisiveness reassuring, regardless of the outcome. On the principle, better the wrong action than helplessness and no action at all. So in effect, even when you're wrong, you're right.”

“Doctors are always right before the fact; morticians, afterward,” commented John unpleasantly, both relieved and irritated to have confessed his impatience with petty annoyances so openly. It was a weakness he seldom allowed himself. But he trusted Jacob. Relied on him, almost the way he relied on Anna. Oddly, since Jacob had been immobilized by his injury, John found himself more and more turning to him for sympathy and advice.

As he'd very nearly said, the nightly chess sessions were the only chance he usually got to relax and speak frankly. He looked forward to them and sometimes cut short other tasks or even hurried meals to keep Jacob company, as he thought of it.

By contrast, some days he never found time to visit the infirmary at all.

Turning the topic, he went on, “But we were discussing the elusive Grace. I don't believe I've seen her today either, now that I think of it. Perhaps she's eloped with her gypsy prince after all.”

“I doubt it. She won't go Above.”

“Frankly, I doubt it, too. I've never entirely credited the gypsy, truth be told…. Anna will know. Grace isn't in the habit of confiding her pre-maternal symptoms to me.”

“Nor to me,” Jacob commented, responding to John's conversational glance.

“Perhaps she doesn't care for my bedside manner. Whether the face is familiar or unfamiliar, it's all research, to me…. Another reason, then, for you to master the crutches: to make a proper examination.”

Putting fingers to his forehead in a show of meditation, John added, “Somehow I've never thought I could convince Anna that a pelvic exam was a necessary part of doing a psychological profile.”

“I wouldn't try, if I were you,” Jacob agreed gravely.

“No…. Have you… a particular interest in Grace's pregnancy?”

“Aside from being fit to handle the delivery, no. Why do you ask?”

John was amused at how wonderfully tactful and circumspect they were being.

“Oh, no reason, I suppose. For a time it seemed Grace was determined to take you under her wing. Or places adjacent thereto. But Anna remarked that Grace seems to have rather cooled toward the benefactress role, of late….”

Getting no comment, John added, “I'm inclined to the unicorn story, myself. Personally, I like the idea of having among my close acquaintance the only woman in the 20th century to have been ravished by a unicorn. So primal. So mythic. Almost chaste. So long as Grace is with us, romance is alive in the world…. Beats the hell out of finding them under cabbages.”

Involuntarily, and painfully, Jacob burst out laughing.

*****

Somehow, balanced on the crutches, Jacob propped his way across the chamber within the time limit. Then he collapsed and vomited from the pain. Returned, sweating and on the edge of fainting, to his bed, Jacob felt no sense of achievement in having passed the test, won the bet. He would have done anything to avoid being taken Above. To keep his humiliation from being revealed to anyone he'd known. To keep from colleagues, friends, enemies…Margaret… that he'd become, not merely a scruffy outcast, but a cripple, as well. An appropriate object of pity and annoyance in either world.

Yet the fact that he'd proven, both to John and to himself, that he actually could force the shattered hip (for all his talk about femurs, Jacob knew the extent of the damage perfectly well) to support him, after a fashion, did have an impact.

Boredom, as much as anything, soon prompted Jacob to try again… privately, with no one to see, no one holding a watch as though he were a racehorse being put through its paces instead of a lurching, ludicrous spectacle of a man trying to maneuver on three supports rather than the accustomed two.

Tripedal, he described it to himself: Like a cross between a man and a milking stool.

He learned how to bind the hip – his posterior, quite literally, in a sling – to minimize the bones' grating together at each movement. He could get his own trousers on. He could stand and sit without falling down. He learned the balancing act that would serve as walking. Crutches were much like stilts: using either was mainly a matter of practice and determination. He could, eventually, wobble from his chamber and down the passage to a battered Morris chair in the common room. A plank across the chair's sturdy arms transformed it into a usable desk. There, he spent his days.

Because he arrived during the process of relocating the kitchen and pantry, he began with inventories. Lists of what supplies were on hand. Which were perishable and should be consumed at once. Which would keep. What staples were in adequate supply and which were growing low. What foods had special storage requirements. Which items their starch-heavy diet consistently lacked, that he could direct the foraging crews to be specially alert to collect, to prevent scurvy and other diseases of inadequate nutrition.

Gradually, his lists moved beyond food. What tools were on hand, and in what condition. Which were needed, and lacking. Whether the tool's last user had properly returned it to the toolroom. He checked them in and out. Once the pieces of the immense cookstove had been gathered and bolted back together in the new kitchen adjoining the common room, whether enough buckets of rough clinker coal had been collected in the midtown freightyards to fuel it for an entire week. What ripped or worn clothing remained usable and should be put aside for Francine to patch; what was beyond reclaiming and should be cut up for patches or unraveled for reknitting (Pascal, surprisingly, proved to be a skilled knitter, and taught recovering Elizabeth). Whether enough tallow and scarcer wax or paraffin was on hand to produce the next batch of lopsided candles. Whose turn it was to fail to successfully manufacture soap.

Jacob was bleakly aware that he contributed nothing anyone could eat, wear, burn, or sit on. Nothing tangible at all. But though resources remained straitened, after a few weeks of Jacob's management, people no longer ran out of things so frequently. Foraging teams and work crews were sent out and reported back on regular schedules. A roster of duties was made up and posted, so that the whole Southwest Branch (commonly known as 7:00, on a clock-dial analogy) wouldn't unexpectedly go dark because nobody had told Louis it was his turn for passage candle-duty. Sam (who'd rejoined them after Billy's expected death) knew what week he'd be going short of sleep to serve his turn as a sentry, patrolling the settlement's perimeter and noting anything unusual – heavy runoff, for instance – that might prove dangerous.

People were no longer continually operating on a crisis footing. Because of the inventories and lists, crises could often be foreseen and turned aside before erupting as full-blown emergencies. That was Jacob's contribution – system and routine. A reliable dullness. One could do that from a Morris chair with a plank laid across it, set in a central location where everybody came and went several times a day.

Quartermaster, John began calling him - clearly delighted to have someone volunteer to see to the mundane details that bored him unutterably, however he tried to simulate interest when someone displayed before him a crack-handled hammer, either as a lucky find or as a problem.

“Yes, I see,” John would say, dismissively. “Go show it to the Quartermaster. He'll know what to do with it.”

And presently the hammer (or whatever it was) would be thrust in Jacob's face, usually with the offhand comment, “John thought you might want to look at this,” or “John was sure this would be useful for something,” or “What do you want done with this? Is it worth keeping?”

They all knew where to find him. They brought him their scavenged objects, their broken tools, their problems and complaints… and gradually, as winter reportedly withdrew Above, their injuries and illnesses, since John avoided the infirmary whenever possible.

“And, you know, he looks at you,” Sam confided, holding out a hand swollen from an untended blister on the thick of the thumb. He abruptly straightened and glanced around as though worried John might be hovering nearby and overhear the criticism. Reassured on that point, he again hunkered down and surrendered his hand for inspection. “Like it was your fault, you were too dumb to keep it from happening. Like you're making a nuisance of yourself on purpose. Is this gonna hurt?”

“You need gloves,” Jacob responded, reaching for the box of medical supplies now kept on an orange crate to one side of his chair, digging out gauze and scissors. “I'll see you get some, when this is healed. That should prevent the problem from recurring. Elizabeth, might I please have a bowl of tea-dregs? Warm water, not hot… but some that's already been boiled.”

They were perpetually short of the new, expensive drugs, antibiotics. Jacob made do with field first-aid packets of sulfa powder – cheap at military surplus outlets. But even they cost money. The preferred fallback, when infection hadn't actually set in, was tea.

“You're a doctor, right? Like John is,” Sam asked uneasily before consenting to dunk his hand in the bowl.

“Not precisely like John, no, but I assuredly am a doctor,” confirmed Jacob patiently, feeling he ought to be brandishing his medical degree. Unfortunately, he no longer had the certificate: Sam would simply have to take him on trust.

“Fully qualified to treat skinned knees, burns, and diarrhea. And blisters. Hold that still, please. Now I'm making a poultice of tea sludge. It's a reasonably good antiseptic, and the tannin in tea helps to harden the skin. So soak your hands every day, even after this heals. You'll get fewer blisters. And I'll see about getting you some gloves. You've been doing stone work, I recall.”

“Yeah. Putting a door through, so to say, between two passages that don't quite meet. Make it easier to get around, over on the 3 o'clock side. Is this supposed to itch?”

“Absolutely. The itch shows it's working. The itch is essential. Well, leave that job and switch to foraging for a few days. Don't get the dressing any more dirty or wet than you can help. If it hurts to close your hand, don't close your hand. Let it heal. Come and have the dressing changed every evening. Is that understood?”

“Sure. Thanks. John was right – he said you'd know what to do,” Sam commented, lifting his hand so the poultice could be applied.

“Certainly. John's very discerning about these things,” agreed Jacob, sharply conscious of the irony that the appreciation was for John's dumping the treatment off on him, not for his own performing of it.

The remark stuck with Jacob enough that he repeated it to John, in the privacy of Jacob's chamber, during that night's traditional chess session. John laughed.

“That's hardly fair,” John commented, still chuckling.

“It's all right. Doctors are viewed as necessary nuisances, somewhere below plumbers, when we're not being elevated to the status of gods. Someone has to be really, severely ill before such deification occurs. When a miracle is required. And when the doctor is merely mortal and can't deliver the required miracle, or if, heaven forfend, he makes a mistake, then he's relegated either to the status of incompetent quack or of a demon who enjoys people's suffering and maliciously refuses to abate it, on purpose. That insane see-saw of patients' attitudes is one of the reasons I went into research rather than into practice.”

“You don't like being viewed as a miracle worker? With the power of life and death over your abject suppliants? To cast thunderbolts, like Zeus, or dump sacks of plague, like Mercury? Or was it Apollo?”

“Apollo, I believe – if it's the Greek camp before Troy that you're thinking of,” replied Jacob absently.

“The benefits of a Classical education,” John said, heavily sardonic. “It's all Greek to me. Well, I confess a preference for a different grandeur, myself. Research. Pure science. As one of the more turgid and science-obsessed poets of the last century put it, ‘To look on Nature bare.'”

“It sounds positively lewd. It's still your move, I think.”

“Oh, I thought it was yours. Sorry.” John shifted a pawn. “I'd still welcome your help in my little project, you know. I've narrowed things down to variations on a single compound. Different combinations, solutions, by mouth or intravenously, frequency of dosage – that sort of thing. Not yet an answer, but definitely progress. You should look over my notes sometime….”

Hurrying past any opportunity for comment, as though to spare them both the awkwardness of Jacob's declining, yet again, to involve himself in John's all-consuming “little project,” John went on, “But you have helped, in your way: this last month or so, I've accomplished more than in the previous six. And it's all due to your freeing me from those endless distractions. I've brought you a small token of appreciation.”

Reaching into the grocery sack he'd brought with him, John produced, with something of a flourish, an oblong ebony box with an inset flower design in silver on the lid.

“Here. A gift. In gratitude, and in commemoration of our friendship.”

Accepting the box, Jacob suggested whimsically, “Dueling pistols?” since the box was of about the right dimensions, though not heavy enough.

“Weapons for smaller contests. Oh, never mind that,” John remarked impatiently as Jacob, finding nowhere to set the box, held it, hesitating. With a broad sweep of an arm, John brushed the whole assortment of screws, bolts, thimbles, and miscellaneous junk of their makeshift chess set to the floor.

Within the box, when Jacob unlatched and opened it, was revealed a set of carved chess pieces, full of detail and ornament. Queens, kings, and all their retinue were full figures, with faces and elaborate costumes. The knights bestrode rearing horses; the bishops were solemn in stole and miter. Each rook was the turret of a miniature castle, embellished with twining ivy. The pawns, as befitted functionaries, were faceless knobs, like small gateposts. White and black were distinguished by the wood of which each was made, not by paint that would eventually wear away with handling.

Jacob held up each piece to the lamplight, taking his time. No cracks, no nicks, no greasy smudges. All the detailing as sharp-edged and clear as though it'd been carved yesterday. Properly kept, carefully used, the set could last for generations.

Setting a knight carefully back into the box, Jacob chuckled in sudden mingled delight and awkwardness, then silenced himself with the side of a fist pressed to his mouth.

“I don't know what to say, John. It's beautiful. I don't know that I've ever owned anything so beautiful. It's ... Thank you.”

“The better to beat you with, my dear Quartermaster,” John responded, briskly rubbing his hands together in theatrical eagerness. “Come on: let's set them out and see if they know their paces.”

“Yes?” Jacob called, noticing a shadow hovering in the opening that served as a door. “What is it?”

Julia, her large, meaty arms folded, edged into the chamber. “I b'lieve somebody best come. Grace, she gone into labor.”

Almost in unison, John and Jacob demanded, “How far apart--”

“--are the contractions?”

“She ain't quite ready yet. But she coming, sure enough. I figure to watch, see how it's done. Gonna be me, next.”

“The unicorn's get: I can hardly wait,” John remarked to Jacob, hastily putting the pieces he'd removed back safely in their box. “May I also observe, Doctor Wells? I've… never seen a live birth.”

“So long as you promise not to faint,” Jacob replied crisply, reaching for his crutches. “That's the worst nuisance about these things – the students fainting. That and the screaming…. All right, Julia--where is she?”

“Down the way, in her chamber.”

“As good a place as any,” Jacob reflected, following Julia out into the passage. “We'll need boiled water, Julia, as we've discussed; and--”

“--clean linen, towels and stuff. You don't got to tell me twice, I know all that part. But I'm gonna whack for Pascal or Francine to fetch and carry. I ain't gonna miss watching on account of being busy boiling water,” Julia announced firmly over her shoulder.

“'Whack for'…?” John prompted.

Found out that their chamber starts right by the sink side of the kitchen, next level up. Whack a little, they come find out why. Like Jacob done that time,” Julia explained, like one detailing the obvious to the feeble-minded.

John bent his head, abstracted, for a few paces, then wheeled around to comment to Jacob, “Our first birth,” as they rounded a turn. “A milestone. The true beginning.” His eyes shone. “We'll all help raise him, teach him….”

“Oh, you've already determined it's a boy?” Jacob inquired dryly, laboring with the crutches over the uneven tunnel floor.

“Naturally. Of course. It can't hurt to hope. Could one expect less from a creature as innately virile as a unicorn? Or even a robust gypsy?” Walking nearly backward to talk, John was practically dancing with enthusiasm.

“'Tis new to thee,'” Jacob muttered, too softly to be heard by John, who had spun away again in any case.

To prepare, Jacob had reviewed several books – all that anyone could locate. During a three-month stint in Obstetrics during his internship, he'd done nothing but attend deliveries. He knew all the basics: the theory, and some of the practice. And Grace was healthy and still relatively young. Women were always giving birth: it was natural to them. There should be no problem.

Jacob was terrified.

*****

Twenty-seven hours later, when everyone was thoroughly exhausted, in a momentary lull, John gave Jacob a speaking look and said the words Jacob had been expecting for some time: “Peter Alcott.”

“No.”

“I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but this is a different circumstance. I don't like it either: we don't dare move her, at this point. We'd have to bring him down. But it's better than...”

“No.”

John started pulling off the sheet cut into a poncho-shape, that did duty for surgical whites. When his tousled head emerged, he again met Jacob's cold stare.

“I'm going to phone him myself. It's his specialty. He'll come. He'll have to.”

Balanced on his crutches, Jacob turned to take a fresh towel from the pile to mop his face.

“Go ahead. It won't accomplish anything. My name will mean nothing: he thinks I'm dead. See what using your own will accomplish. I doubt you could reach him to begin with: specialists don't gladly arise at midnight anymore. He'll have instructed his answering service to hold all calls until the morning. And supposing that you did reach him, what, precisely, do you intend to say? That some hundred meters belowground, there's a baby who's contrived to get itself so tangled in its umbilical cord that it can't be born, and you'll be glad to meet him in an abandoned subway station?”

John wadded the sheet and hurled it aside. Then he settled, arms despondently on knees, on the bench they'd both been using.

“There's no time, John,” Jacob continued grimly, his eyes straying to Grace's sweat-shiny, ashen, unmoving face on the pillow. “And there are no miracles Peter could bring that would magically alter the situation. We can't wait for someone else to rescue us from the responsibility. This is beyond what's normal, even for a first pregnancy for a woman past thirty. She's too weak to endure much more of this.”

“Will she…?” John began, and then fell silent, also looking toward the bed.

“All I know for certain is that something has to be done – now. Or we'll lose them both. A Caesarian. And both may very well live…. Scrub up again, if you're going to assist.”

Grace stirred and moaned, trying to arch. Jacob immediately went to the bed, where he could set aside one crutch and steady himself against the bedside. As she slumped back, he took her frigid hand, at the same time automatically sliding the fingers of his other hand under her wrist, counting the pulse. Slow; thready; labored. She was too weak: he wouldn't have dared use anesthetic, even if he'd had any.

“Grace. Grace, can you listen a moment?” Her dazed, dull eyes slowly opened. Her gaze drifted, unfocused. “Grace, I'm going to have to take the baby. It wants to come, but can't. I have to help it. Do you understand?”

“My baby,” Grace said in a blurred voice. “Where's my baby?”

“It's still inside you, Grace. I'm going to take it out.”

“Wha'? Get it out of me! It's dead, my baby's dead, get it - Bless me Father, for I have sinned, oh god it hurts, why--”

Again, she tried to arch and fell back. The screaming began again, high and throat-tearing: the screaming that had finally forced Julia into flight, hands clapped over her ears. Jacob thought that had been a long time ago. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter.

Noticing John drying his bare arms, Jacob directed, “Find a fresh smock. Then bring the pot off the brazier. Touch nothing but the pot handle.” Finding the sterilized scalpel cool enough to touch, Jacob exposed Grace's distended abdomen and leaned harder on the bed, freeing both hands. “If you feel faint,” he said over his shoulder, “stand away from the bed.”

“Yes,” John replied, in a choked voice. “Jacob, have you ever…?”

“Don't talk to me. I'm busy.” Having measured down the approved distance from the sternum, Jacob began the cut.

What seemed mere seconds later, a blood-covered baby was squalling in John's arms and Jacob began the suturing.

When he was done, and Grace had slipped into exhausted sleep, her pulse stable, Jacob propped himself up on his elbows, then laboriously turned and groped for his crutches. Someone handed them to him and helped him straighten: Anna, he realized, with dim surprise. He hadn't noticed that she'd come.

John was sitting on the bench holding the baby, swaddled in a towel, in his lap. Looking up, he reported proudly, “It's a boy.”

“Congratulations. Anna, can you stay with her? I must… I must get some rest.” He found it impossible to free himself from the smock; Anna helped him.

Wavering on both crutches, Jacob added, “I think…she'll be all right now. But wake me if there's any change.”

“Odd,” commented John, contemplating the baby with the broadest grin Jacob had ever seen. “He doesn't look a bit like a unicorn. It must have been the gypsy.”

*****

Propped on pillows, Grace was nursing her newborn when Jacob came to look in on her.

“Anna,” Grace announced fretfully, “I'm sick of this water. Could you bring me a little tea?”

Anna checked, with a glance, to make sure tea was allowed. “Of course, dear.”

As Anna left, Jacob approached the bed. “Hello, Grace. We had quite a time of it, didn't we.” He reached, intending to take her pulse as the first of a series of routine checks; but she yanked her wrist away and huddled the baby closer against her, commenting, “Do you mind? We're busy here.”

Sliding his cased thermometer back into his pocket, Jacob lowered himself to the bench to wait. Natural, he thought, that mother and child should be absorbed in one another. But he still had the feeling he was being steadfastly ignored – shut out.

He asked, “Are you angry with me, Grace?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

Jacob sighed. Anna had evidently brushed out Grace's hair. Its shining abundance cascaded over the shoulders of her quilted blue shirt, opened for nursing. By contrast with the dark magnificence of her hair, her face looked like alabaster – luminously pale. Fragile as a Dresden doll. The baby, the merest fuzz of dark hair shadowing the crown of its head, suckled with soft, moist sounds. The picture they made strengthened Jacob's sense of an intimacy from which he was being deliberately excluded.

He tried again. “Are you in much discomfort?”

She glanced at him – a flash of jet-black eyes. “You know the magic act, the one where the woman gets sawed in half?” Apparently feeling her point had been made, she returned her attention to the baby…whose face, Jacob realized, he had yet to see.

He spread his hands. “It was necessary, Grace. The baby ...”

“I know all that, John told me, and why I couldn't have a couple aspirin, on account of the baby's milk.” She frowned pensively. “Where's that place you told me, where the good milk comes from?”

“Do you mean Devonshire? Or Jersey?”

“Not Jersey, I seen Jersey. Smelled it, too. No, the other one. Yeah.”

Feeling there was no point in trying to distinguish between New Jersey and the Isle of Jersey, Jacob waited attentively. Grace might come at things from odd angles, but she usually had a point.

“So that's what I'm gonna name him for,” she announced. “The place with the good milk. So you'll know he needs it and see he gets it. Devin. You write it down: D-E-V-I--”

“That's not… how it's spelled,” put in Jacob, feeling like a dreadful pedant when she gave him another cool, evaluating look.

“It's spelled however I say it is, and you remember that.”

“Grace – what's wrong? Things have never been right between us since… since that once we became… close. And I've never understood ...”

Regarding him levelly over her baby's head, Grace said, “No, and that's the truest thing you ever said. It took me a while to get that through my head, but I finally did. You got a hole in your heart.”

“I have--a what?”

“A hole in your heart. Or a hole where your heart ought to be. That woman. That Margaret. She took it all and there's nothing left for anybody else. You don't love her anymore. But you're not gonna love anybody else because then you'd have to quit feeling sorry for yourself. You'd have to stop being mad at her, and hurt by her, and let it all go. Start living again. You were so lost, sad, lonely…. I thought I could help you want to do that. I thought….”

Suddenly her dark eyes were aswim; she shifted the baby to knuckle them angrily.

“I thought what I felt could be enough for the both of us. I thought if I just waited, and kept loving you, sometime you'd heal and see me – really see me. Threw everything I had into it, and it was just gone. How dumb. Keep reaching, and there's just nothing there. No love. No nothing. You can't help it, I guess. Didn't want it, didn't know what to do with it, didn't even know what it was. I'll tell you what it was, Jake Wells – it was love. You remember that,” Grace concluded fiercely and again scrubbed at her eyes, turning away. Putting her back to him, so that he didn't, after all, rise or reach out to comfort her.

There was no comfort in him. Not for himself. Not for anyone. Which was exactly her point. Which struck deep: Jacob blankly contemplated her denunciation like a wound so fresh the pain hadn't yet registered and he could do nothing but stare at it in the most profound and appalled startlement.

“The child,” he said finally, in a choked voice he could barely recognize as his own. “He's mine. Isn't he.”

“You never really asked me flat-out. Because you didn't want to know. But now things are different, and I thought it all out, waiting for you. I want you to know. So yeah: of course he's yours!”

“But…I would have married you,” Jacob said, hurt and bewildered.

“We're neither of us too good at hearing No. That's why I didn't tell you. When we made that baby, that was my last try. All or nothing. After that, I knew it was gonna be nothing. But I know you, Jake: with the baby coming, you'd have been all the time after me about it, make life miserable for the both of us, and what's the use of that? Nobody don't own me. And nobody don't own my baby.”

She patted the small, blanketed back. “I figured the baby would just be mine, and anything else was nobody's business. But it's not gonna be like I wanted. Like I figured….”

Energy faded from her voice. “He's been mine a little while. But the rest of his life, he's gonna be yours. So you better do right by him. He's just a baby, not a woman. So maybe you can give him what he needs, what he deserves.”

Her head rolled back toward him and she gave him an intent, fathomless look. “You better. Or I'll haunt you, Jake, I swear I will. It isn't just milk he'll need. Here – you take him now. I'm tired.”

Holding the baby out to him, her arms sagged onto the quilt. There was no color in her lips. As Jacob struggled with the crutches, she leaned slowly back, leaving the sleeping baby lying at her side.

“Grace?” By the time he lifted her flaccid arm to take a pulse, there was none. Unable to lift the baby while impeded by the crutches, he shouted down the passage for Anna, then returned to the bedside.

When Anna came and removed the baby to the makeshift crib, and with her help, Jacob turned back the comforters, they found the mattress sodden with blood.

“But she seemed fine,” Anna exclaimed. “Weak, of course – but she was so determined to nurse the baby, and ...”

From the amount of blood, Grace must have been hemorrhaging for hours.

“Yes,” Jacob commented dully. “Grace is… was a strong-minded woman. She….”

Turning, Anna regarded the crib in distress. “Oh – that poor thing. Our first baby, and orphaned. Now he has nobody. No: that's not true. He has us. We'll all take care of him.”

Jacob didn't look at the crib, which held the evidence of how thoroughly and irrevocably he'd failed Grace - both as a doctor and as a man.

Shoulders slumped, balanced on the hated crutches, he reported distantly, “His name is Devin. With an ‘I.'”

8

“Come on!” The thin, dark-haired boy hopped impatiently in front of Jacob's desk. The beaded fringes of his vest flapped. Jacob had sometimes thought, lately, that bells should be substituted for the beads, to keep track of the energetic boy, as with a cat. But then he and Francine, who helped with the children, would have had to cope with the noise, as well, and nobody would have had any peace.

“You promised. Come on, hurry! Or we're gonna miss it!”

The five other children fidgeted too but left to their spokesman the chore of nagging their caretaker into motion.

Jacob methodically finished adding a name to the duty roster, then removed his glasses, capped his pen, and began making the effort to rise. As he looked for his cane, he found it being silently offered by the smallest of the four boys – all projecting ears and large, solemn eyes.

Taking the cane, Jacob nodded, saying, “Thank you, Pascal. Now please signal your mother she's needed, and ask your father to relay that we're on our way and request that nothing proceed without us.”

As Pascal raced away up the steps, and a rapid, fluent hammering resounded from the pipe in the corridor, Jacob said, “Yes, I promised. And yes, we'll go. And every one of you will see it.”

He noted with satisfaction that the children calmed, assured that Jacob's slow pace wouldn't make them miss this milestone event.

Molly, the youngest, was in earnest muttered conversation with the doll she held clutched tight to her chest; Olivia stood with one foot curled behind the other, tugging at one of her long light-brown braids; Ike looked bewildered, as though he hadn't quite grasped what the others were so excited about; Winslow stood with feet planted, staring at Jacob in expectation of the accustomed signal to line up; unbelled Devin continued his little dance of eagerness and impatience.

They were the eldest of the community's children: aged approximately four, give or take six months either way. Good children, in the main, Jacob reflected: healthy, lively, and generally obedient. He enjoyed the role he'd drifted into, as their daytime supervisor, in charge while their parents were occupied with other tasks. More than a babysitter; less… or perhaps merely different… than a parent.

He prided himself on making no distinctions among the children, holding them to the same standard with the natural allowances for age and individual temperament. Devin was not uniformly truthful; Winslow was hot-tempered and sometimes inclined to sulk or to bully. Pascal had a deplorable – and useful – inclination to tattle. Ike was hesitant, following the other boys' lead – well-behaved on his own but easily led into mischief. Timid Molly needed more cuddling and physical closeness than stand-offish Livvy would tolerate. One allowed for such things. But the rules were the rules, known to all and impartially applied. Considering the tunnels' intrinsic risks, particularly for active young children, it had to be that way.

As the pipe fell silent, Jacob turned to check the large padded playpen that held six infants and toddlers – sleeping or contentedly playing. Necessarily sedentary, Jacob had taken on the care of the parentless children – Devin and later Molly, the foundling – from infancy, acting as doctor, nurse, and, gradually, teacher. It was something he could do – a contribution he could make, crippled as he was. Those two had been the seed, the core. It had seemed natural, almost inevitable, that the other children had been entrusted to him, as well.

In this large, two-level chamber, the tunnels' original kitchen, Jacob was the still center. Everything around him moved, in the unending, necessary activity required to maintain and extend the community's usable space.

With shared labor, shared quarters, and shared resources, family boundaries had come to be less absolute Below than Above: the welfare of the community's children was a responsibility held in common. At first, Jacob had been keenly aware of the irony that the groundless suspicion of his being a Communist that had driven him Below had, in fact, led to his becoming something very like a communist in truth. A practicing socialist, at the least. Now, through long familiarity, he was no more aware of it than a fish was of water. It was merely his life, accustomed and accepted.

As Pascal returned, hand in hand with his mother, Jacob greeted her, “Francine. We shouldn't be away long.”

Tall, pale, and serene as water, Francine put down on Jacob's desk the carpetbag bulging with material to be mended or sewn that accompanied her everywhere. Smiling, she gathered her many-layered skirts to seat herself in the chair Jacob had vacated.

“We'll be fine, Q'master. Have a good time.”

“Come on!” Devin appealed again, grabbing Jacob's wrist but knowing better than to pull.

“Very well. We'll be going beyond the Home Chambers: who has candles?”

When Winslow and Pascal each displayed one, Jacob nodded. Before he could ask about matches, Devin pulled from his pocket the matchbox that was his particular pride: as the eldest, only Devin was allowed to handle matches.

“Fine. Then we're all prepared. Children, Hamlin, please.”

Responding to the familiar command, the children lined up, holding hands. Winslow seized the tail of Jacob's coat; Devin had the ambiguous honor of being last in line, the position carrying the duty of making sure the chain of younger children remained unbroken. In that fashion, Jacob, their Pied Piper, led them from the Central Chamber and through the twisting, rough-floored passages lit at intervals by candles in niches.

It took some while to reach the place where the lighting stopped. Not only because of Jacob's slow, limping pace, entirely suited to the children's shorter strides, but because the distance was greater than it had been even a year before. The community had expanded. The lighted, commonly-used tunnels now radiated nearly a mile in all directions from the central core, with dwellings, workshops, and assorted storage chambers all along the route, where suitable caves were available.

They passed larders and pantries, the candle works, the high shaft where bricks from demolition sites Above were dumped for reuse, and the private chambers of Martin Ripley, Mattie and Isabel Mead, Raymond Ensign, Ezra Cooper. Or – as patronymics routinely fell into disuse as unnecessary – Marty, Mattie, Isabel, Ray, Ezra.

It had been years since he'd been called anything but “Quartermaster” or its various shortened forms. It suited him. The past was gone and gladly forgotten. “Jacob Wells” was dead and better so.

Reaching the dark perimeter and its painted yellow line, past which children were forbidden to go unescorted, they rested for a while. Then Devin was given the proud duty of lighting a match and setting it to the wicks of Winslow's and Pascal's candles. They resumed their journey.

“It's gonna be a big bridge,” came Devin's comment, from the rear. “The biggest ever. Right?”

Knowing his confirmation was being solicited, Jacob declared over his shoulder, “The biggest ever. Absolutely. The longest span we've ever attempted.”

“And if you fall off you just fall and fall, forever!” Devin added, typically glorying in the gruesome details.

“There's a bottom,” Pascal's voice objected, from the line's middle. “Everything's got a bottom.”

A warning snuffle meant that timid Molly, between them, was preparing for tears.

Jacob said, “This is a yellow-line area, and will continue to be so even after it's opened for adults. Hold tight to each other, and to me, and no one will be in the least danger. I, for one, certainly have no intention of falling off the edge and finding out whether there's a bottom or not!”

Winslow's loud laugh seemed to dispel Molly's anxiety: there were no more snuffles.

Sound could carry a considerable distance if a passage ran fairly straight. Long before they came to the ledge, they heard the voices of the work crew calling back and forth to one another.

“Can we un-Hamlin now?” Devin called, finding his position in the rear a restraint rather than an honor.

“Absolutely not. Everyone will get to see.”

Torches propped in wall sconces lighted the passage ahead. Candles were blown out as the file went toward the opening at the tunnel's end, where the roof and walls had been carved back to leave a projecting ledge. Julia and Ezra, waiting in the passage, greeted Jacob and the children.

Calling out, “They're here,” Julia briefly hugged Winslow, then moved aside to let them all edge past to the opening.

The support posts were already in place: tall, thick, and deeply sunk in sockets dug in the rock, their middles guyed with rope back to the outer face of the wall in preparation for the weight the posts would hold. Other ropes ran to the safety harness of Sam and Ray, standing on the ledge, fastening pulley blocks whose grooved inner wheels rested on two cables stretched across to the facing ledge where the small forms of other workers appeared and disappeared by torchlight.

Between the two lighted ledges lay the Abyss, whose dark was impenetrable, unplumbed, and, for all anyone had been able to prove, endless. The immense rift threaded through the tunnel system, bounding it through all its levels to the south and to the east.

To the east, in the deeps where John, hanging from a rope, had discovered a huge cathedral of a cavern large enough to accommodate the whole community at once, the distance was too great and no appropriate passage could be found on the opposite cliff where a bridge might exit. So John had commissioned the switchback Long Stair, hugging the cliff, that had taken two years' work to cut and that had given access to what had been named the Great Hall – ceremonially decorated for its official opening with tapestries John had gotten heaven knew where; to the Chamber of the Winds with its mysterious gazebo or temple, high arched surround, and paved floor; to the ancient catacombs that were evidence of even earlier habitation; and to unexplored levels yet beyond, still deeper, which Narcissa had found congenial and removed herself to.

To the south, though, a passage ran near enough to the Abyss that a breach could be made to serve as the far landing. There, now, John and the second work crew were gathered to unroll the slat-and-rope walkway that would complete the bridge, opening access to vital foraging routes and helpers in the Bowery and city's lower east side, where most of the wholesale produce markets and clothing factories – the garment district – were located.

Wheeling around, Ray – a thin, soft-spoken Negro with the upright bearing of the soldier he'd been – told Jacob, “You keep those kids back, now. They can see well enough from where they are.”

“I shall,” Jacob assured him, drawing the chain of children around him.

Authority Below was fluid, situational, and pragmatic: in her kitchen, Julia's orders were not to be questioned; similarly, Jacob had the say over most matters involving the children and the health of the community at large. As this work crew's leader, Ray had, for the time, absolute authority over how the work was conducted and responsibility for enforcing on-site safety procedures. Everyone was obedient to his directions.

The overall plan was, of course, John's: like virtually all the large projects the community had undertaken. Jacob was quite content to have it so. Attending to the routine, daily concerns that tended to be lumped together as “housekeeping” kept him quite busy enough. If he was the Quartermaster, in charge of securing and distributing supplies and allocating resources, John was the General: above all such petty concerns, planning the next great campaign. John's specialty was ends; Jacob's was means. The arrangement worked so smoothly that they seldom had to consult directly with one another. The chess set generally sat unused from one month to the next.

After one glance into the dark void, with its small spot of torchlight on the other side, Molly had had enough: she hugged Jacob's leg tightly, face against his hip. Repositioning his cane to clasp her with one arm, Jacob ranged the other children in front of him at the mouth of the opening, with a good six feet of ledge between them and the drop. As Ray waved a torch to signal readiness, the children clustered together and held to one another without needing to be told again. Even Devin's nervous feet were stilled, and as Devin leaned, Ike's refusal to be pulled any farther forward served as an anchor. Jacob set a cautionary hand on Winslow's shoulder. Julia's son was the largest of the children and generally the steadiest: to hold him was to hold all.

The lightweight hauling lines tightened. Wood wheels creaking, the blocks were drawn along the cables to the other landing where the end of the walkway, a bundled heap between the workers, was attached, suspended between the two cables. A torch wave from the far landing signaled readiness. Ray and Sam passed back to Julia and Ezra the ends of the slack hauling lines.

As Julia and Ezra backed off into the passage, preparing to pull, the lines bracketing the cluster of children, Jacob said suddenly, “Wait a moment. Children, would you like to help?” All but Molly blurted their eagerness. “Then Devin, Ike, and Molly, you get behind Julia…. All right, Molly, you can stay with me. And Winslow, Pascal, and Livvy, you stand behind Ezra. Help pull when they say pull, and keep out from underfoot. All right?”

The back pair of pullers, smiling, set about arranging the children – safely far from the drop, yet part of the event – and gave them the ends of the lines to hold.

From the far side came the faint shout, “What's the hold-up over there?”

“All set?” asked Ray, surveying the arrangement, checking that no one could become entangled. Satisfied, he took up the line, remarking, “Okay. On the count of three. One. Two. Three. Pull.”

As Ray called out the cadence, the walkway began unrolling, shoved off the far ledge a few slats at a time. The cables developed an acute slope, angled at the points where the pulleys hung. When the pulleys had moved halfway and the cables hung in an even V, Ray and Sam hitched the lines to the posts to let the haulers catch their breath.

Sitting on his heels, Ray told the children, “Now comes the hardest part: all uphill, with the whole weight, almost, of the bridge to draw. You don't turn loose of the line, you hear? You hang on. Set your feet. Don't let it budge you no way. We do ten pulls, then tie off again, like now. Then ten more. And so on, till we're done. You figure you can hang on?”

All the children nodded eagerly – even Molly, who sidled over to stand behind Ike.

Ray cocked his head to look at Jacob. “Need somebody good on the line ends to clear the slack. So as nobody can trip on it.”

Jacob's immediate impulse was to decline on the grounds that he wasn't fit. Then he met Ray's steady, affectionate eyes, knowing it to be a makework job offered him in kindness. Even one of the children could have been detailed to do it. And yet Jacob found himself smiling back, finding in himself no need to defend his pride and willing to accept the kindness of the able-bodied.

“I believe I could manage that,” Jacob replied, and took his place where Molly (her doll tucked between her knees for safety) and Livvy could pass the lines to him. As the count resumed and Jacob began collecting the slack and tossing it behind him, it seemed to him that he was holding the reins of a finely coordinated team. That instead of his being an unneeded cripple, his contribution was somehow vital to the success of the entire effort. It was an illusion, he knew; yet he felt it, and suspected that each of the children, pulling with scowling, determined expressions, felt the same.

A cheer went up as the first slat touched the posts. They all held hard to the lines while, on the ledge, the walkway's metal rings were secured. Then, when Ray called, “It's hitched: turn loose!” everybody let the lines fall and began jumping and hugging one another, children and adults alike breathless with excitement and accomplishment.

Uncomfortable with public displays, Jacob disengaged as soon as he decently could and began coiling a line into a neat pile for return to the storeroom. Rope was valuable: each one would be used countless times before it was so full of splices it would be cut up for torch heads or unraveled for candle wicks.

Even before the side supports of the bridge had been lashed in place, John came across, holding to the cables, the bridge swaying in rhythm with each energetic stride.

Reaching the landing, John exclaimed, “We've done it!” and clapped Sam and Ray on the shoulder, setting off a more subdued round of mutual congratulations.

Finished coiling the second line, Jacob called the children back to him with the command, “Hamlin. It's time to go home.”

As the children gathered into a queue, still excitedly chattering and jostling, Jacob led them away down the passage. When they reached the yellow line marker and paused to rest, Jacob stood against the passage wall, easing his aching hip and reflecting on his curious and uncommon sense of accomplishment.

“Children,” he said presently and waited until they had all turned and quieted. “We've helped do something marvelous today. Something important, that will make life better for all of us for years to come.” The children beamed at one another. As, he thought, they had a right to do.

He continued, “I'm very proud of you. But that wonderful new bridge is still beyond the yellow line, and none of you will go there, not even to look, unless you're accompanied by an adult. All yellow line prohibitions apply, with the severest of restrictions and penalties. Is that clearly understood? Molly?”

Scraping her foot on the sandy floor, Molly responded dispiritedly, “We can't go there. Not even to look. It's the worstest bad there is.”

“That's absolutely correct. Very good, Molly. Olivia?”

Each child in turn recited the prohibition, ending with Devin, who raced through the acknowledgement and finished with the most guileless, self-confident, and wholly untrustworthy smile imaginable. So intensely like Grace that Jacob felt himself wincing away, inside, from a pain as accustomed as the ache in his hip.

“Devin, you will on no account set foot on that bridge,” Jacob directed sharply. “Is that understood?”

The boy's blithe expression faded into a startled, sullen frown. “Sure. I said so, didn't I?”

“Indeed you did. See that you remember it.”

As they moved on, Jacob heard Devin complain glumly to Winslow, “Why am I always the one that gets picked on?”

“'Cause the Q'master knows you, is why,” Winslow muttered back, without sympathy.

Jacob affected not to hear. Many problems, he'd learned, were best dealt with by a little judicious ignorance.

*****

The completion of the bridge was celebrated, in conjunction with Yule festivities, with a communal meal in the Great Hall. Though the food was plain, their usual fare, spirits were high. After the older children had opened their gifts and been put to bed, the dancing – to the music of a mixed ensemble composed of two tissue-covered combs, a tambourine, and a harmonica – lasted far into the night.

Watching the dancers from a table at the cavern's periphery, Jacob thought that John seemed in a crackling good humor – smiling often and willing, at a moment's notice, to entertain the group with his droll mimicry of voices. Anna, sweeping around in layers of blue taffeta, appeared positively radiant.

So when, some ten days later, he noticed Anna hovering just inside the curtained entrance of the infirmary, he was shocked at her appearance. Patting the shoulder of the elder Pascal, who'd been troubled by periodic dizziness, Jacob at once went to her and took her arm, intending to steer her to a seat on one of the cots.

“You're ashen: whatever is wrong? What symptoms--”

“No, never mind that. That's over. I'm fine. Really.” Anna showed a wan and unconvincing smile, clasping her arms tight before her and holding the crossing points of her shawl in a clutched knot. Distractedly glancing over her shoulder as Pascal the elder discreetly left, she added, “I probably shouldn't have come….”

“You probably should have come days ago.”

“No, it's not that.” She waited out the noisy transit of a subway, somewhere overhead, then said, “I shouldn't trouble you. And John would be furious--”

Mystified by Anna's dismissive references to what the problem wasn't, Jacob thought he should wait for her to explain in her own way, at her own pace. Guessing she was uneasy at seeking anyone's advice but John's, he decided tact was in order.

“Why on earth should John object to two friends having a cup of tea together? You will have tea, won't you?” he asked, slowly heading away toward the hotplate powered by current tapped from the city supply – among the reasons the infirmary was located where it was: few of the deep chambers had access to electricity.

“I was just about to make some for myself before settling the children in for the night. My throat, you see – I'm required to read aloud before they'll consent to quiet down. We're beginning the first of Kipling's Jungle Books. Deep in a discussion of the likelihood of maternally inclined wolves being willing to adopt a human baby--”

Jacob broke off: Anna had burst into tears. He drew her into a chair and sat opposite, solicitously holding her hand. Like him, she wore fingerless half-gloves. Even so, her fingertips were unhealthily cold. If she wasn't actually ill, Jacob suspected she was sickening for something. But her close-bitten nails suggested problems beyond the merely physical. Jacob restrained the impulse to pull out his stethoscope and waited patiently for her to regain her composure.

“How could you know?” she demanded, swiping at her eyes with the tail of her shawl.

“A bow drawn at random, I assure you. I still don't know what you could find so distressing in anything I said. Whatever it is, please tell me, Anna. I very much want to help, however I can.”

For a moment Anna sat with her head bent, twisting her shawl. Then she said in a low, unemotional voice, “I've had a miscarriage. Right after Christmas. I don't think it's the first. But it's the first that John has known about. Before, I was never sure. Put it down to 'flu, something like that. I've never been…regular.”

Spots of embarrassed color appeared on her dreadfully pale cheeks. “But this time, I was certain. About being…in a family way. I thought it was safe to hope: it had been three months, after all…. And John was certain that finally, we…. Oh, it doesn't matter. It's over. It was barely even a baby yet, so small….”

Her face twisted; but this time, she refused to cry, sitting rigidly still and staring at the ceiling until she'd mastered the impulse.

“I'm so sorry, Anna,” said Jacob sincerely. “I think I can imagine something of what such a loss must mean. To you both. How has your physical health--”

“I'm fine. Except for being unable to carry a child to term,” Anna rejoined harshly, “I'm just fine. Healthy as a horse. Never better. A bit tired, but nothing to worry about. John thinks it's something in the blood, some incompatibility…. Oh, I don't know, never mind. It doesn't matter.”

“It matters, Anna. Because you're in pain.”

“I'll live with it. Just as I always have. That's not why I came. I don't know why I'm even talking about it.” She looked away. “You said something about tea.”

Taking the hint, Jacob occupied himself with tea preparation, carefully not looking around, to give Anna privacy and time to recover. After he handed her a mug they sat quietly for a while – an attentive, waiting silence on Jacob's part.

“It's not me--it's John,” Anna announced abruptly. “He's had such good results with the new treatment that he had me write it all up for him last spring. All in the proper form: I read the journals, saw how they liked things put, did it just that way--”

“He never said a word about it,” reflected Jacob softly.

“Well, he wouldn't. And certainly not to you. He admires you so – he's taught himself so much, studied, but when all's said and done, you're a proper doctor, with a degree. He makes jokes about it, but it still matters to him. He wouldn't tell anyone – least of all, you. Not until he had something concrete to show. Not until his work had been published – or he had some assurance it would be published.

“Probably something he learned from me,” Anna commented, with a twitch of the mouth that was nearly a smile. “Both terrified of promising what…what we can't deliver. Letting people down. Raising false alarms. False hopes….”

Setting down her mug, Anna made a weary, open-handed gesture, dismissing such trepidation as foolishness. “I took the reports Above – five fat manila envelopes. I mailed them to the medical journals he said were the most influential.”

“I think I can guess: they were all returned. Rejected.”

Anna bobbed her head. “The journals have something called a… peer review board?”

“And they found John's methodologies… too unorthodox.”

