Beauty and the Beast

Things That Are Not and Should Be

Together Forever

30th Anniversary Online Convention

September 25, 2017 @TreasureChambers.com

This zine is dedicated to the many

fans who have lovingly kept the

dream alive for thirty years

and whose creativity has

found countless ways to give

Catherine and Vincent, not only

their happy ending, but an

amazing lifetime of adventure.

Beauty and the Beast

Things That Are Not

and Should Be

A Retrospective Fan Fiction Zine

Celebrating 30 Years of Fan Fiction

Featuring previously published stories, art,

and poetry, inspired by the characters so

beautifully brought to life by

Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman

from 1987-1990.

A Treasure Chambers Publication

Acknowledgements

Online Con Chair

Angie @Treasure Chambers

Zine Editorial Team

Allison Duggins

Barbara Anderson

Cindy Rae

Janet Rivenbark

Judith Nolan

Linda O’Leary

Contributing Authors

Amber James

Angie

Avril Bowles

Barbara Handshy Anderson

Barbara L.B. Storey

Cindy Rae

C.J. LaBelle

Jodie Boyle

Judith Nolan

Linda Moony

Lynette Combs

Mai Phan

Rhonda Collins

Vee Horning

Zara Wilder

Contributing Artists

Barbara Gipson

Belinda Wojcik

Bev Chick

Clare Seiffert

Jamie Murray

Judith Nolan

Kathy Fidge

Kevin Barnes

Lynn Wright

Mary Stacy-Macdonald

Pat Horowitz

Ralph Suny

Renate Haller

Sharon Holtz

Sonia Corral

A Word From the Con Chair

When it was announced in late 2016 that the 30th Convention in Los Angeles was not going to happen, I had already promised that there would be an online con. It was originally going to launch at the same time as the “physical” con in September.

So, suddenly I was faced with having to launch the online con and had to decide how that was going to manifest. I made three lists: what I wanted and thought was possible; what I hoped was possible; and what I wanted but which realistically was unlikely to happen. This would be the biggest special feature I had ever done. So I decided not to worry about the second or third lists, and concentrate on the first list. I also decided that this had to be a year long celebration, or it would be technically impossible to post it all.

So I set a short deadline and the 30th OnCon was launched in January 2017. And I resolved to have a smaller, unique celebration page just for September 25th.

Naturally, we agreed that there had to be a conzine to coincide with September 25th. Since our celebration was online and free, the conzine had to be as well - and be downloadable as a digital file.

From the start, we also all agreed that there should be no attempt to raise money for a charity. The OnCon had to be completely free to anyone who wanted to visit, with no obligations implied.

Barbara kindly offered to be the editor and designer of our conzine – which also came to include a retrozine. We had, in the beginning, no idea what it would entail since at that point, in early December 2016, we had no fanfic – and she was living in Bangkok, Thailand. Nevertheless, I heaved a sigh of relief, because she willingly took so much work off my shoulders, that I wondered what I had forgotten. Well, if I had forgotten anything, Barbara discovered it, fixed it and moved on to the next task - without worrying any of us.

We all knew that she was collecting fanfic, art, poetry, and other juicy things, but like the blind men and the elephant, no one but Barbara had a grasp of the big picture. She was – and is - legion.

So here it is, a beautiful thing to behold –and physically hold, if that is your preference (it's printable).

The 30th OnCon and this conzine (and the retrozine), have morphed from a rather nebulous blob into a butterfly of stellar proportions, involving dozens of people, hundreds of submissions and thousands of emails. None of this would have been possible without the modern age of communication – and a team willing to do literally anything to help.

Fans near and far, old and new, have supported myself and my wonderful team since the very first week. As material has been posted, more has come forward.  The OnCon would not have been possible without all of you, who still think fondly of our series.

You have given me joy, amazement, even a few tears. It has been a journey I will never forget.

Thank you all,

Angie

Letter From the Editor

When the pilot episode of Beauty and the Beast, starring Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman, aired on September 25, 1987, no one, not even the creators and actors, had much hope that it would succeed. But succeed it did, with a capital S! For many it was love at first sight, or first episode, as in my case. Evidence of that was the fan fiction that began to appear almost immediately. It’s impossible to say how many people have fallen in love with the show over the last thirty years, but the love itself is undeniable. New fans, some of whom weren’t even born when the show originally aired, are still finding their way into the BATB fandom after all these years. Some are still writing fan fiction to satisfy our dream of a happy ending for the two beautiful, star-crossed lovers.

Even after the powers that be at CBS pulled the plug on our beloved show, the fans’ love affair with Vincent and Catherine continued. CBS didn’t realize at the time that Beauty and the Beast isn’t over until the fans say it’s over! And thirty years later, that beautiful dream originally conceived by Ron Koslow, is still going strong.

In the early days of fandom, despite the fact that the internet was still in its infancy and most people couldn’t even afford a computer, hardcopy zines and newsletters abounded. They were typed on typewriters and then xeroxed and collated by hand. They were sold via snail mail and at early conventions. Every zine was painstakingly made with love, and every BATB fan knew that “with love, all things are possible.”

Unfortunately, many of the thousands of stories that reside within those zines and newsletters have never found their way to the internet. Many wonderful stories that have been forgotten, are waiting to be rediscovered in the zines lovingly preserved by the caretakers of the Crystal Rose Lending Library. They are available to borrow for only the price of postage and a promise of timely return when finished.

The sampling of stories and poems in this volume have all appeared elsewhere online and in zines before. They are only a small part of the copious amount of fan fiction and other art that has been created over the years due to the love people have for Catherine and Vincent.

The purpose of this zine is not necessarily to compile the best stories of the last 30 years, that would difficult, because it’s too subjective. Our purpose is merely to recognize and honor all of the faithful fans who have kept, and continue to keep, the beautiful dream alive. The editorial team here at Treasure Chambers hope that you enjoy what we have compiled for you.

To the writers and artists who have given us these treasures…

It is the opinion of this editor, that anyone who has the desire to write a story should absolutely do so and that they should not apologize if it is not well received. Ultimately the writing should first be for the personal enjoyment and pleasure of the writer. If others enjoy it, that’s wonderful, but if they don’t … who cares? Don’t ever let the opinions of others discourage you from writing what is in your heart. It takes courage to write, and it takes even more courage to share it with the world. So kudos and a heartfelt “thank you”, to any and all who have been bold enough to do so! You have helped us all keep dreaming.

~ ~ ~

“Use what talent you possess: the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sing best”

–Henry Van Dyke

Table of Contents

Dedication Page

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Letter From the Con Chair

Letter From the Editor

~ ~ ~

What My Heart Will Be by Barbara L.B.Storey

A State of Grace by Cindy Rae *R-Adult Content*

Ragged Little Kingdom by Mai Phan

“Feast” by Jodie Boyle

Once Upon A Time … by Judith Nolan

The Watchful Guardian by Vee Horning

Unmasqued by Barbara L.B. Storey

Fair Answers by Zara Wilder

No Words by Angie

Unworthy Knight by Rhonda Collins

No Heaven for Fallen Angels by Cindy Rae

My Beast by Judith Nolan

The Facts of Life by Linda Mooney

Hearts of Fire by Avril Bowles

Teach Me by Judith Nolan

A Little Night Music by Judith Nolan

In A Heartbeat by Amber James *R-Adult Content*

The Fourth Wish by Barbara Anderson

Happy Birthday Vincent by Judith Nolan

The Gift of the Tattered Rags by Sharon Holtz

The Beginning of Always by C.J. La Belle