Anna bobbed another nod. “That's about the size of it, but in longer words, generally. That was last summer. But John didn't give up. He doesn't. You know.”

“Yes. I do know,” Jacob responded, reflecting that late summer was when John had conceived building the bridge: in hindsight, clearly throwing himself into a new project Below, to distract himself from the larger disappointment, the rebuff from topside authorities.

To Jacob, he'd merely seemed distant – preoccupied. Given how plain it all was now, Jacob was ashamed of his own imperceptiveness. Of having willingly limited himself to the familiar round of routine problems and the children's care and given no thought to anything beyond.

He hadn't known. But he could have – if he'd asked. If he'd refused to accept John's distancing himself at face value and refused to be put off with plausible excuses or defensive rudeness. John could sometimes be quite cutting: it took considerable fortitude to persist in the face of scathing resistance. Fortitude…and a reason. Jacob had lacked both.

“I know,” he repeated, on a sigh. “Shall I hazard another guess? He sent his results to about a dozen of the leading psychiatrists--”

“Twenty-seven, all told.”

“--and challenged them to replicate his experiments. However they chose.”

Anna drew in a deep, difficult breath. “He even offered to refuse any credit for the discovery. To let them claim it, if they wanted to. Just so the people would be helped. You see? He didn't want anything for himself at all. Not even that they admit he was right. He knew he was right already, do you see? All he wanted was for those poor people to be cured ...”

“I know, Anna. I know perfectly.”

That was true: from the beginning, he'd known that something like this was inevitable. And kept that knowledge to himself, knowing even more clearly that John wouldn't be warned or deterred. As Anna said – John didn't give up. That intransigence was the source of his strength…and his greatest weakness.

Jacob added, “And forgive me for also knowing what the reaction was.”

Anna stared straight ahead. “Some were polite enough to send a reply. The return address was care of Salvatore Cavallo, the tobacconist? They sent there, the few that sent, and I collected them. I guess… I guess you can figure what they said. Most didn't even bother answering. John hoped it was because they were trying his method out, seeing for themselves before making any public announcement. But it wasn't. He contacted the last one yesterday. From a phone box, up top. And when he came back, he burned all his notes. All of them. Twenty-seven notebooks. Years of work…. And he hasn't said a word to me since. Or to anybody else. Doesn't leave our chamber. He just sits there. Won't talk, won't eat.”

Her face twisted. “I can't reach him anymore. He's shut me out. I'm so afraid--!”

“I'm so sorry, Anna.”

“It's not your fault!”

“It is my fault – for not noticing. For not asking. For not looking beyond my own nose.” Starting to rise, Jacob remarked, “I think it's past time we had a game of chess, John and I.”

Anna regarded him anxiously. “If he knows I told --!”

“Nonsense. We're simply overdue for a game of chess.” Collecting his cane, Jacob added, “Will you please ask Francine to put the children to bed for me? I promise them extra story time, tomorrow, to make up for my defection. Or…might you be willing to read to them? I know it's a lot to ask, but they've grown accustomed to a certain routine….”

Jumping up, Anna planted a kiss on his brow. “Don't worry about me, or try to finesse me, either. I know all your tricks, you doctors.”

“I imagine that you do. I can't fool you. But the children still would sleep better for a story….”

“I'll see they get one. I love Devin and Molly, and Kipling is among my favorite writers, used to be…. I'll stay with them,” said Anna, with a direct look, “until you come back.”

*****

Last spring's heavy rains seeping down through seams had made several people seek less leaky quarters – among them, John and Anna. There'd been joking suggestions they might “privatize” the Great Hall, but in the end they'd settled on a chamber in one of the higher levels, presumably for easier access to the surface.

Jacob had never visited their new residence. Consulting a map, he found that to reach it one had either to climb a ladder and a stair or negotiate a lengthy, roundabout series of zig-zag ramps. A ladder was out of the question; stairs were hardly better. The longer way was the only way.

Board and chessbox tucked under one arm, leaning on his cane, Jacob grimly surveyed the first slope, squared his shoulders, sighed, and began stubbornly stumping along.

When he reached the chamber over an hour later, he found it darkened: surely no more than a single candle burned, somewhere out of sight. He stood, thinking, a moment, then called out loudly, “John? John, are you there?” Getting no response, as expected, he reflected aloud, “He's gone out--all that walk for nothing. But perhaps he'll be back. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I waited for him….”

He was quite certain John was inside. But he hoped the comment would justify his intrusion.

It was a large and irregular chamber, full of odd shadowy jogs and alcoves. Quite heavily furnished, compared to most: to the left of the entry, a number of bookcases, cabinets, chests of drawers, and a large roll-top desk surrounded a table, straight-backed chairs, and a facing pair of overstuffed chairs. Several tall wardrobes and shelving packed tight with cardboard boxes were to the right. The absence of beds, and the dark mouths of several door-sized openings, suggested the chamber might in fact be a suite.

On the table in the office area, a candle had burned low. Jacob set the chessboard there, lit a few more candles, and drew up one of the straight-backed chairs, all the while schooling himself to give no sign of his uncomfortable certainty of being watched.

“Might as well lay them out while I'm waiting,” he commented, and proceeded to remove the pieces from their box and set them in place. He gave John his preferred white and kept black for himself.

“I notice,” said John's voice, “you didn't call for Anna.”

Back by one of the wardrobes, Jacob guessed, but didn't look up from his task. John's tone had been suspicious. Obliquely accusatory. Certainly not friendly.

“No, I saw her earlier this evening,” Jacob responded easily, pretending not to have noticed the tone, “on my way back from the infirmary. And it reminded me how long it's been since we had a game of chess. Too long. So I asked her the favor of looking after the children for a while. I haven't seen you in days.”

“I've been…occupied,” replied the voice out of the darkness. Again probing for evidence of conspiracy, John's voice demanded, “What did you and Anna talk about?”

“Nothing in particular, just met in passing.” Anna, Jacob thought, had been right to worry about John's reaction: John sounded like a storm full of pent-up lightnings ready to flash out at whatever offered itself. Jacob could remember clearly that sort of sick, indiscriminate rage of grief. The last thing he wanted to do was draw it down on either himself or Anna. He was going to have to be very circumspect.

Placing the last piece, Jacob at last allowed himself to look up and saw only oblong shadows. He busied himself with closing the box and leaning to set it aside on the carpeted floor.

“She didn't look at all well, John. I hope it doesn't herald our annual siege of 'flu.”

“Not 'flu.”

“Well,” said Jacob, and thumped the table lightly with his palm. “Can we begin, or do you intend to lurk about in the shadows and signal the moves in your ingenious code?”

The compliment, or perhaps merely the pressure of expectation, drew John into the light. He looked nearly as pale and haggard as Anna had, but Jacob didn't comment on it, fearing any direct remark would either provoke John or drive him back into hiding. In more ways than one, he waited for John to make the first move.

Standing, John advanced a pawn. Jacob made an unremarkable response. John reinforced the pawn with another.

Moving a knight, Jacob remarked, “Halting my way up here, I found myself wondering whether I more resembled one-legged Long John Silver or blind Pew, off to deliver the dreaded Black Spot. Inasmuch as I don't feel particularly piratical, outlaw will have to do, I suppose. Technically, that's what I am. That's what we all are. Not against the law, but outside it. Beyond it. We'll have to find some different means of determination. One fitted to our ways and how we live. A different standard than that by which topsiders judge what is acceptable and what is not. A better standard, I'd hope. One not based on coercion, actual or implicit. One deriving from general consensus and consent…. Had you given any thought to that?”

Jacob had chosen the seemingly unrelated topic as a way of subtly downplaying the topside world's judgments – suggesting that they needed to devise their own measures of rightness and success, as a counterbalance to the rejection John's work had suffered Above, which Jacob couldn't admit he knew about. Anyhow, John had always been more drawn to philosophy, abstractions, than to the small detailed specifics of people and circumstances.

John didn't respond. But he did pull up a chair and sit down on the opposite side of the table. The game continued.

Some five moves later, interrupting Jacob's tense and amiable chat of the moral justification of legal systems, John announced abruptly, “They're not worth saving.”

“What aren't?”

“Topsiders. They deserve whatever their greed, stupidity, and empty self-importance bring down on them. It will all collapse. One need only wait.” John raised eyes that seemed to shine, burn, in his drawn, pale countenance.

“You were right. You knew. There's no helping them. No trusting them. You told me, but I wouldn't listen. Blake claimed that truth couldn't be told so as to be understood and not be believed. A pleasant sentiment. But it's not true. Trying to persuade fools to their own benefit is merely vanity and a striving after wind. They're all insane and beyond cure. They hate the truth and will die of the lies, and no one can do anything about it.”

Rotating a rook on its base, Jacob commented lightly, “Well, that's quite a denunciation. Who do I recall telling me there's nothing more depressing than a failed idealist?”

“A fool named John. Some things are better stillborn. The earlier, the better.”

Careful, trying not to show his expectancy, Jacob said, “This doesn't sound theoretical. What's happened?”

“Nothing. Resoundingly, nothing. A great deal of nothing has happened. Though I do regret it for Anna.”

Jacob shook his head. “I'm not following--”

“All those years. All that work. All she gave up, for me. Because she believed in me. Did you know she was a teacher?”

“No,” said Jacob quietly. “I didn't know that.”

“And walked away from it all. And all wasted, because there's nothing I can give her. Not even a living child.”

The mourning, the bitterness, were almost palpable. Reaching across the table, Jacob risked setting his hand on his friend's arm. “John, these things are complex ...”

John's black eyes skewered him. “There's nothing wrong with Anna. Nothing. Do you understand?” Pulling his arm away, John rubbed his eyes as though that intensity hurt on the inside, too. “Her only fault was to hope for the impossible. From nothing, nothing can come. She's given birth… to nothing. I imagine that upsets her. You said…you said she didn't look well.”

“No. She didn't.”

“She'll be better now. Better, now that she knows the truth.”

“John, are you telling me Anna has had a miscarriage?”

Finally, Jacob thought, it's out in the open. We can finally speak of it.

Looking vaguely surprised, John cocked his head, considering. “I suppose that could be one way of looking at it.”

Jacob wondered what other way there could be, but didn't ask. “John, I'm so sorry. I --”

“Don't be,” responded John, at once. “It wasn't strong enough to survive. It's better off dead. I won't make that mistake again. That dream is done.”

He leaned intently forward across the table. “Do you know what they're doing up there now? Schoolchildren are being taught that hiding under their desks can protect them from an atomic blast. ‘Duck and cover,' it's called. There's even a little song. Sam Denton's son sang it for me. Incredible. Unspeakable. Duck and cover: a half inch of cheap wood between a child and a nuclear blast. Surely you, of all people, can appreciate the insanity of that.” John's expression was scathing, agonized.

“It's appalling,” Jacob agreed. “But hardly the matter at hand. Anna -”

Unheeding, John continued his tirade: “To cruelty and brutality, they've added an absolutely irreducible stupidity. I wash my hands of them all. They don't deserve to survive.”

“John,” said Jacob, in a firm tone that eventually brought John's attention back to him. “Grief and loss cast large, strange shadows. For a time, everything looks black. I know something of loss. And one thing I've learned is that it passes. What's lost never comes back. But there are… compensations. If one can wait for them. Hope for them. I've learned that grief is like a disease that must run its full course. The pain blinds you, at first. And it's impossible to see beyond it. The whole world seems bereaved of sense. It seems that the most one can hope for is that the pain will become endurable. But there is more. There's work. And people. Their kindness. Their patience. The simple fact that they're there. It helps. It does help. If there's any use to all the wasted years, self-pity, and bitterness you've seen me through, perhaps it's so I can tell you, now, that it does end.”

John regarded him curiously. “Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

John leaned back in his chair. “Then the more fool you. Because you've forgotten the one true thing you knew and let yourself be seduced into settling for…compensations.”

His tone exactly mimicked Jacob's. “I'm not to be bought with such small coin from Fate's treasury. Save your homilies for more credulous ears. My eyes aren't blinded, Quartermaster: they've been opened.”

“And what do you see?” Jacob challenged.

John's expression became distant. “That the world Above is beyond redemption. That they're all cattle, up there: doomed by their prosaic, hidebound refusal to recognize, much less welcome, anything new. By their hatred for anything different. Whatever magic was born into their souls, they've ignored, starved, and as good as murdered. Dreams have been abandoned in favor of crass rationalism. And without dreams, they'll die. So there's little hope for this small world of ours Below, either. We're not yet strong enough to stand alone: when they go, they'll drag us down with them. All we've done, wasted. All barren. All for nothing -”

“That's your bitterness talking. Not your judgment,” Jacob rejoined, and got another of those intent, curious stares.

“Do you really think so?” John asked again – as though torn between amused contempt and pity for Jacob's absurd naivete.

“I think there's hope, yes,” Jacob declared firmly. “As long as we have one another.”

“Yes: a compensation. Of course. The carrot that keeps the old horse moving the same dull unending round without even the possibility of wonder, just more of the same, day by day, until the wretched end…. Well, if that's enough for you now, I wish you joy of it. Truly, I do. Myself, I fear I require rather more.

“I suppose,” John commented thoughtfully, “considering how things are, I require a miracle. Which your face tells me is not merely impossible but unreasonable…and I'm distressing you, and to no purpose. I'm sorry.”

“I'm distressed to know you're so upset.”

“Upset. Of course. Upset.” John shut his eyes wincingly tight, then lifted a slow hand to rub them. Lowering his hand, John smiled: almost the sweet, meditative, self-mocking smile Jacob knew so well. And he began collecting the chess pieces and returning them to their box.

“It's been said that the realization of folly is the beginning of wisdom. Perhaps it's so. We'll see. It's late, Jacob,” John said gently, calmly, and closed the box. “And you'll find the way back no shorter than the way here. It was kind of you to come, but I find I can't concentrate on chess just now. Perhaps another time. The box must be awkward to carry – why don't you leave it with me? We'll play again. Just… not now.”

John suddenly sounded infinitely weary. And very vulnerable.

“We needn't play. We could simply talk--”

“Anna,” John reminded him, “will be waiting. And… your children.” Looking up, John added, “Devin resembles you. Have you noticed?”

“It's possible,” Jacob admitted steadily, in spite of a stab of disquiet.

“Probable?”

“You knew Grace: what do you think?”

“I think,” said John, “I still prefer the unicorn. And I think I've been more fortunate in my friends than I probably deserve. Good night, Quartermaster.”

It was a dismissal Jacob could find no good way to refuse. At least John was talking again. At least he could smile. Perhaps, Jacob thought, I did some good. Or perhaps the intention of doing good, in itself, might be more help than anything he'd said or could say. Hopeful words, he recalled, had made little impression in his own time of loss. But the fact of kindness, of caring – John's caring…and Anna's…and Grace's – had not been so easily shaken off as meaningless and empty. They had, he thought now, quite literally kept him alive.

The thought made him feel at once sad, hopeful, and humble.

He collected his cane.

“Oh, and Quartermaster…?” John's voice caught and turned him near the entry. “If… Anna would consent to an examination. If… there's anything you could do. To make her feel better. I'd appreciate it. I think… perhaps medicine is best left to doctors.”

“Of course, John. Anything I can do….”

“Of course. Thank you.”

*****

When Jacob returned to his own chamber, a short distance from the one he occupied in the daytime, the pipes had already gone silent. Devin and Molly were asleep, as was Anna, sitting in a chair, an open book turned over her knee. She jerked awake when Jacob touched her shoulder. Her anxious look was question enough.

“We did talk,” Jacob reported softly. “Not at all about his work. That's apparently too humiliating for him to acknowledge to me. But about… the rest. Your miscarriage. We did talk. He blames himself. If I may advise, don't let yourself be drawn into dispute over the matter. It's not a question of blame, but he's not ready to hear that yet. It's something you'll have to face together – not by trading blame, even to claim it for oneself. He knows you both have friends about you, who care and will help however we can. Beyond that…. A question of time, I expect.” Jacob spread his hands.

“Thank you.”

As Anna rose, gathering her shawl about her, Jacob added, “He loves you very much. He suggested I might treat you. To help you build up your strength again, minimize… the aftereffects. The physical ones. Perhaps you might stop by the infirmary tomorrow.”

Anna smiled fleetingly. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

After Anna left, Jacob stood looking down at the children. On impulse he sat down on the edge of the bed. Molly, a sound sleeper, didn't stir, but Devin lifted his head, blinking sleepily.

“You're back.”

“Yes, I am.” Jacob smoothed the boy's straight, dark hair away from his forehead. “Did Anna read to you?”

“Yes….” Devin yawned, then blinked some more. “She was all right on the wolves. And Mowgli, I guess. But you do Bagheera better. And Shere Kahn. She doesn't get the growls right, like you do.”

“I've probably had more practice,” Jacob commented dryly, and got an alert, comprehending glance from the boy. They both smiled. He's so quick! Jacob marveled, and suddenly tugged the boy upright and drew him into his lap, hugging him close.

For an instant the boy was stiff – wary, uncertain. Then he sighed and tucked his warm cheek against Jacob's shoulder.

Jacob felt his throat grow tight. “I'm thinking,” he commented softly, against Devin's hair, “how very lucky I am to have such a bright, responsible boy to help me look after things.”

“I help? Honest?”

“Indubitably.”

“In-du-bit-ably,” echoed Devin happily, clearly savoring the odd word. “Anna's sad,” he confided, after a moment.

“I know that she is.”

“Why is she sad?”

“Sad things happen to people sometimes. We won't make her think about them by asking questions. Some things are too personal for people to talk about. It hurts if they try. We'll just hope she can be happier soon.”

“Sad things,” Devin mused. “Like my mother dying. I still feel sad about that sometimes.”

“So do I. But your mother wouldn't want us to. She was a very brave, independent woman. And she loved you with every fiber of her being.”

Devin was quiet awhile, then asked, “Where are fibers?”

“Inside.”

“Oh.” Another silence, to work out the implications of that. Then: “Like the Mother Wolf loved Mowgli?”

“Exactly the same.”

“Even though he wasn't her own little boy. And I was Grace's own little boy.”

“Exactly the same,” Jacob repeated, aware of different ramifications to that question.

Even more than most children, Devin preferred to approach dubious subjects indirectly and from odd angles, to guard himself from any potential hurt.

“Bagheera loved Mowgli,” Devin formulated. “Killed a bull for him. To pay the blood price, so the pack would let Mowgli stay and not let Shere Kahn eat him. And Bagheera wasn't even a wolf.”

“That's right. He was a majestic black panther, which is another name for a leopard. Not as big as the tiger, Shere Kahn. All the same, a leopard is very large and very powerful.”

“He could climb trees,” Devin said, and giggled. Jacob thought it best not to inquire into that giggle. “I'm all awake now,” Devin mentioned, leaning away to slant Jacob a sly look.

“Do you think it would be fair for us to read a little more of the story, considering Molly's still asleep? She'll miss it.”

“She won't mind. Anyway, she's asleep. And you can read it again, and she won't know you read it before.”

“I think perhaps you're right. And I'd like to find out what happens next, myself. But you'll have to tell me where Anna left off.”

“The Council Rock.”

Scrambling down, Devin collected the book from the table where Anna had laid it. Wandering back, nose in the book as he carefully turned pages, Devin reported, “It had a picture of the wolves, and Mowgli playing in the dust, because he was just a little boy and didn't know they were all deciding about him, whether to keep him or not. Whether to let Shere Kahn eat him. You can't see Shere Kahn much,” observed Devin critically, finding the proper page and displaying the picture, “but everybody knew he was there….”

As Jacob accepted the book, Devin stood a moment, frowning thoughtfully, then climbed back onto the bed and resettled himself in Jacob's lap. Warmed to the heart, Jacob drew an edge of the quilt around them both. The added weight made his hip ache. He wouldn't have moved for the world.

“I bet the Mother Wolf would have fought, if the pack didn't say she could keep Mowgli,” Devin ventured.

“I imagine that she would. She wouldn't let anyone hurt Mowgli. And her family, the Father Wolf and Mowgli's brothers, they would have fought, too. Family is a powerful thing. And they were all a family because they loved each other.”

“And Mowgli.”

“And Mowgli. He was part of the family. If necessary, they would have left the pack and gone off by themselves to protect him, even though that was dangerous. Did Anna read that part?”

“I like that part. But I'm glad they didn't have to. Could you read from where they go to the Council Rock? Then Molly won't miss anything.”

“An excellent compromise. And I can refresh my memory of what everyone said. I missed reading it to you.”

“Anna's all right,” Devin conceded drowsily. “But you do Bagheera better.”

“Thank you, Devin.”

Turning two pages back and settling the book to a good angle, Jacob began to read.

9

It was the 12th of January, and Julia had slipped on a patch of ice in an upper level and badly sprained her knee.

It was the sixth injury that day: apparently conditions were miserable up top. A sleet storm combined with bitter cold. From late afternoon on, when the foraging parties began returning, Jacob hadn't had a moment's peace. Virtually all the foragers reported having taken spills, commenting that the sidewalks were as slick as glass, and traffic was unbelievably congested. Hurt or unhurt, on getting back, they'd look in on the infirmary to commiserate with the less fortunate, describe their adventures, and hover, nursing chilled fingers and stamping their feet, around the electric heater that kept temperatures some 25° higher than in the rest of the tunnels. And, reportedly, 75° or more warmer than on the streets Above.

“And that wind,” commented Ezra, through the cloth he was holding against his nose, “it just goes right through you.”

It was not an original observation.

“And who's gonna see about supper?” Julia demanded truculently, as Jacob tried to smooth the bandage he was wrapping around her knee. “That's what I want to know. Because I sure as hell ain't.”

Jacob threw up his hands and sat back on his stool, exclaiming, “Chaos is come again!”

“That's okay,” offered Sam, wadding a knitted cap into his coat pocket. “I can see to it, so long as everybody's willing to shove down beans.” Unwinding a scarf, Sam nodded to a companion. “Come on, Ray, give me a hand with stoking the stove. Besides, it's warm in the kitchen.”

“That's good enough for me,” allowed Ray amiably, rubbing his hands together, and the two began edging among the cots.

Before Jacob had finished wrapping Julia's knee, it seemed that the entire community had crowded into the infirmary. The overlapping conversations were deafening.

“Please!” Jacob shouted, shoving hands distractedly through his hair. “This is an infirmary, not a madhouse! Is Elizabeth here? Elizabeth?”

When that tiny, vivacious woman waggled an arm over her grey curls, Jacob groped into the satchel by his feet. When she managed to sidle into reach, he pressed a rattling jar into her hand.

“Elizabeth, here is the entire remaining supply of aspirin. Dispense two to anyone who is in such severe pain they don't believe they can rest tonight. Broken bones, to the left. Bruises, sprains, and contusions, to the right. Anyone losing more than a pint of blood an hour, please call it to my attention at the earliest opportunity. The rest of you, please discuss how cold it is topside somewhere else! Good Lord, I can't hear myself think!”

But the noise only got worse. Something that sounded like a distant fire-engine siren had been added to the din. Jacob had the vague impression someone had called for him, but he paid no attention: he had a possibly broken nose (Ezra) and a nasty elbow contusion (Isabel) yet to even examine, much less treat.

The siren noise increased to a steady shriek.

“Quartermaster.”

Jacob looked up sharply: the voice was John's.

“I'll take over here,” John said. “If you don't mind.”

“With my heartiest --” Jacob began, trying to find something other than Julia's outstretched leg to support himself with while he rose.

John caught his arm and didn't let go once Jacob was standing. John's stillness almost counterbalanced the surrounding noise and confusion.

“Anna has found something…quite unique.”

Rearing back her head, Julia demanded, “What's that noise? Whoever's doing that, stop it! It sets my teeth right on edge!”

Patiently, John continued over the interruption, “He may be dying.”

“What? Who's dying?”

“Come and see.”

Bracing himself against John in lieu of his cane, Jacob let himself be turned and steered toward where Elizabeth was no longer doling out aspirin. Instead, she was standing on tiptoe to crane at a small, dirty bundle of rags held by Anna, still encased in the many layers of full topgoing gear.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, “what is it? Oh,” she said, in quite a different tone, “the poor thing! Was it run over by something?”

“Where'd you find it?” someone else asked. “And why in heaven's name did you bring it back here?” That voice, unidentifiable through a muffler, conveyed a hearty distaste.

John pried apart enough gawkers to propel Jacob through. That Anna's eyes were reddened wasn't worth notice – everyone who'd been out in the wind returned looking like that. But the way they shone made Jacob stop and look at her face. She moved her arms, drawing his attention down--to the source of the shrill, unremitting keening.

Beyond a wide-open pink mouth, Jacob couldn't at first make out any details to even guess what it could be.

Stiffly, gravely, John announced, “It's a boy.”

“It is, is it? Well, let me get a better--” Jacob's better look had the effect of striking him speechless.

“Please help him,” Anna pleaded, brushing at wisps of hair that had escaped her knit hat. “I couldn't get him to quieten, all the way back. I was afraid we'd be noticed, caught, but the wind carried the sound away, and I hurried. Fell a time or two, but I didn't hurt him, I swear I didn't hurt him. I held him up, tight, inside my coat when I fell. I was so afraid. And now he still won't--”

“Yes. Well,” said Jacob, still dumbfounded, looking at the screaming face of something he couldn't quite categorize as either an infant ape or the young of one of the larger cats. He'd had no direct experience of either. There were teeth in that mouth – tiny; pointed. The upper lip was cleft. The high-bridged nose was wrinkled into snarling folds. Bundled in its incongruous swaddling of rags, it was the single most grotesque living thing he'd ever seen.

“Where did you--? No, that will wait. Whatever it is, it's clearly in distress.”

He poked a cautious finger inside the rags, trying to think coherently. “Not hypothermic shock, by the sound of him. That is a very forceful and energetic set of lungs. Does he ever, that is, are there intervals when he stops making that dreadful noise?”

“Not so far,” commented John, perfectly matter-of-fact.

“Yes. I see. That is, I don't see at all! John, Anna, what on earth do you plan to do with this…creature?”

“Oh,” Anna responded, smiling brilliantly, “we're going to keep him!”

Turning, John remarked, “I'll take over with the bruised backsides. You find out what's ailing our newborn unicorn boy.”

*****

Well, he's male, all right. At first, that was about the only thing Jacob was sure of. Newborn was also quickly confirmed by the condition of the neatly tied umbilical. But whoever had tied that knot hadn't bothered to bathe the infant, whose kicking, struggling body was still streaked with the blood of its – his – birth.

That seemed as good a place as any to begin.

Re-wrapping the infant and entrusting the bundle again to Anna, Jacob led the way rapidly to the kitchen, where Sam and Ray had stoked up the fire. Enough hot water remained in the large kettle to dilute a washbasin of frigid water into a merely tepid state.

Bathing the infant, Jacob confirmed a glancing, initial impression: it – he – was covered by silky russet-gold down. Except for soles, palms, neck, and upper face. Thicker on the dorsal surfaces; sparser on the ventral. And each of the precisely 20 digits (unlike cats, he vaguely recalled) was tipped by a small, flattened, and evidently non-retractable talon as stiff as a shard of bamboo.

Yet the limbs were normally formed. Neither legs nor arms back-bent like a quadruped's. A little long in the torso, but limbs of the wrong length for going on all fours and neither palms nor soles padded for it, either. A biped, if it lived to stand.

A hairy, clawed, bipedal child.

Wrapping the baby in a towel, Jacob shook his head hard, trying to shake off both mystification and the wish to believe this was some sort of elaborate prank testing his credulity and the limits of his medical knowledge, like a formaldehyde-pickled chimera made from parts of several different creatures and foisted on first-year students for identification.

But likely or unlikely, this infant creature was most audibly alive and most urgently demanding care.

Back to basics, Jacob told himself firmly. Size, small compared to that of a normal full-term infant. More precisely, eleven and a quarter inches (he sent Sam to the study for a measuring tape), allowing for the difficulty of holding the child still long enough to measure. Weight (hefting the baby and going by educated guess), heavier than he would have expected for the size and the thinness of the limbs: nearly nine pounds. Tiny, but solid. Temperature….

Jacob shook out his thermometer, tried again, and frowned at the result over the tops of his glasses. The child's temperature was 102°. A high fever. No wonder there was no sign of hypothermia! It was burning up! Instead, look for evidence of dehydration.

Reflexes good. Patella, check. Toes curled outward when the sole was stroked--normal for a newborn, the opposite in an older child. Normal. A relief to find something that was. Opposable thumbs on the hands, not the feet; normal, if one overlooked the claws. If one could overlook the claws….

Basics, Jacob reminded himself firmly.

Pupils (what blue eyes! not the all-purpose infant milky shade, that generally changed in a matter of weeks, but blue) contracted normally to a penlight beam. Normally: round pupil, not a vertical slit, like a cat's. Suspicion of a cat's (or a dog's, for that matter) reflective membrane behind the retina (the word tapetum floated through his mind, but he couldn't be certain) that would make the eyes glow when bright light shone on them in darkness.

Startled satisfactorily at sounds. Sounds? Good God, he hasn't stopped making that noise for a single second since I began. How can he hear anything else? More to the point, when does he breathe? So hearing, tentatively, all right. Eyes followed the penlight, widening – fear? – after the initial test. Abnormally precocious eye development. Head rolled away, too, avoiding the disquieting brightness. Abnormally developed coordination, as well. Yes, what was next? Breathing. More surprises. The respiration and pulse rate of an infant deep asleep, though quickening measurably when Jacob noticed Winslow's moon face peering, fascinated, over the table-edge and shooed him peremptorily away, crying, “This is not a zoo! Ray, someone, please get those children out of here! Francine – Francine! Or Anna, fine: please fetch my record notebook, it's in the -- Devin, didn't you just hear me say – !”

Some minutes later, Anna tugged at his sleeve and offered, “I'll write it down,” while Jacob stood crouched over the infant, doubting what the stethoscope persisted in telling him. Very well, a high fever combined with a strikingly subnormal rate of respiration and pulse. Either we have here a very ill infant … or one so abnormal that I have no idea what to do next. Well, Dr. Wells – care to flip a coin?

“I'm used to doing that,” Anna added.

“What?” Jacob straightened, feeling as though he either had cotton in his ears or else he'd very much like some.

“I've taken notes for John,” Anna explained, displaying his notebook and a newly-sharpened pencil.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so…. No. The notes can wait. Practicalities first. He's clean, warm, dry, and probably starving. Once we feed him, he'll undoubtedly feel better. And may stop that noise. I keep the tinned formula in the second cabinet--”

“I know where it is.” Anna sprinted back to the passage.

While Elizabeth prepared and warmed the formula, Jacob studied what he'd been half-intentionally avoiding: the ugly mite's face. Harelip. Abnormal jaw musculature, which rendered the cheeks almost gaunt compared to the plump pads of a normal child. Profile rounder and flatter than a normal newborn's because the nose itself was broader and flatter than it should be, ending in narrow nostrils slanted on a diagonal.

God in heaven, I wonder if I should check whether its nose is cold. Don't I recall that a hot, dry nose pad is a sign of illness in dogs? But there was no nose pad, not really. Just the shape and suggestion of one. And hot and dry therefore probably meant nothing more than did running a temperature of 102°. Was it good or bad? Something to be treated (how?) or something to be maintained as natural and necessary to this unsightly chimera?

Jacob further disarranged his hair in perplexity and vexation.

Sam, leaning close, inquired, “What d'you think it is?”

“I think… there's going to be hell to pay from John if it dies. Not to mention Anna. That's what I think. Ah, good.”

Elizabeth, likewise peering at the child, had stuck out a hand holding the prepared bottle without bothering to determine whether it was handy to Jacob or not. With a sour look, he leaned to collect the bottle. Then he seated himself on a bench, arranged a towel across his chest, and was ready to have the siren child handed to him for its first meal.

It rapidly became plain that although the infant could evidently breathe and scream at the same time, it could not – or would not – nurse and scream simultaneously. And of the two, it preferred screaming, even at the price of choking.

Jacob slowly handed the bottle to the nearest set of hands, absently noting that the infirmary must be empty now: everyone had followed here, to be spectators.

For the first time, he was seriously alarmed. Whatever it was, the creature was a mammal, with the male vestigial nipples to prove it. It therefore needed milk for nourishment, not moonbeams. And if it wouldn't eat, it would waste away. And then it would die. And what that would do to Anna and John didn't bear thinking about.

This appalling freak, John had plainly embraced as his personal miracle. Whether the child lived or died, Jacob had a sense of foreboding about that. In one sense, all children were miracles; in another, none of them was. For Anna, any child would be miracle enough; but John required more. And that was too much to expect of any child, much less one so obviously and unalterably ill-fitted for any rational human society.

Jacob had the wretched feeling that in trying to keep this child alive, he was midwifing tragedy. But as a doctor, he had no choice but to try.

He had no facilities for intravenous feeding, let alone for a flailing baby with veins the diameter of thread. He had no idea what to do, or not do. But if something wasn't done quite soon, the creature would certainly die.

Again, there was no choice. Some way, he had to surpass, transcend, the limitations.

Leaving the infant again in Anna's anxious care, Jacob hauled himself erect and headed down the passage to the study for notepaper and a pen. In the blessed comparative quiet, he settled at his desk and prepared to do the otherwise unthinkable: write a letter to Peter Alcott.

*****

At last hearing what might be the crunch of footsteps beyond the sheet steel door, Jacob took a deep, steadying breath, then threw the lever. The culvert door rolled away. Through the barred gate, a flashlight beam leaped to strike him full in the face. He stood, enduring it. Either it would be the police, or it would not.

He'd have preferred to wait on the far side of the threshold – outside. To leave an unremarkable shut door between him and the tunnels and thereby diminish the risk to anyone except himself. But the outer culvert had simply been too cold. After an hour, he'd been forced back inside.

Dazzled, he watched his breath plume white in the flashlight's glare. “Peter?”

“Jacob?” The flashlight beam continued to linger – testimony to the outlandish ragamuffin figure he must present to this onetime friend and colleague.

“A piece of him,” said Jacob resignedly. Pushing the gate ajar, taking care to do nothing sudden or frightening, he moved into the frigid open space of the threshold. He leaned on his heavy stick lest it be taken for a weapon and did nothing to even try to disguise his limp. He waited, shivering, letting himself be inspected. Finally, he had to turn his face aside.

“I'm sorry. The light hurts my eyes.”

The light was hastily snapped off, with a muffled apology.

“I wouldn't have known you,” admitted Peter's cultured voice, a little shakily, followed by a nervous laugh.

“I barely know myself anymore. But I do appreciate your answering an appeal from such a dubious and distant phantom.”

“Your note,” Peter said, sobering, “was most urgent. And I'd rather be a fool than a skeptic.”

“Good. Because your credulity will be stretched tonight. Mine already has been. But Peter. You now hold my liberty in your hands. Over six years ago I disappeared – quite deliberately. A deportation order hangs over me like a writ of execution. Because I would rather die than be found. But in these years, I've found a home. People… I care for. And rather than jeopardize them, I'll surrender now, without protest, to whatever punishment the demented law may impose. I am in complete earnest. Your discretion is, quite literally, a matter of life or death to a score and more of good people who are dear to me. Before we go any further, I must have your absolute word never to reveal the slightest hint, ever, of my survival or of what I propose to show you.”

After a silence, Peter responded, “You said a child was severely ill.”

“He is. Nothing less could have induced me to contact you.”

“And nothing less would have persuaded me to come. Certainly not at such an hour, and on a night like this! Of course you have my word, Jacob. Absolutely and without reservation. Where is the child?”

“Come,” said Jacob, turning. “I'll show you.”

Passing caged utility lights, Peter looked around at the large round cement sewer pipes stretching out, and branching off, as far as could be seen. “Les Miserables?” he commented in a jocular tone.

“I've thought of that,” Jacob responded, glancing at the taller man. Cashmere overcoat, natty checked scarf, warm astrakhan hat with the earflaps down. Polished shoes, probably hand-lasted. Medical bag of fine leather. Peter the specialist was doing well for himself. Jacob found he was less resentful of that, and less mortified by his own rag-bag appearance, than he'd expected. The shared function of “doctoring” seemed to make the disparity less important than in his anxious imaginings.

He continued, “But it's much too cold up here. And there's too great a danger of discovery. We live deeper. Far below the frost line. We'll be warmer soon,” he added, stopping to wait out another fit of shivering that threatened to make him stumble.

As they went on, Jacob was aware of Peter's inspection. He endured that as he'd endured the flashlight. It felt much the same. He squelched the impulse to babble explanations, excuses. He was what he was. Not a beggar or a tramp – merely a citizen of another country. And this was traditional dress. He refused to apologize for it.

Presently Peter commented, “You're limping. A recent injury?”

Relieved by Peter's tact, Jacob shook his head.

“Years ago. I'm used to it now. At the time, a friend was determined I send for you and I adamantly refused. Not two hours ago, I had a shouting match with that same friend when he learned I'd sent for you and intended to meet you. He's come to feel no one is to be trusted with our secret. Odd, how things happen….

“We are, as you may have gathered, a community. And this evening one of us, a woman named Anna, happened to be passing through an alley that abuts St. Vincent's hospital. She heard a strange sound and investigated. And in a large refuse bin – a dumpster, I believe they're called? – she found a baby. Alive, but in obvious and natural distress. He's been brought to me for care. A baby, as I say – but a baby what? I've never seen such extensive deformities, even in the journals. And I simply don't know what to do, or to refrain from doing.”

With growing discomfort amounting to a kind of indignation, Jacob detailed his examination of the baby, finishing, “I assure you, it's all true. I hope I've convinced you that too much hangs by this for me to have involved you in some absurd practical joke.”

Peter's long, bony face creased into a saturnine smile. “You've convinced me that I'm intrigued. But I'm not sure I'm what you need, Jacob – I'm not a vet.”

“No, but you'll do,” Jacob retorted. “And you're what I can get.”

“Touché.” Ducking at a low junction, Peter asked, “How much farther?”

Jacob considered. “About an hour. Less, if you'd be willing to help me navigate a ladder and some stairs.”

“The shorter way, then. I'm due for surgery in the morning. Lead on.”

*****

No more than sound was needed to tell Jacob that the infant had been removed from the kitchen to the study. Other than the baby's yowling, it had become very quiet: he'd heard word of the stranger running ahead of them on the pipes.

Grabbing the railing to descend the stair, Jacob found the study quiet too: the playpen was empty of infants and toddlers, and Francine blessedly appeared to have collected the older children elsewhere. More surprising was that the spectators had vacated, as well. Perhaps they'd had enough of the noise; or perhaps John, holding the baby and glowering like a dog over a bone, made the chamber seem less than congenial.

“John,” said Jacob, as Peter stripped off his overcoat, “this is Peter. He's going to examine your baby.”

Waiting long enough to make his suspicion and hostility more than evident, John consented to surrender the screaming bundle of towels. Peter affected to take no notice, becoming immediately absorbed in inspecting the infant. Stretching out the thin limbs, finding out if it would grasp his finger (it did). Rolling the head aside to see how quickly it would return. Looking into its howling mouth. Smelling its breath. Palpating the abdomen. Turning it to trace, with a fingertip, the line of the spine. Tactfully not repeating Jacob's procedures, showing that he accepted that gross data as accurate.

Therefore politely remarking, “I'd like to have a listen to his chest,” before pulling out his own stethoscope and standing, head cocked, as he moved the disc here and there.

Pushing aside the earpieces, so that the stethoscope became a dangling necklace, Peter straightened, beaming, and exclaimed to no one in particular, “He's marvelous!”

“A miracle,” John responded, thawing slightly at the praise of his treasure, “a mystery, and a wonder.”

“But what is it?” Jacob demanded.

Looking around, Peter commented, “More than you might think is within the range of normal variation. The hirsuteness, for instance. Many babies are born hairier than that. The down sloughs off in a month or two, and no one knows it was ever there. The odd crying has a name: cri du chat, often associated with pharyngeal abnormalities and cleft lip, which is, by the way, quite common-place… but usually not so symmetrical. And never without some corresponding deformation of the palate. I thought the difficulty in suckling might be due to that – that he couldn't close his mouth properly and generate sufficient suction. But it's not that. That palate is perfectly formed. This is a perfectly normal child.”

“You're not going to attempt to tell me the differences are merely cosmetic,” Jacob challenged.

“Not at all. Merely that there's a pattern to them. A pleasing symmetry, a significant harmony. A body formed to function perfectly, according to its own kind. There are no deformities, Jacob. Stop blinding yourself with expectations geared to a human infant and you'll see how beautiful he is.”

“He's not human.” Jacob sagged back against the desk, feeling his direst suspicions confirmed.

“There's enough resemblance to pass,” Peter answered cheerfully, again glancing fondly down at the child. “Humanoid, certainly. More resemblance than difference. Far more. I can't speak to the genetics of it, but this little one is more closely akin to us than either he or we are to a squirrel, for example. Or to a cougar, for that matter. It's probably the closeness that throws you off, not the differences. If you're expecting a pink, button, upturned nose, a high-bridged variety, lightly furred, looks wrong, deformed. But it's the expectation that's wrong. He's not a faulty approximation of a normal child. He's a splendid example of a child of his own kind, which happens to have a number of resemblances to our kind.”

“So what are we to do?” demanded Jacob despairingly.

“When in doubt, ask the patient,” Peter replied. “Might you have available such a thing as a hot water bottle?”

“Second cabinet,” said Jacob, and John immediately went to locate it, then headed for the stairs.

Peter called after him, “And would that bottle of formula you tried on him still be available?”

John nodded and kept going.

Watching until John disappeared, Peter commented quietly, “There's some congestion in the lungs.” Unhooking his stethoscope, he offered it to Jacob.

Jacob listened, then nodded slowly, confirming, “It wasn't like that when I left.”

“And there's a sour smell to the breath I don't like – catarrhal. I don't mean to alarm you, but I suspect our boy here will be worse before he's better. It's dreadfully cold out there. I think there's been some damage whose effects he's been able to fight off until now. Try to help him fight it: a steam tent for the rest of the night.”

“I can improvise one. Antibiotics?”

“I'd be cautious about drugs, given how little we know about his physiology. Even aspirin. But I'll leave a broad-spectrum antibiotic with you. If the congestion becomes severe, try it as a last resort. I expect,” Peter added, glancing toward the playpen, “you've had recent experience with croup.”

“More than I ever wanted,” agreed Jacob dourly.

“Treat it like croup, then. That would be the safest. Oh, good.”

John had returned with the filled water bottle.

Wrapping it in several layers of towel, Peter commented, “If the child is fevered, as the temperature would indicate, he'll be fretful to have his temperature pushed still further.”

“How would one tell?” inquired Jacob, thinking that the baby was already screaming as loud as it possibly could and flailing away with all four limbs.

“Physically fretful. Simply, he'll roll away. He clearly has the coordination to do that. Now, let's see what he tells us.” Peter laid the wrapped bottle next to the child. After perhaps a minute of aimless motion and unchanged howling, the baby lurched, then rolled over – toward the source of heat. Tiny claws locked in the toweling and began kneading.

There was, unimaginably, an instant of astonishing and total silence. Then the baby's face turned and wrinkled up. The strange crying resumed. But he continued clutching the toweling.

“He's discovered,” Peter whispered, “it's not mommy. But that disposes of the fever hypothesis. Consider 102° the benchmark. Anything above that is fever, and to be treated as such. I won't teach my grandmother to suck eggs by mentioning cool baths, alcohol rubs, and the like.”

Already having neatly done so. Leaning against the desk, Jacob smiled, in spite of himself.

“Now,” Peter continued, “let's see if we can tempt the little fellow to eat.”

But that attempt, tried first with a twist of milk-moistened toweling, then with an eye-dropper, produced only choking. He simply would not suckle.

Standing back, hand thoughtfully cupping chin, Peter commented soberly, “That's need. He's in desperate need of something that will trigger suckling, and milk alone isn't it. Could we try water?”

Water produced exactly the same results.

Peter bent down by the child and stroked its belly. “You're warm, not seriously congested yet, and undoubtedly hungry. Yet you need something, something else, before you can eat. It's not that the liquid's wrong. It's not that you're too weak to suckle. It's not that there's some tracheal obstruction setting off a gag reflex. The airways are clear, if you can howl like that. So what is it that you need, little stranger? How can I get you to tell me?”

Straightening up, Peter commented to no one in particular, “I gather taking him into a hospital is out of the question.”

“Quite,” replied John curtly.

“Yes. I see. Well.” Peter spread his hands, then began putting his instruments away in the bag. “I think I've done all I can, for the moment. I'd like to do some reading. It might suggest some different approach. I'll come back tomorrow evening, if you'll allow it, but in the meantime, is there some way I could get word to you if--”

“There's a tobacconist on Thirty-third Street,” said Jacob. “Salvatore Cavallo. You can reach us through him. And someone will meet you at the park threshold…at nine?”

“Seven. I have a dinner, but I can get out of it.” Peter put on his coat.

“I'll see him out,” said John, unexpectedly. “Whatever damage there was to do, has already been done.”

Finding Peter looking to him for an opinion, Jacob nodded, grateful to be relieved of that long hike.

On the stairs, John looked back and gave Jacob a dire look. “Take good care of my boy.”

“Oh dear,” Jacob sighed, and sat more heavily back on the desk, gazing at the steadily screaming child.

*****

By the following night, the child was no better and the screaming had become panting cries interrupted by seizures of coughing. Steam seemed to help slightly, but the child still had eaten nothing.

During Peter's visit, Jacob admitted, “I'm about ready to go out of my mind.”

“I think we should venture the antibiotics now,” Peter commented, with the clear implication that this was the last ditch, with nothing more to lose.

“He's strong,” John contended, scowling. “He'll survive. There's some obvious answer. You simply haven't found it yet.”

Jacob gathered, from that comment, that he'd be the sole claimant of any failure. And he noticed, the following day, that neither John nor Anna looked in at all. Probably the sight of the child, crying and struggling for breath, was more than either of them could take. But the effect was to make Jacob feel very much alone.

All the children had been removed: the crying upset them, naturally. And more than one parent had expressed reservations about their child being kept near some kind of sick thing. Unfortu-nate, but understandable.

“I'm sorry,” he told Devin and Molly, as he tucked them in for the night, “that I'll have to miss story time again tonight. But our little visitor needs constant watching.”

“Is he very sick?” Molly asked, wide-eyed. “Is he going to die?”

“Yes, he's very sick, Molly, and I don't know the answer to your other question. I'm doing everything I can.”

Sitting up in bed, Devin asked, “Can I see him?”

Molly made a disgusted face. “He's icky! Hairy all over. Winslow said.”

“Please?” Devin insisted, ignoring her. “Just for a little while. When he's still alive. I won't touch anything. Please?”

“I don't see why not,” Jacob reflected, and helped Devin into robe and knitted slipper-socks. They scuffed together along the passage.

The baby had been laid in a milk crate lined with towels. Bracing against the table, Jacob drew the crate from under the improvised steam tent and set it on a bench. Devin bent over it avidly.

“He's not so icky,” Devin reported, glancing up. He sounded vaguely disappointed. “Just funny looking. Why's he making that noise? I can hear it even over there.” He waved at the upper level, where a passage connected this chamber to the one they'd just left.

“He's sick and unhappy. He needs the steam. It helps him breathe. I should put him back inside now.”

Devin watched the return of the crate to the tent with evident interest. Curiosity satisfied, he seemed quite content to skip back down the passage, holding Jacob's hand, and be put back to bed.

Some two hours later, glancing up from checking the baby's breathing, Jacob noticed a telltale corner of patchwork blanket hanging over the edge of the upper entry. Backing a pace, he spotted a tousled dark head and the bulge of a shoulder. He considered, but decided to let the spy be. Devin had sense enough to return to bed if he grew cold. And Jacob found he appreciated the company.

The baby's breath had grown quicker and more difficult. The cries had diminished to an exhausted creaking noise on each exhalation. The kicking and waving had stopped. Whatever one felt toward the strange child, one couldn't help sympathizing with its struggle, so clearly nearing its end.

It was hard to watch any child suffering so. Hard to maintain any sort of professional objectivity, as one should. On those occasions when Devin had been ill, Jacob had been terrified and frantic. He'd been embarrassed, afterward, recalling those excesses of irrational emotionalism. That no doctor should treat his own child was axiomatic: one was too involved to weigh all the alternatives, too frightened for reliable, impartial judgment. But he'd had no choice. Fortunately, it seemed to have done no harm. Devin had survived Jacob's lamentably unprofessional concern.

What harm could it do now if he indulged the impulse to simply do something, however futile, rather than merely wait for that difficult breath to stop?

He reached inside the tent and scooped the child up. Supporting its back with a palm, he laid it against his shoulder and began pacing the chamber, remembering the many times he'd walked Devin back and forth, for hours at a time. And not only Devin. In Jacob's mind, the child he held became all children who'd ever been dependent on his care. He felt how much he'd wanted them to be whole and happy and well. How dear each child was – filled with wonderful possibilities, exploding with life, and into life. The children that were life, shooting forward into the future with fresh momentum and endless energy like arrows from a bow, rising into the dazzle, lifting out of sight. Each one unique and precious –

He felt the slight pressure of claw-points digging through his shirt. Then he heard, close by his ear, the labored creaking stop. Head bowed, weeping, Jacob continued walking, steadily patting the small back, wishing it could have been otherwise after so long and determined a battle.

When he wandered against the desk and then nearly tripped against a bench, he admitted that what he was doing made no sense. Drawing out the milk crate, he carefully laid the baby down in it. The baby screeched.

Startled nearly into falling, Jacob wasted no time popping the baby back onto his shoulder and resuming his halting circuit of the chamber. Instantly, the baby quieted. Its eased breath became soundless again, barely to be detected. Jacob propped for a moment against the upper staircase, dizzy with relief, weariness, and unconditional joy.

“Devin. I know you're up there. Please ask Francine to go to the kitchen and prepare another bottle.”

Fairly caught, Devin pushed up on his forearms and looked down from his hiding place. “It's awful late. What if they're asleep?”

“Pascal, the elder or the younger – one of them will hear.”

Belatedly, it occurred to Jacob that Devin might not be confident of his ability to convey so long and complex a message in pipecode. With that in mind, he added, “But if they don't, go to their chamber and call – politely, from the passage. Will you do that?”

“By myself? Go way up there, all by myself?” Devin sounded more excited than alarmed.

“Exactly. It would take a brave boy to go that far, so late, but I'm sure I can depend on you to do it.”

“Is he gonna be all right?”

Jacob shut his eyes. “I think, now, that he will.”

*****

“The child is the meaning of this life,” declared John solemnly, scanning the assembly gathered around the table on which he stood. “Without children to carry on, what we've done here, and are still to do, becomes empty and purposeless. We have chosen to separate ourselves from the world Above. We've made our own world Below. Not merely for ourselves, but for the children--now, and to come.

“We're closer to the earth, here. We live among absolutes: stone and space, heat and cold, water and wind, light and the deepest darkness. Natural things. Primal things. Powers the world Above has either tamed, ignored, or forgotten. Unadorned reality. What they have thrown away, we claim: the dark; the magical; the irrational; the natural and bestial, uncontaminated by reason.

“The world Above is inevitably doomed. We all know that. It's why we've rejected it and come here. Civilization, and all its warped works, is dying: who could walk the streets of this great and terrible city, as we have done, and not see that it's collapsing, day by day, year by year? Perhaps, as some say, the end will come through nuclear bombs. Perhaps nothing more is needed to destroy it than its own greed, materialism, and stupidity. The method makes no difference. What's important is that only the strong will survive. We must prepare for that day: when civilization collapses into unredeemed savagery, when the only law is superior strength, power, and ferocity. As emblem of that, I have been given a sign.”

Reaching down, John carefully slipped the infant from the chest sling that kept it upright, its breathing easy, and held it above him, turning it so everyone gathered in the Great Hall could see it plainly.

“I've been given a sign,” John said again. “This child, unique in all the world. A miracle, a mystery, and a wonder, who bears in his body the mark of the beast. Who will grow to be strong, and wise, and fearless, to be an example to us all in the time that's coming. My son.”

The child had started to fret and wiggle. Before he could begin crying, John hastily lowered him, to return him to the sling. Standing against a wall, Jacob heard Julia sigh with relief, then mutter to Ray, “I didn't figure on no sermon. I hope he don't go on too much longer, or that soup will be cold.”

“Think he's about done,” Ray muttered back. “It's got that sound about it. He does talk fine, though. All those fine words.”

“Sure, John can talk. Fine words don't heat soup,” Julia retorted, folding her arms.

Jacob caught Anna smiling and guessed she'd overheard the exchange too. His own smile faded quickly. It was hard to give civil attention to such overblown metaphysical claptrap; and John's trying to present the baby as the harbinger of some bizarre doom was even more preposterous. However odd, it was just a baby – not an omen. Not Destiny incarnate. Such things weren't possible: the very idea was ridiculous.

Jacob found it all acutely embarrassing…and subtly worrisome.

Having gotten the child settled without an eruption of shrieking, John looked up again.

“I've named my son Vincent. The meaning of the name is one who prevails. One who conquers. And in honor of his naming and this new beginning, I've decided to take a new name for myself. Long ago, there was a man famed for seeing beyong the obvious, into the deep mysteries of life. His name was Paracelsus. Hoping to emulate him, I claim his name for my own in these latter days. Forget I was John Pater: hereafter, I am Paracelsus.”

“Forget that.” Julia snorted scornfully. “I want me some soup. He may not think he's done, but I do.”

Moving, Julia drew others in her wake, like a tugboat. Conversations started, drowning out whatever John's final words might have been. After a moment, he nodded and climbed down from the table. Everyone drifted toward the big soup pot, milling, waiting their turn. Jacob stayed where he was, waiting for the crowd to clear.

A hand on his arm made him look around, and he found Anna beside him. “Don't look so glum,” she chided, smiling. “John always orates when he's happy. And our Vincent has made him happier than I've ever seen him. The speech expands in proportion.”

“I'm not used to apocalyptic rhetoric before supper,” Jacob commented, with restraint. “And renaming oneself for a medieval alchemist, charlatan, and fortuneteller seems a bit… eccentric.”

“It will be all right. We'll settle down to the real world of three o'clock feedings and dirty diapers that are the same everywhere, and just be a family. If he thinks I'm going to answer to ‘Anna Paracelsus,' after all these years, he's got another think coming.”

Jacob nodded. It was reasonable and likely right. “At least, Vincent bore up very well, considering. He dislikes crowds.”

“Oh, John gave him something to keep him from being too upset. He's doing wonderfully, though. A dream come magically true, thanks to you. We're both so grateful. But I should collect Vincent now for his nap.”

With a final arm pat, Anna drifted happily away, leaving Jacob, still vaguely disquieted, revolving in his mind the alarming phrase 'gave him something' instead of thinking about soup.

10

Vincent sat on Catherine's balcony, listening to her read one of Rilke's gloriously intense poems. Yet he was not altogether caught up in the vivid images or in the sober delight of Catherine's voice giving them life and immediacy. Many things contributed to his satisfaction. The warm April evening, whose occasional breezes stirred Catherine's hair, so that she lifted her hand to absently brush the strands aside without pausing in her reading.

Somehow Catherine's absorption in the poetry freed him to be separate, to watch her with a fervency and a directness he would have immediately turned aside if she'd noticed.

The lift of her hand was beautiful to him – the graceful lack of self-consciousness. How comfortable she was within herself. How comfortable in his company. He would have liked the freedom to touch her breeze-stirred hair like that: gently, unfelt, unnoticed, quietly cherishing her as she read. But it was almost as good to watch her move and be still, to float within the current of her contentment and happy self-forgetfulness conveyed to him by the bond.

And there was a more immediate pleasure. Sometimes, with the same kind of absent gesture, her hand would lift and her fingers touch the pendant she wore, making no distinction between herself and his gift. A multi-sided clear quartz crystal he'd journeyed deep to discover, bound with gold wire and strung on a thin gold chain. Simple. Sparkling. Catching light at her every motion, her every breath, as though it had become alive through its contact with her, her acceptance. More than acceptance: her continuing delight in his gift, so that even as preoccupied as she was, she'd touch it, freshening her awareness of it without interrupting her reading.

Each time, it was as if she'd touched, not the pendant, but his undefended soul. The sweetness was almost beyond bearing. Vincent would lean back against the parapet and shut his eyes, overcome for an instant by joy at what joy she took from the crystal. And he'd find his hand closing around the leather pouch that hung against his heart, holding the gift she'd given him: an ivory rose that was to her an emblem of childhood security and love. A keepsake. A personal treasure given her by her mother – full of resonances and dear memories. Something of hers, she'd said, for him to keep close and know that even when they were apart, she was thinking of him. Precious; fragile. It might so easily be broken. But would never be, because he was infinitely careful of it, touching it only with the lightest brush of fingertips or holding it in his palm to renew the wonder that she'd entrusted such delicacy to his care, knowing he'd always cherish it and keep it safe.

He'd never felt so close to Catherine as now. The anniversary, and the exchange of gifts, had somehow added an extra dimension to their relationship. That and the fact that, after all, Catherine had decided against having the final scar removed – the one at her left temple, beside her ear. Those things told him that she'd finally come to terms with the attack that had brought them together; that she no longer felt diminished by any physical imperfection but had learned to value other beauties, inner worth, more than surface flawlessness; that the second week in April had now, for her, become something to celebrate, not a nightmare she'd prefer to forget. The joy of their finding one another had become more important to her than the suffering of the attack that had nearly crushed her spirit. He knew what her suffering had been. So he knew what the strength of the joy must be, that had displaced it.

The strength of her love, whose emblem was the petals of an ivory rose.

And the strength of his, unspoken but warmly accepted, implicit in the bright shard of stone she now and again caressed.

Vincent had never been so happy.

He blinked and found her looking at him with warm amusement. “You were a thousand miles away,” she chided.

His heart lurched and he felt heat rising in his face. But he looked past and above her, as though casually, at the starry night sky serrated by the tops of nearby buildings. “Not that far.”

“Does Rilke always put you to sleep?” she persisted, because she always enjoyed any pretext to tease him.

He was much too solemn, he knew. But he also knew she didn't really mind and that she enjoyed the teasing as a game – like the poetry, something they could share.

“He takes me,” he responded, “to places I've never been. And could never truly imagine. Until now.”

As she shut the book, her mouth quirked and her eyes were fond. “And where did he take you this time?”

He considered a moment. “Into the night. A vast, soft darkness….”

“Aha: you were asleep!” Then her eyes changed, and she regarded him, head tilted. “Was the work hard today?”

He shook his head. “After classes, I helped Winslow install a door where a passage is being rerouted. But the spring repairs are almost done, unless there's a great deal of rain.”

“There's none forecast,” she commented hopefully, rising from her decorative wrought iron chair to turn and gaze at the sky. “Maybe….” She leaned forward over the parapet. “Oh, look,” she said excitedly, glancing around, then pointing.

Answering the summons, standing behind her, Vincent saw what had caught her attention: a balloon trailing a length of string, drifting down.

“They're sold at concession stands in the park,” he commented, not much interested but trying to respond to Catherine's enthusiasm.

“Some child was probably devastated to lose it,” Catherine remarked, watching the balloon. “And now it's going on a journey.”

“As the evening cools, it's settling,” Vincent offered, and Catherine glanced up to make a face at him.

“It's had adventures,” she insisted. “Maybe it's not even from the park. Maybe it's drifted thousands of miles in search of the child who most needs a balloon. It's looking in the windows,” she pointed out in defense of her fancy, as the balloon bumped a higher balcony of an adjoining building. For a moment it disappeared. Then it floated over the parapet and resumed its slow descent, carried on the fitful breeze.

As it skimmed the side of Catherine's building, Vincent braced himself for Catherine's disappointment if it burst against the bricks' roughness. But it rebounded and then paused as though watching them with as much interest as Catherine was watching it. Like a head craning this way and that to see past an obstruction. Its string, Vincent realized, had momentarily snagged on an ivy trellis on the balcony of an apartment on the next higher floor. The breeze made it bob against the wall as though it were now trying, with the last of its feeble energies, to escape.

“Is it caught?” Catherine asked softly, trying to see.

“I think it is,” Vincent confirmed moderately, not mentioning that he could see, not merely the pale streak of string, but that the balloon bore the words VISIT CENTRAL PARK. He didn't want to collapse Catherine's harmless fantasy.

She turned to set both palms on his chest. “Could we rescue it? You could take it Below, give it to some child there. They'd be so surprised!”

She seemed so happy with the prospect that Vincent didn't mention that the children often collected wayward balloons in the park and brought them home. But the rough walls Below weren't kind to balloons' fragile skins: either they broke in transit or the children anticipated the inevitable and popped them unexpectedly to startle their fellows. Sebastian, a helper, was always passing around balloons on his visits Below, despite Father's requests that he desist, since the balloons generally occasioned storms of tears at their inevitable demise. “What's better,” Sebastian would challenge sturdily, “to have had a balloon and lost it, or never to have had a balloon at all? Where else can so much wonder and wisdom be had for pennies? Permit me, please, to practice my craft.” And then he'd blow up another balloon to present to the next waiting wide-eyed child.

None of that mattered. Catherine wanted the balloon. Therefore Vincent wanted to get it for her.

Going to the other end of the balcony, he estimated the distance, judging what he could safely hold on the far balcony for the instant he'd need. He didn't bother considering the 18 story drop: he worked over far greater depths than that nearly every day, and was accustomed to traverses among and across the staggered balconies each time he visited Catherine, taking his accustomed path down from her roof. Once he'd envisioned the jump in his mind, doing it was all one motion, without hesitation. He sprang to stand on her parapet, then leaped up and out. His right hand caught the top of the other balcony for the second it took his left hand to sweep around and catch the string as he turned, hanging. Then he kicked away, falling, almost flying, and landed almost soundlessly on Catherine's balcony again. His bent knees absorbed the shock of landing. He bent further, going down on one knee and bending his head as he presented the balloon to Catherine like a bouquet, unable to resist a slight flourish in doing so.

Catherine accepted the gift with a bobbed curtsey and such a rush of breathless delight that it dizzied him. He wished there'd been a dozen balloons he could snare for her, to receive such thanks. Probably it was just as well, therefore, that there weren't: Father would have had cardiac arrest if he'd known Vincent had made a jump like that for so trivial a purpose. But it wasn't trivial. Catherine had wanted the balloon, and he'd given it to her. And she was pleased with it, leading it away across the balcony like a floating pet, to look at it in the light streaming from her open French doors.

Straightening and following along, Vincent reflected that fortunately it wasn't likely he'd have to discuss the matter with Father at all.

In the light, the balloon was revealed as red; the lettering was plainly visible. Glancing back, Catherine conceded, “Well, maybe not a thousand miles. But it's definitely had an adventure. It's - Oh!”

The sagging balloon had encountered her chair's projecting filigree. What brick hadn't done, iron had. Catherine was suddenly holding a dangling string with a scrap of deflated rubber at the end.

And then, as suddenly, she wasn't – because Vincent had swatted the string out of her grasp and over the edge of the balcony in a spasm of terror that had burst within him like the exploding of the balloon. In that same instant. And for no reason he knew, he'd been terrified, enraged, and convinced that the balloon was, in some unaccountable way, a dreadful threat to Catherine. For an instant, the night had been filled with menace. And he'd struck out at it. And he now had no idea why.

He'd frightened Catherine. Done something strange and violent in her presence. Which he must never do. Which filled him with a different terror.

Heart pounding, shaken to his soul, he stood meeting Catherine's startled, alarmed gaze. Then he turned away, closing his hands into tight fists. He said abruptly, “It's late. I should let you rest.”

As he moved, Catherine caught his arm. So he stood, with her bewilderment and concern arcing through him at the contact.

But all she said was, “There's one more poem I wanted to read. Can't you stay a little longer?”

So of course it was impossible to leave. Making no response, he returned to his place in the far corner of her balcony and sat hugging his knees, waiting for his heart to slow from its panicky race and for his head to clear. He felt feverish and ill.

Catherine read one poem and then, immediately, launched into another that went on for several pages. Vincent gathered it had to do with trees swept by a storm. He couldn't attend. He only noticed, after awhile, that Catherine's voice had stopped. He looked up to find her looking at him steadily. He could read nothing in her face, feel nothing in her except calm.

“Will you tell me,” she asked quietly, “what was wrong?”

“There's nothing to tell. I'm… sorry I frightened you.”

“You frightened yourself more than you did me,” Catherine responded acutely. “Was it the noise that took you by surprise?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” Vincent took a deep breath. “It seemed…wrong. Dangerous.”

“The balloon?” she prompted gently.

He nodded stiffly.

“Always? Or only when it burst? You wouldn't have brought it to me if you felt it could hurt me,” Catherine reflected, answering her own question. “What about it seemed different to you? Was it because it was in the light?”

“It's nothing,” Vincent burst out, with a sharp gesture of dismissal. “Absurd. There can be no harm in such a thing. I don't know why ... There's no reason, Catherine. I'm sorry.”

“There's always a reason. Not necessarily a logical reason, but a reason. I'm thinking that most hallucinogens have the potential for causing what they call ‘flashbacks.' Random objects seem somehow tainted and set off a reaction. A buried memory of that experience comes suddenly to consciousness, out of context, so it doesn't seem to make any sense. Perhaps Paracelsus' drug --”

“No. He's dead. It's over.”

Bowed in her chair, Catherine seemed not to hear him. She began fingering her pendant.

“I have flashes like that sometimes. Or I used to. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a van passing and I'm suddenly stumbling with panic. Or I see a man's arm with a tattoo, and think it's a picture of a snake, and then see it's something like ‘MOM' with a heart around it. Perfectly harmless. Or I catch sight of myself in a mirror and a smudge of ink on my cheek becomes slashes and sutures….”

Roused from his distress by hers, Vincent went and knelt down by her chair, enclosing her free hand in both his.

“You've come beyond that,” he told her, and got a slow, steady, heartfelt smile in response.

“I've healed,” she said simply. “Because of you. And what scars I have, I've learned to live with.” Her other hand lifted to meditatively touch her temple – and the scar. “It means I've survived. Even that, I've survived. And I'm strong enough now to survive again, if I have to. I can be hurt, but never broken again. Because of you. So don't be ashamed if old hurts sometimes surface. They're honorable scars. And they have no power unless you let them. You taught me that.”

Her smile, and her confidence, and the warmth of her hand within his, all pierced him with a deep quiet and contentment.

“'Haply,'” she quoted, still smiling, gazing down into his eyes, “'I think on thee….'” After a moment, she added, “I think that's enough Rilke for tonight, don't you? I think we deserve a sonnet or two for dessert.”

As she rose to get the book he'd given her, light glanced off and through her crystal so that for an instant it shone like a star. So he didn't, after all, move back to his corner but remained by her chair until she returned to it. Close beside her, her arm sometimes brushing his hair, he listened with a special attention as she found the page and began, “'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes….'”

After two sonnets she passed the book to him, claiming that it had become too dark for her to see the words and that she was too comfortable to go and bring a light. He, too, was unwilling to move. So he read to her, and the sweet, starlit minutes passed, and there was no stain upon the night and no shadow, anymore, between them.

*****

The man who, six months before, had declared himself to be Paracelsus knelt on the floor of his chamber holding a length of fishing rod that trailed some six feet of string. To the string was tied a ragged tuft of red wool – once a tassel, but considerably the worse for wear. Flipping his line past an armchair, Paracelsus watched the end-tuft as intently as any fisherman. Nothing happened. A slight tug made the tuft wiggle as it bumped over a spiral of the braided rug. A muted giggle from the far side of the armchair, but still nothing. Paracelsus smiled. Anna, sitting in a rocker near the brazier, also smiled, indulgently, before returning her attention to her book.

A series of sudden, irregular pulls brought the tuft skittering enticingly past the front of the chair. And a golden child, only slightly hampered by a checkered shirt much too large for him, bounced over the chair arm, across the seat, and down to annihilate the dancing tuft with an accurate swat.

At six months of age, Vincent still wasn't altogether steady on his feet, but he could climb, hang suspended by his hands, and jump six and a quarter feet – more than double his body length – in any direction, agile as a cat. From the first, Paracelsus had loved to play with him, watch him develop almost daily in ability and confidence.

Continually attended by two loving foster parents who considered him a dream come magically true, beyond all hope or expectation, Vincent was a happy child.

Grinning fanged mischief, the boy deliberately rolled over on the twine, immobilizing it.

That was against the rules of the game.

All children were provoking at times, testing the permitted limits. But children Below had to honor the limits, even the trivial ones a young child was capable of breaking – ultimately, for their own safety's sake. An undisciplined child, in such intrinsically dangerous surroundings, could far too easily become an injured or dead child.

The rules were the rules. Even in a game.

Paracelsus immediately dropped the rod. Seating himself in the armchair, he collected a book from a nearby shelf and began reading. He took no notice of tentative butts at his shin. When Vincent attempted to climb onto his lap, he straightened his legs, so that the boy slid back onto the floor. For a moment, a small clawed hand rested on Paracelsus' knee. He sternly ignored it, and it was withdrawn: Vincent was strictly forbidden to use his claws to climb on people as he did on the furniture. Otherwise, both Paracelsus and Anna would have been in shreds long since.

He'd never had to punish the boy. Disapproval, resolutely maintained, was always enough to provoke placating pats and engaging tumbles – followed, if those overtures were ignored, by snuffles, wounded wet glances begging pity, and finally a disconsolate wail and a reversion to infantile behaviors. Usually, Anna would give in before matters reached that stage: collecting and snuggling the child, offering him treats, reassuring him that nothing, after all, was so wrong as all that.

Although a wonderful woman and a devoted wife, Anna was too softhearted--lacking the patience to enforce consistent discipline. But Paracelsus had allowed her to coddle the boy without objection. He took a longer view. What he couldn't change, he accepted as though he'd resigned himself to it. He hadn't. He couldn't. For Vincent's sake.

Vincent didn't have the option of fading into the common herd. His difference was intrinsic, absolute, unalterable. His only choice would be whether his uniqueness was ever fully realized, in pride and in strength, or wasted in trying to be like everyone else. Which he could never be.

Anna merely hoped Vincent would be happy; Paracelsus believed that her sentimental, unrealistic permissiveness would lead to greater frustration and unhappiness for Vincent in the end.

Such a child could be born to no common destiny. Vincent must be encouraged and trained to develop his full potential.

The cost of greatness was high. Prodigies – whether in science, the arts, athletics, or generalship – weren't shaped by permissiveness but by discipline and the unrelenting ambition to make of their uniqueness something splendid. To defy safe mediocrity and stand out from the crowd. For this unicorn child, for Vincent and what he could become, Paracelsus was willing to pay that cost.

Strategic retreats didn't matter as long as he ultimately won the war. He could cede to Anna their son's precious, helpless infancy as long as the shaping of Vincent's boyhood was his. When the time came for the boy's true training to begin, Paracelsus had accepted that he'd have to conduct it alone.

He regarded Anna thoughtfully over the top of his book. Vincent, having gotten nowhere with Paracelsus, had tottered over to the rocking chair and was leaning against Anna's legs, trying to get her attention with small coos and grunts. Standing on tiptoe and reaching high, the boy dropped something into her lap. Something red and ragged: the tuft. He couldn't have broken the string; he must have bitten it through.

Anna discovered the donation with visible dismay. Then she surreptitiously closed her hand around it… and glanced up to find herself confronting Paracelsus' steady inspection. Putting a hand protectively around the child's back, she said, “I'll tie it on again.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort. He must learn that actions have consequences. He's spoiled the game. We won't play it anymore.”

“He's just tired,” Anna protested. “You've been at it ever since lunch. Any child would be tired and cranky by now. And yes – don't say it: Vincent's not just any child. I know. But that game gets him all overexcited and overstimulated, and then he can't settle down for his nap, and I'm the one who's up and down with him all night, and what's the sense of that?”

Paracelsus shut his book. “I've already decided we won't play that game anymore. There are other games I've been considering, to give him adequate exercise and burn off some of that energy.”

Anna seemed mollified by the assurance. Then she sighed, remarking wistfully, “The best thing would be if he could play with the other children.”

The comment lacked real force. They'd agreed – admitted--weeks ago, when Vincent first demonstrated that he could vault out of his crib onto a nearby ledge, that this special child was going to require special attention and more than the usual amount of supervision. It wouldn't have been fair to expect Jacob to cope with the antics of an agile, adventuresome child in addition to all his other concerns. And (as they hadn't said, but knew) putting Vincent among the other children would have provoked half the parents to rebel. Perhaps more than half. And neither Anna nor Paracelsus wanted to precipitate an upset like that.

Remarking that it was past time for Vincent's nap, Anna heaved the boy onto her shoulder and carried him off to the bedroom. It was at least half an hour, by Paracelsus' pocket watch, before she returned. They exchanged a glance – hers exasperated and knowing, his contrite – before she dropped back into her chair.

“You're quite right,” Paracelsus remarked. “His day needs to be more scheduled, with regular activity periods and times set aside for rest. And you're also right that it's not fair for you to bear the brunt of his restlessness at night. I should take my share. Say, alternate nights?”

“That would be a mercy.”

“We'll begin tonight. And another thing: I've been thinking of turning the other chamber into a nursery.”

Anna glanced over at him sharply but didn't comment on that chamber's former function as his clinic. It no longer served any purpose, now that he'd abandoned his research. They never talked about that.

Paracelsus continued, “We'd all sleep better if he were in separate quarters. I think the opening is regular enough to be fitted with a door. I'll ask Sam: he's the nearest to a carpenter we have. Or perhaps you could ask him. Because I've been thinking that you should get out more. I've noticed that somehow we've become isolated since we moved up here. There are still advantages to these chambers. I've come to feel at home here. And Vincent needs the space. But no one visits.”

“We… haven't exactly made them welcome,” commented Anna, with restraint.

“You mean Peter Alcott. He's not welcome, no – nor his opinions and interference. Vincent's perfectly healthy now. There's no need, if ever there was, for Dr. Alcott's so-called expertise.”

“He's curious. Interested. And we all but threw him out.”

“Damn his curiosity,” Paracelsus retorted. “Let him exercise it topside, where he belongs.” Dismissing the issue of Peter, Paracelsus returned to the topic at hand.

“For a number of reasons, I'd as soon stay where we are. But that's no reason to disengage ourselves, merely by default, from the community.”

“It's not,” Anna responded, “so much that I get lonely. I'm used to our being on our own, in a lot of ways. And now there's Vincent…. But I… I don't have much reason, anymore, to go Above. And we've gotten so occupied with Vincent. And what with one thing or another, we don't even go to the Commons for meals anymore.”

She didn't remark on the obvious - that it was a long hike to the Hub and back: too long for Vincent to walk and far too long to carry him; and that the active, unrestrained toddler would be perfectly impossible, a disaster, at a communal meal. All of that was implicit in her sigh.

“So sometimes a week can pass and I haven't talked to anybody. Except you, of course. And that's like talking to myself by now.” A smile softened the complaint.

“I know. And I've been thinking that there's no need for both of us to be here all the time. We could take turns. Perhaps shifts, in a manner of speaking. Mornings, you could volunteer to help Francine or Elizabeth, perhaps. Or go out with a foraging party – get some air, and a change. I suppose it must be summer Above. And it's been months since you've seen daylight.”

“It's been that long, and longer, for you,” Anna protested.

“But you miss it more. And in the afternoons….”

They talked over the details, and Paracelsus made no objection to any of Anna's preferences or suggestions. It would do her good to get out. And what she did with herself while she was out was a matter of relative unimportance to him, so long as the arrangement gave him what he wanted: uninterrupted time with Vincent.

The boy was walking and understood much of what was said to him, even though he hadn't yet begun to speak. He'd outgrown games with string, empty games in which nothing was at stake and no lesson was learned. Paracelsus had decided it was time for his son's true  training to begin.

*****

“Does he bite?”

Sam's remark was perhaps intended as a nervous joke; but Paracelsus knew that the nervousness was real by the dig of small claws into the back of his leg as Vincent huddled tight against him, hiding and peering out at this utter stranger.

Vincent was a reliable touchstone and barometer of others' feelings. Not only did their reaction to the boy tell Paracelsus quite clearly what they were – how open to wonder and new experiences, new ideas – but Paracelsus had begun to suspect his son was directly aware of others' emotions. It was a strange speculation, but one which Vincent's responsiveness confirmed at every turn, when no other explanation would suffice. And Paracelsus had been expecting differences beyond the obvious. Inner gifts maturing, manifesting themselves for anyone with the eyes to see and the open mind to accept. Paracelsus found the conjecture both amazing and satisfying. Watching the boy grow promised to be an unending wonder.

“Not,” Paracelsus responded judiciously, unwilling for Sam to take Vincent lightly, “as long as I'm here. I'll keep him occupied. We'll stay out of your way.” Passing Sam a sheet of paper, Paracelsus added, “I've drawn a plan of what I have in mind, beyond the door. The pads should be no problem. Is anything else apt to be hard to get or make?”

Scanning the diagram, then reading down the list, Sam shook his head. “Like you say, I can get the pads by tonight. Just a matter of hauling them up. We have plenty. And the rope's okay. And pipe's easy, too. But the hook's gonna maybe take some doing. I'll check with the Quartermaster, but I don't think we got anything like that in stock. Putting it in won't be any problem, though, once I got it to begin with.”

“Any hardware store would carry one.”

“Sure, but ...” Sam broke off as Paracelsus produced a small cloth pouch.

“Ten dollars,” said Paracelsus, handing the pouch over. It was heavy: the money was all in silver change. He'd raised it by sending some of his books to be sold.

As Sam hefted the sack, Paracelsus remarked, “Somehow, I don't care much for paper money. It depends on the whim of government for its value. Now they're talking about adulterating the coinage as well, I hear. With tin, or nickel, or some such base metal. At this rate, there soon won't be anything one can trust except gold. Do you know who has gold, Below, Sam? Jewelry, other trinkets? I'd redeem them for full current market value, or in kind – barter – if that's possible. I think the community could use a secure treasury.”

Rubbing his head, Sam responded, “I don't know. I could pass the word, ask around, if you'd like….”

His voice trailed off as he apparently caught sight of Vincent again peeking out from behind Paracelsus. For a second they stared at each other. Then both retreated, Sam patting his tool belt and commenting, “Well, I'd best get started measuring for that door-frame. Which one is it you want done?”

“The far one past the last set of shelves.”

“Right. Louie is bringing up some wood for the frame, and I got my eye on a good door at a construction site over on Delancy. Took measurements last week, just in case. Barely warped at all. Foragers can go and collect it tomorrow, and it'll slide right in, easy as grease.”

Paracelsus nodded, pleased at the evidence that all the varied parts of the community were still coordinating so smoothly. The credit for that was due the Quartermaster: Paracelsus made a mental note to congratulate Jacob the next time he saw him.

Preparation of the nursery was completed in three days. Paracelsus had kept the door shut while the interior modifications were taking place to give Anna the pleasure of an official unveiling.

After supper, that Friday night, Paracelsus rose from the table. Collecting the lamp, he invited, “Come see what Sam's been able to accomplish with spit and string,” and led Anna, trailed by Vincent, to the shut door he then ceremoniously opened.

“Oh,” Anna exclaimed, surveying the long narrow chamber whose floor was thickly cushioned with grey piano pads. From floor to ceiling along the righthand wall stood a rectangular construction of interlocked pipes – a jungle gym, as they were called. The pipes were set the perfect distance apart for a child to climb and reach, with long open diagonals and single bars above for jumping or swinging.

“There's not really room,” Paracelsus commented regretfully, “for a proper swing. But we've made do as best we could.” He gestured to draw her attention to the large cargo hook set into the center of the ceiling. Sam hadn't had to buy it after all: he'd located it in an abandoned warehouse. By chipping back the ceiling to leave a mount that could be pierced horizontally, the hook was secure against any downward pull, as Sam had demonstrated by hanging from the thick cable that descended from the hook and then slanted away to a wall cleat.

Against the rear wall their couch, hopelessly tattered and gradually disgorging its stuffing, was the only item of real furniture in the chamber.

Paracelsus had expected Anna to remark on the chamber's bareness – the lack of furniture and the traditional amenities. He'd armed himself with arguments supporting the stark functionalism.

But as Vincent wandered past them and tried an experimental tumble on the pads, Anna hugged herself, eyes alight. “Oh, Vincent's just going to love this!” She clasped Paracelsus' arm, directing, “Shhh: watch!”

Having tumbled his way to the first of the pipes, Vincent was considering them, shaggy head cocked. Perhaps sensing his foster parents' sharper attention, he glanced back at them for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet with the nearest upright. The next second, he was climbing – tentatively at first, then with increasing abandon, flinging himself from rung to rung, copper-gold mane flying wild, in an explosion of liberated bodily energies.

Paracelsus found his eyes stinging. The child, in motion, was beautiful beyond all imagining. He bent his head, murmuring, “This is what I wanted for him. This is what I hoped for. It's the beginning.”

“The beginning,” echoed Anna, as softly, holding tight to his arm and pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

Hanging head-downward from the topmost rung, some 15 feet up, Vincent seemed to notice them again and be puzzled and upset by whatever he sensed from them. He came down precipitously, barely seeming to touch any of the bars in his descent. But when he landed, he didn't know how to absorb the energy of his momentum. He dropped backward onto his diapered rear with an expression of startlement and dismay both his foster parents found irresistibly comical. They burst out laughing. And deciding against an indignant wail at the sudden and uncooperative padded floor, Vincent began chortling too, pushing up to his feet and tottering back to them, clasping arms around one leg of each and burying his widely smiling face between them, nearly lost in Anna's voluminous skirts.

“Here,” said Paracelsus, gently pushing the boy into her care as she began to kneel, and returned to the outer room to fetch a folded bit of sturdy canvas he'd kept hidden in a cabinet. Returning, he told her, “I have one more surprise. I asked Francine to run this up for me a few weeks ago. Here, hold him still a moment….”

Kneeling, he captured one of Vincent's arms and then the other, inserting them into the holes of the vest. Then he turned the child and secured the straps in front, through the grommeted holes, and then rotated him again to fasten the buckles in back, where a steel ring was sewn on tightly.

Swinging the boy up into his arms, Paracelsus carried him to the center of the room and worked for a moment with the cable that hung from the hook. The cable ended in a very large snap-shut toggle. Balancing Vincent over one arm, Paracelsus attached the toggle to the ring and then set Vincent down. The boy looked around uncertainly as Paracelsus backed away to the lefthand wall and put down the lamp. Vincent was occupied with poking at the canvas with his claws when Paracelsus freed the rope from the cleat, slowly drew in the slack, and then, with a sudden yank, hauled the boy into the air.

Vincent spun, wide-eyed and utterly astonished, two yards above the floor. His head twisted, searching for them in the strange, revolving surround. But he made no sound. As Paracelsus had thought: utterly fearless. It was innate, and natural to him. It needed to be encouraged, reinforced, until no manner of surprise could alarm him.

“Here,” protested Anna, “you're going to make him dizzy.”

She started toward the hanging child, but Paracelsus quickly hitched the rope to the cleat and reached Vincent before her, directing, “Stand back. This is the best part.”

As Anna retreated an uncertain step, Paracelsus stopped the child's uncontrolled gyrations, held him level, and then gave him a push.

Vincent swung. And he loved it. His eyes went even wider and his head lifted, watching Anna seem to advance and retreat from him with each smooth motion. He extended arms and legs to balance himself. Perhaps even to cut down resistance to the air. Such things might be instinctual if not suppressed and perverted by conventional expectations. Who could tell what wonders the child might have within him?

Hand to her mouth, Anna breathed, “He's flying, John. It's as if he's flying.”

“Someday,” Paracelsus promised, “he'll do more than fly.” Turning toward her, Paracelsus was caught by her wonder and drawn to embrace her. She held him tightly in return. Into her ear, he whispered, “This will keep him amused for at least ten minutes. And it's been months since we've had any privacy….”

As he drew her toward the outer room, she looked back, worrying, “Shouldn't we let him down first?”

“With his capacity to make his displeasure audible, we'll know when he tires of this new game. With the door open, we'll hear him quite clearly, I assure you.”

Reassured, Anna let her husband lead her past the heavy door, standing ajar, whose frame Paracelsus had made sure was caulked and otherwise rendered as nearly soundproof as possible. And this chamber and the next one, their bedroom, diverged from one another at an oblique angle: though their entrances were only a couple of yards apart, a good 25 feet of bedrock separated their ends.

That would be the first lesson, Paracelsus reflected while kissing his dear wife's mouth: to remain absolutely silent, whatever the provocation. To look for no aid other than his. But time enough to begin that in the morning, when Anna was away.

As the couple became absorbed in one another and in passion, they could hear soft, distant crowings and yelps as, in delight, Vincent flew.

*****

It began with records – huge, ancient disks from the dawn of recording. Thick but often brittle with age. Set swinging, on a string, from the hook, they immediately captured Vincent's interest. Paracelsus tantalizingly raised and lowered them until nothing would reach them but a leap and a full-out swat. The first time Vincent broke one, Paracelsus rewarded him with a sugar cube, a protracted snuggle, and the clearest love and approval of the achievement he could make himself feel. After that, a disk seldom made it through two whole swings before being whacked to pieces. Paracelsus carefully swept up the shards at the end of each session of the game, lest Vincent cut himself.

Before long, Vincent didn't need the upward anchor of the string but could strike the disks in flight. In that evolution of the game, the reward remained the same but a corresponding penalty was added. If Vincent missed the disk on the second try – later, the first try – Paracelsus picked up the lamp, shut the door, and left him to contemplate his failure through lunchtime.

Withholding the occasional meal wouldn't do the boy any harm, and Paracelsus raised no objection to Vincent's attempting to make up the deficit at supper, when Anna frequently remarked on the boy's appetite, concluding that Vincent must have had a very active day. Paracelsus always agreed without elaborating.

The important thing wasn't the food but Vincent's realization that failure had a price: rejection and being ignored. Vincent watched him even more attentively after that regimen began, eager to grasp the rules of each new game and succeed at it, to earn his father's commendation and retain his approval.

That, more than anything, supported Paracelsus' conjecture that Vincent was empathically sensitive: how distressed he became at any strong disapproval or disappointment; how desperately anxious he was to win back affection, even without any overt signals of a parental smile or frown. Vincent knew, and reacted accordingly.

Under the child's generally sunny surface lay a gulf of insecurity; was it possible he could remember the trauma of his abandonment and dread it might be repeated?

Whether there was anything to that speculation or not, Vincent's anxiousness to please gave Paracelsus a ready means of controlling him even without resort to crude physical force.

The games so far had been shaped to encourage Vincent to be aggressive. To strike out without hesitation. He'd mastered them all easily. Paracelsus decided it was time to raise the stakes, and the cost of failure. The games of the new regimen were designed to make Vincent defend himself. Strike back.

They involved balloons.

Unexpected loud noises would frighten any child. Paracelsus instituted a new game involving their playing catch with a balloon. Inevitably, Vincent's sharp claws eventually dug too deep: the balloon burst. Paracelsus comforted his son through the resulting hiccuping siege of tears and trembling, praising the boy, trying to convey to him that he'd done something splendid. For a few days they went back to records, retreating to the familiar. Then Paracelsus brought into the nursery a fresh supply of balloons and the new game began again.

At first, Vincent wouldn't play. He fled to the safety of the top rungs of the jungle gym, where Paracelsus had never attempted to pursue him. Paracelsus affected to take no notice, but proceeded to toss and catch a balloon by himself, concentrating on what an enjoyable pastime it was. Vincent's wariness couldn't hold. Eventually he crept down, a slow level at a time, until he was sitting nearby on the mat. Paracelsus still made no attempt to involve him until, of his own accord, the boy patted tentatively, with a closed fist, at a descending balloon. As though that were enough to satisfy this game's requirement, Paracelsus produced a special treat: the canvas vest. Immediately relieved, high spirits reviving, Vincent readily stood to be strapped into it, anticipating another wild session of “flying,” which he enjoyed enormously. But once the harness was in place, Paracelsus tightened the rope only enough to hold Vincent standing – able to move within a radius of a yard or two…but not reach the jungle gym. He was, in effect, tethered to the middle of the floor.

Paracelsus lofted balloons toward him. First, he ignored them. That was unsatisfactory, and Paracelsus could tell he knew it. And Paracelsus was more determined to continue than Vincent was to resist. Eventually, the boy batted a balloon listlessly away – backhanded, keeping his claws tucked tight into his palm. Paracelsus conveyed pleasure, satisfaction, patting the boy and then letting him “fly” for a few minutes. Thoroughly excited by that adventure, Vincent was more willing to resume the balloon game as a round of throw and catch. And eventually he opened his hands…and another balloon was broken by the clutch of his claws.

This time, his reaction was less fright than anger. An expected bang was less startling. He'd understood the hazard, accepted it, and yet been unable to prevent himself from puncturing the balloon. He was angry at himself. That was the beginning. Paracelsus encouraged him to turn that anger outward to the cause of his distress. By the time that session ended, no balloon floated within Vincent's reach and stayed intact. Scowling intently, nose wrinkled up in a snarl, Vincent slashed at the balloons with abandon for daring to provoke him, immune to the predictable detonations of their destruction, which were now under his control.

Not precisely a happy game, but a satisfying one – for both participants.

The next refinement of that game involved pouring a small quantity of water into some of the balloons, so that they splashed Vincent when they broke. Though he enjoyed baths, Vincent didn't like getting unexpectedly wet. He learned to tell which balloons held water – probably by their heavier, less regular flight – and let them pass. Paracelsus was pleased at the quickness of his son's discernment. Once the water game was plainly no further challenge, he decided to test that discernment with another refinement.

Of a dozen, three balloons Paracelsus inflated from a cylinder of compressed natural gas.

Nothing could distinguish the gas balloons from the ones filled with ordinary exhaled air except the unpleasant smell commercially added to the otherwise odorless gas as a warning of its presence. Once they were all filled, even Paracelsus didn't know which was which. But Paracelsus was confident that Vincent's more acute senses could be trained to correctly make that discrimination.

Standing some six feet distant from where Vincent stood in the harness, Paracelsus tossed a balloon. Vincent struck at it and it broke. Grinning triumphantly, Vincent twirled around the space the harness and rope allowed him. The next balloon proved to hold gas: the foul smell erupted into his face. He hated that, and hated it worse the next time it happened: grimacing and scraping at his face with his arms, shaking his head in an attempt to free himself of the smell.

Vincent refused to break any of the balloons. Putting his hands behind him, unmoved by coaxing or displeasure, Vincent sullenly refused the game altogether. That could not be allowed.

Paracelsus set a line of lit candles behind the boy where they couldn't be tipped over. Then he inflated a new set of balloons with gas and weighted their strings with steel nuts so they'd fly fairly true. While Vincent watched, Paracelsus tossed a balloon. Passing Vincent untouched, it settled onto a candle…and exploded in a blast of flame.

Although Vincent was inured to loud noises, the thunderous bang, in the enclosed space, combined with the ball of brilliant flame, sent him into an absolute panic. He lunged against the rope and tore wildly at the harness, to the point that Paracelsus thought it unwise even to try to release him. Drawing the child a few feet in the air, he left him hanging until he settled. That took over an hour. Afterward, Vincent curled up in an unresponsive, sullen lump on the pad.

Not just an instant's trepidation: an abject display of cowardice; helpless surrender. Vincent wasn't so fearless as Paracelsus had believed. Paracelsus was profoundly disappointed in his son.

The boy's reaction was wholly unsatisfactory, except in one respect: Vincent didn't make a sound. That training had held. Paracelsus tried to solace his disappointment with that.

When Anna returned, windblown and ruddy-faced, from a foraging patrol that evening, Vincent was still locked in regression to an infantile state. He refused to stand, reaching and crying to be picked up; at supper, not only wouldn't he feed himself, he refused solid food altogether. Forced by Anna's persistent concern and questions to offer an explanation, Paracelsus said merely that Vincent had frightened himself, having accidentally broken a balloon they'd been playing with.

Although apparently satisfied by that explanation, Anna insisted Vincent share their bed again to guard against bad dreams. Paracelsus made no objection.

Lying awake, reflecting on the boy's hysterical reaction, he saw that it would be necessary to concentrate exclusively, in Vincent's training, on teaching his son to master his fear.

That regimen would require devising other frightening stimuli. Through the night, Paracelsus gave the matter considerable thought. Certain primal fears were universal and innate, instinctive. They lay within, ready to be roused, at any age. Besides fire and loud noises, there were falling; darkness; drowning or suffocation; being lost, alone and helpless; and of course the ultimate fears – pain and threat of death.

The possibilities were endless.

*****

“Who's there?”

Jacob reflected that it wasn't the warmest welcome he'd received. But he'd come too far to be turned away by a sharp tone.

Standing in the passage, he replied, “Jacob. And Devin.”

“What – Peter's not with you?”

“Not this time,” said Jacob.

A pause. Then John's voice responded more cordially, “Come in, certainly.”

As they went inside, John was rising from a chair where he'd apparently been reading.

“Quartermaster – what a pleasant surprise. And young Devin – such a big boy now, to come such a long way. To what do I owe this uncommon honor?”

Devin was unsubtly scanning the chamber, leaning and peering.

“We've been hearing,” Jacob said, “such intriguing things from Anna--”

“What sort of things?” John cut in blandly.

“--that Devin thought... ” Jacob plowed on with his prepared opening.

For himself, Devin piped up forthrightly, “Where is he? I want to play with him.”

John considered the boy. “He's not a toy,” he told Devin, pleasantly enough. “He's still very small. I wouldn't think a big boy like you would want to play with a baby.”

Devin flushed, then glanced up at Jacob for support. “I liked him, and we never see him anymore. Anna said….” Devin took a large breath, gathering courage. “Anna said he doesn't have anybody to play with. I came to play with him.” Facing John, Devin's stubborn chin lifted.

Before John was moved to say anything scathing, Jacob put in, “I couldn't see any harm in it. Devin's always very careful with the littlest ones. And though interests flash and fade at that age, he's always wondering about Vincent. Imagining him in the stories we read, making comparisons – that sort of thing. Somehow even in that short while, Vincent captured a special place in his imagination. And his affection. As he did mine: I admit I've missed the child and wondered about him too. So we agreed to embark on a visit, Devin and I, despite the distance.”

Deliberately, Jacob shifted his stick's support. The gesture had the intended effect: John commented on keeping them standing and waved them toward chairs. Seating himself, Jacob noticed and remarked upon the fact that John's right hand was bandaged.

“This?” said John, taking a facing chair. “Oh, it's nothing. A small disagreement.”

“Disagreement?”

John regarded him as though he knew an amusing secret he hadn't yet decided to tell. After a moment, he said, “He does have fangs, you know.”

“Are you saying that Vincent bit you?”

“It's nothing,” John said again airily. “But perhaps he's not an altogether appropriate playmate for you, Devin, at that.”

Jacob got the impression that John was oddly proud of the injury, and that he was seeking some excuse to refuse Devin's request.

“He wouldn't bite me,” Devin responded.

“Perhaps not,” allowed John, as though he believed otherwise. He looked, not at Devin but at Jacob, as if expecting Jacob to now provide all the further discouragement needed.

But Jacob had his own reasons for persisting. He'd found disquieting some casual remarks Anna had made about how Vincent was being raised. Although, loving the boy, loving John, Anna plainly had no sense of anything amiss, the discipline she gave unself-conscious glimpses of sounded less like child-rearing than the training of an experimental animal. For some weeks, Jacob had felt he ought to come and see for himself. Devin's proposal had only provided a needed pretext – one Jacob had hoped wouldn't rouse John's intolerance of interference, so evident during that single, disastrous visit in Peter's company.

Jacob proposed steadily, “I'll risk my boy if you'll risk yours.”

John laughed, lifting his bandaged hand in capitulation, and rose. “For years, I complained of your failure to take any interest in my little projects,” he commented to Jacob, leading them toward a shut door.

“Naturally, when you do express interest, I behave as though you were prying. You must excuse me, Quartermaster. Anna tries to instruct me in civilized behavior, but not all the lessons seem to have stuck. At the very least, Devin might well enjoy the flying harness.”

Jacob replied to Devin's inquiring look with a headshake, meanwhile watching John lift a broom-handle bar from its brackets, favoring his injured hand. Jacob settled a private determination to persuade John to let him inspect that injury before he left – any bite could so easily become infected – as John turned, setting the bar aside and requesting that Devin collect a candle burning on a nearby shelf.

“The dark,” John explained to Jacob, “is a calming influence.”

“Of course,” commented Jacob blankly, finding the space beyond the door entirely dark. Realizing that all the while they'd been talking, and longer, a child had been pent up there with no light at all.

From Sam and from Anna, Jacob had a fair idea of the nursery's layout, so stepping onto stacked piano pads didn't upset his balance.

“And his eyesight,” John confided, “is much more acute than ours. Even with no visible source of light, not even a match, he can discriminate objects. Go to the block rather than to the ball, for example. But as best I can determine, with insufficient light, his color vision fades: he can't tell red from yellow. I find it very interesting….”

Jacob completely lost the thread of John's recitation in realizing that what was hanging from the ceiling wasn't a bundle of clothing but a child. Arms and legs dangling; shaggy head hanging.

As Jacob stood in the shock of complex realization, John set down the candle, then advanced to where the child hung. He paused an instant, waiting. When the child didn't stir, didn't even look up, he nodded as though satisfied and moved to the lefthand wall, where the end of the rope was secured to a cleat, and lowered the child to the padded floor. What struck Jacob as particularly awful was the sense that these were accustomed actions – an established routine, performed over and over.

As John went to kneel by the child, again there was the pause – a wary instant of checking for any indication of resistance. As though, once, there had been resistance: Jacob couldn't help remembering that bitten hand and wondering, now, what John had done to provoke such a reaction…from an infant, however deformed!

Somehow he was now certain that the bite hadn't been the inevitable result of handling a child equipped with fangs.

The child remained perfectly inert while John unfastened the straps that fastened the vest – a species of strait-jacket, except that it left the child's arms free. But the instant the last buckle was opened, without visible preparation the child sprang away to a construction of pipes along the far wall, climbing so fast, with such unexpected strength and agility, that Jacob had trouble keeping him in sight.

Standing, hands on hips, John watched the child's escape with amused tolerance. Glancing to Jacob, he remarked casually, “He's shy of strangers. But these moods never last long. He'll come down when he's hungry. He always does.”

Again, Jacob was shaken by the sense that this whole routine was an accustomed thing between the child and his foster father. And he was the more disturbed that John had so little reluctance in demonstrating it to him: that, for all the quick dislike and suspicion demonstrated toward Peter, John had no least expectation that Jacob might find anything amiss in what he was seeing.

Holding up the miniature strait-jacket, John was asking Devin, “Wouldn't you like to try this game? Find out what flying feels like?”

Except for a backward glance, Devin didn't respond. Going to the pipe construction, he got a knee over the lowest rung, then a foot, and carefully began climbing.

“I wouldn't do that--” Turning to Jacob, John said, “I wouldn't let him do that, if I were you. In these moods, Vincent can be…unpredictable.”

Again, the odd note of pride.

Jacob swallowed, bracing himself, looking up. The top of the construction, where Vincent was perched, must be a good five meters above the floor. If Devin fell….

“I'm sure they'll be fine,” he responded determinedly. “We're both here, watching. Children rarely misbehave when they know adults are watching….” With the sense of how long he'd already let John go unwatched, except by Anna's uncritical admiration, he added, “I've been remiss: I should have visited more often. But I've been so busy--”

“And your last reception was hardly civil,” John commented, smiling, “as Anna has pointed out to me more than once. The apologies are rightly all on my side. I'd be glad if you finally are willing to interest yourself in my little projects. The things I've been able to accomplish with the boy--”

“He's not a project, John: he's a baby.”

“And therefore still capable of being molded,” John rejoined, not at all abashed. “Trained. One cannot begin too early with a prodigy. Consider Mozart.” John seemed to consider the matter self-evident – beyond question, much less reproach. “By the time he's Devin's age, I hope….”

John's comment trailed off. Devin had reached the top. Both men stood watching, with greater or lesser anxiety, to see what would happen next.

The dim candlelight cast flickering barred shadows on the distant ceiling. Only vague shapes were visible up there. Devin approached, clambering carefully among the bars. Vincent retreated – out to the corner. Devin, with innate good sense, didn't pursue him. He perched at a junction of bars a few yards off and occupied himself with something he pulled from a pocket – a bit of string, Jacob thought. Devin said something, but Jacob couldn't hear what--only the calm, friendly tone of voice.

Still looking upward, John remarked, “I don't imagine Vincent remembers ever encountering anything but adults. I wonder what he'll make of a child?”

“Children need companionship,” Jacob commented with a kind of desperate tact. “Why don't you bring Vincent to play with the other children once in awhile?” At the least, he thought, that would get this child away from John's control for a little while.

John looked around, sardonically amused. “Do you really imagine the other parents would tolerate that?”

“I could talk to them.”

“You could talk until you're blue, and the boy would still be what he is. A kind notion, Quartermaster, but quite impractical. No, it's as I've known from the first: the boy is better off with me. My responsibility. My son….”

They were distracted: Vincent was moving. Edging crabwise across the top of the bars, he circled around behind Devin, who didn't stir or look around. Devin took no notice, either, of the abrupt approaches and retreats that followed, the small shadow bulging and shrinking against the ceiling.

“Good tactic,” John remarked softly to Jacob. “He can't bear being ignored.”

Jacob had the grim suspicion that John knew more than anyone should about what Vincent could and couldn't bear. But he said only, “Children are wiser than we think. Even to Devin, it must be obvious that the child is frightened.”

“Everyone is afraid of the different,” agreed John absently. “And what's different is only a matter of context.”

Vincent had finally decided to take the risk. He slid onto a bar less than a yard to Devin's right. Devin said something. Vincent edged closer. Devin held out a hand, swayed, and clamped it back to hold himself steady. Vincent edged closer. There was only one shadow on the ceiling.

“Well,” commented John, turning away, “that was certainly a great deal of suspense over nothing.”

“Not nothing,” murmured Jacob, knowing he was witnessing a perennial miracle – the establishment of trust between children. His pride in Devin was enormous. As was his frustration at his own helplessness. John would allow him to watch. Perhaps, allow suggestions. But the first, least opposition would end John's tolerance; and Jacob knew that in any attempt to intervene between parent and child, he couldn't hope to win.

Vincent was John's. The whole community would, if necessary, stand together against any serious interference with parental rights, just as though Vincent had been John and Anna's natural child. To forcibly take from them a child no one else was willing to claim, a child they'd vehemently resist surrendering, was simply unthinkable.

There was nothing Jacob could do.

“John, I really wish you'd let me take a look at that hand.”

“It's nothing, I tell you. And really, Quartermaster, I'd appreciate your forgetting that name. I've outgrown it. I am Paracelsus.”

“Paracelsus,” Jacob repeated obediently. He saw no alternative and had no good reason to refuse.

11

“Now, here,” said Vincent, pointing at an archway encrusted with mottled ocher splotches of lichen, “one has to check at least once a week.”

Jamie raised her torch and studied the arch. “Seepage,” she hazarded, glancing up at him for confirmation. “Or the lichen couldn't grow.”

“Very good, Jamie.”

“Checked how?”

“Rubble,” Vincent responded, stooping, gesturing at the level rock floor under the arch. Rising, he surveyed the arch itself – up one side, down the other. “Cracks. And…?”

Jamie grinned, pleased to have the answer. “The obvious: puddles!”

“Precisely. And any spreading of the lichen to the surrounding walls, which would indicate that the trickle has strengthened. At present, it's no problem.”

As they went on down the passage, Vincent continued, “Which is why it's low on Father's priority list for Cullen and Kanin to search out and block the source on the upper levels.”

Trotting, comfortably keeping pace with his longer strides, Jamie remarked, “Maybe it's a spring, not just seepage. Maybe, instead of blocking it, we could pipe it, have a catchpool. There's no good drinking water around here.”

“Perhaps. It would have to be tested. But as yet, the flow isn't enough to keep even a catchpool filled.” As he felt Jamie's enthusiasm changing to disappointment to find her idea impractical, Vincent added, “So that's another good reason to keep watch on it – to see if the flow strengthens to make it either a hazard or a help.”

“I'll check,” declared Jamie, high spirits instantly reviving.

She was so full of energy, ideas, willingness. Pony-tail bobbing and switching across her shoulders as she turned to scan the walls on either side, eager to spot the next potential trouble-point before Vincent pointed it out, she loped easily at his side, disdaining any moderation of his pace for her sake. If he slowed, she sprinted ahead or ducked into side passages to prove that even after long miles of walking, she wasn't at all tired and wouldn't be coddled.

Her crossbow hung from a shoulder strap; a quiver of short quarrels was slung at her hip. Both were an implicit declaration that if she and Vincent encountered any living danger – an intruder, for instance – on this security sweep, she meant to help deal with it, not cower back and leave the fighting to him.

Intrepid but untested, insisting on claiming adult responsibilities, Jamie was growing into womanhood at a headlong pace and very much in her own fashion. Without in any way patronizing her, Vincent found Jamie's valiant enthusiasm very dear.

Her time was not yet; but it would come.

Both Mary and Father were faintly scandalized that at 16, Jamie still showed none of the expected signs of outgrowing her tomboy ways. Father, in particular, had been opposed to granting her request to be assigned to security duty – not merely as a sentry, safely hidden, but as Vincent's apprentice, as Zach was Pascal's.

“It's unsuitable,” Father had commented to Vincent privately during last night's chess game.

“It's a great deal of walking,” Vincent had responded moderately, changing a rook's position. “And far from exciting. Perhaps Jamie needs to learn that. I could take her with me, so she could see for herself what a dull chore my sweeps are. Though necessary.”

Father considered a pawn. “You expect that to deter her?”

“It's possible,” said Vincent, who had no such expectation. “Let her learn the difference between what she imagines and the reality.”

”She's only a child.”

“I was about her age when I began security rounds, and considered myself much put-upon.”

Father gave him a skeptical look over his glasses' tops. “Our memories differ. As far as I could tell, you considered it a mandate to explore all the most dangerous parts of the tunnels, in the middle of the night, alone.”

Vincent smiled at the chessboard. “The safe places hardly needed checking. And the novelty did wear off, I assure you.”

Father snorted. “Any excuse to ramble around on your own. You're no different now, which accounts for at least half these grey hairs.” He glanced up, abruptly serious. “And Vincent – your security duties haven't always been as dull as all that.”

“No,” Vincent admitted quietly.

“So we should not encourage Jamie in this whim, since it ultimately cannot be granted.” Father moved the pawn he'd been considering.

“Perhaps it's a whim, and will pass. That's for Jamie to decide. We should give her experience on which to base her choice. I see no harm if she were to accompany me on my sweeps for a few days. We would each have the benefit of the other's company: you'd rest the easier, knowing we were both safe,” Vincent suggested with an ingenuousness Father greeted with a stern look that declared he couldn't be so easily cozened.

“It would only add to Jamie's eventual disappointment – don't you see that, Vincent? If we let it begin, it will be that much harder to stop. She cannot, in fact, become your apprentice. To state the obvious, she's a girl!”

“I imagine,” Vincent countered, “even Pascal sometimes appreciates Zach's company. Tending the pipes is another lonely duty. Perhaps, if Jamie's allowed to realize that for herself, there'll be no need to try to discourage her. It's…a most demanding responsibility. Perhaps, understanding that, Jamie will choose another dream.”

Father had thrown up his hands and given his grudged permission. And, whatever Jamie's ultimate choice, Vincent found he did, indeed, enjoy her companionship. His security duties were a part of his life he'd never been able to share with anyone.

When they reached the rickety bridge over the Whispering Gallery, Vincent paused to tug at the anchor posts, testing them. Set into the walls of the landing were two rings where additional supports had once been attached. Jamie slipped her torch into one of the rings, then imitated Vincent, bracing her feet and giving the old end-post a hearty yank.

“I think it will hold till tomorrow,” Vincent commented over his shoulder, moving onto the bridge. “If the anchor posts are sound, the rest of the bridge would hold even if some slats of the walkway broke.” He stopped, and Jamie leaned on the post, both of them looking into the Abyss.

From nowhere, a woman's dismayed voice exclaimed, “... in your shoes! How on earth could you ...?”

Startled, cocking her head, Jamie laughed aloud at the absurd interruptions the Whispering Gallery was unique in offering. Then, looking at Vincent, she said the thing he'd felt simmering uncertainly in her for nearly an hour: “What's it like…in a fight?”

Somehow, Vincent had known she'd ask. He met her eyes, to let her know the question wasn't impertinent, even though he couldn't immediately find the words to reply. He folded his hands on the nearest post, turning to gaze out into the endless dark.

“It is,” he said finally, “to be absolutely alone. Once begun, there seems no choice. No pause. Once begun, it's hard… to see other options. To notice an opponent's first motion toward retreat, and allow it. Force the fight no further. Let it be over. It is hard to be… judicious. Therefore it's important not to begin…unless all lesser deterrence has been tried and has failed.

“It's for that reason, Jamie, that we change the passages – block some ways, open others. Hide behind false walls, set sentries to observe and give warning: so that a casual intruder can be deflected, steered back to the surface without realizing he's being steered…. So that it's not necessary to fight at all. Our first and best defense is still the fact that we are secret.”

“And when they won't be steered? When they didn't just blunder in, but are searching for us?”

He guessed she was thinking about the Tong's invasion. “Then,” he said heavily, steadily, “one tries to lure them onto ground where the advantage is one's own. One uses what is available – darkness, misleading echoes, places suitable for ambush. Places where different levels, fog, or unstable footing, favor the one who knows exactly where each loose stone lies. Where one can climb, hide, or drop. Where opponents can be deflected from the Home Chambers or drawn away from one another, separated.”

“And then?”

“And then…one meets them. Together, if necessary; by preference, one by one…. A person must know all the tunnels in intimate detail, automatically, even in darkness, for such a strategy to have any chance of success. There are many allies: the dark; the terrain, the tunnels themselves; fear; surprise. One must make all the use of them one can. But, finally…what I have noticed most is how alone one is at such times. I think…of what harm any adversary would do, to those I keep safe, if I were to fail. And so I do not fail. I do what I must, to stop them. Whatever I must. And there is a kind of satisfaction in that. But it is not…pleasant, Jamie. The satisfaction… is not pleasant. But… it is strong.” He bent his head.

“Are you scared?”

“I don't know. If I am, it doesn't matter. Once it's begun, nothing matters until it is ended. However it is ended.”

“I think I'd be scared,” Jamie confessed. “But not so scared I couldn't fight.”

“One must not merely fight,” Vincent responded, with a kind of weariness, a kind of sadness, “but must end the fight. And you do not yet know the tunnels well enough to meet such a challenge. You still need the light. One must be prepared to do without it and still move without hesitation, without sound. Quickly. One must have the whole of the tunnels alive in one's mind to keep them safe.

“No,” he said, as Jamie reached to pluck her torch down and swung around to drop it into the Abyss. “Not yet. While you may have light, value it. Use it. Learn from it. There will be time, if you choose to continue, before you must go into the dark and learn its ways and its silences. Now we are together. Time enough to learn to--”

His head jerked up. But there'd been no strange, intrusive voice to startle him. All was still, calm, Below. But Above –

Holding her torch upright, Jamie asked, “What is it?” When Vincent didn't move or answer, Jamie asked, “Is it Catherine?”

Tension slowly relaxing, Vincent tried to examine the sudden surge of alarm, now fading, that he'd felt. “A dream, I think. And now she sleeps more peacefully….”

Once, he'd felt such eruptions of Catherine's nightmare-born terror nearly every night. He'd learned to know them for what they were: memories, illusory fears he couldn't race to rescue her from but was obliged to wait for time's healing. In the past few months, they'd become rarer. So perhaps he'd felt this one more keenly than he should….

“You can feel what she feels even from here? Even when she's asleep?”

“We are a part of one another,” Vincent responded absently.

Surely Catherine now slept. But it seemed to him that as he and Jamie had been walking, his barely-noticed background sense of Catherine had been of her being wakeful; and he had the lingering impression that she'd felt a flash of surprise and welcome before the burst of terror.

Something about it left him still unsettled, uneasy.

“You just want to go and see she's all right,” Jamie deduced, scuffing at the stone of the landing. “Go on. I don't care. We can do this some other time.”

Vincent looked around at Jamie, considering. At that age, people were so easily wounded, so unsure of their own worth – in the eyes of others, and in their own. No longer children, but not adults either.

Holding out a hand to the girl, he said, “Father sometimes says that if I can find no other pretext to visit her, I imagine one. And I sometimes think he's right.

“No,” he said, as Jamie joined him on the bridge and they turned together, “we'll finish the sweep. There are two more sentry posts yet to be checked on. Duties aren't to be abandoned merely on an impulse or a whim. That's an important lesson, too – one I'm still learning.”

As they reached the far landing, Vincent put an arm around Jamie's shoulders, feeling her uncertainty fade and putting his own away. Surely there could be nothing wrong. And time enough, after the sweep was completed, to look in on Catherine as she slept, to assure himself that it was so. Sometimes, he admitted, any pretext would do.

*****

Returning from Catherine's dreadfully vacant apartment, Vincent found Father seated at Vincent's table, waiting for him.

“You heard,” commented Vincent flatly.

“That something's wrong, yes. One would have to be deaf not to have heard what's been passing on the pipes. But what--?”

“Paracelsus,” Vincent spat out, feeling the mere word was a curse.

Father leaned back in the chair. “Paracelsus? Alive? But how? I thought you said he ...”

Holding himself rigidly in check, Vincent tossed onto the table the token he'd found on Catherine's balcony: a gold coin, twisted and half melted by great heat. The token deliberately left there to identify her abductor.

“He's alive.” Vincent paced a turn near the entry. “And he's taken Catherine.”

“Catherine…” Sounding more thoughtful than surprised, Father picked up and examined the coin. “Do you know where?”

Vincent shook his head. Even so small a motion tested his control. He felt as though any instant, he'd explode in all directions. His sense of Catherine remained no more than a dim awareness – as though Catherine were asleep. Or unconscious, he thought grimly. Or drugged. Or ...

As far as he'd been able to reconstruct, Catherine's abductor had been bold enough to carry her right through the fringes of the tunnel community: Randolph, a perimeter sentry not half a mile from where Vincent and Jamie had been doing rounds, had actually seen him pass. A big man – cloaked, hooded, booted, moving confidently through the lightless outlying tunnels--so confidently that Randolph had assumed it was Vincent.

Descending, unchallenged. Disappearing, with steady strides, into the deeper dark.

Randolph, anxious to make what amends he could, reported that the man had been carrying something. A large bag or roll, like a carpet, slung over his shoulder. Randolph had heard nothing, seen nothing to rouse his suspicions. No cries. No struggle. Only Vincent, returning with something found while wandering Above. Nothing at all remarkable. No alarm had been sounded.

Nearly four hours ago.

Vincent clenched his fists.

“Our connection,” he managed to say, “has been broken somehow.”

“I know Paracelsus,” Father commented, addressing what he evidently took to be the worst of Vincent's fears. “As twisted his mind may be, it's still very complex. Full of designs and structures. No, Vincent – I assure you: if he intended to kill Catherine, he would have done so already.”

Vincent found the knowledge little consolation. His attenuated sense of her was enough to confirm that she was still alive. But nothing else. No directionality. No way to reach her, find her. Even attending to Father was enough to let the faint tie slip away, below consciousness, like a silken string escaping his desperate clutch. When that happened, she was gone – lost to him for whole breaths at a time. Nothing but calm enabled him to recover the slight contact…and calm was impossible.

The loss of the bond felt like being deprived of breath. And the more anxious he became, the less able he was to make contact.

He found it almost beyond him to speak coherently, to keep panic at bay enough to link two thoughts together. Not to start running blindly in search of her with no idea which way to go.

“He's luring you,” Father reflected grimly. “Calling you away from this place of safety.”

“I have no choice but to try to find her.”

“I know.”

Vincent burst out, “Why is he doing this, Father?”

Mere malice wasn't sufficient reason: the attack was too indirect. With a horrified indignation, Vincent realized that Catherine, so precious, so independent, was being used as a mere pawn to further aims that had nothing to do with her at all. Bait. And then it struck him: Catherine has been abducted on my account. It's my fault!

Locked in that devastating realization, he barely heard Father responding, “Why? Because in his mind, you are the one person that prevents his return to this world…a world he still considers to be his own. No – the consequences of this action may stretch far beyond Catherine.”

So Father knew it, too: that Catherine herself meant nothing except as Paracelsus found her useful as a counter in his feud with Father. Vincent had no concern with that feud now: his only concern was Catherine. It must, for her, be like being again attacked, to be hurt or discarded to die at her captors' whim – her worst nightmare to be lived out, all over again. From which waking would be no escape.

Yet Vincent still had no sense of the nightmare from her. Nothing but the wispy, elusive awareness that she continued to exist. That might, at any moment, be cut off – ended for all time. If only she'd rouse, wake to her dread – at least that would give him a way he could go, a direction. And yet how could he wish that for her? Surely she was better as she was, safe in her unawareness. He couldn't make the two conflicting thoughts come together, couldn't reconcile them. Inwardly, helplessly, he lunged between them.

Father was saying, “The whole future of what we've built here is in the balance. Vincent, you must be careful. Expect anything. Remember, Paracelsus has misled you before.”

Father's warning brought vividly to Vincent's memory the two times he'd been tricked – by the drug, and by Paracelsus' sly claim to possess a secret knowledge of his origins: I know more about you than your name…. Have you really believed that, all these years?

And, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, the thought came to him: He's still alive. Therefore so is any secret he holds.

He shook the thought away. It could only be a distraction from concentrating on Catherine. Nothing could matter in comparison to that.

He said, “I haven't forgotten.”

Father remarked gravely, “Whatever he tells you, remember this: there is a truth beyond knowledge.”

That obscure declaration sounded oddly urgent, uneasy – as though he feared Paracelsus might disclose something to Father's own discredit. As though he wanted to forearm Vincent with skepticism against cunning lies…or cunning truth.

None of it could matter. Not Vincent's desperation or memories or quivering speculations. Not the terrible irony or the still more terrible ramifications of Catherine's being endangered as a result of her relationship to Vincent, when above all things, he'd meant and tried to keep her safe. Not the possible consequences to the tunnel community if Paracelsus could somehow extort, with Catherine's life or with Vincent's death, a return in triumph to those who'd cast him out, almost Vincent's whole lifetime ago.

There would be time for such things when there had to be. Now, all that could matter was Catherine.

Absently, Vincent responded, “I'll remember, Father.”

*****

Following the tapping, Pascal sprinted along a twisting tunnel with Winslow so close behind that the bigger man nearly bowled him over when Pascal suddenly stopped to check that they'd followed the signal right from the last junction. Leaning to the large, shoulder-level pipe, Pascal held his breath and tried to ignore the quick hammering of his heart to catch the faint, intermittent staccato.

“Where's it coming from?” Winslow demanded, at his shoulder.

“I don't know. Too faint to tell. I thought it was a dead pipe.”

There: Pascal caught it again. This was how it ran, all right. Pascal darted off again, Winslow lumbering at his heels. Following the pipe along the tunnel wall, they turned an abrupt corner and went halfway down a stair. Below, on the next landing, the pipe angled and dove straight into the stone floor.

“It can't just stop here,” Winslow protested.

“It doesn't.” From inside his coat, Pascal produced a stethoscope and stuck the earpieces into his prominent ears. Crouched by the pipe, he applied the end-disc to the wet, corroded metal and listened intently until Winslow distracted him, tapping him on the shoulder.

As Pascal glanced up, Winslow mouthed something, then jerked one of the earpieces free to make himself heard: “Let me listen.”

Pascal surrendered the stethoscope, and Winslow listened. After a moment, he commented, “I don't recognize the code.”

“Here,” said Pascal, asking for the stethoscope back. Of course Winslow couldn't hear him either. So Pascal repeated his request into the disk, making Winslow flinch, and reclaimed the instrument.

“I'm trying to remember,” he reported presently, his eyes squeezed shut with the effort of making out the signal clearly. “Yes, a repeated sequence. One word. V-I-N-C-E-N-- Vincent. It says Vincent.”

They exchanged a long, startled glance. Attending again to the pipe, Pascal directed, “Go back to the passage--”

He glanced around to find himself viewing Winslow's retreating back: Winslow had already figured this news should be relayed. When Winslow came back, a few minutes later, Vincent was with him.

Vincent demanded at once of Pascal, “Has it stopped?”

“No. Like a machine.”

As Vincent passed by to the lower landing, Pascal started to offer the stethoscope, but Vincent had already bent to press the more sensitive instrument, his ear, against the pipe. Pascal could almost feel Vincent's concentration.

After a minute, Pascal asked, “Is it Catherine?”

Looking up, Vincent opened and tilted a hand in an indeterminate gesture conveying something like Your guess is as good as mine. Intently, he said, “Tell me, Pascal--where does this pipe lead?”

“Down. Down below the Chamber of the Winds. After that….” Pascal's pause was as good as a shrug. “It's been silent ever since I can remember.”

“How far away is the tapping?” Vincent wanted to know.

“Hard to tell. These old pipes twist and turn in the bedrock. But judging by the faintness…I'd say three days' travel. Two, at least.”

“And the code?” Vincent asked.

“Archaic. One of the very first my father taught me. A Morse derivative. You remember, Vincent: before we shorthanded the system.”

Thoughtfully, Vincent said, “So Paracelsus would know of this code….”

Pascal swapped another knowing, troubled glance with Winslow, then responded dryly, “He probably invented it.”

Pascal kept still then, watching Vincent think it out. Finally Vincent looked up at him again. “Pascal, do you think you could take me there? To the source?”

“I don't know. I…I could try.” Pascal had been afraid Vincent would ask him that.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

Vincent started back up the stair in long, gliding strides. “Prepare your things. We leave at once.”

As Vincent reached the top landing, Winslow called his name. When Vincent wheeled around, Winslow announced truculently, “I'm going too.”

Vincent came out of his fog. He seldom smiled; but his eyes changed. All at once he was focused, present, in a way he hadn't been before.

“Winslow--thank you. But the danger's already too great.”

“If Paracelsus has Catherine,” Winslow shot back, “then we're all in danger.”

“Yes…. But we should try to limit the risk,” Vincent responded, trying for a gentle refusal. Which he ought to know never had worked with Winslow. Generally, it took something more like a brick.

“Vincent, I have my reasons.” When Vincent kept still, maybe wavering, Winslow argued, “Besides, Pascal says the journey could take many days. You'll have to sleep sometime. Somebody has to stand watch, and three shifts are safer than two.”

To Pascal's relief, Vincent gave in. Descending two steps as Pascal came up one, so that they were all standing together, Vincent put a hand on Winslow's shoulder and the other on Pascal's.

“You're my friends. I accept your help. But the way is uncertain. You must both promise you'll turn back at the first sign of trouble.”

He meant it. So Winslow said solemnly, “I promise,” and Pascal echoed him, knowing Vincent would hold them to it.

Regarding them warmly, Vincent said, “Then we'll go. The three of us. Together.”

It was an honor Pascal could have as well done without. But he'd only be the guide: surely it wouldn't come to actual fighting. And even if it did, Vincent was big and Winslow was even bigger. There was nothing to worry about. And somehow you always wanted to do things for Vincent…. Really, when you came right down to it, there was no choice at all. For any of them.

*****

With hardly an hour's warning and despite its being nearly midnight, practically the whole adult community turned out to see them off. William had put together some travel food in a pack Vincent shouldered. Except for that and a lantern Winslow held, Pascal noticed that they were apparently supposed to be traveling light: no blankets. Not even a change of clothes. He stowed a rolled-up cot, a sack of books, and a big bundle of bedding off behind a rock, hoping nobody had noticed. He'd never even thought of going so far from home.

As a sudden afterthought, he crouched down by the bedding to retrieve his signaling sticks and stethoscope. He'd need those. Tucking them securely into his pockets, he pushed the bundle back out of sight.

He blushed as Mary clasped his hands and fervently wished him Godspeed, ducking away as fast as he decently could before she decided to kiss him goodbye, as Father was doing with Vincent. Winslow's unchanging scowl forbade anybody to take any such liberty with him.

Holding Vincent's shoulders, Father said, “Safe journey, Vincent. I should be going with you.”

“But you will be with us, Father,” Vincent responded, which made no sense to Pascal at all. But Vincent and Father often said things like that to each other – as though imagining or wishing were just as good as being. It was probably, Pascal thought, a noble sentiment. Or something….

As those crowded into the junction began calling farewells, Vincent turned away and the three of them were starting off down the passage when a voice called, “Wait!” As they looked back, Jamie edged and elbowed through to the front and stood gazing at them--mute, sullen, and imploring.

Winslow glowered at the slim girl. “Well, what do you want?”

All in a burst, Jamie declared, “I want to go with you.” Meeting Vincent's eyes, she added forthrightly, “Catherine's my friend, too.”

For a second, Pascal wasn't sure Vincent wasn't going to give in yet again, from the expression on his face. For a second he again surfaced from his own private fog to look at the girl, and you didn't have to be an empath to feel how badly Jamie wanted to come. And therefore how hard it was for Vincent to disappoint her.

Vincent told her, “Jamie, where we're going is too far, and the way too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous for who?” Jamie challenged.

“For you!” Winslow flared right back, with a disgusted glance that expected Vincent's agreement.

Jamie folded her arms and held her ground. “I can take care of myself. I always have.”

Pascal felt obliged to mention, “She's got a point.”

“She's crazy!” Winslow growled.

“Winslow ...” Vincent began, but Winslow wasn't about to be shushed.

He said to Vincent, “Well, I'm right, ain't I? Girl's got no business coming along. We all know that.”

Jamie didn't even glance at Winslow, concentrating that woebegone, pleading look on Vincent, who definitely looked sad to have to refuse. He went forward to briefly lay his hand on her shoulder.

“I'm sorry, Jamie. It's for the best.”

Shiny-eyed, hoarse with tears she wouldn't give in to, Jamie retorted, “Best for who?”

Instead of answering, Vincent turned away, and Winslow with him. Hurrying to catch up, Pascal heard Winslow muttering something to himself, in an uncharacteristic burst of sentiment, about only having said it because he cared. Pascal stared at him. Winslow response was to scowl and lengthen his stride. Vincent was already a dozen yards ahead and increasing his lead.

The community's farewells and good wishes echoed from behind them down the tunnel for quite a while.

12

Dreaming, Catherine wasn't altogether sure she wanted to wake.

The dream had two forms. Some details corresponded. At those junctions one scenario might slide into the other for awhile. Catherine was faintly puzzled, not perturbed: presently another junction would be reached and the moving cradle of her dream would return to the pleasanter track. There was nothing to be concerned about. After all, it was only a dream and she therefore wasn't responsible for it. She was just the dreaming passenger carried along by the story.

In one version of the story, Vincent had finally thrown off all restraint. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her away into the soft dark – as, in dream, she'd always wanted him to. Anyway there could be no point in struggling. His strength was irresistible, masterful. The force of his passion overwhelmed any thought of tepid daylight loves. There was only the endless night, and his arms. Nothing else mattered.

Her limbs heavy, liquid, languid with surrender, she was laid down in a cavern sparkling with jewels. A magical place, like his heart, that had waited forever for her. Bending above her, he kissed her mouth (or sometimes didn't: that was one of the spots the dream was apt to swing off to another track.) When he kissed her (if he kissed her), she felt herself claimed and commanded: she would never leave this place, never be to him other than she was now, helpless with yearning. He kissed her again and formless yearning became desire – suffused, swollen, aching. She clung to him (sometimes pushed at him in the usual ambivalence of dreams) and was borne down into softness, her body a mouth uttering fragrance. He smelled of darkness, smoke, candle wax. He tasted pungently of tears.

He drew back and was naked before her – golden and smooth as a statue, noble in all his proportions. His mouth was a man's mouth, transformed (she somehow understood) by the benign alchemy of the kiss. All taint of difference had been lifted from him.

It was all right now. The wicked spell had been broken. He was freed of the curse that had made him seem other than he was – perfect, gloriously male, desirable. There need be no limit on their love. All was now permitted.

(And yet, in some versions, she was witness to the banishment and actually saw a hulking shadow separate itself from him and slouch away: maned, furred, clawed. Its strange fanged mouth was open, soundlessly sobbing. Its eyes, that were still his eyes, remained fixed on her beseechingly as it began to fade. And in those versions she was momentarily distracted from the flawless reality before her and wanted to pursue and comfort the shadow. But it always vanished before she could touch it. Its eyes, in the last instants of fading, were angry, accusatory, despairing. Not loving at all. Refusing her pity. Its taloned hand rose – either reaching out to her or striking at her. But before the ambiguous gesture could be completed, the shadow would be gone: dark dissolving into dark, that was its being.

(The bestial specter had to be dismissed so that the curse could be ended. But she liked better the versions where she didn't have to see it go.)

Transformed and vindicated, Vincent came to her then. As they lay down together in love, there were no shadows anywhere and no sadness. The jeweled, prismatic light of this shrine had banished the darkness. She felt brilliant with happiness as their bodies fused, each completing the other in a wonderful blur of sensation that intensified until it seemed the very flesh burned away and they were no longer bodies but two spirits interpenetrating and no division left between them. As though, enacting love, they had become Love – exalted, transcendent, and eternal.

That was the one story that, with its minor variations, played through her dreaming imagination over and over again. The other story was more distant, intellectualized, and troubling. She seemed to watch herself experiencing it; at times she believed it was a fable she was reading in a thick, heavy book with gilded script and large illustrations that came to life and began happening to her.

In that story, she was Persephone, a mythic character whose flowing hair was bound by a gold circlet denoting that she was a person of importance, a member of the community of divine beings whose influence affected the green earth and the petty affairs of mortals. Going about her innocent topside business, she was roughly snatched away by the Lord of the Hollow Dark, Dis, who had conceived a passion for her. But all that passion seemed to consist of was holding her prisoner in his black vaults while, Above, people lamented and spring failed to come to the land because her immortal mother was busy searching for her.

The Lord Dis ruled a changeless realm of caverns and vaults studded with jewels and veined with precious minerals. Master of all riches under the earth, he held her as his particular treasure. But all his subjects were filmy wraiths who said the same deferential things to her until she knew them all by memory. Though she supposed the adoration of Dis was a compliment, she found residence in his realm supremely boring.

Though it didn't seem right, and she kept trying to edit it out, the person who arrived to rescue her wasn't her goddess mother but a strange man with a melodious, eloquent voice. With his voice, he so charmed Dis that the Lord of the Dead consented to release her, provided that her companion, whom she vaguely recollected once having loved, refrained from looking back at her during all the long journey to the surface. When her rescuer departed the throne hall, she followed silently at his heels, obedient to the decree of her master.

He called her Eurydice. Though it didn't seem right, she didn't try very hard to make that element change. She didn't care much what he called her. She simply followed.

Sometimes, during the journey, they diverted into a certain cave full of crystals and the other story took over from that point. Sometimes her companion was Vincent from the beginning, and he couldn't resist looking around at her in desire. She'd fade then and be drawn back to the dark halls of Dis, to abide there forever.

She didn't like that version because it ended disappointingly and presumed she wasn't Persephone, a captive demigoddess, but a dead mortal, a wraith among wraiths, set apart only by the love of someone more remarkable than she.

Sometimes it was neither Dis nor Vincent who'd abducted her but a sort of ogre, a crude stranger who handled her roughly, grunted his displeasure at the chore, and toted her down stairs and through twisting passages like a sack he'd been ordered to deliver. His coarse clothes smelled of smoke and candle wax. He handled her with easy strength none of her attempts to move affected at all.

Sometimes, in that variation, she was terribly dizzy and weak, and her face hurt from being mercilessly slashed, but that couldn't be right: she denied that perception even though it meant she was being carried toward safety, healing, and love. She just wanted to get back to her proper topside life, flee this dream altogether. But the ogre wouldn't let her. Whenever it seemed to her she was on the edge of waking, he'd stop and press a foul-smelling cloth against her face. Muttering broken protests, feebly trying to push it all away, Catherine would find herself sinking deeper into the dream, in whatever form it chose to come to her.

She wasn't really perturbed.

After all, it was only a dream.

*****

Vincent, Pascal, and Winslow pushed on, following the twisting line of the pipe, until Pascal almost fell asleep while checking with his stethoscope that they hadn't lost the tapping. Despite his impatience, Vincent called a halt then. Within himself, he admitted he couldn't overtake the abductor. The likelihood was that the steady tapping was in fact deflecting them from the straight route by which Catherine was being taken, precisely to prevent that. But he had to follow the signal. It was the only guide he had.

Taking the first watch, he tried to think the matter out.

Impossible that the signal, in antique code, could be Catherine's. It was what it seemed: a summons. From Paracelsus, Catherine's abductor.

That Paracelsus had directed the signal be sent and repeated, hour after hour, meant he intended finally to bring Vincent to where Catherine was: otherwise, why signal at all?

That Vincent would be walking into a carefully prepared trap was obvious…and unimportant. He'd deal with that when he had to and however he could. But it troubled him for Winslow and especially for Pascal. Eventually, he'd have to order them to turn back. But not yet. He needed them now.

They already were far from the surface and from the tunnel community. With all his senses at full stretch, attending almost to the point of trance, Vincent could touch no living presences other than those of his companions. Had they not been with him, there would have been nothing. Only the august, diffuse presence of intractable stone and of unending darkness.

Normally, he found the inner silence and isolation of the deep places a kindly thing. Peaceful, when he was in turmoil; healing, when he was in pain. All his adult life, he'd sought them out when the pressure of others' lives on his own threatened to overwhelm him. When the barriers whereby self was defined and defended were near collapse and needed to be rebuilt, renewed.

But now, there was no peace. All he could feel was Catherine's absence. He ached with it. In hunger and need, he reached out for her continually, unable to stop himself, just as someone drowning would become so desperate for breath that he'd breathe water if he must, though that seal his doom. With no distraction, no lives but his own to anchor his consciousness, he would soon have lost himself into trance, lunging outward in a compulsive, unending effort to make contact while dust motes settled, unfelt, on his unseeing eyes.

The bond sprang from his deepest self. Its absence was quite literally unbearable. Only the presence of companions – the fact of them; awareness of them; responsibility for them – enabled him to contain himself within his skin and hold onto the present moment…in which the only hope of Catherine's rescue lay. Alone, he'd have been unable to keep from uttering himself like a shout of longing and despair that eventually would fade and dissipate…and only dark, stone, and silence would remain.

Looking at his sleeping friends, he found himself touched and humbled by their unquestioning acceptance, their generous hearts. He was sorry sometimes, as he was with Father, that they could not feel and know his love for them as directly as he knew theirs for him. But such knowing carried a price. He now realized that as never before. Whatever was connected could be disconnected. Joy at presence could be transmuted into grief at absence. The capacity to feel was the vulnerability to pain, in direct proportion.

Not even the time of madness, when in adolescence he'd nearly lost himself altogether and irrevocably into pain, loss, and mindless rage, was as terrible to him as was this foretaste and threat of the loss of Catherine – a parting he now believed not only inevitable but necessary, for her safety's sake. Catherine was more to him than his self. Infinitely precious. Therefore losing her would be infinite loss.

Talking together one evening at the park threshold, shortly after Paracelsus' supposed death, remembering how she'd come to him, stern as judgement, remorseless as hope, down that dead-ended passage, he'd been struck afresh by the wonder of her courage. And he'd told her that he now knew why she willingly, knowingly, went into danger: because some risks were worth taking.

“Some risks,” she'd agreed, looking him steadily in the eyes, “are worth everything.”

And he'd had to turn away, lest she see through to his very soul.

Catherine was worth everything. From the first moment, he'd have spent his life gladly, without hesitation, for the high reward of making a gift of it to her. It was his honor, and perhaps his destiny, to offer and become such a sacrifice. But not Winslow. And not Pascal.

Vincent was, in his way, jealous of his prerogatives…even the painful ones.

Perhaps it was a mercy that his friends neither enjoyed nor suffered what he did. That they were free to be bounded by their own lives, not continually pressured from without nor trying to spill out to fill emptiness that could drink up a soul like sand.

He was glad, and grateful, they were with him.

Being so far from the topside world's diurnal rhythms made him unsure about the time. When he thought enough time had passed he woke Winslow and lay down, determined to sleep. He must use himself wisely, to be fit for Catherine's need. Aware of Winslow's steady watchfulness, anchored by the company of his friends, more easily than he'd expected Vincent settled into deep, dreamless sleep to the counterpoint of the faint, repetitive tapping that spelled out his name.

*****

It seemed to Catherine that she was walking. Or rather, being alternately pushed or towed along on rough ground with lots of things to bump into and trip over that she couldn't see. Whoever was pushing or towing her didn't relent. When she refused this dream and just wanted to curl up and be quiet, he'd yank her back to her feet and force her on again.

It was the ogre variation, she decided dimly. She didn't like it at all. She blundered on, expecting it would presently turn into something else – Dis' gilded hall, with its towering shadows, or the vivid, prismatic cave – but it just went on. She'd never had such a boring, stubborn dream. It refused to change. It didn't arrive anywhere. When she fell and banged a knee or elbow, it kept aching afterward in a really annoying way.

To top everything off, she had a terrible headache and was sick to her stomach. She'd never had to reel against a rock to vomit in a dream before.

She bumped into a wall and banged her nose. Her eyes stung and watered, and she was furious at the idea somebody might think she was crying. Rubbing her sore nose with one hand, she was shoved into lethargic motion, extending the other arm to grope ahead for obstacles.

Somehow the mundane specificity of a bumped nose jarred her out of her daze. She was struck by the dreadful suspicion that this wasn't a dream.

Before long, suspicion changed to certainty. Unreal and bizarre as it seemed, it was happening. To her.

She was being forced through a subterranean canyon (the footsteps echoed from both sides) by someone much bigger and stronger than herself – someone who didn't say anything. Someone who absolutely wasn't Vincent.

Searching back in time as she trudged steadily along to avoid another shove, Catherine decided the last thing she remembered clearly was hearing a sound from her balcony and going out joyfully to greet Vincent. Because what other large, cloaked figure would be standing out there, his back to her, silhouetted against the distant lights of skyscrapers across the park? As she'd greeted him, the man had turned…and it had been the ogre!

Wasn't that the dream? Or was that the reality the dream had spun off from, casting it in various anxious scenarios?

By how slowly her head cleared, she guessed how fogged-out she'd been before. Drugged, she thought, with a hot indignation. A flash of scent-memory, recalling a reeking cloth pressed against her face, sparked nausea again. She wrapped her arms around her middle, bending against cramps and a following wave of sweating dizziness. She managed to swallow the sourness down this time without halting. Her captor let her alone, so long as she kept moving.

There were a dozen questions she wanted to blurt at him, but she didn't. She didn't want to let him know how much she'd recovered, for fear he'd put her out again. And then she wouldn't be able to seize any chance to escape even if one came. Even Joe admitted she had a decent mind: time to use it.

The ogre had drugged her – probably chloroform – to keep her quiet while taking her Below. Surely somebody that size didn't care if she struggled or not. So it was only an outcry, an alarm being raised, that he wanted to prevent. Therefore, her lawyer's mind formulated, his letting her revive meant that was no danger anymore: she could yell her head off and not be heard. She could….

Vincent. He'd know, by now, she was gone. He'd be frantic. That he hadn't come already meant that her unconsciousness had somehow diminished their connection. All she had to do was give in to her terror and he'd home in on it like a beacon.

As he was supposed to do? Could this great oaf, or whoever sent him, know about the bond? Am I a captive, a hostage… or bait?

Just the suspicion chilled her. Though she was sweating (where was she?), her face went cold; though she kept moving, everything within her stilled. She held onto that stillness, trying to think, not feel. Because feeling meant drawing Vincent, full-tilt, without caution, into whatever the ogre was forcing her toward.

Why am I walking? she proposed to herself, like a variation on Why does the chicken cross the road? What seemed the best answer was also the simplest: the ogre had let her rouse, and was making her walk, because it was too far to carry her.

The ambient heat told her this was noplace she'd ever been or even heard mentioned. Therefore nowhere near the tunnel community. Unfamiliar ground. Probably hostile ground. Dangerous ground…for Vincent. But not for me, she told herself firmly, holding onto the stillness, the distance she was maintaining between her thoughts and rank panic.

Except for bringing her this far, and forcing her farther, the ogre hadn't hurt her, and there'd been nothing to stop him. Therefore he had no intention of hurting her. She might suffer the odd bump or bruise, and he'd shove her if she faltered, but except for that, she was perfectly safe. In no danger whatever, at least for the time being. At least until she was delivered to whatever sharper wits had planned and ordered this abduction.

Maybe Dis, she thought irreverently: Lord of the Hollow Dark. Lord of the Dead….

Shivering, she shoved that thought away.

No use, yet, trying to escape: even assuming she could evade the ogre, which wasn't likely, she'd be as apt as not to run straight off a cliff. Even if she didn't, she saw no realistic chance she could find her way back to the surface.

For all his roughness, the ogre intended to deliver her safely to wherever they were going. For the time being, the sensible thing would be to stick with the guide she had. Better purposeful indifference, than the insensate indifference of darkness and stone that had no least interest in whether she lived or died.

She was in no immediate danger. There was therefore nothing at all to be afraid of. No reason she shouldn't be able to wait, find out how much trouble she was actually in, make a reasoned evaluation, and then panic.

Holding the fear at bay, she was also keeping it from Vincent. So that he, in turn, might make a reasoned evaluation and plan a strategy rather than race, in a blind fury, straight into whatever welcome an unknown enemy had contrived for him.

Since the Silks and then the drug raid, her determination had only hardened: she would not tolerate their bond, their precious and magical connection, being twisted that way. She would not allow the greatest of their strengths to become a vulnerability, a compulsion against which he had no defense. Terror, rebounding and redoubled, blanked the mind and stripped away reason. She would not contribute to reducing Vincent to that. She would not be made the means of his destruction.

She had no slightest doubt: Vincent would come.

Therefore she had nothing to fear. Nothing at all.

She began counting her steps, concentrating exclusively on that. After a thousand, she was so tired that merely keeping the count took all the attention she had. After two thousand, it became even easier. Cool, rational alertness wasn't necessary: a daze of exhaustion would do. All it took was practice.

*****

The next day of journey began with a setback: the tapping stopped.

The three of them stood considering the pipe that hugged the tunnel wall.

“Are you sure it's the same pipe?” Vincent asked Pascal.

Striking the pipe with one of his signaling sticks, Pascal listened intently to the result.

“Positive,” he said. “The tone's identical.”

Winslow remarked, “What do we do now?”

“The only thing we can,” responded Vincent, in a voice like a sigh. “We continue.”

The sound had been relatively easy to follow. But the pipe itself dove in and out of the bedrock, without any clear pattern to the turns. Despite Pascal's confident ear for exact pitch, Vincent couldn't be certain that whatever pipe they located emerging, farther on, was the same one whose disappearance had sent them casting ahead. One pipe was discouragingly like another.

But the pipe, and Pascal's experience and discernment, had become their only guide. Following it by sight and by guess, they turned down a sloping dog-leg and unexpectedly found themselves looking down into a chamber – clean as though freshly swept and empty, except for at least a dozen candles and Narcissa, busily chipping off a sample of rock.

Arrayed in colorful, multilayered clothing, the old Jamaican woman turned to greet them, calling out, “Welcome, children!”

“Narcissa,” Vincent responded, in surprise, realizing they'd interrupted one of her solitary sample-collecting forays.

The white of untreated cataracts filmed Narcissa's eyes. Almost blind, she nevertheless wandered at will through the whole of the tunnel system with a confidence no one but Vincent, and perhaps Mouse, could match. It was from her he'd learned of the secret cavern, discovered during her lone ramblings, where he'd gotten Catherine's crystal. Narcissa gathered herbs and lichen for amulets and remedies, stones for charms and scrying. There was nothing, Above or Below, which Narcissa found without influence or significance.

Unlike Father, Vincent believed that, as she claimed, this eldest tunnel resident saw with other sight.

Opening her arms wide, Narcissa invited, in her richly accented voice, “Vincent. Enter, please. Bring your friends,” as though she were a hostess welcoming invited guests to a party.

A ladder descended to the chamber floor. As Vincent came down, the other two following, Narcissa inquired cordially, “And why have you come traveling so far?”

Vincent said huskily, “We are in search…of Catherine.” It was an effort to keep his voice steady, unemphatic.

Regarding him with her white eyes, the tunnels' seeress challenged, “And why do you seek the woman?”

It seemed an odd question, oddly asked. Hinting of profound purposes and meanings. Vincent chose to take it literally, responding, “She was taken from her home. We're following the ghost of a message on the pipes.”

“And who do you say has taken her?”

“Paracelsus,” Vincent said curtly.

When she clapped a palm to her cheek in exaggerated but genuine dismay, Vincent was impelled to ask, “What is it, Narcissa?”

When she didn't respond, both hands folded to her mouth, Vincent pursued earnestly, “If you have knowledge, you must share it with us. It may help us on our journey.”

Thus appealed to – in her “professional” capacity, as it were – Narcissa reluctantly turned and lifted a wicker tray in which she'd been collecting her samples. It was dusted with a salting of bright mica dust. They both stooped – Narcissa kneeling, Vincent respectfully sitting on his heels, facing her. Having produced from a pocket a handful of small, brown-spotted cowrie shells, she shook them in both hands and cast them on the tray. She bent to examine the resulting pattern, touching this shell and that with a careful fingertip.

With their ridged slits, the upright shells looked like tiny half-open mouths. Those that had fallen slit-down, showing their oval, freckled backs, were more numerous. Beyond that, Vincent had no gift or skill in interpreting them. But he felt Narcissa's bleak reaction – as of a dire suspicion confirmed.

Meeting his eyes, Narcissa exclaimed, “Turn back, Vincent! Journey no more.”

Ignoring Winslow's noisy grunt of skepticism from behind him, by the ladder, Vincent responded quietly, “She is my life. I am bound by my heart to go on,” in a way that at once respected her warning and regretfully set it aside.

Narcissa gestured at the shells. “There is death. I see it.”

“I must continue,” Vincent replied.

“Then my first duty is served,” Narcissa declared, and held up a cautioning finger. “I have warned you.”

“I hear your warning,” said Vincent, taking her arm and helping her to stand.

For a moment, as they stood together, she seemed to study him. He bowed his head, accepting her inspection.

Presently, in a confiding voice, she mentioned, “Vincent, the man whom you know as Paracelsus…. He is not alone. There are those down here who follow him. Protect him.”

“How many?” Vincent asked.

Ignoring his question, Narcissa made an expressive, pitying face. “The simple ones. The lost ones. The way…is dangerous before you.”

With Winslow shifting impatiently behind him, Vincent said only, “Thank you, Narcissa,” and they parted from her.

*****

When her captor nudged her awake with a boot, he was holding a torch. Lame from sleeping on stone, leaning on her arms before she could face the effort of sitting up, Catherine guessed that meant it didn't matter anymore what she saw. Him, for instance. It was no treat. He stared down at her with dull, sullen pig eyes. Either of his legs was about as thick as her waist. He was huge, filthy, and brutal looking. To say he looked like a Neanderthal would have been a compliment. His face swam in and out of her blurred focus.

When she didn't immediately bounce to her feet, he grabbed her elbow and hauled her up. At the expected shove, her knees were like rubber. She staggered and went down. By leaning against a boulder she managed to clamber to her feet again before he could inflict any further indignity and staggered whatever way his following footfalls herded her.

She began to hope the torch also meant it wouldn't be much farther to their destination, because she didn't think she could keep moving much longer. Though the thought of food made her queasy, she was hollow and lightheaded with hunger. But worse than that was thirst. She couldn't recall ever being really thirsty before. Tapwater was something you just took for granted. Tank top and bluejeans sweated wet to her skin, moving through steams issuing from fissures in the rock, she found herself scanning for condensation puddles. Had she found one, she thought she would have lain down and lapped like a dog. Gratefully. But she was spared that temptation. Although moisture glinted off curves of the obsidian pillars, some with fractured concave edges sharp as black glass, that they were moving among, there were no puddles.

She was almost numb enough to just lie down and refuse to move. Force him to carry her. Almost. Not quite. Before she reached that extremity, she saw what she thought was light ahead – beyond the reach of the torch. Drifting fog obscured it. Then it reappeared. Square, regular: a doorway. Gazing at it, she forgot to watch her feet and went down before she knew what had happened. Seizing her wrist, the ogre towed her.

The light was large and dazzled her. She shielded her eyes with a forearm, squinting and blinking. The doorway opened onto a ledge projecting from a nearly circular wall that defined a natural amphitheater. Torches burned around the pit below, into which many openings led. On this upper level, there were only two: the one they'd entered by and another, roughly opposite. Her head spun as she tried to take in details while being towed around the ledge.

They came to the opening of an interior chamber – a little like a press box overlooking a playing field. Inside, on a sort of high, rectangular dais, past sparse furnishings – a table; a chair – a man dressed in impeccable, crisp black stood with his back turned. As the ogre pushed her in, the man looked casually around. The flames of many candles glinted off metal: the left side of his face – cheek, temple, the bridge of his nose, and part of his forehead – was encased in a golden mask. As though molten metal had been splashed on him from the side. He regarded her with a gaze as cold and pitiless as stone.

She'd never seen him. But she'd seen the police composite sketch – the sparse hair, wide brow, greying goatee. She knew, contrary to all expectation, who he must be.

As the ogre pushed her up the stairs to the level where the man stood, her dry mouth could barely pronounce the name: “Paracelsus.”

He drew the chair back from the table, implicitly inviting her to sit.

“Greetings, Miss Chandler. I see I need not introduce myself. We know each other so well already by report.”

Moving away from the table a little as she sank into the chair, he continued to study her. “I've collected pictures, of course. So prominent a woman is often photographed. I fear you're not at your best.”

Without realizing it, Catherine scrubbed a fist across her mouth and shoved back her lank hair. “What do you want with me?” she demanded bluntly.

“For now? Simply to look at you. Make your acquaintance. Discover what manner of woman has been honored with Vincent's… affections. Your name has been much bandied about, you realize, on the pipes. Coming, going….”

Paracelsus lifted a hand in a careless, airy gesture indicating the commonness of such reports. Then, his eyes shrewder, sharper, he added provocatively, “And then, of course, you're much talked about, as well. Gossip. Speculations…. Tell me: is Vincent an aggressive partner? Is that what attracts you? Or does the attraction lie on a still more primitive and instinctual basis?”

Staring up, astonished, Catherine felt her face heating even beyond what the stifling chamber could produce. After a second, she thought to shut her mouth.

“Father,” Paracelsus continued blandly, giving the name a contemptuous edge, “must be livid. Or have the two of you - you and Father, that is – already come to an ‘arrangement'? He turns a blind eye so long as you don't openly challenge the status quo – is that it? By night, Vincent can be yours so long as by day, he's Father's. Not every crack can be sealed to shut off such primal energy without the certainty of an eventual explosion. So has Father agreed to tolerate you so long as you provide a harmless outlet for that energy and Vincent remains otherwise docile?”

Somehow, from towering indignation, Catherine fought her way back to calm. Fury would flow through the bond as strongly as fear. She couldn't afford either. For Vincent's sake. Clasping one hand tightly inside the other, she looked around the chamber.

“So this is where you went, after the fire.”

“Oh, so you know about the fire?” Paracelsus inquired, and stroked the mask with the back of his fingers.

“I also know you murdered a friend of mine. Jimmy Morero.”

“I'm sorry – so often, the names escape me ...”

“By the stairs,” Catherine said tightly, “in the Beaumont.”

Paracelsus made a show of looking pensive, as though trying to recollect some trivial, long-forgotten incident. Then he shrugged – another exaggerated, theatrical gesture.

“I trust you showed your friendship by staging an appropriately lavish funeral. So many, Above, don't get even that.”

“What do you want with me?” Catherine said again, refusing to be provoked.

“With you? Nothing – directly. You're merely a means…how shall I put it?…of getting Vincent's undivided attention. Apparently, he values you. That renders him vulnerable. Oh, you've been considering that already, have you? Quite right: it's always a mistake to form attachments. At the best, they disappoint; at the worst, they betray. As you are about to betray Vincent. No fault of yours, of course. You have no choice in the matter.”

“Were your eyes always like that?” Catherine inquired.

The offhand remark took him by surprise. He considered her for an instant with a sharper watchfulness. Everything else, she thought, had been an act – scripted and maybe even rehearsed for delivery to the society bimbo he'd perhaps thought her. Only now was he noticing her at all.

“Like what?” he responded pleasantly. Willing to let her vent whatever crude spite might occur to her.

“Cruel,” she said judiciously. “Dead. Lonely.”

Paracelsus regarded her for a long minute, quite without expression. Then he remarked, “It's unbecoming to a woman to pant. I'll bring you some water.”

As he went out, the ogre stepped across the entrance and stood there with folded arms, indifferently gazing in her direction, more or less. At least his eyes were open, and he was facing her way. And Catherine wondered, Is that what he thinks Vincent is? Father's version of that?

And then, at once, she thought, That's not fair. After all, she knew next to nothing of the ogre, except that he'd brought her where she didn't want to be. And except for roughness that she wasn't used to, and he probably was, he hadn't deliberately hurt her during at least a day or two – she'd lost all sense of time – with her as his helpless prisoner. Stupid, maybe, but not cruel. Maybe had a family, friends, that he unbent with. Dressed a little differently, he could be a wrestler, a football lineman, or a biker no more surly looking than the average.

She tried to make herself think how she might gain some leverage there – enlist the huge man's help – but instead let her forehead drop onto her folded arms. Focus on calm. No dread. No hope. Calm.

Before reality hazed over completely, the thought came: I don't think Paracelsus knows about the bond. So he doesn't know either of us at all. Not me. And not Vincent.

Perhaps somehow there would be some leverage in that.

*****

Returning from some further alcove, Paracelsus set before her a large, rough-turned wooden bowl full of water.

“Drink. Or you'll dehydrate.” When she didn't move, eyeing the bowl mistrustfully, he directed again, with cold impatience, “Drink: you're certainly no use to me dead.”

Showing him no thanks – after all, it was his fault she was in such shape to begin with – she seized and lifted the bowl. It was mannerless and awkward, drinking from a bowl. Some water slopped down her neck. It felt good. She drank the bowl's contents in long gulps and afterward wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist. She could have drunk as much again, but wouldn't ask.

Instead, gazing up at him, she demanded, “Why? Why have you brought me here?”

His answering look was ironic, condescending. “Must there be a reason?”

“Yes.”

Soberly, slowly, he responded, “I was exiled from my home. From the world I created…by the man you call ‘Father.' Even then, he wouldn't allow me to live in peace.”

“I know the story,” Catherine interrupted. “Fifty people died because of your drugs!”

For a moment he gave her another of those long, expressionless looks. Then he moved, passing behind her, remarking flatly, “I killed no one. They died because they were fools.”

Catherine swiveled to watch him. She didn't like the feeling of his being behind her.

He unnerved her. Dressed like an undertaker, closely but toned to the throat, where she was sweltering and mopping at her face every few minutes, not a drop of sweat beaded his brow. As though the impression of chill, dispassionate attention were a physical fact and he somehow radiated cold.

And he moved oddly. Like clockwork. Every gesture seemed premeditated and stiffly choreographed, like clips of Ed Sullivan at his most stilted. Nothing natural, spontaneous, or direct. Everything for effect, each word and each motion a tiny experiment and those dead eyes continually watching to note what response the stimulus provoked in her.

He'd been alone too long, she judged. He didn't know how to talk to people anymore.

“They were weak,” she contradicted. “There's a difference.”

“Ah,” he said, his voice meditative, “but you're not weak – are you, Catherine.” He reached out a hand and pushed fingers into the hair at her nape. For an instant, his thumb stroked down… touching her scar. “You're strong. Intrepid.”

The praise was so unexpected she took it for mockery. Sarcasm. She angrily jerked her head away from his fingers' repellent intimacy – not a caress: an examination of the remaining evidence.

“What do you want with me?”

He moved again, so that she had to turn her head to keep him in view. In a meditative, distant tone, he announced, “Once a person has been visited by violence, everything changes.”

He glanced around at her sharply. “Isn't that so? Nietzsche said: ‘That which does not kill me…makes me stronger.'”

He circled back behind her yet again and when she turned, she discovered that those dull, pouched eyes could, after all, convey something besides contemptuous amusement and a vivisectionist's curiosity: malignity. What she could only describe to herself as evil.

He said, “Well, I am stronger now.”

“You still haven't answered my question.”

“Vincent is the answer to your question,” he riposted at once. “He's all that stands between Father and me…in more ways than one.”

Slowly, like peeling back a scab, he then removed the mask. The skin underneath was bubbled and horribly scarred. It looked wet – as though it hadn't healed and never would.

“And this,” said Paracelsus, “is why I must destroy him.”

Staring up at his hideously disfigured countenance, Catherine challenged, “I am not afraid.”

Amusement came into those lusterless eyes. “You will be,” he commented casually. “You see, Vincent is also coming here…to watch you die.” His attention shifted to the ogre standing patiently at the doorway.

“Go, Erlik…and make sure that Vincent continues his journey…alone.”

13

Foragers reported locating a splendid old iron staircase almost precisely the right height to reach from the floor of the once-kitchen to the upper ledge that was plainly just waiting to become a library, away from inquisitive, destructive little hands. The question was, could Jacob justify to himself the labor and time required to disassemble the architectural relic and bring it Below?

Surveying the books overflowing crates and shelves and stacked in enormous teetering piles on every flat surface in the chamber he shared with Devin and Molly, Jacob admitted that the children needed more space and so did he. The two chambers were close and connected through the upper passage: he'd still be in easy call, should the children need him. And they wouldn't be disturbed when, as often happened, he kept doctor's hours: answering a summons in the middle of the night.

On balance, Jacob decided to relocate to the nursery-cum-study, where he spent most of his time anyway. He needed a chamber; any civilized community needed a library; the library needed a staircase. And so it was decided.

Just under the laboriously reassembled stair was an alcove with room for a cot and a small wardrobe. That was all the private space he really needed.

Sam built him shelves on the upper level. That's where he was, contentedly shelving books – actually, doing more reading and sorting than storing away--the August night when Anna appeared on the lower landing, staring wildly around and calling his name…with Vincent heavy in her arms.

Grabbing the rail to rise, Jacob called, “I'm here, Anna.”

Locating Jacob, staring up at him, Anna tottered down the steps into the study. Even by lamplight, she looked pale, exhausted, and frantic. It was some weeks since Jacob had seen her.

Descending to meet her, Jacob asked, “What's wrong? Is he ill?”

“No, he's fine, we're all fine. He's asleep now – John is. I-- It was the only time I could come. I'm sorry, I know it's late, but it's such a long way and I didn't know what else ...”

“Here,” Jacob said, taking her arm firmly and steering her toward a chair, “sit down. Now. Tell me what's happened.”

Still clutching the blanket-wrapped baby, she stared at Jacob, her dark eyes compelling as those of the Ancient Mariner who'd seen a vision too awful and sublime to hold unspoken. But in contrast to how distracted she seemed, her words, when they came, were terse and to the point, as though she'd spent all the long walk here rehearsing them:

“He's been burning Vincent. Hurting him – all kinds of ways. He won't stop. I can't make him stop. He won't see that it's wrong. He doesn't listen to me anymore. He even does it in front of me now, expecting me to understand. He's the one who doesn't understand. It's wrong. It has to stop. But I can't stop it. I tried, but he won't listen. I didn't know. Now I do. Vincent can't be with us anymore. You have to keep him.”

Abruptly, Anna thrust the child toward Jacob. “Keep him away from John. Nobody else can. There's nobody else, Jacob. You have to.”

Slowly, Jacob accepted the child, then collapsed back into his chair, well aware of the weight of this acceptance. Aware that his life would be changed from this moment – as irrevocably as when he'd opened the Institute's criminally distorted report. He was being given a trust, and a responsibility, that would be unending, limitless, and almost certainly tragic. He didn't know if he had the fortitude bear it. But he had to try. The fact of Vincent obliged him to try.

Anna's eyes, still locked with his, said she knew all that – knew precisely what she was asking, and surrendering. They both knew what they were doing. Almost shyly, they both looked aside as though embarrassed to be involved in so large a moment.

The baby looked up at him. The blue eyes were glazed, unmoving, unseeing. The strong little body was rigid with terror. Carefully, Jacob folded back the blanket. Across the shoulders and down the arms were red welts naked of fur. Burned away, Jacob concluded with something like clinical detachment. Only two blisters: the burns weren't severe. And welts and blisters both shiny with ointment: the injuries had been tended. But they never should have been there at all to need tending. No child should be so mistreated. No excuse could be good enough.

Abruptly, Jacob was filled with a most unclinical fury.

“I wanted to do this,” he mentioned to Anna. “Weeks ago. When I found him hanging in that dreadful canvas vest. It sickened me. But I knew I couldn't stand against both of you.”

“I'll support you,” Anna replied in a steady, matter-of-fact voice. “I'll tell what I've seen. And what I read. He's been keeping notes. On the… games.”

For an instant, her face went crooked and ugly with horror. Then it smoothed again into a mask of determination.

“Vincent's training, as he calls it. To make Vincent strong…. Now I know why we've never had a child. It wasn't meant to be. I love John. He's a wonderful man. Extraordinary. I've been so lucky. But some people should never have children. It was a mercy we were denied any. We should have accepted it. I think…. I think we could have learned to be happy. Perhaps, once this is all over, we can be happy again.”

For a moment they both sat silent. Then Jacob said, “He'll be terribly angry. At both of us.”

“I know. But I believe…the love is stronger. I don't think he'll ever understand. But I hope, when the hurt fades and with the baby beyond his reach, he'll forgive me.”

Leaning forward, Anna reached out to softly brush the child's untrimmed fair hair back from his forehead, away from his cheeks. “Forgive me, my dear, that we wanted you so. You were too special for us. We hadn't the humility to simply be thankful for such a gift. We wanted you to be what we needed, not what you are. The temptation was too great. Our love proved neither wise nor kind.”

She looked up, asking mildly, “Will you love him, Jacob?”

He hadn't felt so skewered by a pair of eyes, or a question, since he'd been asked, Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?

He swallowed. “I think…I do, actually. I wake up at night, worrying about him. Other children…seem the least bit peculiar to me now. Do you think that means something?”

Anna smiled, very kindly.

“And I've had some practice,” Jacob found himself adding, as if afraid those qualifications weren't enough. “Devin is mine, you know.”

The instant it was out of his mouth, he felt how inane it was. But Anna only continued to smile, commenting, “I always thought so. You should tell him, Jacob.”

“I will, I will. When he's a little older. When, perhaps, he can understand.”

“Don't wait,” Anna advised. “It's very important to a child, I think, to know they belong to someone. I think that's as close to forever as we ever get.”

With one last stroke of Vincent's cheek, she rose, smoothing her skirt. “I have to get back now. Before he notices we're gone. I should tell him, don't you think? Not just let him find out. Wake up and find the place empty, as though we'd deserted him. That wouldn't be right. He'd be so worried. So upset….”

Her expression became distant, as though visualizing that meeting. Then she looked at Jacob again.

“He does love Vincent, you know. It would be easier if he didn't. We must not give in. No matter what. For both their sakes.”

Bending, she kissed Vincent's forehead and then quickly went up the steps and disappeared into the passage. Finally stirring, the baby rolled on Jacob's knees, clutching his vest and pushing his face into Jacob's middle.

Jacob smoothed the blanket up around him and patted his back, murmuring helplessly, “There, there. So you're back with me, young Vincent. We'll have to get acquainted all over again. And nothing bad will ever happen to you if I can prevent it. That should count for something, shouldn't it?”

He leaned and tilted his head to study the child…and only then realized that, quite soundlessly, Vincent was crying – as though all the undeserved sorrows of his young life had become more than he could contain and were overflowing. Immediately Jacob lifted the child – goodness, how heavy he'd become! – against his shoulder and began walking with him, sometimes rubbing his cheek against Vincent's hair, talking to him softly. About Devin, and Grace, and growing up, and Margaret, and how much Jacob wanted to learn to be a good father to him and how he hoped Vincent would be patient with him while he learned.

And still Vincent cried, with no sound but the soft, sobbing breaths.

After a time Jacob suspected his own agitation was keeping the child from settling. Children, he'd found, could react to a tone of voice or being held just a little too tightly or any of a dozen signals too subtle for an adult to notice. So he mounded blankets into a nest on his cot, expertly popped Vincent into a small nightshirt, and tucked him warm there. Then he sat at the cot's foot and hummed until the child finally did settle and fall asleep.

Rising carefully, Jacob drew the curtains together across the alcove, making sure there was a little gap that light from the study would penetrate. I don't care if his eyesight is ten times better than an owl's, he thought indignantly: some things transcended difference, and the need for light's reassurance was one of them. For heaven's sake, Vincent was a child, and deserved to be treated as such! He felt a pang of acute revulsion at the notion of Vincent's ever being left in the dark again.

Jacob made tea, selected a book, and sat at his desk, bracing himself to wait for the inevitable. Waiting for Paracelsus.

*****

The slight scrape of leather on stone made Jacob glance up. Paracelsus stood on the landing. Their eyes met for an instant, then quickly disengaged--like the opening contact of steel that formally began a duel.

By his disappointment, Jacob realized he'd been hoping Anna would return to lend her support. But of course it was a long walk to make four times in a single night. And the fact that Paracelsus had come meant Anna had already had a lone confrontation with her husband. It was Jacob's turn.

As Jacob put a marker in his book and started to rise, Paracelsus came down the steps, observing casually, “You're up late.”

Collecting his stick, limping toward the gas ring, Jacob responded over his shoulder, “You're out late. Come, sit down. I'll make us some fresh tea.”

“No need of ceremony. Handsome stair: that's new.”

Jacob patted the spiral under-rail that supported the cleats. “Isn't it? Evan found it in a burned-out firehouse.”

“And it's yours now,” Paracelsus commented in an insinuating tone that suggested Jacob had indulged in greed beyond his station.

“Yes,” said Jacob evenly. “It is.”

“The railing would make it easier for you to climb. Yes,” said Paracelsus, as if deciding. “You've earned a few luxuries.”

When Jacob declined that gambit, that implied Paracelsus had authority to approve or disapprove of Jacob's domestic arrangements, Paracelsus went on pleasantly, “It was good of you to look after the boy. But Anna and I have…resolved our misunderstanding. She understands now. So I've come for my son.”

Jacob didn't believe a word of it. Just another gambit – but one that must be answered. Both hands on the cane's top, he settled his balance, squared his shoulders. “We're going to have to discuss that, John.”

“I don't believe it's a matter open to discussion. Vincent is mine. I've come for him. I'm taking him home.”

“No. I'm sorry, John, but no. He remains with me.”

Paracelsus regarded the floor. He said abruptly, “Anna was distraught. Women won't accept that a certain degree of sternness is necessary, for a child's own good. She misinterpreted something she saw. Surely you're not going to take seriously the ...”

“This isn't about what Anna saw. What I saw was enough. It has to stop, John. I see no other way and no possible compromise. You cannot have him.”

Coming farther into the study, Paracelsus seated himself at the table and was silent a moment. Then he shook his head.

“I wouldn't have thought it of you.”

“Thought what?”

“That you'd begrudge me this opportunity. That you'd harbor toward me such envy, malice, and downright spite as to attempt to take what you care nothing for, merely to deprive me of it.”

The unexpected accusation stung.

“I assure you, that's not the situation,” Jacob replied. “I'm sorry if that's how it seems to you.”

“Seems?” Paracelsus shot back. “What else am I to think? You were glad enough to be rid of the child last winter. Nobody else wanted him. And now, just when I've begun to unlock some of the child's potential, you attempt to steal him. Have you begun to appreciate some fraction of what that boy may become, given the proper guidance?

“No,” Paracelsus answered himself, harshly, “you're as blind as the rest of them. You'd ruin the boy trying to make him fit in, rather than celebrating and encouraging the very differences that make him so unique, so magical. My unicorn child. You'd cut off his horn, call him a horse, set him to drag a plow, perhaps. But he'll never be a horse, Jacob – only a ruined, unhappy unicorn sundered from his rightful nature, his destiny unfulfilled.

“I have a responsibility to the boy – one I fully accept, regardless of what it may entail, regardless of the consequences. How often in a life does a miracle fall into one's care? It is the pearl of great price one would unhesitatingly sell all one's other goods to own. You can have no conception of what's in the balance here. In that child is the future, and the meaning, of everything we've built, you and I, here Below. You have no legitimate claim to seize it, all for yourself. I won't allow it.”

Having grimly waited out this oration, Jacob said, “I'm not concerned about such grand abstractions. I've seen a tiny child with welts and blisters from being cold-bloodedly and deliberately burned. He's been subjected to unspeakable things. That's all that matters. Not what he may, or may not, someday become – only his present suffering. The ends do not justify the means. I will not let it continue.”

Paracelsus studied him evaluatingly, then sighed and rose.

“I see you're not going to be moved by reasonable argument. As usual.” A glance considered, then dismissed, the empty cribs. Scanning the chamber, Paracelsus inquired, “Where have you hidden him?” and Jacob realized, with astonished dismay, that Paracelsus meant to take the child by force.

As Paracelsus' searching eyes stopped on the alcove's shut curtains, Jacob moved a step aside, blocking the opening. Bracing, he took his stick in both hands – heart thudding, mouth dry.

“Please, John. Surely we needn't stoop so low as that – as if we were no better than a pair of dogs contending over a bone.”

“Small, sly dogs steal bones if they can,” rejoined Paracelsus, coming steadily toward him. “Unless a stronger dog takes the bone back. It's known as survival, Jacob. Take what's mine, then whine against resorting to force. You hypocrite!”

Jacob swung the stick, but it was deflected by the underside of the staircase. Paracelsus easily ducked. Before Jacob could recover, he was shoved out of the way, banging into the staircase and then going down. As Paracelsus pushed the curtains aside, one panel jerked as something small and fast burst out. As the two men's heads wrenched around, the blur that was Vincent swung up onto the staircase, scrabbled with frantic agility up the spiral cleats, and dove like a disappearing rabbit into the upper passage.

Reaching for his stick, then grasping the lower support of the staircase to pull himself up, Jacob almost found himself smiling at the blank astonishment on Paracelsus' face. But all impulse to smile fled when Paracelsus turned and strode toward the outer passage. Paracelsus knew where the way led: the children's chamber.

Following as fast as he could, Jacob heard a piercing screech from Molly, then a yell from Devin. Breathlessly arriving, he found Molly still screeching, backed to the bed's far corner, and a flailing confusion of comforters, pillows, and blankets as Paracelsus attempted to uncover what was struggling underneath them.

As Paracelsus snatched the last blanket away, uncovering a wildly disheveled Devin with Vincent clinging tight to his side, Jacob forced himself between, shouting, “That's enough!”

Facing Paracelsus, he said, “You've burst into my children's chamber and frightened them half out of their wits. If you so much as lay a finger on them, any of them, I'll denounce you in a common meeting!”

As Devin realized that the small hobgoblin who'd pounced into his dreams hadn't been attacking but fleeing to him for safety, he stopped struggling. Putting an arm around Vincent, Devin drew him close, staring defiantly up at Paracelsus. Jacob wanted to hug the boy.

Molly's fright had declined to a whooping wail. Vincent, his face hidden by hair and Devin's protective embrace, was quite unmistakably growling, wiggling as close to Devin as he could get and hanging on with clawed fingertips. Devin winced but didn't try to push him away.

Paracelsus couldn't take Vincent except by prying him, by main force, away from Devin – against Devin's resistance. And even if he succeeded, Vincent had made it plain he wasn't going to be passively carted off. It wouldn't be a simple matter of restraining a struggling toddler: it would be more like taking into one's arms some 25 pounds of enraged wildcat. Remembering the bitten hand, Jacob knew Paracelsus had good reason to hesitate.

That was when Julia, whose chamber was nearby, burst in from the passage demanding, “What in the Sam Hill is going on? I could hear, clear down the….” Taking in the tense, confrontational stances, she let her words trail off, frowned, and folded her arms.

Still staring up at Paracelsus, Devin said boldly, “Go away. You're scaring him. You're scaring Molly. Nobody wants you here!”

Paracelsus let the blanket slide to the floor.

“A common meeting,” he mused. “Very well. Perhaps that is the Solomon needed to resolve this matter, after all. I'll call one for tonight, immediately after supper. We'll submit the matter to the community. I doubt they'll condone child stealing.” Passing, Paracelsus gave Jacob a level, bitter glance. “You're going to regret this, Quartermaster.”

“Quite possibly,” Jacob muttered to himself, sighing as the crisis passed…at least for the moment. “But that will change nothing…. Molly? Don't cry, child, it's all over now. Here, Molly--”

As he tried to reach across the bed to the girl, it became evident that Molly's fear hadn't abated with Paracelsus' withdrawal. She was afraid of Vincent.

“Child stealing?” Julia repeated, coming to peer at the two boys clutching each other amid the tumbled bedclothes. “What's he…. Why, it's that…that whatever, that Anna picked up. What on earth you want with that?” she demanded of Jacob.

Before Jacob could even think of formulating a reply, Julia clambered heavily over the mattresses and collected Molly into her arms, declaring, “This child's scared half into fits. I best take her home with me awhile, till she settles, if you're gonna let that thing run loose.”

Clambering back, then rising with Molly in her arms, Julia scowled at Jacob. “My glory, what come over you to do such a thing, cross Paracelsus like that? I ain't never seen him so mad. The two of you friends such a long while, and you still don't know he ain't a man to cross? Gonna bust this place right down the middle, what you done. And over that?” Shaking her head, Julia lumbered off disapprovingly.

Devin and Jacob looked at one another. Still growling softly, Vincent hid within his hair.

“Is he gonna stay with us now?” Devin asked.

“Would you like him to?” Jacob responded cautiously.

“Sure! Molly's a sissy. I'm not scared of him. And he likes me: look.”

Wriggling around, Devin patiently pried each sharp little finger out of his flannel nightshirt. Vincent made no resistance and presently allowed Devin to draw him around across his lap. Jacob sat on the edge of the bed beside them. As Devin pushed back Vincent's hair, slanted sapphire eyes, no longer dilated with rage or fear, blinked trustingly up at them.

Allowing for the odd nose and cleft lip that accommodated the fangs, the high cheekbones so unlike the round contours of other children's countenances, Jacob had to admit that the face was endearing, after its own fashion. The golden skin tones looked warm by candlelight, rather than sallow for lack of sun, like most people's Below…although not Devin's: his skin was dusky, olive-toned, like his mother's.

Tentatively, Jacob stroked Vincent's cheek and was pleasantly surprised when the child nudged his head into the caress. A very endearing boy. One could, Jacob supposed, grow quite attached to him.

“We want to keep him,” Devin commented in a worried voice. “But will they let us?”

“You're thinking of the meeting.”

Devin bobbed his head. “Nobody else likes him like we do. What if they say we can't keep him? We'd have to run away. Just us and Vincent.”

Jacob couldn't tell how Devin felt about that prospect – whether it represented an adventure or losing the only home he'd ever known. Perhaps both. In any case, the question was moot.

“I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible, Devin. Vincent…. Vincent couldn't live Above, you see. People wouldn't be kind to him.”

“We could stay Below, just live someplace else, all by ourselves--”

“No, Devin. We all need one another to survive. We're members of a community. Paracelsus has every right to put this matter before them. We don't always agree, but we always hear each other out and consider everyone's rights, not merely our own wishes.”

Devin began excitedly, “But if we were wolves ...” making Jacob realize that the boy's imagination had fixed on Kipling's tales of Mowgli as a model to understand and meet this adult problem.

“But we aren't,” Jacob pointed out. “We're men.”

“Vincent's not,” asserted Devin stoutly. “Is he?”

“I don't know, Devin. Perhaps it's best to consider him so and hope for the best.”

Putting an arm around Devin's shoulders, Jacob gave the boy a reassuring squeeze.

“Don't worry. We're a civilized community. Even, I sometimes think, an enlightened one. I cannot believe they'd condemn a child to the custody of a man who subjects him to what amounts to systematic torture. I'm sure I'll be able to make them see how wrong that would be. And Anna will be there.”

“On our side?”

“On Vincent's side. She's prepared to give him up, if that's what would be best for him. It was Anna who brought him to me, you see.”

“Oh.” Devin thought about that for a minute or two. Then, leaning close, he confided in a whisper, “He's awful wet.”

“Aha. And no wonder: perfectly natural, after all this time and so much excitement. Here.” Folding a blanket across his lap, Jacob helped Devin transfer the baby, then said, “You know where the clean diapers are kept ...”

Devin was already scrambling up the ladder to the connecting passage.

While Jacob waited, he thought ahead to the meeting. It would be a trial – in all senses of the world. The first they'd ever had Below. There was no precedent…and, despite what he'd said to Devin, no certainty about the result. Their first real test of governance.

“You're a stone,” he told the attentive baby, “thrown in our small, quiet pond. I wonder if I'll live to see the last ripple fade.”

Vincent made a breathy noise that sounded like “Ah,” which could be interpreted as agreement or doubt. But of course was neither. A pity the child couldn't speak for himself, tonight. But the burns would speak for him – plain evidence of abuse.

Whatever tack Paracelsus chose to adopt, Jacob would steadfastly maintain the child's wellbeing as the sole valid basis of decision. With Anna's help and support, surely that would be enough.

*****

Everyone had been notified, and nearly everybody came. The study's various levels were packed to overflowing. Even the older children were in attendance, mostly gathered at the top of the spiral staircase with their feet dangling.

It was noisy. Not to mention unwieldy, Jacob thought: they'd have to devise some system of delegation in future, or meetings would become irretrievably chaotic. Perhaps a council, he thought, adjusting Vincent more securely in his lap.

Although Vincent didn't like crowds, he'd so far expressed his discomfort only by digging sharp fingers into Jacob's vest and butting his forehead against Jacob's chest. No struggling to get away; no howling. A small mercy, but one for which Jacob was duly grateful.

Leaning closer against Jacob's chair, Devin whispered, “Where's Anna?”

“I don't know,” Jacob murmured back. He'd already noted with dismay that conspicuous absence.

“She promised to be here,” said Devin, with a five-year-old's indignation that made no allowance for adult ambivalence. “So why isn't she?”

“I don't know.”

Jacob hadn't believed for a moment Paracelsus' assertion that she'd become reconciled to his treatment of Vincent. But perhaps at the last minute she'd been unable to face opposing her husband in a public forum.

Whatever the reason, Jacob was clearly on his own. Hugging Vincent reassuringly, Jacob took what comfort he could from the fact that, although Anna wasn't here to support him, Paracelsus evidently hadn't been able to make her recant, either. At least Jacob wouldn't have to argue against both of them – a family presenting a united front, demanding the return of their child. Another small mercy.

Paracelsus drew all eyes by doing nothing more remarkable than pulling out his watch and consulting it.

“I believe we may begin,” he said, not even raising his voice. But all the noise immediately quieted except for the rustling as people finished settling themselves.

Jacob had never had such unquestioned authority. He'd seldom wanted or missed it. But he was very aware of what a disadvantage that lack put him at, in this present circumstance.

The meeting's first business was to agree to a moderator: as disputants, neither Jacob nor Paracelsus could appropriately preside. The choice fell on Ray Ensign – a relative newcomer, childless, known as a steady, responsible man with no particular partisanship in the present dispute.

Rather than sit behind the desk, Ray perched on its front edge and looked around at the attentive faces.

“Now, the way I understand it, nothing like this has ever happened before down here. So I'm gonna say a little how it seems to me, and you all see how that strikes you. First thing, this ain't no trial. I'm no judge, you're no jury. It ain't about who done wrong. It's about what's gonna happen from now on. How we want to live. How we want to be, to each other. What kind of power we want to have to say to a person, you can do this, you can't do that, instead of letting them be, however they please. Because afterward, everybody can turn around and say that same thing to us. We got two people here that both want something. They both can't have it, seems like. So somebody else has to decide what we all think is right. That suit everybody?”

Ray scanned the gathering. Nobody said anything, and he apparently found in their silence enough consensus to continue.

“Second thing is, do we really got to go through all this?”

Pursuing that line of thought, Ray suggested a few compromises that assigned Vincent to one man's custody yet gave the other substantial access to the child. Though Jacob generally approved of mediation and compromise, he couldn't agree to any of the proposals Paracelsus didn't veto. Some matters couldn't be resolved by half measures, and Jacob considered this one of them.

Ray nodded, as though he'd expected that response, and told everyone, “So here's what I think we should do. Paracelsus and the Quartermaster, they each get their say. After that, everybody else gets the chance to say what they think or ask whatever they want to. Then the Quartermaster and Paracelsus each get their final say. And then we vote. Anybody got any problem with that?”

Seated with her husband on the staircase, Francine asked, “Do we all have to agree, or only most of us?”

“I don't expect,” Ray replied, “we're likely all to vote the same way about anything. All the same, this ain't the same as deciding which side to butter the bread on, neither. It's about who gets to keep and raise a child. This is about people's lives. Their families. Their futures, and ours, a long ways ahead. Say, two-thirds to settle things. If it's less than that, we talk some more till we do get two-thirds. 'Cause whatever we decide, we're gonna have to live with it afterward, and with each other. Either way, somebody's gonna be hurt and mad. We all gotta know it's really settled, fair and square, once and for all. Paracelsus, that seem fair to you?”

At Paracelsus' nod, Ray looked around at Jacob, who nodded as well.

“All right,” Ray said. “Let's get started then. Who wants to start off?”

“I will,” said Paracelsus, rising from his chair. Turning to face the assembly, he said, “I'm sorry to involve you all in a dispute of this nature. I know it's awkward and uncomfortable, perhaps even frightening, when those one depends on for guidance and decisions cannot agree among themselves. But this dispute is not of my making.”

He favored Jacob with a cool glance as good as a glare. He looked, Jacob thought, much as Anna had, last night: tired, anxious, and resolute. Upset, but so far managing to contain it to seem judicious, reasonable.

Paracelsus continued, “It's a simple matter of rights. In matters of personal choice, we have been at liberty to do whatever seems best to us, so long as it does no harm to our neighbors. We're all entitled to be different, free of meddling and interference. Our principle, until now, has been ‘Live and let live:' a kind of benevolent anarchy.”

(On the staircase, bald Pascal nodded emphatically.)

“Now the Quartermaster, here, doesn't approve of how I've chosen to raise my son. It does the Quartermaster no harm, except that it doesn't happen to suit him. But on the strength of that disapproval, he has arrogated to himself the right to take my boy away and keep him. And that does hurt: both me and my child.”

That carefully modulated voice went harsh with strain. Paracelsus turned away for a moment to recover his composure. Theatrical, Jacob thought…but not false. Even he couldn't doubt Paracelsus' sincerity.

Facing the group again, Paracelsus went on, “The Quartermaster has taken my son. I want the boy back. I love him, and he needs my care. Though not born to me and Anna, Vincent is as much my son as… as Devin is the Quartermaster's. It's obvious to the most casual glance that my son is different. Special. He has different needs, different abilities. He's a prodigy who will, I believe, grow into someone truly remarkable. But for his gifts to mature, he needs an upbringing different from that which would be suitable for an ordinary child. I have been giving him that upbringing as best I can, as I see fit. If that doesn't conform to Jacob Wells' ideas of propriety, I regret differing with such a good friend. But I don't require his approval. And disapproving surely doesn't give him the right to take my child away from me. I contend he has neither the right nor the power, and I expect that as fair-minded people, you'll tell him so.

“I know,” Paracelsus added, with a sardonic smile, “I've gotten a reputation for long-winded oratory. At times, I get carried away by ideas. You all know that. So this once, I'll try to be brief. The issue is simple. I say Vincent is mine, to raise as I choose. The Quartermaster contends he is not: that a parent's authority and responsibility are to be overthrown, and a child taken away, if his ideas and mine do not agree. On those same grounds, I could take Devin to rear as my own and the Quartermaster could not reasonably object. But he would object – wouldn't you?”

Jacob found himself facing Paracelsus' glare, and felt Devin leaning anxiously close, as though at any moment Paracelsus might make good on that threat. If threat it was….

“I most certainly would,” Jacob responded. “I deny that those are the grounds of this dispute. Are you done, John? Is it my turn now?”

Paracelsus made a broad “Be my guest” gesture and retired to a chair. Handing Vincent to Devin, Jacob rose.

“I, too, will try to be brief. I never wanted to be in this position. I've been forced into it by what I've heard and seen. As you all know, John and I have been friends for years. I do not take that friendship lightly. So, knowing both of us, you'll know I haven't entered into this dispute without what I consider the gravest provocation. It's not merely a matter of differing ideas or personal freedom, as John would have you believe. As perhaps John himself sincerely believes, for all I know. I tell you it's not. It's a matter of abuse. Several children here – Molly, for one – have come to our care through abuse or neglect they suffered Above. In practice, we have taken them from the custody of unloving or incapable parents because the children were being hurt, and we thought there was a better way. We've taken their care on ourselves to prove, both to them and to ourselves, that there is a better way.

In this community, we hold ourselves to a higher standard. All our children, wherever they came from, are safe and well cared for and as happy as it's in our power to make them. They may be poor in material comforts but they're rich in love because we all care for them, willingly accepting whatever sacrifices that entails. Raising children is an awesome responsibility. But we've accepted that responsibility. For the children's own sakes. Because we love them and because we believe it's not right to hurt children.

“Last night, Anna brought Vincent to me because she'd realized that John, Paracelsus, had been so mistreating the child that she couldn't stand it any more. She charged me that, no matter what happened, Vincent not be surrendered to Paracelsus' care again.

“Which of you, if Anna had come to you like that, would have refused her? Which of you would have betrayed her trust by handing the child over at the first demand? You all know how close Anna and John have always been. So you can imagine how awful the situation had to be to make Anna feel she must choose between her husband and her child. If--”

Julia interrupted, “Why ain't Anna here, telling us all this?”

“I don't know, Julia. I wish that she were.”

Paracelsus said, “The thing speaks for itself: she realized she'd been wrong.”

Jacob challenged, “Then why didn't she come and say so, before us all?”

Paracelsus shrugged and spread his hands. “I wish I could have persuaded her to do so. But she was too…too ashamed, I suppose. In any case, the issue is not what Anna did or did not do: it's what the Quartermaster is doing now. Keeping my son from me.”

“All right,” said Jacob abruptly, looking aside. “Devin, please take Vincent to Paracelsus.”

Devin's eyes went round. Then he scowled. “I'm not gonna.”

“Please, do as I say. Don't hand him over. Just carry him there.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” His expression lightening in knowing anticipation, Devin hefted Vincent higher against his chest and started toward where Paracelsus sat. Before he'd gone three paces, Vincent was twisting in his arms, trying to get down. Muttering reassurances, Devin held on tight, and Vincent declined to use his claws. By five paces, Vincent had squirmed around in Devin's arms and was quite visibly and audibly snarling. At Paracelsus, who'd been clearly taken by surprise by this tactic.

Jacob watched anxiously: it was a calculated risk – whether Vincent's behavior would, in people's minds, weigh more against this strange child or against Paracelsus.

Confronted by Vincent, growling and nearly cross-eyed with terror and rage, practically in his face, Paracelsus declared to the group, “Children don't know what's best for them. And this child, in particular, has a temper. And claws and fangs that make his tantrums something to be reckoned with. I intend to keep him well away from the community until he's been taught some self-discipline.”

“He's not hurting Devin,” Jacob commented pointedly. “Unlike you, Devin's shown him nothing but kindness. Vincent already has not only self-discipline, but sense enough to know who he can trust. And who he can't. Thank you, Devin – I think that should be enough.”

As Devin came back, Vincent twisted around to butt his head into the older boy's shoulder, the snarls fading into the silent panting sobs Jacob found heartbreaking. This was an ordeal for Vincent, too, and he'd been bearing up remarkably well. Jacob took the boy from Devin, patting and soothing the distressed toddler.

People were muttering to one another: the demonstration had had its impact.

At last raising his head, Jacob said, “Finally, it's not a matter of discipline, or even one of rights. It's a question of love.”

There were other arguments he'd intended to make, but looking around the chamber made him change his mind. People's expressions were variously sympathetic or indignant; reserved, appraising looks were being directed at Paracelsus. Better, Jacob thought, to stop now, leaving this strongest impression fresh in everyone's minds.

Cuddling Vincent against him, Jacob told Ray quietly, “Thank you. I believe I'm done now,” and took his seat.

“All right,” Ray said. “Who wants to say something?”

“I do,” a young voice announced unexpectedly. Devin had his arm in the air.

“Kids can't vote in this meeting,” Ray informed him gravely.

“But I want to say something!”

Looking around for consent, Ray was met with a few smiles and no objections. So he nodded for Devin to continue.

Standing stiffly, clearly mindful of the importance of the occasion, Devin declared, “Vincent's different. But we like him anyhow. We want him to stay with us. If you say he can, I'll give you the best thing I have – my marble collection. There's three yellow ones, and, and, a blue one with white all twisty through it….” Somebody laughed, and Devin's face went bright red. “It's not funny! I really mean it!”

Jacob said, “We all know you do, Devin. It's a very generous offer. But I'm afraid even so handsome a bribe isn't how things are decided here.”

“But it worked in the story,” Devin objected. “At the Council Rock. The Mother Wolf and Bagheera. I can't kill a bull, but the marbles ...”

Ray asked Jacob, “What's the boy talking about?”

“Another gathering. Another decision. Devin, what happens in stories doesn't always happen in life. We ...”

“I'll wash dishes for a month,” Devin interrupted. “Two months. Set all the tables ...”

“Devin,” said Jacob, “I'm sure everyone will take into account that you're prepared to sacrifice so much, in your own terms, for Vincent's sake. You've had your turn. Other people may want to talk now.”

Devin thumped down crosslegged, angry and humiliated. But it had been a brave, generous gesture, and people's eyes were kind as well as amused. Devin's spontaneous plea, Jacob thought, had made his point better than Devin could now appreciate.

From the questions and comments that followed, it became plain that more people were concerned about the break between Paracelsus and Jacob than about Vincent's custody. Sides, perhaps inevitably, were being taken on the basis of personalities rather than on the immediate issue.

Pascal, and especially Francine, defended Paracelsus' right to live as he chose without interference. He'd kept them all together, led them down here, treated everybody fairly. Why make everybody take sides, and risk splitting the community, over something that was a family matter and therefore properly none of anybody else's business?

Those who'd come to the tunnels in the last few years, whose experience had been of Jacob's concern and organization, and Paracelsus' more remote absentee authority, were more inclined to take Jacob's part.

No smoke without fire, Elizabeth contended. Jacob wouldn't cause such a disruption unless he felt he had to. Live and let live was all well and good, said Dolores, so long as what you did wasn't hurting somebody else.

As Ezra put it, “If this weird child, or whatever it is, is being hurt, well, that makes it everybody's business, just like the Quartermaster says.”

“What about that?” Julia demanded of Jacob. “What reason you got to claim Paracelsus been hurting his boy?”

Her wording, Jacob thought, clearly declared what side Julia was on.

Before Jacob could respond, Sam said, “You seen how the boy behaved.”

“That don't prove nothing,” Julia responded. “Times I tell my Winslow he can't do something, he's mad enough to bite tenpenny nails. Kicked me in the shins, once, and I whomped him good. We don't always get on. But he's mine, no two ways about it, and I'd have the hide off anybody tried to take him away from me!”

“Anna said ...” began Elizabeth, from the back.

“Anna ain't here. So whatever she done told the Quartermaster, that's just hearsay and don't properly count.”

Ray put in, “Like I said before, this ain't a topside trial. We can consider whatever anybody figures is important.”

“I'm willing,” said Paracelsus abruptly, looking across the chamber at Jacob, “to accept that this all may be a misunderstanding, and that although the Quartermaster's position is taken in good faith, it's simply wrong. Anna misinterpreted something she saw. It's probable, and understandable, the Quartermaster may therefore have done the same, based on whatever she may have told him. If he'll admit it, there's no dispute and we can all part friends. Quartermaster, I've been so busy being angry that I've lost sight of common sense. Perhaps you've fallen into the same error. I've never mistreated the boy. I heartily resent your suggesting I have. But perhaps you've merely been misled ...”

“It's more than a suggestion,” Jacob responded coldly. “It's a fact. Anna's account, and Vincent's own reaction, are not all I have to go on. You've been burning the child.”

People reacted to the accusation. Standing up, Paracelsus declared loudly, “That's a lie. I'm ashamed of you, Quartermaster. I thought we'd agreed to settle this in a civilized fashion. I never imagined you'd stoop to invent slanders ...”

“I know a burn when I see one.” Leaning against the desk, Jacob supported Vincent on his lap while unbuttoning the nightshirt. Another calculated risk: whether the sight of the child's down-covered torso would upset people more than the welts and blisters…which Jacob couldn't seem to find. He patted and turned the boy, perplexed. The hairless spots were there, as he remembered them. But the marks themselves had vanished.

Arms folded, Paracelsus was regarding him with a saturnine smile. “Do show us your evidence, Quartermaster. Or else admit you've been mistaken.”

Somehow, Paracelsus had known. It had been a trap…and Jacob had walked directly into it. He could see, in people's faces, that he'd lost all credibility. This, on top of Anna's absence, had cut the ground right out from under him.

Holding Vincent protectively against him, Jacob knew that in the end, he was going to have to surrender this small life to renewed misery. The vote had yet to be taken; but he'd already lost.

14

The three searchers found themselves at the edge of a cliff. Below was mist, then darkness. A rope, attached at some higher level, hung just out of reach. Though thick, it could have been there a dozen years…or a hundred. The damp would eat at its fibers. To Pascal, it looked notably untrustworthy.

“Where's this gonna take us?” Winslow wondered.

Staring in uneasy fascination at the fog-hidden depths, Pascal absently stated the obvious: “Down.”

Winslow asked Vincent, “How do we know this is the right way?”

“Because it's the only way,” Vincent responded with finality. He'd been very quiet all day, even for Vincent – setting a pace his companions found it hard to match.

“I'll go first,” he said. “Then Winslow and Pascal, you follow.” Vincent jumped out, caught the rope, just as though it were the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Which it maybe was – for him. His foreshortened figure vanished into the mist. There was no cry, no thump to say the rope had broken. Pascal was not reassured.

As the jerking rope stilled, Pascal leaned to look down, then backed farther from the edge, making a noise like, “Um--”

“What is it?” Winslow challenged.

Pascal said in a fading mutter, “I don't think I can make this jump….”

“I can't hear you.”

“I said,” blurted Pascal, “I don't think I can make this jump, okay?”

Winslow gave him a sourly patronizing look Pascal didn't like at all. Vincent would never make you feel dumb over a perfectly natural uneasiness; with Winslow, though, you'd never hear the end of it. Winslow commented, “You're afraid, aren't you.”

“I'm not afraid,” Pascal defended himself. “I'm just not… especially fond of heights.”

Although the vault of the master pipe chamber stretched a hundred feet or more, roof to floor, that was different. Familiar. Comfortable. You could see what you were doing. There were railings to keep you from stumbling over the edge of the drop. You didn't have to swing down on a rope like Tarzan. Any reasonable person would have seen this was different.

Winslow was not a reasonable person. Putting both heavy hands on Pascal's shoulders, Winslow positioned him facing the edge.

“Okay. How 'bout if I count to three, and if your butt's not off of here by then, I push you.” He held up a finger, practically under Pascal's nose, saying, “One.”

Pascal thought about running. Without him they'd never identify the course of the pipe through the bedrock. He couldn't do that.

“Two.”

The rope hadn't broken at Vincent's weight. Probably. It would therefore surely hold Pascal. Most likely.

“Three!”

Pascal gasped, shut his eyes, and jumped. Somehow he grabbed the rope, that twirled him, smacked him against the cliff edge, and swung. He held on desperately. When he steadied, he opened his eyes and looked up at Winslow, who wore an I told you so expression.

“Winslow?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming.”

Pascal stared down into the enveloping mist. A moment later, the rope jerked violently and swung again when Winslow's bulk hit it. Pascal gasped and clung, and nearly got Winslow's boot in his face as the big man started descending.

“You gonna hang there like a bead?” demanded Winslow.

“No, I'm all right. I'm going. I'm all right.”

“Next year?”

“Now,” Pascal declared to himself and forced himself on.

There was a bottom, finally, after all. Reaching it, Pascal leaned forward, hands on thighs, dizzy and puffing with relief. When Winslow's feet hit stone, Vincent turned and strode off. Winslow followed. The foggy dark closed in behind them: they carried the lanterns. Pascal hurried to keep from being left in the dark.

*****

Eventually Vincent admitted to himself that his companions had to rest. They camped in a cavern whose walls were pillowed with wet, smooth mounds of flowstone like wax from a lifetime's guttering candles.

Sitting around a small campfire, Pascal and Winslow made a meal, amicably bickering. Vincent took only some water.

His anxiety was acute. The signal had not been resumed. They were following what Pascal was confident was the right pipe. But one pipe was so like another. If Pascal was mistaken….

Tired though he was, Vincent found it difficult to hold himself in one place or contemplate resting. When asked by his young friend Mouse, some weeks before, to tell what it was like “to have a love,” Vincent had defined it as being an end to his aloneness. Now, with only the faintest and most occasional sense of Catherine, that aloneness had returned. Not as though Catherine were dead: as though she'd never existed, and the dream of truly being part of another person were only that – a dream. Vincent felt not so much bereft as lost. Without her, nothing else seemed quite real. Air didn't sustain breath. Food didn't quiet hunger. Sleep did not renew.

His friends were with him. He cared for them. But it was so terribly not the same. The isolation made him feel smothered and desperate.

Winslow and Pascal had begun talking of Paracelsus. In the seasonless, changeless dark, there nevertheless was a midnight feeling and a sense of telling ghost stories to give a shape to otherwise nameless fears.

Pascal was saying, “I studied everything he ever wrote. The early manuals were brilliant: codes… schematics.” He blew out a breath. “It's hard to believe he's the same man.”

Vincent commented absently, “Paracelsus is not the same man. What he's done proves that.”

“I know that,” Pascal agreed uncomfortably. “It still makes me sad. All that intellect and energy, just….” He shook his head, helpless to describe his sense of waste and loss.

Pascal was remarkable, Vincent reflected: always looking for everyone's good qualities. Always trying to be reasonable, fair. No one was beyond Pascal's compassion – not even Paracelsus.

Winslow put in, “You got a heart like a soft-boiled egg, you know that?”

Pascal sighed and Winslow chuckled. Then Pascal rubbed his knees, commenting, “Well, I'm going to bed. Wake me up when it's my turn for the watch.”

Standing, he patted first Winslow's shoulder, then Vincent's. Meant to be comforting, the brief contact only made Vincent more aware of how different it was from Catherine's touch….

Winslow told Pascal good night. Then, for a time, he and Vincent sat silently. Vincent pulled out the small leather pouch and let the ivory rose slide onto his palm, carefully cradling it. The rose was supposed to signify that even when they were apart, Catherine was thinking of him. He wished he could feel it, know it.

“So,” said Winslow abruptly, “what's on your mind? You've been awfully quiet since we set out this morning.”

“Just thinking,” Vincent responded softly. “Wondering….” He folded an arm across his knee, studying the rose.

“About Catherine.”

Vincent shook his head in frustration. “If she's really in danger, why can't I feel her fear?”

“We'll get her back, don't worry.” Winslow sighed, and another silence fell between them. Looking into the fire, Winslow eventually remarked, “I remember Paracelsus from when I was a kid. Times were bad. Resources were scarce. People were scared. Paracelsus took advantage.” Frowning, remembering, Winslow added, “He was convincing. Smart!” as though such acuteness was itself suspect. Looking up, meeting Vincent's eyes, Winslow said, “People started to follow him.”

“But Father ...”

“He was the one that saved us. He reminded us that we were family. We had to stand by each other. Oh, you'd have been proud of him! His strength. His conviction. Without him ...”

“Paracelsus might have prevailed?”

Winslow returned his gaze to the quietly crackling fire. “But he was never the same after that.”

“Why?”

“Because once, they were friends….”

It wasn't a comfortable thought: that people could so change toward one another; that warm relationships could end and be lost forever.

Contemplating the rose, Vincent said, “You should go to bed. It's been a long day.”

“Yeah.” Winslow stretched, sighed, and got up. “I guess you're right. Besides, there's always tomorrow.”

“Good night, Winslow.”

Moving toward where he'd laid his pack, Winslow turned.

“Vincent. I want you to know I'm not just doing this because of Paracelsus. It's for Catherine, too. She's… a good woman,” Winslow declared with awkward solemnity. “I've always said that.” He was silent a minute, then went on, “What's between you two… is something I've never felt, myself. But seeing it – I know it's real. I believe in it.”

Uncomfortable at his declaration, Winslow went on then and made a noisy business of arranging his pack as a pillow.

Vincent knew that, like Pascal's pat, Winslow's remarks had been intended as heartening. And Vincent was glad that the strength of his and Catherine's love could lift the hearts of others. Love should do that. It should open possibilities, even when they could never be realized in one's own life. Even if they stayed only bright imaginings….

But there were ironies and undercurrents, of which Winslow knew nothing, that made his confidence in love hurtful to Vincent right now. The aloneness was too great; and the aloneness Vincent saw stretching before him, without further hope of a miracle, was greater still. A night without prospect of any dawning.

And he had other reasons for disquiet. Father had told him, forthrightly, that Paracelsus had been expelled from the community before Vincent was born. Winslow's casual testimony on several occasions, from first-hand memory, demonstrated that simply wasn't so. Though Vincent had never brought the discrepancy up to Father, it still bothered him. Not merely that Father had lied to him, which was bad enough; that Father was evidently aware of something so problematical that it could make misrepresenting the past seem to him the lesser evil.

What of Paracelsus' claim to know Vincent's origin? What of his claim that Father had lied to Vincent about the fundamentals of who Vincent was – how he'd come to be? Finding Father demonstrably untruthful in one matter let in doubt about all the others.

Vincent felt what had seemed certainties shifting beneath him. Father's trustworthiness. Catherine's love. The most elementary facts about his own nature and being, so that even his own sense of self was affected.

But the first urgency was to rescue Catherine. What must come after… that was a matter to face when he had to. When Catherine was safe again, and safely returned home.

Rubbing a thumb pensively across the petals of the rose, Vincent settled to his quiet vigil.

*****

Pascal jerked awake. “What?”

“It's your turn,” said Winslow, bending away.

“Oh. Right.” Rubbing his eyes, Pascal sat up. The fire had burned down to coals. On the far side, Vincent's reclining back suggested all that relentless, impatient energy had at last surrendered to sleep. Maybe.

As Winslow punched and turned his pack, trying to get comfortable, Pascal leaned close and tapped his arm.

“Is he asleep?”

“If he ain't,” Winslow grumbled, “I been spoiling my eyesight a couple hours for nothing. 'Course he's asleep! You scared to keep watch on your own, too? Scared the boogeyman's gonna come out of the dark and grab you?”

“I heard what you said. About Catherine, and all?”

“Well, I meant it. He thinks the world of her. Don't see much of that. What of it?”

“I just wondered.”

Pascal picked up a stick, considering adding it to the fire to rouse a little flame, then changed his mind and laid it aside. They didn't have much fuel with them and might need it later.

“Wondered about what?”

Pascal took a candle from his pocket and lit it. The small flame was enough to push back the dark and streak the surrounding flowstone with shadows. Nobody could sneak up on them without his seeing them.

Casually, Pascal responded, “About the rest of it. You told Vincent you had your reasons for coming. And I don't think it was just to scare me off cliffs.”

“Well, he needs us.”

“We're slowing him down.”

“What'd be the use of racing off hellbent in the wrong direction? Except for you and the damn pipe, he'd have no notion which way to go.”

“That's not a reason,” Pascal commented patiently, “for you to come along. So: are you going to tell me, or not?”

Winslow pushed up a little, an elbow propped on his pack. He looked across the fire. “You think he's asleep?”

“Looks like it.”

“It's that damn harness,” Winslow muttered. “You know: when he was a kid.”

Pascal nodded. In the weeks since Vincent's exposure to Paracelsus' drug, Pascal had found himself thinking about that too – Vincent's adolescent siege of madness, violence, and delusion.

“What's that got to do with it?”

“I'd forgot all about it, that harness,” Winslow continued, as though he hadn't noticed Pascal's comment. “Last thing I would have thought is that he remembered, he was so far gone when it happened…. But he does. Remembers how we put it on him, you and me. You recall.”

Pascal bobbed another nod, absently rubbing his wrist. Trying to fight off the restraints, Vincent had knocked him clear across the chamber and broken that wrist. Knowing Vincent hadn't really meant to do it hadn't made the wrist hurt any less or heal with anything like Vincent's uncanny speed. But that hadn't really mattered to Pascal, then or now. What had mattered was how much worse Vincent was hurting, for Father to judge those restraints necessary. How afraid they'd all been Vincent would never come out of them alive.

“I remember,” he said softly.

“He never said nothing to me about it. Never. So I never thought twice about it, getting that harness on him, all those years ago. Hell, we were all just kids then. But a few weeks back, coming home, when he wouldn't go into his chamber?”

“Yeah.” That time, too, remained vivid in Pascal's recollection.

“That's when it came to me that down deep, he does remember. And down deep, he's scared it could happen again. That I'd do that to him again. Because nobody else could, unless he stood still for it.”

“And if he could stand still for it,” Pascal reflected, “he wouldn't need the harness….”

Winslow frowned. “He asked you if you'd ever had anybody scared of you. Like he was worried Father'd be scared of him, after what happened.”

“Yeah. Nobody wants to be as harmless as all that, that nobody'd ever be scared of them.”

“You don't know nothing about it. I tried to look after him – specially after Devin left. Kind of look out for him…. But in spite of us being friends all this while, it came to me that underneath it all, he's still scared of me. That really hit me. And I couldn't think of any way to make it up to him. Done's done,” said Winslow morosely.

“So that's why you came?”

“I figure I owe him one. But he wouldn't like that. Wouldn't feel easy about it. So don't you tell him.”

“I won't.”

Winslow chuckled, and Pascal glanced at him inquiringly. Winslow said, “I don't know, these days, if I'd even dare try. He wouldn't just bust my wrist. If he really turns loose, he's a damn buzzsaw. Can't just sit on him and hold him down, no more. If Father tried to give me a chore like that again, I believe I'd pass. Which don't mean I'm scared of him: just that I got a heathy respect for what he's grown into.”

“You think it could happen again,” commented Pascal. It wasn't a question.

Winslow took a deep breath, staring at the dark stone convergences overhead.

“That first time,” he said finally, “it was Lisa. Whatever happened, Father never said. Nor Vincent. But I figure it was bad. Now, it's Catherine. And if something goes wrong there, it'll bust him right apart. You know how he is: he don't hold back. Some ways, he's still a kid. Wishing for the moon, thinking if he just tries hard enough there's gotta be some way he can reach it. He knows that ain't so. But knowing ain't feeling. Yeah, I'm worried about him…. Fetch him back his moon, if we can. After that, it's up to them, I guess. Father, he's worried, too. It could be bad. Because Vincent, he don't hold back. Just how he is…. You satisfied? You gonna let me get some sleep here?”

“Sure. And thanks. Thanks for coming.”

“Had to: to get you off that damn ledge. Now shut up, will you?”

Smiling, Pascal made no response, comfortably watching and listening to the dark…and, soon, Winslow's snoring.

*****

The next day, the mist had thickened. It stank with the rotten-egg stench of sulfur. Often, all Pascal could see of Vincent was the diffuse glow of his lantern. Sometimes the fog closed in so thickly that they had to hold hands and go “Hamlin style,” as Father called it, to keep from losing contact with one another as they tried to follow the pipe's irregular course.

It buried itself in a wall and they lost it again – something that happened every hour or so. Guessing ahead, Pascal thought he located it along one wall, but before he could tap to test its tone, Vincent gestured a few feet farther on, commenting, “Here.”

Thinking the pipe had angled back into the rock, Pascal leaned past Vincent to touch what proved a cracked edge, fully exposed. The pipe didn't go anywhere. It just stopped.

Casting ahead, Pascal followed Vincent into what felt like a large open space choked and dank with fog. There he found the other end of the pipe – capped, projecting at an angle from the ground. Squatting, he brushed away sand. The truncated section moved loosely to his touch – standing only because it hadn't yet rusted enough to fall.

Looking up at the vague shape he thought was Vincent, Pascal announced grimly, “It ends here.”

From farther away, Winslow's voice remarked, “Where the hell are we?”

The next second, the pipe moved – violently. Jamming up under Pascal's ribs, it flung him backward, kicking at the air. Practically at Vincent's feet, Pascal hit the ground, clutching his chest and helplessly gasping. Through the dense, swirling mists, a huge, hulking shape momentarily resolved itself into a startling apparition – a bearded caveman, dripping wet, wearing a roughly stitched and patched leather jerkin, barelegged. Brandishing the section of pipe, yanked from its socket, like a huge club.

With no breath to shout, Pascal tried to convey with his eyes a warning to Vincent, stooped over him in concern. Vincent at once straightened and turned to confront the hulking troglodyte. Roaring, he charged – right into the path of the pipe. It struck him in the shoulder and hurled him aside.

With Vincent down, the giant turned on Winslow.

The two dim shapes closed. Pascal thought he saw Winslow grab the capped end of the pipe, either trying to wrestle the weapon out of the giant's grasp or maybe just stay inside the swing of a full-armed blow like the one that had caught Vincent. The pipe rammed Winslow away. As he toppled backward, his head hit the stone. He slumped and lay still.

Vincent had staggered to his feet. Roaring, he went at the giant, slashing at his neck and torso. Dropping the pipe, the giant picked Vincent up bodily, lifted him over his head, and hurled him against a wall.

Pascal had scrambled to his knees, with no thought except helping Winslow. Glancing over his shoulder, he was horrified to find the glaring attacker advancing on legs that seemed to have the girth of trees.

Advancing on Pascal.

Anybody who could toss Vincent around like that would squash Pascal like a bug.

Frozen, Pascal knew he was watching his own death coming toward him.

Then the giant jerked. As the man turned, Pascal saw a stubby arrow projecting from the back of his shoulder and breathed, “Jamie!”

Against all expectation and all orders, the teenaged, pony-tailed cavalry had arrived.

Seemingly still in no hurry, the giant tramped menacingly toward the girl, who leveled her crossbow and shot him again – in the front of the other shoulder. The giant made an ugly, inarticulate growl of pain. As Jamie frantically recocked the crossbow and armed it with another bolt, Vincent recovered enough to challenge the giant from the side. Caught between these two threats, the giant scowled and broke off the bolt in front. He retreated one step, then another. The mists folded in around him. To Pascal, it seemed the man simply vanished, sinking out of sight.

They both came quickly, Vincent and Jamie. In a choked voice, Pascal told them what he'd realized several minutes ago: Winslow's neck was broken and the back of his skull was shattered.

There was nothing anyone could do: Winslow was dead.

*****

The fog thinned as they gathered stones for a burial cairn. The open place where Winslow had fallen was revealed as the shore of an immense, still lake that stretched out into the dark beyond the limits of sight.

After setting the last stones in place, they gathered around the cairn with nothing to distract them from their loss.

Pascal tossed a pebble in the lake and watched the ripples spread.

They had a tradition of formal remembrance Below. Friends and family offered memories, sharing them by way of eulogy.

Feeling somebody had to begin, Pascal said, “I'm remembering when we were kids. We teased Winslow. He used to try so hard not to lose his temper, but you could always see everything in his face…. Remember, Vincent, the common meeting when Father named him to the council. You could see it then, in his eyes – that he finally knew how much we all cared…and respected him.”

Vincent said quietly, “That's a good memory to have.”

When Jamie offered no remembrance, crouched stiff-faced beside the cairn, Vincent went on, “Winslow loved all of us. Fiercely. We were his family. Nothing could ever change that for him. Not conflict. Not anger. Not even death…. Winslow will always be a part of us. In our hearts. Let us remember him for his strength… and his courage.” Vincent's voice broke before he'd quite finished; his eyes were wet.

Jamie began sobbing then. Kneeling beside her, Vincent took her into his arms and held her against his chest as she wept.

He said, “He'll continue to live, Jamie. Through us. Through our memory of him. Allow yourself the time to mourn… and the pain will soften. I promise.”

Vincent could always be distracted from his own pain by somebody else's. And Jamie allowed herself to be comforted… which probably comforted them both.

After another minute, Jamie disengaged from Vincent, wiping her tears with a sleeve, trying to regain her composure. She and Vincent stood up, separated.

Jamie said, “We have to go on.”

Vincent regarded them sadly…and with determination. “I must go alone.”

“Please, Vincent!” Jamie protested.

“No.” That was a tone of voice there was no use arguing with. More gently, Vincent added, “I'm sorry, but… I'm responsible for what's happened ...”

Pascal interrupted, “We came by our own choice. All of us.”

Including Jamie, he thought: who'd trailed them, with such skill they hadn't even suspected she was following, despite the clearest orders to remain behind. Because the reverse of Vincent's sharing, and thereby softening, Jamie's grief was true, too: when Vincent hurt, everybody hurt. You couldn't not want to help him. It had always been like that.

“I am still responsible,” Vincent replied sternly. “And I can no longer share that burden – even with my friends…. You must go back. Tell Father and the others what happened here.”

Without another word, he started away along the margin of the lake. With no pipe to follow, Pascal thought. With no guide now… and no company.

As Jamie moved past, Pascal grabbed her sleeve and spun her around. “Not this time. We'd just make it worse. Slow him down. Need protecting.”

Trying to keep her chin from quivering, Jamie rejoined, “I don't need anybody to protect me!”

“I need you,” Pascal countered quietly. “To get home. I've never been this deep. This far away. I think, Jamie, we need each other…?”

Finally, Jamie jerked a nod. They began collecting the packs and lanterns. When Pascal looked back along the lake, the fog had closed like a door and Vincent was gone.

15

Even before the first report on the pipes, Jacob felt a disquiet, a nameless unease. And yet not altogether nameless: he'd barely slept all night. Fatigue naturally contributed to low spirits. Pushing both hands distractedly through his uncombed hair, he reflected that it was surely natural, as well, to be depressed after so absolute a failure: surrendering Vincent back into Paracelsus' custody.

To do him justice, Paracelsus had been magnanimous in victory, seeming more saddened that they'd had such a falling out than triumphant, and willing to take the dispute as an unfortunate misunderstanding if Jacob would go along with the pretense.

Jacob would not pretend. It was important to him to call things by their rightful names: he'd been outmaneuvered, tricked, and soundly defeated… and his chagrin was the more acute because it would be Vincent who'd suffer for that failure.

When the moment had come, Vincent hadn't struggled or even bared his teeth when Jacob had handed him over. He'd been as still as though he'd somehow absorbed from Jacob's loosening grasp the hopeless inevitability of the surrender. But the child's eyes had been enormous -- dilated practically black – and had stayed fixed on Jacob until Paracelsus had carried his prize away.

Jacob felt he'd betrayed a trust. Certainly Devin's reproachful looks this morning made it clear he felt that way, too. Jacob hadn't the heart to discuss the matter with the boy yet, any more than he felt ready to demand of Anna her reasons for failing to appear at the hearing – an absence that had certainly contributed to the disaster.

What would be the use? The issue was closed, the community's judgment given. What use would there be now in reproaching her? Recrimination could have no effect except to rouse ill feeling between them if she saw no cause for apology; and if she did, it would only make more difficult her reconciliation with her husband.

Done was done.

Yet it gnawed at Jacob – that absence. She'd come to him, given him a solemn charge… and then, it seemed, abandoned him.

Jacob set himself to think of all sorts of excuses, all legitimate, why Anna might have felt she'd done enough to leave the matter in his hands. He didn't want to shirk any of the blame that was rightly his. But no amount of rationalizing helped: he felt betrayed.

And that feeling cast him back in time, as though the intervening years had never happened. It cast him back to an inert despondency he'd hoped he'd unlearned. He found himself, for the first time in years, unfolding and rereading Margaret's letter, as though somehow hoping, if he could at last come to terms with the one defection, he'd find in it the key to the other.

Having fed the infants, he afterward stared unseeingly over his untouched breakfast tray, brooding on the mystery of women's trustworthiness, holding the letter on his knee.

He didn't notice Julia coming to collect the older children's breakfast dishes until she remarked, “You here all by your ownself? Where's Francine?”

“Gone to visit Anna,” Jacob replied absently. “Someone should. And I don't think my company would do anything to improve the situation right now. But I confess I'm concerned about them. About Vincent, in particular. How will he ...”

“Hush,” Julia interrupted, holding up a silencing hand. “You hear that?”

Looking vaguely around, Jacob found her halted, head lifted, frowning. He heard nothing but an infant's fussing.

“I don't ...” Jacob began.

“Hush up!”

The pipes' silence was broken by the attention signal that Jacob belatedly realized had shut down all the other tapped traffic of messages. And the alarm followed: Anna was missing. A search was being organized.

On the second repeat, Julia swung around. “You're gonna have to manage on your own awhile longer. I got to ...”

“Of course. Go ahead,” said Jacob at once. It went without saying he'd be no use in a search party. Much more apt to need rescuing himself than be of any help.

But the habit of reporting in and relaying was firmly ingrained in the community. So although he took no active part in the search, not even that of coordination, and although he'd made no request to be kept informed, Jacob found the progress of each team being announced on the pipes: Third five sector, clear; second eleven sector, clear. Seventh three sector, clear.

The first number was the level, the second the direction, on the customary clock analogy, from the center. From here: this chamber.

Attending to the staccato bursts, Jacob didn't notice how quiet the study had otherwise become until Devin leaned against his arm, plucking at his sleeve and asking worriedly, “Are they gonna find her?”

Rousing, Jacob surveyed the children, noting their various reactions to the crisis. Winslow sat scowling at an elaborate tower of blocks he suddenly pushed into tumbling disarray; Molly was snuffling by herself, clutching her doll; Livvy looked frightened and resentful. Ike and young Pascal sat dispiritedly shoving a wooden toy truck back and forth between them, not even bothering to make motor noises.

They all knew how dangerous it was to become lost: it had been drummed into them from the time they began to walk. Jacob was certain each of them was imagining very clearly being alone, lost, perhaps hurt – the object of such a search.

He couldn't help imagining it himself. Memory sent a sharper than usual twinge through his hip.

“Everyone is looking very hard,” Jacob told Devin, looking past the boy to the others. “If Anna is Below, they'll find her.”

Though he tried for a confident, reassuring tone, it all seemed futile: if Anna and her husband had quarreled in the aftermath of the hearing, who was to say she was even Below? And if she'd gone Above, any search for her was wasted effort, in this city of millions…. Yet Jacob's benumbed hopelessness was pierced by a rising anxiety as the different teams continued to check in and the hours passed.

Fourth, nine, a team finally reported. Found.

Leaning forward, Jacob tried to make himself believe he'd somehow missed the reassuring rattle of the final all's well – the familiar signal sounded by sentries intermittently through each night. But all other signalling stopped. In the lengthening silence, that last message reechoed in memory as ominously as a knell.

Pushing out of his chair, Jacob forced himself up the stairs to the passage. There, he hesitated a moment, steeling himself, then lifted his cane to rap to the elder Pascal the question, Should I come?

No, came Pascal's reply, after an uncharacteristically long pause – an infuriatingly ambiguous response.

No need? inquired Jacob, demanding clarification.

Another pause. Then, unmistakably and finally, No use.

Jacob's eyes winced tight shut as he slowly lowered his cane. Finding even that support not enough, he leaned heavily against the passage wall.

His first sorrowing thought was: John will be devastated.

His first impulse was to set out immediately, to offer whatever comfort he could. After all, they'd been friends much longer than they'd been antagonists. Such a loss must transcend their recent differences. But then he remembered the children, waiting unattended in the study, and recognized that as his primary responsibility now: to stay with them until someone was free to think to relieve him…and to soften for them, as best he could, the necessary announcement that Anna Pater was dead.

*****

It was Elizabeth who finally came to help him – about the same time as Julia belatedly delivered the older children's lunch. The infants were already howling their impatience. While Jacob and Elizabeth lined the older children up for the necessary routine of hand and face washing, Julia trudged off to bring the infants' bottles.

As Jacob and Elizabeth started getting the older children settled around the table, Elizabeth told him bluntly, “Francine's in no shape to help anybody. Anna, God rest her soul, was like a mother to her. Francine had the sense to raise the first alarm, but she hasn't been worth a thing since. Blubbering her eyes out.” Elizabeth sounded caught between sorrow and disapproval of Francine's lack of self-control.

Tucking a napkin around young Pascal's neck, Jacob nodded. He'd found that crisis brought out different things in different people. In some, it roused concern and compassion; in tiny, brisk Elizabeth, it brought out the starch and self-discipline.

“And John?” he asked.

Elizabeth shot him a sharp look over Devin's head. “Doing Lear, I think. Mourning Cordelia. Or maybe it's Othello.”

“Elizabeth,” Jacob blurted reprovingly, and got another sharp glance.

“Or Hamlet, maybe, except that there's no grave for him to jump into,” she rejoined, unrepentant. “Phony as a two-dollar bill.”

“It's just his way,” Jacob argued. “Some people withdraw into formality as a defense against grief. John's always had a tendency toward… the theatrical.”

“I've seen better performances,” commented Elizabeth tartly, dishing out applesauce.

Devin piped up, “What happened to her?”

She ruffled the boy's hair. “She was found,” she responded, with a sideways glance at Jacob, “at the bottom of that west serpentine nearest the park threshold. It looks like she fell.”

Her tone and odd, skeptical emphasis made Jacob frown; but he said nothing, handing out sections of peanut-butter sandwiches, as Devin asked, “Was she all broke up? I mean, did she hurt for a long time?”

Although the boy had an appetite for gory details, Jacob reflected, Devin also had a good heart.

“Who knows how long she was laying there?” Abruptly, Elizabeth seemed to regain her sense of proportion and added, “No, don't you worry, sweetheart. It was quick. I don't expect she ever knew what hit her.”

“Somebody hit her?” Winslow demanded.

“That's just a saying,” Jacob put in firmly, laying aside the sandwich tray. “What Elizabeth is saying is that Anna died instantly in the fall.”

Elizabeth reached for the milk jug. “If you say so,” she commented and ignored Jacob's deepening frown as she began pouring.

“Elizabeth ...” Jacob began grimly, but just then Julia returned with the bottles, all stacked in a bucket, and the conversation was postponed by the need to feed the hungry, protesting infants. They did it by threes, sitting together on a bench, each holding an eagerly nursing baby.

“This here one,” Julia remarked after a while, “this Randolph, he needs changing.”

“Well, he won't get any wetter,” Elizabeth responded pragmatically. “See to it later.”

“I guess.”

Jacob looked over to check that the children at the table were behaving themselves, then murmured, “Elizabeth, I know we're all upset, but you mustn't talk that way around the children. Heaven knows what they'd be prompted to think. Or say.”

Julia cocked her head. “What you been up to now, Miss Sharp-Tongue?” she asked Elizabeth with mock disapproval.

“Nothing. Nothing but the truth.”

“Now, we don't know the truth,” Julia responded, sobering abruptly.

“Exactly,” said Elizabeth, with a nod so sharp that her grey curls bounced.

“What you mean, girl?”

“You know as well as I do. You saw her. And you saw whatever Paracelsus was playing at-- opera, maybe: I don't know what to call it. Except that it was phony as a two--”

“That's enough,” Jacob interrupted. “Elizabeth, Anna's death is an occasion for mourning, not malicious speculation. We're a small community, and you're relatively new among us. Perhaps you don't realize how much damage irresponsible gossip can do. We simply cannot level completely unfounded charges behind one another's backs.”

Elizabeth lifted her head defiantly. “I'd say the same thing to his face.”

“Elizabeth ...!”

“Well,” Julia commented, “I did think to myself, it's awful damn convenient.”

Finding rebellion in this new quarter, Jacob stared at Julia, coldly incredulous. “Just what, precisely, are you implying? You can't imagine ...”

“Awful handy,” Julia went on, “for Paracelsus that Anna didn't turn up last night. At the meeting. Who knows what she might've said? Now ain't that so? And then he don't admit she's missing till this morning, when Francine wouldn't let it alone. Who knows how long Anna was gone before he said Boo? Or how it happened, that she fell. So convenient-like.”

Julia lifted the baby to rearrange the towel across her lap. “Ray, he ain't easy in his mind about it neither. He told me. It was his team what found her, and Ray, he seen dead people before this. And he wasn't easy in his mind about it, that's a fact. You ask him and he'll tell you.”

“You're serious,” Jacob realized, aghast.

“Damn straight, we are,” Elizabeth confirmed, with a look that practically crackled. “I'm not Narcissa, to wail and howl how poor Anna's spirit isn't at rest, made such a spectacle of herself that we practically threw her out before Paracelsus could heave something at her. Not me. I got my reasons. And I think he pushed her.”

“And not this morning, neither,” Julia chimed in.

“How can you even imagine John would do such a thing? Anna was his life's treasure! He ...”

“John,” said Elizabeth tartly, “I don't know much about. But Paracelsus, I don't trust as far as I can spit. Never have. Too self-righteous by half. People like that, they make you wonder what they're up to.”

“It's just John's way,” Jacob protested, struggling to remain calm, reasonable. “If he's seemed distant, aloof, it's only that he's been preoccupied. He and Anna lost a baby, and on top of that, he had a great disappointment in his work. And then there was Vincent ...”

“I know all that,” Elizabeth responded with a dismissive jerk of her shoulder. “And I believe what you said last night about how he's been treating that boy is God's own truth. In spite of how things went. You want to talk about somebody's life's treasure, you talk about how he wants to own that poor boy, or whatever he is. Vincent. Making such a noise, Francine said, it made her certain something was wrong: even with the door shut, it just went on and on.

And Paracelsus just sitting there, like he didn't hear it, claiming first Anna was still asleep, like a person could sleep through a child making a noise like that…. For all his speechifying last night, I could see he just couldn't wait to get his hands on that boy again, and you can't tell me different. And Anna, she might have stopped that, if she'd been there. If she felt the way you say she did when she gave the boy to you. So you go ahead and tell me he'd let that happen. Tell me till you're blue in the face. I think what I think. And what I think is that it's too damn convenient to be a coincidence. Or an accident.”

Realizing that Elizabeth was completely in earnest, Jacob sat silently through the rest of that feeding and the next, when they each burped the now contented infants, laid them in the communal crib, and collected another trio. The ramifications of such a suspicion, once they were generally known – and if Elizabeth couldn't be persuaded to hold her tongue even in front of the children, it was absurd to suppose she'd keep silence among the adults – were almost certain to destroy the community. Already, Julia and Ray, at least, evidently had misgivings. Inevitably, others would as well, once the whispers started.

Worse than the dispute over Vincent's custody, such a suspicion would fester, creating factions of supporters and accusers. It would inevitably, irretrievably poison relationships. One part of the community would turn against the other.

There had to be a way to confront it. To stop it before it went any farther. Resolve the doubts, once and for all.

As they stood methodically re-diapering the babies, Jacob said abruptly, “Elizabeth. Julia. I'm a doctor. I can determine how long Anna has been dead… and even, perhaps, how she died. If I can contrive an opportunity to… examine her body. If I do that, and if I then tell you categorically that she died by an unfortunate accident, however coincidental, will you accept it? Will you accept my word?”

Julia viewed him assessingly. “I guess maybe I would. You being a doctor, and all.”

“Yeah,” conceded Elizabeth. “Your word would be good enough for me. But how would you sneak an examination like that? He's got her laid out right in the middle of his parlor.”

“One moment,” Jacob responded, raising a hand. “Will both of you swear not to say another word about this matter until I can make a determination? Not a word. Not to anyone. Have I your solemn promise?”

“I guess,” said Julia. “Yeah, I'll swear.”

“Sure, all right,” said Elizabeth, “but how do you figure to get him away from her long enough ...”

“I'll need a diversion. You both can help. And we'll need Sam….”

“I don't know,” said Elizabeth, “where Sam stands on this.”

“It doesn't matter,” Jacob responded, thinking it out. “Sam would be the one who'd carve the inscription, when she's entombed. I'm sure John will have very definite ideas about where Anna is to be laid, and what he'll want carved there. I imagine the discussion would keep John occupied long enough…. Devin, if you want more milk, ask for it. Banging your mug on the table--”

*****

Late that night, it was a very shaken Jacob Wells who sought out, first Raymond Ensign, then the elder Pascal. Standing outside Pascal and Francine's chamber, Jacob told the balding pipemaster bluntly, “I need unbiased witnesses. In a matter involving John. And Anna. If you think Francine could bear it, I would like her to come too.”

“Come for what?” asked Pascal, warily noncommittal.

“An…autopsy. Of sorts.”'

Pascal made a graphic inquiring gesture, drawing a thumb from his belly to his throat. Jacob nodded heavily: yes, he was going to have to open the body.

Pascal shook his head. “Not for Francine. You gotta do this?”

“I fear I must. Pascal, a few hours ago, I did an examination – admittedly, crude, quick, and superficial. But even that was enough to raise a serious question about how Anna met her death. She didn't die in the fall, Pascal. The bleeding, the injuries, were all post-mortem.”

Scowling, Pascal responded, “What you mean? I saw.” He gestured behind his own head. “All broken. Cracked open like a melon. Kill anybody. Why--”

“She was already dead, Pascal. And had been, for some time. Before she fell. Or however she came to be at the bottom of that serpentine. Blood pools in distinctive ways once circulation stops. And then there's the state of rigor ...” Jacob shook his head, still profoundly dismayed by the unavoidable implications of what he'd learned while Julia, Elizabeth, and Sam kept Paracelsus occupied in another room.

“That, taken with the limited bleeding from the site where the humerus, the arm bone, protruded from the skin ...”

Folding his arms, Pascal demanded bluntly, “You think she suicide? Or you think he kill her? And you want me to help you say such a thing?”

“Pascal, I don't know what to think!” Jacob pushed both hands fretfully through his hair. “All I know is what I saw, which casts John's account into serious question. He claims Anna was alive and well this morning. She can't have been. He may be guilty of nothing worse than lying. Perhaps from fear of raising this very suspicion. It's not his motives at issue. Only the medical facts of Anna's death. I believe I owe it to Anna – to all of us – to find out the truth, to whatever degree it's possible. Already, there's been talk.”

“Sure: Narcissa,” said Pascal, pulling a wry face. “Nobody believe crazy talk like that.”

From behind Jacob, Ray Ensign put in gravely, “Ain't just Narcissa, Pascal. I've heard some ugly talk already. Ain't gonna just go away, neither. We got to know.”

While Pascal and Ray traded a steady, evaluating look, Jacob went on, “Can you imagine what it would do to us if such suspicions are allowed to fester and grow, one whisper at a time? It would be a disease we'd die of, Pascal. As a society. I must pursue this: now, at once. And you must help me. There can be no least grounds for believing I invented my findings, whatever they be, in malice or as retaliation for what happened last night. This is not personal, in that sense, at all. Whatever the truth is, we must know it. And it will be the truth, whether I say it or another. Do you see? I therefore need witnesses no one can possibly think would lie because I'd asked them to, or because they themselves harbored any ill feeling toward Paracelsus. Ray has agreed. Will you come, too?”

Pascal stood grimly considering for a long moment. “Not vendetta. Okay, fine. I believe: you're not a man for vendetta. But not on account of Narcissa, the crazy fuss she made?” His hands mimed a whirling on either side of his head, implying violent confusion.

“Absolutely not. Because of solid medical fact, not superstitious vaporings.”

Pascal thought some more, then nodded, remarking, “Not Francine. Mattie. Should be a woman there, if you're gonna cut her open….” His mouth tightened in distaste.

“All right,” said Jacob, turning. “Ray, will you please explain to Mattie and ask her to come. We'll meet you by the final ladder on fourth level, the nine o' clock side. Oh, and tell Julia, please.”

“I'll tell her,” said Pascal, automatically swinging toward the nearest pipe.

“Not,” said Jacob, halting him with a hand on his shoulder, “on the pipes.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The glance the three of them shared before Ray turned away conveyed the same knowledge: Paracelsus knew pipe code. Any message might be overheard.

Jacob reflected that all their stratagems had been to prevent their being discovered by the world Above. They'd never had to practice such secrecy Below, within the community itself.

Already, Jacob thought bleakly, it's begun. And it must stop. We cannot be divided like this. No community can endure such mistrust.

Pascal returned to his chamber for a moment, presumably to make some explanation to his wife. “It's okay,” he reported quietly, returning. “I go to the main pipes lots of times, all hours. She don't think nothing of it. But if this is true… she gonna think a lot of that. She gonna be real mad at me. No matter if it's true. Real mad. But can't help that,” Pascal reflected, as he and Jacob moved down the passage. “Owe it to Anna. She always was real good to us. I owe it to her. To know. For sure.”

“My thought exactly.”

They walked in silence for awhile, passing candle niches set at regular intervals along the passage walls. Every now and again, Pascal cocked his head, attending to the sound of the pipes – still mostly random noise, vibrations set off by changes in water pressure, heavy passing traffic, or a subway, but occasional messages, too. Once, he pulled his signaling sticks out of a pocket and stood on tiptoe to beat a quick tattoo, afterward remarking vexedly, “Damn bambini,” without further explanation, pocketing the sticks again as the pipes assumed a chastened quiet. Then he said, “How come Julia?”

“What? Oh. This time, I cannot assume diversion will suffice. This time, Paracelsus probably will have to be prevented from interfering. By force, if necessary.”

“Yeah. I see. Good idea. Nobody don't mess with Julia.”

*****

Somehow, word had gotten out. Perhaps Paracelsus, upon bolting from the chamber when forcibly barred from interfering, had spread the word himself. At any rate, when Jacob and his companions returned to his study long past midnight, he found every adult member of the community silently waiting. Jacob had to edge through: the only space left open was where Paracelsus paced constrained, furious figure eights in the middle of the floor.

As Jacob's foot found the first step, Paracelsus whirled, pointing his arm like a rifle and crying, “How dare you! How dare you do such a thing! Slice my dead wife open to further some despicable slander against me? Have you no decency at all, Jacob? This goes beyond all bounds. Beyond tolerating. I demand that you leave this place. This community. At once. Tonight! If you refuse, you'll be expelled by force. This is intolerable!”

Jacob was profoundly tired, and felt saddened and sickened to the soul. Regarding the theatrically pointing hand, the accusing stance, he felt Paracelsus was playing out a scene from some fusty melodrama. The outraged friend; the bereaved husband. Jacob halfway expected that any second, Paracelsus would throw a forearm across his forehead and cast his agonized gaze to the ceiling.

John had always been overdramatic. It was his way. But now, for the first time, Jacob felt it was posturing. Acting. Not an exaggeration of true feeling, but an attempt to pretend feelings solely for effect. Not honest indignation but calculation. Not outrage but the aggressive strategy he so favored in chess.

In memory, Jacob could hear that voice, cheerfully sinister, remarking uncountable times, “When at a disadvantage, attack.”

Ignoring his posturing antagonist, Jacob scanned the study and after a moment located Devin – practically the only child present – sitting with legs dangling, halfway up the spiral staircase. In his arms was Vincent. Immediately, Jacob could imagine the whole sequence: Devin sidling up beside whoever was holding Vincent, even Paracelsus himself, and quietly sliding the baby away during the first inattentive moment. He could do that: Vincent was no longer the focus.

Not willing to risk trying to pass through the crowd thronging the study's floor, Devin would have huddled his precious burden against him and slid, unnoticed, to the staircase. But the balcony was crowded, too, and the first adult to notice and object would end the escape. So Devin had prudently halted halfway, tucking Vincent partly under his vest.

Their eyes met, father and son, for an instant in an understanding that required no words. Then Jacob slowly continued until he reached a corner of his desk. From the prolonged labor of walking, his hip ached unmercifully: he found it a relief to set aside his stick and lean against the desk's support.

“Cut a woman open like that,” Sam burst out, horrified. “I didn't know you was gonna do anything like that! It's, it's like spitting in a church! Ain't you got no respect? Anna's dead. What for did you want to go and do a thing like that for?”

Approving murmurs and wincing expressions followed this outburst.

Coming down the steps ahead of Ray, Pascal, and Mattie Mead, Julia shot back, “You think he done this for fun? Then you a bigger fool than you look, Sam Loeffler! What you think ...”

“Julia,” said Jacob, and Julia threw him an angry glance but subsided and stood aside…leaving the floor again clear between Jacob and Paracelsus.

Jacob waited a further moment, gathering himself and gathering their attention in silence, by silence.

Then he said, “This afternoon, I saw something that troubled me. I had to be sure. Now I am. Anna did not die in the fall. She was already dead.”

There was no storm of astonished protests. All was silent: it seemed everyone had expected him to make some such claim. Paracelsus had had hours to prepare them, after all. Sway them to put the least favorable interpretation on Jacob's actions. Rouse their ire, never very far from the surface, against medical arrogance, medical intrusiveness, medical mysteries: of healing… and of pain. Perhaps even invoke the simple, visceral fear of the dead, and disgust and horror, like Sam's, of the notion of cutting someone open.

But this time, Jacob was sure in his heart. It was the knowledge that sickened him, not how he'd come by it. But he didn't expect others to share his medical detachment.

“What,” Paracelsus demanded coldly, “precisely, are you implying?”

“I imply nothing. I state medical fact. Upon death, the blood ceases to circulate. It pools at the lowest part of the body, in whatever position the body has come to rest. The pooled blood makes a swollen, discolored mark similar to a bruise. Raymond. Will you please tell everyone where Anna's remains showed such a discoloration?”

As all eyes centered on him, Ray stood straighter: arms at his sides, without fidgeting – a soldierly stance. “Her legs were real swole up, down past the knees. And her, her bottom.” He swept a hand behind him, indicating the site. “Dark. Sorta purple. Like a day-old bruise.”

Before anybody could react to the fact of Anna having been viewed naked, Jacob cut in, “Francine. You were there when poor Anna was found. Tell us: was she sitting up, or lying down, there at the bottom of the serpentine?”

Ghastly white-faced, her eyes red from weeping, Francine was startled to be called upon. She buried her face in her hands and didn't respond.

Loudly, Julia said, “I seen her before she was brought up. She was laying on her side, with her knees sort of tucked up.”

“Which side, Julia?” Jacob prompted, and Julia frowned thoughtfully.

“Right side, it was. Yeah. Right side, one arm tucked under. Broke, it was, that arm. Bone stuck right out through--”

“Thank you, Julia,” said Jacob, seeing a few of the nearer faces go nearly as pale as Francine's had been. If people were sickened by the details, they might close their minds against the facts… and the conclusions.

“Mattie. You helped lay poor Anna out, after she was brought up. Once the surface blood and dirt had been washed away, did you see any discoloration on Anna's right side?”

“No,” said Mattie firmly. “I didn't. Nor anybody else, because it wasn't there. And I looked again, not past an hour ago. Skin just as white and as cold as marble, on that side. Except down past her knees, and across her seat. Just like Ray said.”

“But without the heart to pump it, the blood collects, inside, at the lowest point. So what conclusion do you draw from the pattern of pooling?”

Mattie, a tall, rawboned woman, faced the assembly like a severe Puritan matron prepared to hold fast against persecution. “Seems to me that the only way the marks could be that way is if Anna died sitting up.”

There was sharp, general draw of breath, then a burst of comments Paracelsus cut through, asking, “Who put that idea in your mind, Mattie? Or is there even any point in asking?”

“The Quartermaster asked me to look,” responded Mattie, unawed. “But I saw what I saw. And it stands to reason.”

“Common sense isn't necessarily medical sense,” said Paracelsus. “What if Anna fell, and didn't die at once, but… horrible thought!.. lingered awhile, too weak to call out for help. Sitting up. And afterward, fell over on her side. But the pooling would already have occurred. What of that?”

Seeing doubt in Mattie's hesitation, Jacob said, “As long as the heart beats, the blood circulates. Such pooling takes place only after death.”

“That,” said Paracelsus deliberately, “is a lie. It happens whenever a person is still for a long while. It's the cause of the common sensation called ‘pins and needles.'”

Jacob bent his head a moment. Then he looked up and waited for Paracelsus to turn toward him. But Paracelsus didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

They both knew, and perhaps they alone, what absolute sin against what they both revered above all things Paracelsus had just committed.

For each of them, seeking objective scientific truth, verifying it, proclaiming it against entrenched authority had been worthy occupation for a lifetime. Worthy of all sacrifice, all loss. It had been Jacob's indignation at the willful falsifying of such painstakingly validated truth that had brought him to this place.

Jacob had been furious then, unquestioningly obliged to defend the truth against the one true moral evil he acknowledged – ignorance and falsehood. Now, he was surprised to find no anger or indignation within him.

He found himself saying, in simple and sincere pity, “Oh, John.”

Paracelsus still wouldn't meet his eyes. And the desperate theatricality slid away like a shed cloak, without which the most partial eye could not help but see him as ashamed… and guilty.

Jacob found the irony – that Paracelsus would try to brazen out his wife's murder, yet couldn't misrepresent blood dynamics with a straight face – acute and painful.

Jacob told the community, “This is a difficult and sad time for all of us. We've become more like a family than like topside society. In most ways that's good. But it means we lack objectivity when a dispute arises. The fact is that one of us has died. The fact is that there's reason to question how and when she died. And we owe her something. We depend on each other, but that can be a mere matter of necessity. That's not how it's been for us. We take care of one another. We must care about one another, as well. We have chosen to accept responsibility, each of us, for all the others. That this responsibility is sometimes painful isn't a reason to throw it aside. Or why else are we here? Why else have we stayed? I don't ask you to take my word against Paracelsus'. You have the right, and Anna's death requires of us, that we determine the truth with no partiality.

“I have tried, in every way I knew, to bring you facts and the observation of unbiased witnesses. This isn't a matter of opinion. It's a matter of truth. The truth is that Anna was dead before her body was conveyed to that serpentine and thrown into the shaft. I don't know how she died. But I will know. I performed an autopsy, of sorts. I admit I lack the equipment to make a full medical determination. But Peter Alcott ...”

“You didn't!” shouted Paracelsus, appalled.

“... Doctor Peter Alcott,” Jacob continued steadily, choosing his words with care, “has access to such equipment. The organs I removed will tell us, without possibility of error, exactly when and how Anna died. The tests involved don't take very long. We should have the results by morning.”

For an instant Paracelsus slumped, wrapping arms tightly around himself as though struck by a sudden chill. Then he steadied against the chill: it was in his face, his eyes, as he surveyed the assembly.

Little Elizabeth accused, “You killed her. Your own wife.”

“What of it?” Paracelsus responded. The chill had become ice. “Which of you has either the power or the authority to judge me? Which of you cattle has the least idea of what I've been forced to sacrifice? I did what was necessary.”

Whirling, he shoved people out of his way until he reached the rear exit and was gone.

In his wake, everybody began talking at once, faces full of shock, anger. Except one: up on the staircase, Devin was beaming beatifically with Vincent in plain sight, tucked against Devin's shoulder.

Under Devin's happily swinging feet, Francine was weeping.

*****

“He's got to go,” Julia said flatly, one evening after supper.

“Okay, good,” commented Pascal. “Fine. But who's gonna make him?”

They were gathered, the five of them – the Witnesses, some called them – around the largest table in the study to consider the problem of what to do about Paracelsus.

Pensively rubbing his chin, Ray Ensign leaned back in his chair. “He's right about one thing: we can be judge and jury. But I don't know anybody who feels fit to be his executioner. A life for a life is fair. But it just don't feel right.”

Around the table, heads nodded glum agreement.

It had been a month since Paracelsus' public admission of murder. Since then, he moved through the tunnels, striding like an automaton, collecting whatever supplies or equipment he chose and then disappearing again. The utter stillness and silence produced by his presence should have been plain enough. Nobody spoke to him or would have replied, had he spoken to them. But he never did. He remained, an unfading and unwelcome ghost haunting the perimeters.

“We can't jail him,” Ray continued, bending fingers to count off the points of impasse. “We ain't got the people or resources for that. And the fact is, nobody wants him here -  not even as a prisoner. We all agreed we can't take him topside for a trial.”

“Exile,” said Jacob heavily, “was the decision, and the only possible response. By his own action, he has put himself outside this community. The Silence has been imposed. We've agreed we no longer know him. I can't imagine how we could make it any plainer that he's no longer a part of us.”

“Then why in hell don't he just go!” Julia fumed, thumping the table. “Hangs around like a damn cloud, over everything we do. What's he waiting for? What's he want?”

There was a silence Pascal finally broke, saying simply, “Vincent.”

Before Jacob could even think about commenting, Julia had declared, “Well, he ain't gonna get him, is what. That boy's had to put up with enough, and more than enough, from that man already. And he ain't so ugly once you get used to him awhile. Even leaving Anna out of it, I wouldn't give that man a dog I was fond of.”

“That boy,” Ray agreed, with a glance at Jacob, “he's a rightful part of us now. Same as anybody.”

“We gave that child away once, but never twice,” Mattie confirmed. “And as long as we look after Vincent, everybody knows that we stand up for what's ours, for each other. For everybody, regardless.”

Jacob was pleased by such spontaneous unanimity, but not surprised. In closing ranks to exclude Paracelsus, the community had reformed its wounded circle with Vincent inside. At its very core. By accepting him, they defined themselves. He'd become their emblem and touchstone. No child Below was more carefully cherished or better loved. And no child Below was more gladly responsive to affection. In the exchange, the child and the community were healing one another. It had warmed Jacob, these past difficult weeks, watching it happen.

“We can't keep Paracelsus out,” Ray observed. “There's too many ways in, for anybody that knows. We're going to have to put him out. I don't like it. But I don't see he's left us much choice. If he won't go, we'll have to make him.”

As they began discussing how to force such an expulsion, Jacob pushed away from the table, reaching for his cane. “I'm going,” he announced, “for a walk.”

Ray flashed him a skeptical, knowing glance. “You want company?”

Jacob considered, then started on toward the passage. “Thank you, but no. I go best at my own pace.”

Jacob had decided to break the Silence. But he didn't want to involve anyone else in going against the community's consensus.

He stopped first at the children's chamber, nodding to the sentry stationed outside. It had seemed prudent to set a watch, given Paracelsus' restless, spectral comings and goings. Inside, Jacob found Devin and Vincent seated on the floor, Devin erecting a tower of blocks, Vincent looking on. As Jacob entered, Devin added one more block; the tower began to sway. Before it could topple of its own accord, Vincent swatted it – a motion almost too quick to see. Blocks flew everywhere. One hit Jacob in the shin. Devin looked momentarily apprehensive but Vincent just beamed at the splendid mess he'd made, then began scrambling around the chamber, shoving the blocks into a pile, clearly so Devin could begin the game again.

“Devin. Vincent.” As Jacob seated himself on the edge of the bed, the two boys came obediently to stand before him. Jacob set his hands on their shoulders. “It's nearly your bedtime. Can I depend on you to put your toys away, wash up, and get into bed by yourselves? Or shall I have ...”

With five-year-old independence, Devin assured him they were quite capable of getting ready for bed without adult supervision. And Vincent, taking his cue from the older boy, confirmed softly, “Yes,” doubtless with no idea what he was agreeing to. But that didn't matter – whatever Devin was in favor of, Vincent would second.

“I have an errand to attend to,” Jacob continued, “and so you may have to do without your story tonight. But I'll look in on you when I get back.”

Having exchanged a good-night kiss with each of them, Jacob left them happily involved in a new game: seeing who could pitch blocks into the toybox from the greatest distance.

It was the same long, laborious journey it had always been to Paracelsus' chambers. For a moment Jacob stood in the passage, fighting the habit of politely calling to announce presence, ask admission. Then he squared his shoulders, bent his head a little, and went inside.

Paracelsus looked up, startled: seated at a table, stacking gold coins. As Jacob looked around the parlor, Paracelsus demanded, “Am I not due even the courtesy of a knock anymore? But no, of course not: then you'd have to talk to me, and that's...”

“I've come,” said Jacob, “for my chess set. Ah - there it is.” Passing by Paracelsus, Jacob went to collect the ebony box from a shelf. Tucking it under his arm, he turned, remarking, “I'll always treasure it. As I treasure the memory of our friendship.”

“So – you're willing to break the ban for the pleasure of gloating, are you?”

Jacob sighed. “There's no satisfaction for me in this. Only sadness.”

The parlor surprised him. He'd expected that with Anna gone, it would have reverted to bachelor untidiness. Instead, it had the precise, sterile order of a museum exhibit or a stage set: somewhere people had lived once, or pretended to live.

Paracelsus swept the coins into a pouch and knotted the strings tight, as though suspecting Jacob might try to snatch this final, paltry treasure.

“Still the hypocrite: you've won it all, stolen it all from me, and still won't admit your greed or ambition.”

“It was,” Jacob responded patiently, “a unanimous decision. You gave us no choice, John. We cannot condone murder.”

John straightened indignantly in his chair. “If you think you can disguise your responsibility within the will of the common herd, you're mistaken, Quartermaster. And you've certainly picked a poor way of demonstrating it. Was it a unanimous choice that you break the vow of punitive silence? Did everyone agree that you stop by for a little chat? Do you head a duly chosen deputation?”

Paracelsus made a show of scanning the empty doorway. “No, of course not: you do as you please… as you deem necessary, in your sole judgment. Just as I have done. Your acts proclaim the truth your mouth denies: that there is no law Below, except the will to do a thing and the strength to carry it out. That we are above all law, you and I. That we decide alone, and leave the herd to follow. Now, with no other audience, now that you've won, won't you at least be honest about it?”

“I don't want to argue with you, John. I came for my chess set. And… to say goodbye. Because,” Jacob continued, over the beginning of Paracelsus' skeptical retort, “you have tonight to collect whatever you want to take with you. Tomorrow, Pascal and Ray will wall up these chambers. The ladder to the next level down will be removed. You may go where you wish, Above or Below. But you cannot stay among us anymore.”

“I see: no one has the courage to kill me.”

“Is that what you've been expecting? Or… is that what you want?” said Jacob, finding it a horrid speculation. “Because… of Anna?”

“Don't be absurd. I did only what I was forced to do. ‘If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out.’ Everything, even the dearest, must be sacrificed to high purpose. Anna betrayed me, gave me no choice. Stole the child and then refused to support me in reclaiming him. Wouldn't see reason. Wouldn't even agree to keep silent. Claimed to love me, yet was destroying everything I'd worked for, everything that mattered. What else could I do?”

Incredibly, Paracelsus seemed entirely sincere. Even now, Jacob realized, Paracelsus was justifying his actions.

Almost against his will, Jacob found himself asking, “What did you do?”

Paracelsus gave him an angry black glance. “What details can you lack? Hasn't your friend, Doctor Peter Alcott ...”

“I never sent the samples to Peter. If Peter submitted them for analysis…t here would have been questions. I didn't dare risk ...”

Paracelsus slapped the table with both hands and gave a sudden, loud bark of astonished laughter. “Bluffed, by God! You won with a bluff! Jacob, how droll: you switched games on me! Here all the while I thought it was chess, and instead it was poker!”

Jacob found the amusement as jarringly off-key as the cynicism. It was as if he and John no longer spoke the same language or shared a common outlook. As though they'd become citizens of different countries.

It was true: he no longer knew this man.

Jacob asked diffidently, “Was it ... Did she suffer?”

“Of course not,” Paracelsus snapped, as though finding the question insulting and ridiculous. “There was no need to be inhumane. An overdose of laudanum, administered in a glass of wine. She slept her life away. Completely painless. It was…. It was the hardest thing I've ever done.”

For an instant, Paracelsus' self-assurance faltered. But the next instant, he declared, “I did it for Vincent. So of course there was no other choice.”

“Of course,” said Jacob faintly. “For Vincent. Of course.”

It had been so close, he thought. Except for Francine's persistence, Paracelsus could have waited weeks before admitting Anna was missing; except for the community's well coordinated, disciplined search, it could have been months before her body was found – far too late to make any determination or to challenge Paracelsus' claim of accident. So little, and Vincent would still have been here, hanging in that unspeakable straitjacket, being systematically brutalized.

Sometimes, watching the child freely playing or softly asleep, it still could make Jacob shiver – the realization of how close it had been.

“Such a child is worth everything,” Paracelsus was declaring fervently. “Anything. Even…one's right eye. Even that.” Looking up sharply, Paracelsus went on, “You've observed him now. You've seen. Isn't he remarkable? What progress have you made?”

“The… progress,” responded Jacob awkwardly, unable and unwilling to view Vincent as an experiment, “is all on his side. Perhaps it's remarkable. Certainly it's welcome. He no longer cries out in his sleep. He generally feeds himself, and he's quite tidy about it for a child his age. He's practically become Devin's shadow. The other children ...”

Paracelsus brushed away such meaningless trivia. “But his motor control, his cognitive development - what of that?”

Almost, Jacob felt forced into reporting Vincent had begun to talk: not the usual toddler's experimental babbling, only an occasional word now and then, mostly yes or no; rarely initiating an exchange but his responses always apt and to the point. Though reticent, he was a fluent listener – intently focused on anything said to him or near him. Faced by those sober, intelligent blue eyes, you'd find yourself speaking frankly and openly, as to a trusted and discerning adult. The silent attention had that effect somehow, and it was a shock, each time, to recall one had been confiding in a raptly attentive child less than a year old….

Jacob stifled the impulse to speak of such things. They were private – to be shared only with friends. Not with a man who'd burn a child.

Jacob's indignation was absolute. No compromise was possible. He found himself unwilling to cede even that much of Vincent to Paracelsus' dissecting curiosity.

“My son,” he said, and paused, listening to the words reechoing within him, finding them exactly the right words. “Both my sons are happy and thriving.”

“I see.” Folding his hands on the table, Paracelsus appeared to think for a long moment. “I see. So you've forced the cattle to tolerate him, or pretend to. So far he hasn't bitten anyone to the bone or struck out with those very sharp little claws of his. So you'll all pretend he's just another child, one whose deformities you've charitably agreed to overlook. And so it will all be lost. All that potential. All the wonder. Because Jacob Wells refused to involve a helper and won with an empty bluff I was too credulous to detect. I see.”

Paracelsus' eyes shut tight, as against a spasm of pain; a tear slid down the side of his nose. “Your charity will destroy him, and I can't prevent it. I see. I see.”

Shaken afresh by alien assumptions, Jacob tried to take in the apparent fact that Paracelsus had been lurking about in the belief that the community would tire of the child, reject him, and indifferently allow Paracelsus to reclaim custody.

“That won't happen, John. You'll never get him back. I promised Anna. And even if I hadn't, I will never willingly surrender any child to… such care as yours.”

“He's not any child!”

“He's not the monster you'd have made of him!”

For a moment, they were glaring at each other. Then Jacob made himself look away.

“I didn't come to provoke you, or to argue. Only to do you the courtesy of telling you, to your face, that it's over.”

“Then there's nothing more to stay for.” Bowing his head, Paracelsus became quiet again. And icily bitter. “I should have expected it. Nothing wonderful can last. Sunrise fades into the light of common day. The most brilliant sunset leads only into the dark. It was naive of me to hope otherwise. I see now.”

Looking up slowly, Paracelsus regarded Jacob with dull, expressionless eyes.

“Collect whatever you want to take,” Jacob said, retreating to formality. “In the morning, a party of sentries will escort you to the perimeter.”

“To ensure I don't come back?” Paracelsus' mouth tightened in a parody of a smile. “We've mapped out and opened too many ways: you can't shut them all. If I ever chose to return, there's no way you could keep me out. But it doesn't matter. It's all gone. There's nothing worth staying for. I'll place no further burden on your charity.”

Standing propped on his cane, Jacob tried to think of something suitable to say. Something to convey his sadness that their long friendship had to end in bitterness and acrimony. Something that would reach and evoke the John Pater he still regarded fondly – the idealistic young man whose faith bounded over inconvenient facts to embrace the outlandish, the improbable. The determined champion of lost causes.

But that man was gone; and Jacob found he had nothing further to say, after all, to Paracelsus.

Hitching the chess set higher against his side, Jacob limped across the chamber and began the long walk home.

16

After leaving Pascal and Jamie behind, Vincent ranged along the margin of the black lake, seeking a way around or, failing that, a way across. Past a few yards out, the fog hid everything: the lake might be miles across. He already knew the water was too cold for a prolonged swim.

The fog isolated him. Gradually, he lost all sense of time and duration. In these strange, mist-shrouded deeps, his sense of location was gone. With no one near him, no one for him to take care of or to distract him, he gradually lost his self-consciousness, too. He went faster, bounding down slopes and up steeps, balancing quickly and carelessly along knife-edged ridges, free to take ways nobody could have accompanied or even followed him. It was easy, comfortable to move that way – as only he could, alone, and in the dark.

His longing for Catherine intensified, as he'd known it would. The stony, monochrome emptiness starved all his senses. He began to feel as though he were flinging himself continually out into the dark, trying to catch firm hold on the wispy drifting silk that was his awareness of her, that brushed by from time to time but was instantly gone, too slight and insubstantial to be grasped. Too faint and indeterminate for him to take a bearing from.

Moving fast helped keep him focused, helped him resist giving in to the impulse to drift into a static trance of wanting.

In such stillness, all sounds were loud. A faint, rhythmic scraping drew his attention. He found a flat-bottomed skiff tied to a pole stuck upright in a socket at the water's edge. The boards rubbed against the smooth shore with the water's slight lift and fall. There were no oars – only the pole. He worked the pole free, unfastened the rope, and stepped down – carefully, the way books said one should. Except for a disastrous brief experiment with a raft, in childhood, he'd never been in a boat: the way the skiff rocked at any change of weight or sudden motion was disquieting. All skills had their proper mysteries. He set himself to learn the mystery of a boat's motion on the water, driven by slow, steady poling. Kneeling down, he found, was more stable; but it was just about impossible to pole in that position. So he stood up again, warily balancing, reassured by the pole's contact with the shallow bottom on each stroke.

Then the pole touched nothing, as deep as he could reach. Pulling the pole out, lest the one-sided drag start him drifting in a circle, he knelt to diminish wind resistance and conserve momentum. A finger touched to the water's surface made spreading rings that slowly were left behind: the boat was still taking him forward. He waited ten breaths, then tried, with the pole, to touch bottom, holding tight lest the wet, smooth pole slip from his hands and leave him completely adrift. Nothing. Another ten breaths, counted off as though getting the number right and breathing slowly, evenly, were somehow of immense importance. This time, the bottom was there, shelving suddenly up from the midpoint deeps. The jar of contact was an immense relief he steadied himself against, rising.

Soon, he reached the far shore.

And soon he found, still wet on the dry rock at the water's edge, a guide better than a clicking pipe: the giant's blood. In the dank, still air, the unmistakable coppery scent was like a shout or a bright flame. With that scent calling him forward, he needed nothing else.

The descent narrowed. Bounding down a declivity, he nearly fell when the pack of provisions momentarily caught on a stone spur. He shrugged off the pack, stuck it into a niche, and piled stones against it. Unencumbered, freed for the hunt, he set out at a run, following the blood trail.

*****

Still feeling sick and lightheaded, Catherine was roused from a sitting doze by the ogre Paracelsus called Erlik. He was scowling more sullenly than ever: his shoulder was padded with a thick, unsanitary looking bandage. But whatever hurt he'd suffered in intercepting Vincent hadn't affected his strength. Unceremoniously grabbing her arm, he dragged her from the chair and pulled her down a short stair that led to a kind of grotto. There, Erlik shoved her into the custody of a tall, wiry black man in ordinary bluejeans and turtleneck.

It was such a relief and a surprise to see anyone who looked like he lived in this century that Catherine whispered to the black man, “Please, won't you help me?”

His only response was to tie her wrists to two rings set into the rock, check that the knots were tight, and walk off to exchange a few words with Paracelsus, standing in his funeral-director's black in the middle of the pit.

When Erlik brought an armload of brush and dumped it at Catherine's feet, she guessed she didn't have to wonder whose funeral Paracelsus had dressed for. With his horribly scarred face and mask, he meant to inflict on her his nightmare of disfiguring flame.

Her sixth grade production of Joan of Arc suddenly became horridly vivid in her memory. She could only hope her performance now would do credit to that brave doomed saint. She concentrated on trying to remember the lines she'd memorized all those years ago – not to say them, but to distract herself from the fact that she was utterly terrified of fire.

She wouldn't let that terror get through to Vincent. She was determined: she wouldn't. She fought the fear, fought it back with half-remembered phrases full of dignity and the transcendent defiance of the worst one person could do to another.

So she didn't notice Paracelsus had come close until he remarked, “I believe I may have done you an injustice.”

He waited for comment, but Catherine didn't trust her dry mouth enough to try to speak. She just looked at him with what she hoped was a resolute, fearless expression. Her face felt like wood. Sweat was dripping in her eyes and she couldn't even lift a wrist to wipe it away. Resolute expressions didn't let you squinch your eyes hard shut: she endured the stinging.

Eventually, Paracelsus went on, “I had assumed your relationship with Vincent was…what's the modern word?” When she again refused to play straight man, he named the word with a sardonic inflection that made it a euphemism for something obscene: “Complete.”

Catherine found herself declaring hoarsely, “It is complete.”

“Ah. I see. Limited, then. Or, rather, chaste. Pure,” he suggested, offering a multiple choice that made each of those words obscene, too.

Annoyed to have let herself be provoked into a response, Catherine kept still this time.

It was very strange, after months of keeping the secret of Vincent's mere existence clenched tight within her heart, to be quizzed about him in such a grotesquely personal way. Given the have-you-stopped-beating-your-wife alternatives, she felt confusedly both ashamed and proud of the fact that she and Vincent had never so much as kissed.

“So,” Paracelsus mused, “Father's prudery still rules the beast, even in that. Or… is it your choice? That would be understandable. Natural to find a certain… discomfort in the prospect of involvement with the different… on such intimate terms.

“It's such a visceral thing, revulsion,” Paracelsus reflected, blandly sympathetic, with a showy shudder and an expression of distaste. “A pure relationship would be so much easier to maintain…given the differences.”

Catherine resisted the impulse to squirm under Paracelsus' solemn, dead-eyed inspection that implicitly accused her of cowardice and prim, squeamish hypocrisy for having failed to bed her lover. Her face was already so hot that even she couldn't tell if she was blushing.

He'd have been a terror as a prosecutor, she thought. He knows all the tricks.

Even recognizing the strategic mind-games and rhetorical back-flips was no protection, no defense. No matter what you said, you'd feel guilty. And silence, refusing to react, didn't help much, either. Not when you couldn't help but care how it seemed, what it meant, what it was, that she and Vincent shared.

It suddenly bothered her acutely that she'd lost her crystal, Vincent's gift. If she'd had it, this insinuating inquisition couldn't have gotten under her skin. She felt as she had when Paracelsus had unexpectedly stroked her scarred cheek.

No one can shame me but myself, she told herself sternly: something she'd heard Vincent say, consoling a victim of childish name-calling. There's no shame in anything about my relationship with Vincent. Nothing that needs either explaining or defending. That's not who we are.

Still, she couldn't help wondering what she'd said or done to make Paracelsus change his mind about the nature of their relationship. Was he simply guessing? Trying out one idea, then another, to see how she'd react? Or had she somehow given herself away? She couldn't imagine how. And anyway, why should Paracelsus entertain a such a purient and persistent curiosity about intimate details of her love life?

The whole conversation troubled her…as probably it was intended to do.

“A pity,” Paracelsus remarked, as though casually, and strolled away. “So he'll die and never know. What it is. To be a man….”

Erlik came with another armload of brush. The pile was up to her knees.

The heat and the tarry stink of the torches' smoke were stifling. Sagging back against the wall, Catherine shut her stinging eyes, grateful there was nothing inside her but some tepid water: at least she wouldn't throw up.

Paracelsus' voice remarked presently, “Vincent is close.”

Blinking, Catherine found Paracelsus standing on the far side of the pit near one of the holes that led out.

The preparations spoke for themselves. With a steadiness that pleased her, Catherine replied, “I know.”

As if piqued by her calm, Paracelsus remarked, “You're not afraid to die, are you.”

“No,” Catherine said, and she wasn't. It was pain she dreaded – not the fact of dying itself.

“Not even as you watch the stage being built.” Paracelsus' eyes shifted, directing her attention to Erlik, heavily approaching with more brush.

Catherine set her mouth and said nothing.

Apparently, Paracelsus found her obstinate failure to scream, moan, beg, or burst into tears a mildly annoying oddity. Turning from the door-hole, he came back a few steps, asking, “Don't you feel anything?”

She had no intention of telling him she was doing her determined best to do exactly that: to feel nothing at all. Having reflected a moment, Catherine reported, “Sadness.”

“About dying?”

“About you.” It was as though she was seeing him through the wrong end of binoculars: impersonally, dispassionately, and from very far away. With the remote pity with which perhaps blessed St. Joan might regard a spirit who'd once lived in brightness and now, through self-will and malice, had fallen to irretrievable depths.

Meditatively, she continued, “And the world you helped create. Vincent has told me…. Your vision, your ideals – all wasted.”

“Taken from me!”

“Still…wasted. Now, all you want to do is destroy. Something. Someone you don't even know.” It didn't seem at all odd to her that the one she meant was Vincent.

Paracelsus proposed, “Then you perceive my life to be – contradictory.”

“No,” she responded, and selected another word: “Tragic.”

That stung him. “Don't you see?” he burst out. “It doesn't end with your death – or Vincent's. This is only the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“Of reclaiming what is mine,” declared Paracelsus, grandly malevolent. “After all these years, I've decided to go home!”

This time, Erlik's burden was a single heavy stick bound with tar-smeared rags. He lifted it to another torch in a wall sconce. When it had taken flame, he turned and came toward Catherine, stolidly facing her across the waiting pyre.

*****

Paracelsus didn't appreciate suggestions at the best of times, which Cookie knew this certainly wasn't. But as Paracelsus started up the stair to the higher level, Cookie had to say it.

Leaning close, muttering so the bound woman wouldn't hear, he said, “There's better ways to do this. He'll have to come through the canyon: it'd be easy to set an ambush. Put somebody back in the rocks with a rifle...”

“No.”

“There's still time, if that's what you're worried about. I brought a rifle along, just in case, and Paolo's the best sniper we got. Take this freak right between the eyes before he even knows ...”

Cookie gasped and fought for balance, caught unprepared by Paracelsus' openhanded slap. For a second, it was a toss-up whether he was going over the edge or not. When he didn't, Paracelsus told him, “Bring me the rifle. Now. And any other weapons you've conveniently forgotten to mention to me.”

Angry and perplexed but knowing better than to protest, Cookie did as he'd been told and watched Paracelsus methodically eject the clips and toss them out into the dark. Paracelsus then hurled the weapons in another direction – the rifle and the two automatics. Cookie winced, hearing them hit rock and bounce. He somehow kept himself from mentioning how much they'd cost.

Turning, Paracelsus regarded Cookie with one of his nastier looks. “Do you think I've gone insane?”

“No, boss.”

“If you're so determined on an ambush, you're free to conduct one. Barehanded. Meet the beast on his own terms.”

If that was supposed to be a joke, Cookie didn't find it funny. “No, boss. I'll pass. But ...”

“But what?”

“But it don't make no sense! Took us months to find a place that suited you, fetch down enough wood, everything you asked for, and for what? So a big, dumb goon can wrestle him to death?”

Paracelsus' expression made Cookie wish he'd had the sense, for once, to keep his bright ideas to himself.

“Do you claim to know my purposes?”

“No, Prophet. You hold all the cards, and you keep them tight to your chest. But if you just want somebody dead, even a freak, there's lots of easier ways ...”

“I'm tempted,” Paracelsus commented lazily, “to set you in the pit to greet my son instead of Erlik. But even wounded, my fine dragon Erlik is still ten times the man you are, Mr. Cook.”

Cookie was still trying to take in the unexpected phrase 'my son' when he heard the worse phrase: Mr. Cook. Whenever Paracelsus decided to get polite, you were in serious trouble.

“And my son surpasses you both by a considerable order of magnitude. So I'll have to think of some other way to reward your insubordinate meddling.”

Paracelsus cocked an eyebrow – plainly just waiting for Cookie to be dumb enough to rise to the twice-offered bait of claiming some hairy freak, that Cookie had only recently heard about, as blood kin.

Cookie shook his head and kept his mouth shut. He liked things planned well and done neatly, by the numbers. Nothing needed left out, nothing extra left over. Which he guessed was why Paracelsus had picked him as chief go-for. But you never knew. Why Paracelsus did anything. What he really was after.

Everything had twists, dodges, trick doors you didn't expect. Half the time, he seemed to do things just for the pure contrary satisfaction of watching you try to make sense of them when the fact was, they didn't make any. Just to keep you mystified, off balance, and waiting on his word, because you couldn't get ahead of him if you didn't know where he was going.

He'd always been like that. But since the fire and the months of healing, he'd gotten worse. All puzzles and riddles. Hardly ever a word straight-out, that meant just what it said.

Sometimes it was downright exasperating. Sometimes, it made Cookie almost mad enough to quit. But only almost: nobody'd ever quit the Community of Survivors, that Cookie'd heard about… not and been heard from afterward.

“I intend,” Paracelsus volunteered, “to get Vincent's undivided attention. I think setting him this little quest will achieve that end, don't you, Mr. Cook?”

“I s'pose. I don't know nothing about it.”

“Oh, so you admit that now, do you, Mr. Cook?”

“Any way you please, boss, that's fine with me. I was only…only trying to help.”

“I'll bring him to me on my terms. After our conversation, I'll let him go, on his. Perhaps…with a companion. About whose welfare he'll naturally be anxious. So chivalrous. So romantic, all alone together in the dark. So full…of possibilities…. It's only natural. Don't you agree, Mr. Cook.”

“Sure, boss. Anything you say.”

So after all the trouble of getting the woman here, Paracelsus apparently didn't want her dead either. Cookie gave up trying to figure it out.

As Cookie started to turn away, Paracelsus directed abruptly, “He'll be here soon. Send the others away. Or, rather, take them away: it's to be a very select audience for our little drama.”

“Erlik?”

“Erlik stays. There must, after all, be an obstacle. Only the brave deserve the fair. A dragon is required. And even afterward, I somehow doubt the course of true love will run smooth. But primal energy loosed in one thing is loosed in all… and the doors of perception will be cleansed by an improvement of sensual enjoyment. And then we'll see how Father's prohibitions hold against that. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Cook?”

Paracelsus was quoting again, Cookie concluded glumly. “Sure. If you say so. Any way you want it.”

“Precisely.”

*****

Approaching the lighted rock dome, Vincent confronted something macabre: a skeleton in half-rotted clothing, propped upright against a pillar. He would have ignored it and passed by, except for a glint that caught his eye.

The skeleton's bony neck was adorned with Catherine's crystal.

If the portent had been intended to alarm him, it had the opposite effect. Carefully removing the pendant, Vincent held it in his hand, full of the memory of how he'd given it to Catherine and how she'd accepted it. How it had slid from his hand to hers, lifting to clasp it. That moment of contact, conveying to him such warmth and gladness. As if it were a rare treasure with which he presented her. How she'd then given the gift she'd prepared for him – the hand-stitched pouch holding the rose. That was his rose now: hanging against his heart.

Vincent's hunt along the blood-trail was stopped there while he pulled the pouch free and deposited the crystal inside, where no harm could come to it. And the unthinking race through the fuming depths was forgotten as if it'd never happened; and he put aside all concern for the future. There was only Catherine. Nothing else mattered.

Calmly wary, knowing he was walking into a prepared trap, he went forward to the light and stepped onto a ledge.

From across a sandy pit, an unseen voice greeted him sardonically: “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven – eh, Vincent?”

Automatically, Vincent placed the allusion – the defiance of Lucifer, Lightbringer: once the bright spirit of the Morning Star, shouting his hatred of the light from the black abyss to which his pride and rebellion had consigned him….

More, he knew the voice. Reflexively, he spoke the name: “Paracelsus.”

“Milton, actually,” commented the voice deprecatingly, mocking this pedantic dropping of literary tags even while indulging in it.

Emerging from shadow, the man stood forth on a facing ledge, the width of the torch-lit pit between them.

For a moment Vincent regarded the grotesquely half-masked face. Then he scanned the curved walls, the pit, seeing no one else. “Where's Catherine?”

“Oh, she's – ah – well. And alive – for the time being.”

The threat wasn't even subtle. “I'm warning you--”

“Your threats, Vincent, hold no power here,” Paracelsus interrupted. “This is my place. It is I who have brought you to where you're standing.”

No, Vincent thought: it is Catherine.

His sense of her was no more and no less than it had been. The torches' pungent smoke overwhelmed all other odors. Perhaps she wasn't here, but elsewhere – and Paracelsus alone knew where.

Still trying to judge the dimensions and nature of this trap, Vincent stated deliberately, “Twice we have been lenient with you, and twice you have taken advantage.”

“What would you know of that?” challenged Paracelsus.

“I know,” Vincent replied quietly, “you have killed.”

“And who are you, of all people, to judge?”

Vincent felt the truth of that. Yet it wasn't all the truth.

At their last meeting, he'd felt his own judgment to be enough. Now, remembering all the community gathered to see them off, remembering Jamie's valor, Pascal's untiring patience, and Winslow's death, he replied steadily and with conviction, “I speak…for many.”

When no glib retort shot back, Vincent stooped a little to find out what lay below the ledge.

“Come any nearer,” Paracelsus shouted, “and the woman is dead!”

Vincent straightened again, waiting.

Paracelsus declared, “Now it's your turn to listen. To know my pain. My grief at seeing the only things I've ever loved torn away. But it wasn't just me: there were others. You. You were betrayed, Vincent. You call him ‘Father.' But it was I who found you – wrapped in rags, starving. It was I who named you ‘Vincent.' And it was I who cared for you, all those months.”

All the sarcasm and heavy jocularity were gone from Paracelsus' voice. The pain was real. The grief and loss were real. True.

Shaken, Vincent couldn't help remembering that other offer of revelation and Paracelsus inquiring pityingly, “Have you really believed that, all these years?”

Father had lied to him. Stated that Paracelsus' expulsion had happened before Vincent's birth. And this man's true pain made a claim Vincent found he couldn't put aside or disavow. But even pain, and truth, could be used as weapons to distract an adversary from the real attack. And Vincent was not about to be seduced like that again, with hope of learning the secret of his own being, which Paracelsus was continually dangling before him, believing it to be a bait he'd follow into any snare. Not twice.

It no longer mattered. Only Catherine mattered. He'd return her safely home and then part from her forever. The resolution had been annealed, tempered and hardened, in the inner silence of his journey. And without Catherine, none of Paracelsus' hinted revelations had any point or meaning. Without Catherine, Vincent simply was what he was and it didn't matter why. The issue became empty – academic.

Except for Catherine, he'd never regretted what he was. That was how it would be again.

So he waited, unmoved, as Paracelsus went on plaintively, “Even Father didn't think you'd live. But I … I fed you, I bathed you – and you did live. Don't you see, Vincent? He wouldn't let me take you. When I was exiled, he made me leave you behind!

“I loved you,” Paracelsus protested, as though that were yet another grievous injury he insisted Vincent take heed of. “You were mine!”

When Vincent made no response, Paracelsus accused, across the empty space, “You don't believe me.”

“What would you have me believe – that you loved…and are now capable of this?”

“Now,” said Paracelsus, nodding, “is the time for retribution.”

“Then,” said Vincent, “you never really knew love.”

Their eyes met for a long minute. In Paracelsus' gaze was a mute demand for allegiance, acknowledgement, love: all that was Father's. Those eyes hardened with the realization Vincent wasn't going to grant him those things. Sincere or pretended, that gambit had failed.

Vincent said again, “Where's Catherine.”

“Directly below you.”

Flashing Paracelsus a final mistrustful glance, Vincent suddenly dropped, whirled – and in doing that, sprang the trap.

In an instant, the giant had pitched a flaming torch onto the brush piled around Catherine and swung down a clublike arm at Vincent, who ducked under that blow and the one that immediately followed. As the giant lurched past, Vincent raked his shoulders, his claws tearing bloody lines that didn't even slow the giant's attack. Vincent had no chance to get past: the fight's innate choreography said plainly that he'd be allowed no way to his goal except by defeating this hulking adversary. And the flames had begun to crackle in the piled fuel. And still he felt nothing from Catherine.

He circled, trying both to watch the giant and to catch a glance past him to confirm his glimpse of her: to be sure it was really Catherine and not some ruse. Confirmation came: their eyes met for an urgent instant. But that split-second's inattention allowed the giant to grab Vincent and hurl him backward, off balance, against a wall. Yet Vincent sensed the blow that would follow and slid out from beneath it. His return swipes again caught the giant in motion, offering only heavily-muscled bare shoulders and back: opportunity to wound, hurt, but not to disable. And every second that passed let the flames lick higher – nearer to Catherine.

Who felt nothing. Who remained no more than a distant and neutral presence within him, within the bond. More than ever, that emptiness and distance hurt – here, in her very presence. And the image (he had no leisure, flung back against a short stair, for another glance) of Catherine standing serene in the midst of flame roused strange, uncanny echoes in Vincent – distractingly intense, like a shard refracted from a forgotten fever dream. Breathless and disoriented, he tried to force the image away. There must be nothing but now: this demanding and perilous instant. He must not only defeat the giant but defeat him now – immediately. He must not let himself be distracted – not even by Catherine herself. Her very life depended on it.

Thinking was a luxury he could no longer afford. Delay was death. He must lose himself wholly into the fight as a dancer into a dance.

He launched himself at the giant. Moving, the giant used Vincent's own momentum to boost him over and past – headlong, headfirst, into an overhung wall. The giant's hands clamped on Vincent's boots and dragged him back into reach. Vincent twisted, surged up again…and was clasped around the body and lifted, his arms locked tight to his sides with appalling strength. His ribs flared pain. He couldn't draw breath. Head thrown back in a fanged grimace, helplessly suspended, he could get no leverage against sand or stone and was being bent irresistibly backward with spine-snapping force.

Catherine's voice screamed his name.

It hit him then, like pure flame: Catherine's terror. It swept through him, blazed through all the inner emptiness. There was nothing else. Instantly, he ceased to think like a man, struggle as a man might struggle. Without thought or hesitation and for the only time in his adult life, he used the one weapon left him: his fangs.

His mouth filled with the taste and heat of blood.

The giant cried out, recoiling, and Vincent dropped free. Facing him. In easy reach of the giant's throat. A single powerful swipe ended it. Then Vincent was past, hurdling the fire and freeing Catherine from the ropes that bound her to the wall. Perhaps he broke them. He didn't know – still mindlessly riding the crest of her fear, that still surged through the bond with irresistible, elemental power.

When next he came to himself, he was kneeling down with Catherine in his arms, depositing her slight, cough-wracked body on safe stone, the bond swept now by surges of trembling relief and breathless solicitude. Gratitude. The thrilling aftershock of the kill. Ardent and unqualified love. All fused together, filling all the silence, all the empty places. Painful; powerful; almost beyond bearing, as though he'd burst with the force of it. And sweet beyond all measure, beyond anything he'd ever experienced.

Catherine was here, safe in his arms, and loved him profoundly.

It was beyond anything he'd ever imagined. He was consumed in sensation.

Catherine's voice asked anxiously, warningly, “Paracelsus?”

Rousing, Vincent pushed dazedly to his feet and scanned the ledge, finding only smoky shadows.

Paracelsus was gone.

17

They'd at last come clear of the pursuing smoke: Catherine reeling and stumbling through the acrid steams and fogs that mimicked smoke, Vincent unable to decide whether a renewed attack would be more likely to come from ahead, behind, up, down, or any of a thousand degrees of slant, a complete sphere of possible danger, and therefore taking five paces for every one of hers, circling, trying to be aware of everything, frustrated that his acuity was blunted by his own agitation, even by the exhausted euphoria flowing to him through the bond. Sweet as it was, it was a distraction and dangerous. He tried to sense past it and couldn't.

This close, it was nearly impossible for him to be conscious of anything but her. Quite literally, Catherine became everything. And yet to keep her safe he had to somehow try to shut her out, find some way, within, to be apart from her. Which was likewise impossible. Impossible even to truly want to: head and heart utterly at odds.

His mouth was still full of the taste of blood. He was frantic to get clean at least of the immediate awareness of it; but his pack of supplies, including water, was still hours ahead.

At least other senses hadn't betrayed him. Having come this way once, he knew at least the gross pattern of the terrain and spotted landmarks and shapes not consciously noticed before but recognized now, automatically, as he scanned the maze of meeting angles and fissures, all the openings that might conceal some further attacker or Paracelsus himself--that sag-eyed, lugubrious face with its obscene golden mask, the pale mouth gabbling even more obscene declarations of love….

Love!

Remembering made Vincent almost as sick as the metallic taint of blood. With an effort of will he shut off the memory, concentrated only on the immediate task: guiding Catherine safely back to the light that was her proper place and her birthright…through the dark that was his.

At least in what would be, to her eyes, absolute darkness, she couldn't see the blood. That, at least, he could keep to himself and not trouble her with. He licked his lips uneasily, trying to look, sense, in all directions at once.

There was no way not to touch her, hold her. The fissures and drops he'd come down easily had become steeps and climbs he had to lift her up until she could find a foothold or bound first, kneel, and stretch an arm to draw her slight weight up tight beside him. There were chimneys too tall even for that, where the ascent couldn't be broken into stages. Then she clung to his back or side and he jumped and held one-handed because his other arm was around her back or even her waist.

He'd always been most careful in his approaches to her, limiting them to a touch too formal and brief to be termed an embrace, forcing nothing upon her that she might be uncomfortable about, or about refusing.

She, naturally less restrained because she'd never had to learn any need for caution, often leaned into him or clasped him in simple affection; and because it was her choice and her happiness to do so, that was acceptable. He would never hurt her feelings by drawing away. That would have been the height of ill manners. So that much, in good conscience, he'd permitted himself to share and enjoy.

But only once, and recently, had he ever initiated such contact and drawn her close. He'd sensed in her no difference, no startlement or discomfort that he'd reached out first, not she. But to him, there was difference. Almost terror at his own daring, to find reinforced and heightened all that continually came to him through the bond: a stronger sense of her physical self, as well as the disembodied flow of mood and attitude. The touch of her skin, unthinkably soft and smooth. The scent, almost a taste, of her beautiful soft hair….

And now he had to grab and hold roughly, undoubtedly banging her sometimes against the stone. Sometimes she grunted and changed her grip, trying to disguise a flinch he still felt but couldn't react to, lest he drop her. There'd be bruises, and of his making. And the scent was of smoke and sweat and exhaustion, and yet still sweet and even more powerful, holding her so close in this strange place that surely was not her world but not his either, the path traveled only once and unfamiliar to him except for the giant's lingering blood-trail: a scent now difficult to discern because of the stronger and more immediate taste of that same blood on his teeth…. This rising terrain of steeps and edges was almost a place between, like her terrace: a place where there were no set limits and a certain familiarity was permissible….

It was becoming more than he could bear.

On a sheer ledge he stopped, judging them safe for the moment, trying to compose himself, dim his intimate awareness of her. But that was impossible: she sagged gratefully against him, her cheek against his chest, her small, sneakered feet dangling over the drop. In stillness, without even motion as a distraction, everything intensified a thousandfold.

“Have we lost them yet?” Catherine whispered.

“I don't know.” Honesty compelled him to add, “I don't know if we're being pursued at all.”

A flash of annoyance, then worried caution, then pure spreading gladness and a deeper relaxation. As though she'd actually said it, he understood Then why have we been running like crazy? But we're not safe yet, anything could happen…. At least I can rest here, anyhow. Though he knew only her emotions, he'd come to know her so well that there were times it was almost as if he could read her mind as well. And, disquietingly, times when it seemed as if she could read his.

He couldn't not hold her. She might slide, fall. He couldn't allow that to happen. And after the desperate famine of his search, when the bond had gone silent so that he knew nothing of her except that she lived, he was simply unable not to savor it now: water to that terrible thirst.

The inner silence and anxious stress had left him oversensitized: again, and still, the contact was like flame or the renewed memory of burning. Catherine, standing in flame, beckoning to him…

But no: that wasn't possible. She'd been tied to the wall. Far from summoning him, she'd not even cried out until the last: until the flames had been actually licking at her shins.

Shaking his head, Vincent put the confusion, unresolved, away from him and tucked Catherine closer.

This once, he could permit it. Until she was safely home. That long. Because after that, she'd be safe. This journey back would be his last chance to touch her and feel her response. Because once she was home, he'd resolved himself never to see her again.

“How far do we have to go?” she asked – her voice still soft, but no longer whispering. No longer in any way tense, confident of her safety because he was with her.

He knew himself unworthy of such trust, such blind willingness to ignore that she'd been abducted not for her own sake, but on Vincent's account. Because Vincent stood between Paracelsus and Father. Catherine must never be put in such jeopardy again.

It seemed to him now that he'd known it from the first, taking up the warped coin: if he managed to find and rescue her, the only way to ensure her future safety was to leave her absolutely alone hereafter. Never visit the balcony. Never see her. Never touch. Close the threshold and change the passages, so she could never again, in misguided affection, careless of her own danger, come into the tunnels.

Their worlds must remain absolutely separate hereafter, because a danger had reached out from his and touched her.

His fault.

But there were dangers in her world too. And how would he be able to feel that surge of sudden terror and not answer it? And how could he answer it, and protect her, when he must not see or touch her ever again like this?

His claws dug into his palms as the horns of this insoluble dilemma pierced him from opposite and irreconcilable directions.

To keep her safe, he had to leave her. To keep her safe, he had to be there, come between her and whoever or whatever offered her hurt. There was no way he could do both.

“Vincent…?” He felt her head turn, her balance change. “Vincent, are you hurt? I'm sorry, I didn't think ...” she began to reproach herself.

“No,” he interrupted quickly. “I am uninjured. Except for bruises, some weariness….” Then he remembered her question, which had waited unanswered and made her wonder why.

“We are perhaps three days' journey from your home. Another two hours to the lake….” Feeling her blank incomprehension, he deduced that she'd noted no landmarks on her forced journey down.

Reading him in turn, she explained, “At first, I was unconscious. I don't know how long. And afterward, it was dark.”

“Of course.” How terrible for her, he thought, to be therefore altogether lost: to know that, even if she contrived to escape, the best she could hope for was to wander endlessly in the dark, to die eventually of thirst or a fall…. Unconsciously, his arm went closer about her and he felt the gentle warmth that always accompanied her slightly crooked smile.

She said, “I don't mind being lost, as long as I'm with you.”

Such confidence. Such faith. It humbled him. He didn't deserve it, since it was solely on his account that she'd been dragged into this lightless maze to become lost in the first place. Rescuing her out of it was no virtue and no recompense for what she'd suffered. He knew he could never make it up to her. He could only leave her in the world she knew, where she knew her way, all the ways…. And still dared the unknown and the dark and walked among dangers, even there….

He couldn't imagine what he was to do.

“What is it?” she asked. “What's the matter?”

“We must continue,” he responded abruptly, drawing her up, scanning for the next handhold.

She tucked her arm obediently under his and hung on. Vincent held her tightly as he began to climb. Rope. He should have thought to bring rope. But he'd thought only of the going, not considered the return. Except for Father and William's forethoughtfulness, he wouldn't even have thought to bring supplies. He often traveled fasting, subsisting on the trickles of seepwater he could always scent and find in the deep places….

Again, with the eerie way she often commented on something like his own secret thoughts, Catherine remarked, “All this steam…. Is there water anywhere, Vincent? Just a little, that would be enough….”

Again, he berated himself. Of course. Exhausted, near collapse, in stifling subterranean heat issuing from deep seams and fissures, the smell of her sweat clear to him from the first: of course, she was dehydrated. Desperately thirsty.

“The water here isn't safe to drink. I'm sorry. I left a cache ahead, near the lake--perhaps an hour. An hour for me,” he corrected. “Going alone. I could get it, bring it back ...”

“No, please,” she interrupted hastily. “I can wait, it's all right.”

Of course. She didn't want to be left in the dark, alone, waiting for him. And he couldn't leave her undefended, certainly not on this side of the lake. Narcissa had warned him that Paracelsus had followers….

He should have carried the pouch of supplies farther, left it closer--

No use to that. He shut off the pointless self-recriminations, tried to think only of her…without intensifying his awareness of her. Which was impossible.

They reached a stretch that twisted but was relatively level. No side turnings from which an attack might spring. As his guiding arm relaxed slightly, Catherine straightened and scuffed along beside him – not groping or uncertain, walking freely despite her blindness merely by matching her pace to his and by staying beside him.

“So how was your day?” she asked lightly, and her courage and trust pierced through him like a sword.

How was he to leave her? How could he not?

Not yet, he reminded himself, and tried to adopt a like offhandedness.

“Very well. I've had only one better. Two. Or perhaps three.” He shook his head, and again felt her smile. She'd guessed his thought: the night he'd found her; the night he'd first gone to her terrace; Samhain.

“I can count higher than that,” she responded, teasing, but with a steady, sober gladness underneath it all.

“So can I,” he admitted.

Not yet. So he allowed himself to pretend he'd invited her Below and was showing her the sights, as he'd wished to do so many times. Pretend that soon they'd come to the Whispering Gallery, where strange anonymous voices suddenly intruded from Above, and she wouldn't be afraid on the bridge that crossed the Abyss, because if it bore his weight it would surely bear hers and anyway he'd hold her hand, it would be necessary for reassurance and therefore he'd permit himself that liberty and she would be glad and excited and not afraid at all….

Happy. As she was now.

And his mouth was still foul with of the taste of blood; but when they reached the water, he decided, it would all be for her. He was what he was. The hot taste of it in his mouth was no more than confirmation. As though any had been needed. Soon, it wouldn't matter. Details of his differences would begin to fade into memory as her recollection dimmed, over time, and she remade her life without him – the life she'd been born to live, in which this would become merely a strange and magical interlude. At first there'd be dreams. Perhaps even anger, loneliness, longing: he'd already permitted himself to entangle their lives too closely. Her ordeal was all the proof needed of that.

But he'd never truly entered her world. Her apartment was still free of him. It would carry no painful memories, no absence where she'd become accustomed to his company. At least he'd still been able to spare her that, knowing the time of parting would eventually come. Her appropriated crystal would remain lost, in his keeping, lest it become to her a tangible reminder of things better forgotten.

She could, if she wished, have the final scar erased after all. Then there'd be nothing to prove this interlude had been anything but a dream. Part terrible, part wonderful. But a dream – that had no place in the common light of day.

As for himself, of course, he'd never forget. But that was the price of the wonder of these magical past months. No pain and no persuasion would ever make him give it up. Many bright things shimmered in his memory, barely dimmed because they'd at last ended in sorrow.

Devin's love and brotherly protection, that had warmed his childhood. Lisa's affection – the shy, dawning hope of his adolescence.

All the dreams he'd put away, but never altogether lost…

Soon. But not yet.

*****

The closer they came to the lake, the more depressed Vincent became. Because that would be the first milestone. First, across the lake; then back past the periphery of the tunnel community; then, and last, to the brick threshold below Catherine's building, that he meant to close as soon as she was safely gone.

There'd be a symmetry in that which made it feel natural – almost inevitable: for he himself had made that threshold, broken that wall, to let her return to her world and complete her healing. And he'd done it fully believing he'd never see her again then either.

Until her abduction, it had never occurred to him that the door he'd opened between the worlds might be a means of admitting dangers undreamed-of Above.

Symmetrical, then, that he should shut it behind her and for all time, walling off both the bizarre threats and the bizarre hopes, neither of which had any place in the sunlit world that was her rightful place.

And as for dreams, they could dream just as well apart, as they did now; and thus, slowly, to fading, and memory, and acceptance. For her, at least. And that would have to be enough.

The lake would be the end of all beginnings, and the beginning of the end.

It was appropriate, he thought, that Dante had, in imagination, inscribed the gates of hell Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. For that surely was what defined hell: the abandonment of hope….

He'd endure it. Somehow. Because he had to.

He allowed them a rest when they reached the midpoint – the top of a long ridge, with downward slopes beyond. There had still been no renewed attack nor any sign of pursuit. And although she hadn't complained, he knew Catherine was near collapse. It seemed a senseless cruelty to force her on without some compelling and unarguable threat. And there'd been nothing.

As he removed the pack from the cache, that continued to puzzle him.

Catherine emptied the water bottle with telling avidity. Even shook it, then upended it, to make sure no drop had been missed. Then she glanced toward him, and through the bond, her sinking dismay reached him keenly.

“Do not concern yourself, Catherine,” he said, before she could begin to apologize. “There's clean water not too far on now. Unlike you, I have eaten well and drunk my fill today.”

Well was somewhat of an exaggeration. But in substance what he'd said was true. Thirst was not his problem. His problem she'd never guess, and he'd have quite willingly died rather than describe it to her.

“I'm not sorry I drank it,” she rejoined, leaning back against a boulder. “Without it, I couldn't go on. And we have to. I'm only sorry I didn't think to ask first. So I'll just thank you.”

“There is no need. I--”

Soberly, insisting, she said, “Thank you, Vincent.”

To protest again would have been ungracious. And she wouldn't have understood – or perhaps understood too well. So he merely bowed his head and did not respond, letting her take that for acceptance if she chose.

Nibbling alternately on a wrinkled hot-dog and a heel of rye bread, she murmured presently, “It's so dark….” making him recall her telling him that, as a child, she'd always dreaded the darkness.

“There's a lantern in the pack,” he admitted, “and I also have candles. But if you could bear it a little longer…? I fear lighting a beacon for enemies. When we reach the lake, it will be safe to show a light.”

“It's all right,” she assured him. “I'm not scared of the boogeyman sneaking up. You'd know. And give him the fright of his life!” She finished with a gleeful chuckle, licking crumbs off her fingertips.

“Besides, it's better in the dark: that way, you can't look back. Like Orpheus,” she explained, realizing he didn't understand. “I feel too close to vanishing already. It's been so long since I've eaten. I can report authoritatively that the hospitality of Lord Dis leaves a great deal to be desired. And I certainly don't want to be yanked back there, considering how hard it was to get out.”

“Oh,” he said, still not really taking it in. “Yes.”

Then there was a silence between them and a strange, expanding peace that softly took his mind away and sent it floating…. And when he suddenly roused and looked toward her, he found her asleep, curled up against the rock, her bright hair spilled on the sand.

And all he felt from her was serene, comfortable sleep. Her dreams must be pleasant, then. Even in such a place….

She didn't waken when he lifted her most carefully to slide his folded vest under her cheek, only nuzzled down into it with a smile glinting at the corner of her mouth before her hair slid and concealed it. He eased back, then farther back again, watching her all the while.

He hadn't the heart to wake her. And even if he had, she couldn't go on, not without rest. The alternative was to carry her; but he knew with absolute certainty that if he tried, the journey would have no good end, or perhaps no end at all, because then he wouldn't be able to force himself ever to be parted from her….

He wasn't even sure he could stay and watch over her sleep.

He'd done it once – standing before her windows, as near to outside as he could get. Actually in her apartment. But only once and in emergency: she'd been beaten. Wounded again, and in the face again, and couldn't rest without knowing, in her deepest heart, that he was guarding her and she was therefore completely safe. That he wouldn't leave her alone in her pain and the renewed terror of the unimagined strength there could be in men's hands, striking at her.

And so, of course, he'd stayed: leaning away, tense and rigid all night, refusing an inch more trespass than was absolutely required. Because she'd needed him again – as before: as at the first. So of course there could be no question of his going.

But now, she was easy and at peace. There was, he'd come to believe, no threat, either pursuing or ahead. This deep level was warm – indeed, sweltering in places: she'd have no need even of any covering over her, he reflected (but still laid his folded cloak near her, then backed off even farther than before, crouched and intent against the rock). So what excuse did he have to observe her, all quiet and unguarded, one hand lying slightly open like an interrupted gesture, her hand so small and the fingers so delicate….

Or, quite bluntly and unemotionally, what did he have to sufficiently distract him to make him think such a vigil could possibly be safe? What discipline did he have to keep him from reaching out, touching that hand, all unfelt?

Vincent, it is insanity: he heard what Father would undoubtedly have said, as clearly as though Father had been standing just the other side of some twilit stone, insisting, as Father always did, on telling him the uncomfortable truths he'd have preferred to confront, if at all, more slowly and by degrees.

Vincent, said Father's voice in his mind, if your intention is, as you claim, to keep her safe, you certainly are choosing a most curious method of going about it. This is not a test of discipline. It is not even a justified sacrifice. This is self-indulgence and a willing blindness to what can only be described as temptation, if not intentional provocation.

Awake, the woman is, in all probability, safe from you. And you, from yourself. But to stay? Now? When you are still irrational with fear of her loss, and the taint of blood still in your mouth from ripping out a man's throat with your fangs? If that constitutes your definition of guardianship, I would be interested in hearing you define willful self-delusion, irresponsibility, and lust.

And there was no answering Father's accusation because it was, after all, perfectly true.

He ached to touch her.

Deeply. Completely. Until they were truly one.

And that, he knew, could never be.

It was too dangerous even to think about.

Since he intended to leave her, now seemed an excellent time to begin. Not far – only to the nearest source of clean water. To have it for her when she woke. That was a good reason to go. And she'd be quite safe: safer, by far, than if he were foolish enough to remain. And no harm or fear could come to her, even in sleep, that he would not know about. Even if he could do nothing to heal her dreams.

He'd have to get used to accepting that.

He would have liked to write her a note in case she woke and found him gone and was afraid. But he had nothing to write with; and in the dark, she couldn't have read a message anyway. So it was an empty wish. He'd just have to be alert to any change that would signal her waking and be ready to return swiftly when it came, whether he'd completed his errand or not.

Moving down through a rough diagonal granite seam, balancing, feet and hands extended and an unknown drop below, a way he could not have taken her, he took advantage of her contentment to open himself fully to everything around him. Even his vision seemed more acute. He could hear the hiss of steams ahead long before he reached their outlets. They were rank with sulfur and mineral salts, weeping long slimes down the stone. Nothing fit. He went on.

Then suddenly, like a voice, it arrested him: a cool smell sinking past him among the fumes. A spring flowing from a higher level, above the sullen subterranean heat. He turned abruptly, seeking. Following the flow, he climbed as no one else could climb, up the featureless side of a high ravine and then on, turning, hunting the small twist of coolness. And finally found it, patiently dripping. He piled stones until the bottle would remain upright underneath, filling a clinking drop at a time.

Perhaps he drowsed for awhile, waiting. He had no way to tell. But he found himself in the middle of a thought about danger, and Catherine, and how he might reconcile the two opposing prospects facing him. And the bottle was full and overflowing.

He removed and capped it carefully. Then he allowed himself to hold a rounded hand under the steady drip. The first three palmfuls he rinsed his mouth with and then spat out, until he finally felt he'd freed himself of the almost unendurable taste of the giant's life – no: of his death – and was fit to swallow the clean water and say clean words again.

Overcoming the giant had been necessary. But the way he'd done it….

And to have felt such shuddering exultation in the doing of it….

No. That moment of fused closeness only demonstrated the irrevocable distance. He must not be that to Catherine. He must not feel such things – not with what he was capable of, in response. But when Catherine was afraid, when that terror flooded through him, he was incapable of being judicious. And without judiciousness, killing was not even murder--it was slaughter.

Catherine must learn to be safe without that. Without him.

Father was right.

Vincent left the spring knowing what he was going to say, to ask of her.

*****

Catherine barely had time to wake and realize she was alone in the dark when she heard the approaching crunch of footsteps. Vincent never made that much noise…unless out of politeness, to let her know he was coming. Reassured, smiling at that thought, she sat up and snugged his vest around her shoulders. Turning blindly toward the sound, she called, “Vincent?”

“Yes. Don't be afraid.”

“I'm not.” As he stopped by her she indulged in a long, shoulder-easing stretch and a yawn. She was sure she must look like the world's most awful before photo, but it didn't matter: Vincent didn't notice things like that. “Good morning. Or whatever. I had a wonderful dream.”

“Yes. Good. I found some water for you.” His hand closed over hers, guiding it to the plastic bottle and remaining until she'd grasped the neck and taken the weight.

She didn't open the bottle at once. Instead, she moved the smooth, cool side across her forehead, along her cheeks.

“Why is it so hot here?”

“Perhaps because we are nearer the life of the earth. Perhaps because above us is the sea, which vents heat differently than does the land. I don't know. I've never been here before. I hope never to be here again….”

Savoring a first slow swallow, Catherine rested the bottle on her knee, keenly wishing she could see his face. He sounded distracted. Upset.

Before she could ask why, he knelt at her side, declaring abruptly, “Catherine, you must stop doing what you do. The work that you do, that takes you among such people and into such places. The work that threatens those who have easy recourse to violence and to whom you are a known threat. There is other good and necessary work to be done that you could do instead. I once asked that you pull back, retreat; and you would not. And were shot, Catherine. In the back. And very nearly died. In spite of all I could do, tried to do….”

His voice trailed off, but Catherine could tell he wasn't done. She waited, wondering what on earth had set him off. After all, it hadn't been her job that had gotten her into this mess. And she'd done everything humanly possible not to panic and thereby flood the bond with her fear, right up to the last second. So why this? And why now?

He went on, “I believe I have seldom asked anything of you. And I don't claim the right to command your actions. But this I do ask, most urgently and solemnly. For I know that one day, all I can do will not be enough. I am not large enough or strong enough to be the sole wall between you and death. You must not trust me so. Therefore, I ask for your promise that when you return Above, you will give whatever notice is customary and stop that work. Live another life. A different life. With its own pride, its own satisfactions, its own challenges that nevertheless will not put you in continual jeopardy. Please, Catherine.”

She believed she understood now: it was the backlash of his rescue. The retroactive fear that if he'd failed to reach her in time, if Erlik had been able to hold him off just a little longer, she'd have been horribly dead, in agony. It was just hitting him now – the skewed relief, the anxiety and self-doubt he hadn't had the leisure to feel before. The panicked sense of how near it'd been, and the unthinkable alternative.

Reaching out, she found his shoulder and then the line of his arm, until she'd located his hand, then curved her fingers quietly into his palm.

“It's all right, Vincent. I'm all right. It's over.”

“As long as you work in that place, the danger continues,” he rejoined sternly.

So it wasn't just post-battle nerves: he really meant it. She was going to have to take it seriously and deal with it. She sighed.

“Vincent, I try not to take needless risks. I try to plan things out and take precautions. But I can't guarantee to be completely, absolutely safe in the world Above no matter what care I take. When… when I was attacked, I was on a streetcorner, leaving a party, trying to hail a cab.” Her mouth made an awkward smile at the horror, and yet the banality of it.

“Not wild, daredevil antics, wouldn't you say?”

“I know.” So soft she could barely hear him.

It pleased her to find she could speak of that night steadily, as something that had happened but now was over. It didn't all come rolling over her again – the terror and humiliation, the helplessness, the dreadful pain, the realization that there was no help, no hope…. Because she'd faced her fears, day by day. As Vincent had taught and helped her to do. As she had to keep on doing to continue becoming the person she wanted to be – a person they could both be proud of. And to keep the fear at bay. Because it wasn't gone: it only waited.

There were no safe places Above.

Naturally, he was concerned for her. But it seemed he needed reminding that he had to face his fears, too – even if they were fears for her. It was fear, all the same.

She patted his hand.

“You've taken such risks, to keep me safe. You've never failed me. I didn't want you to come – I knew it was a trap and I was the bait in it. But I knew, just the same, that you'd come. And I was glad of it. Was I wrong, Vincent, to be glad?”

“Catherine, do not concern yourself about--”

“--about you? About us? Have we been wrong, Vincent, to try to keep the wolves away from those who have no other defense but the law, away from the wounded children and the good, honest men who live silently, in fear? Were we wrong to stand up to the hate and the cruelty, whatever the cost?”

He interrupted, “But there are other ways, Catherine--!”

“Should I sit in some office, pushing papers, safely away from suffering like Eric's and Ellie's, injustices like what was inflicted on Father? And the thousands of other wounds I drifted among all my life, unseeing, uncaring, until I finally realized it was real because it could happen to me?”

She closed both her hands around his – convinced she was right, yet trying to soften it for him because she was going to refuse him yet again. She felt she had no choice.

“Vincent, I'm not naturally kind, or thoughtful, or sensitive to others, the way you are. No, don't argue: listen. I've tried to learn. I want to learn. I want to feel: hurt with their hurt, accept it, heal it the way you do. The way you did for me. Sometimes it has seemed to me that I've almost accomplished that. But not from behind a desk, Vincent: I don't have that much imagination. I can only know what I can feel. What I can see and touch.

I'm a lawyer. I fight with the law. It's what I know, what I do. Not for corporations. For people. I have to be where they are, see what they see, for them to be real to me. To be able to help them. To not give up. I have to come down from the umpteenth floor into the storefronts and the alleys, just as you can't help coming to those same storefronts and alleys though it's perfectly safe for you Below. At least most of the time…. And terribly dangerous for you Above. All the time. And you still come, you still go there.

Except for that, you wouldn't have been in the park, that night, and found me there. Because you knew there are things more important than being safe. Because you had to. Because that's who you are.

Can't you see that's what I have to do too? That by my doing that, we almost share a life, we almost share the same work, the same concern? That our lives and our worlds can overlap, at least that far, in those black alleys where people are hungry and homeless and hopeless and afraid, only needing someone to reach out to them? We knew there were risks, Vincent, when we began it. And yet we did. Do you regret it?”

“No,” he said, softer still. His voice choked and thick. “No.”

“Then don't ask it of me, Vincent,” Catherine said in a voice nearly as unsteady as his. “It would be like your asking me to leave you. Or my asking you not to come, not to follow, no matter where he'd taken me.”

Those two things were the greatest impossibilities she could think of, used only as examples of what could never be. Someone else might have cited the failure of sunrise or the turning of the earth. She chose larger impossibilities: that she would leave him. That he would not come.

He said nothing then, but drew her hard against his chest and held her – harder and tighter than he ever had before. As though his customary diffidence had been swept away by the awareness of how close they'd come to losing each other and he simply had to hold on. As though he'd never let go.

“Father,” he murmured finally, into her hair, “would find this highly irresponsible.”

Paracelsus' phrase echoed in Catherine's memory… and then the rest of that highly embarrassing conversation. “'Father's prudery….'”

She found it funny now, comfortable in his close embrace. She rubbed her cheek against his arm.

“A bit. At times,” he conceded.

“Sort of around the edges?”

“Yes.”

Catherine thought, hoped, he was smiling. But it seemed too rude, too personal, to go patting at his mouth to find out.

“I'm sorry Father doesn't approve of me,” she mentioned.

“He was hurt. A long time ago. He remembers.”

“Margaret….”

“Yes. And Devin. Even Paracelsus. Father fears to love anything he could lose. That…affects his view. Of many things.”

“Of us.”

“Yes. And yet he loves anyway. He can't help it. But it troubles him, sometimes, that he can't help it. And so he worries. And gives very good advice. Which I don't always follow.”

“Even though it's not safe,” Catherine prompted, smiling.

“'Sometimes, we must leave our safe places….'” he replied, and she knew he was thinking of Brigit O'Donnell's writings of love and loss and remembering that strange, magical Samhain they'd spent together Above, wandering the lighted streets arm in arm, sharing the city without fear.

“Sometimes, the walls between the worlds grow thin,” she responded dreamily. “And both wonders and terrors can pass through those thin walls. And if they do, some risks are worth everything….

“Vincent,” she asked, turning in his arms, that then loosened to let her turn, “what made you so concerned about my work? Why now?”

“It's of no consequence. You'll do as you must. And I -- I was wrong to ask such a thing of you. I will never ask it again.” Vincent sounded resigned… and oddly relieved.

She patted his shoulder. “Try not to worry about it. Or about me. I'll be all right. I'll take care. I'm not afraid.”

He didn't reply, holding her lightly now. Catherine found his embrace comforting, peaceful. Without his customary cloak and vest, only a light shirt remained between her cheek and his warmth. The scarred side of her face welcomed the softness and the solid strength underneath that were there for her. Quietly, steadily breathing. He smelled so good. So warm. So safe.

It's not prudery, she thought dimly. It's love.

Without at all intending to, she fell asleep.

*****

When Catherine awoke again, they continued, at an easy stroll, toward the lake. It wasn't that either of them was unwilling to return, Vincent thought – just that there was no longer any urgency. He didn't have to savor every second in the conviction that it was a nearer approach to the last second he'd have with her. And with the lantern lit, Catherine could enjoy viewing the flowstone cathedrals and vast pillared halls, the natural arches that water had undercut into soaring spans, the cliffsides bright with glittering mica seams like clusters of gemstones. And Vincent, as much a sightseer as she because these vistas had been to him, before, only a monochrome blur of close surfaces, could enjoy showing them to her the same way she'd once guided him among the brilliant wonders of her city on that memorable Samhain.

Away from the deeps, the air was cool – chill, even. He draped his cloak over Catherine's shoulders. The bottom dragged on the ground; she had to walk with a sidling gait to keep from tripping. He pretended not to notice, but found the sight of her, in snatched sidewise glances, very dear.

They drank together at a little stream whose water was clear, cold, and good.

This wasn't his place, in the sense of ownership, any more than the city was hers. Nevertheless, it was his world – the world Below: that for once he could show to her, share with her, in all its unexpected beauties.

Now, as on that Samhain, there was a feeling of holiday. Catherine tried to estimate how long she'd been missing, and couldn't. So Vincent tried, thinking back, and couldn't either. So they agreed it didn't matter. Catherine debated between claiming a sick friend and a bout of flu to Joe Maxwell, her superior, as an excuse for her absence. Vincent felt it would be wrong for him to offer an opinion, considering that Catherine was planning an effective lie.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “that you're forced into falsehood.”

She looked around at him, brushing her hair back from her brow. “Don't apologize. It's not your fault.”

“I can still regret the necessity,” he responded mildly.

“Then to tell the truth, I'm sorry, too. But it comes with the package. And I refuse to regret the package. And Joe hasn't fired me yet.”

She grinned. “Somehow, I don't think he will, anytime soon. Maybe he's afraid I'll tell his mother what a Simon Legree he is.”

“I didn't realize you were acquainted with Mr. Maxwell's mother,” Vincent commented quite innocently and was surprised at her sudden laughter.

“I'm not. But not for the want of invitation. I hear she serves mean lasagna. Never mind.”

Unsure what he'd said that was so amusing, deciding it didn't matter so long as she found it so, Vincent guided her on, down gentler slopes, until they reached the lake.

Locating the skiff, he held it steady against the shore long enough for her to reach the bow, then stepped into it himself and pushed off with the pole, all one motion, secretly relieved not to have done it with any obvious clumsiness.

Forewarned, this time, of the drifting place, he made sure he'd built up enough momentum, with quick, steady poling, to carry the skiff across. And then, with nothing to do, he simply looked at her, sitting in the bow, snuggled into the outsized cloak.

Then he reached into the pocket where he'd put the crystal earlier, while she still slept. Holding it out to her, he explained, “I found this. On my way to you.”

Catherine closed her hands cherishingly around the pendant, smiling tremulously.

“I thought it was gone forever.”

The satisfaction and deep, solemn gladness he felt from her were all that he could have hoped. And yet that called up another matter – one he'd been reluctant to mention. One that, if he'd still planned to part from her, there would have been no need to speak of at all.

“Catherine ...” Setting the pole carefully across the thwarts, Vincent stooped to meet her eyes on a level. “On the journey…I felt for the first time as if somehow you were lost to me. I knew you were in danger and yet I could sense no fear.”

“I was afraid, Vincent – but I couldn't allow myself to feel the fear.”

“You didn't want to draw me,” he deduced.

She was faintly embarrassed, and yet determined. “I couldn't.”

Wonderingly, Vincent murmured, “You'd sacrifice so much.”

She lifted her head and smiled. “I would sacrifice everything for you.” As if aware she'd embarrassed them both, she quickly changed the subject. “What Paracelsus said…about your past – ”

She was concerned for him – for what this knowledge would mean to him. How it might hurt him. Just as Father had been. Father – who had kept it from him. Even misled him….

Vincent said slowly, “Before I left, Father told me something that I am just now beginning to understand. He said that there is a truth beyond knowledge, beyond – everything we could hope to know.”

Catherine's smile warmed. “Yes,” she confirmed simply.

“And that truth is love.”

Catherine opened her hands to study the pendant, again murmuring, “Yes.”

After a moment, she said, “The cavern where you found this – you said it was full of crystals. The lantern light reflecting everywhere. Prismatic: rainbows everywhere.”

“A wondrous place,” Vincent confirmed. “Narcissa told me of it.”

“I dreamed of a place like that,” she mentioned, eyes still downcast. “A little like that…. It's deep, you said: is it near here?”

“No. In another direction entirely.”

She nodded as though it were an expected answer. Then she smiled – a slow, meditative, private smile. “I'd like to see that cavern sometime.”

Vincent tilted his head, feeling that the seemingly casual comment had undertones he couldn't quite put a name to. But as Catherine looked up brightly, her expression so guileless and open, he decided he must have been mistaken.

“Then I'd like to show it to you. But it's a long journey.”

“Longer than this?” she countered.

“No. Not so long as this.”

“Then sometime,” she said, and slid the crystal along its chain to fasten the clasp around her neck. “Sometime.”

The skiff had drifted to a stop. Catching up the pole and straightening, Vincent probed cautiously for the bottom and found it again. Resuming what he thought of as his gondolier's stance, he took them the rest of the way across.

Soon, they would come to the cairn made for Winslow. Helping Catherine from the skiff and then mooring it for some other traveler, Vincent hadn't decided whether to mention Winslow's death now to Catherine or to allow some time to pass before she learned the price the quest had exacted.

Winslow's had been the most honorable of deaths. But Vincent didn't want to grieve her with it. Yet perhaps she had the right to be grieved – Winslow had considered himself her friend, too. Had died, in a way, in her service. So perhaps Vincent had no right to keep the knowledge from her, even if it was painful knowledge.

Shouldering the pack, he walked with her, hand in hand, along the edge of the shore.

“You're very quiet,” she prompted, after an unnoticed time.

“Others came with me,” he responded abruptly, “in search of you. We parted…not far from here. And I was alone. I don't know if you can imagine that aloneness. It felt ... It felt like death.”

It wasn't what he'd meant to say. But it was what came out.

Catherine bent her head, then suddenly looked up into his face. “Because…you'd lost the bond.”

“I could tell… that you were still alive. But… nothing else. Silence. It is… a very terrible silence, Catherine. Worse… than anything you could shield me from. I can't ... I hope…you will never find it necessary to do such a thing again.”

The troubled silence lengthened between them.

“But I didn't want,” Catherine burst out, “I don't want for you to have to feel that. Share that.”

He could feel her waiting attention through the time he needed to think of what to say, that would be neither a reproach nor a demand, but only the truth.

And what he found to say was, “Catherine…I think we have no choice. One cannot share only the pleasant things, the joys. Or one endures…the darkness alone. Or there is no sharing. I held your rose, Catherine. My rose. But…there was no comfort in it. I think…it must be all, Catherine. Or it will be none.”

Stopping, she slipped her hand from his, holding it out.

“Give me the rose.” When he'd slid it carefully from its pouch and delivered it to her, uncertain and faintly worried what she meant to do with it, she stood with the token cupped in her two hands.

“You've just given me a present – twice: my crystal. So it seems only fitting that I give you yours again, too. This rose, Vincent, means that you're not alone. That wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, I care for you and I'm thinking about you. I understand: about some things, there's no halfway. If it was a sacrifice, I'd bear it again, willingly, to keep from hurting you. I'd bear anything. But I didn't realize….”

She bit her lip. “I didn't realize that the sacrifice was more yours than mine. Or that it would be that way for you. Forgive me. I didn't know.”

“Catherine--”

“I'm not sorry.” With what tried to be a smile, she stopped his beginning protest. “Only regretful. I'm entitled to be regretful…. This rose is my promise to you that I'll never willingly break our bond again. Because our bond… that's who we are. And what we are. And if hurt comes along with… whatever else we share, then so be it. Part of the package. You're right: we have no choice. All the light we can; all the shadows we must. Both, Vincent. It has to be both.”

Solemnly, still with that brave try at smiling, she placed the rose in his hand and closed his clawed fingers over it. He was moved beyond words. For a moment he could do nothing but stand, head bent, holding his twice-given gift.

It was, he realized, another anniversary – a heart's anniversary, that kept no account of seasons. Not of his finding her, but of that first meeting on her balcony when he'd fully faced that he no longer had the choice not to be connected. When he'd first acknowledged the bond to her: that he felt what she felt. Whatever she felt. And when, knowing that, she'd insisted he stay.

He put the rose, the bond's pledge and reaffirmation, back into its pouch and then held it, on its thong, against his heart.

“Catherine,” he said. “There are no words.”

She patted his arm, then took his hand again and drew him into motion. “I know. I do.”

He nodded, accepting that she did. Somehow. She did know.

There is a truth beyond knowledge….

The world was full of wonders. And Vincent knew that their journey's end that he'd so dreaded would be no end at all but only a new beginning--deeper and stronger than the first. And although he could now in no way foresee the end or even imagine it, they'd find it together.

END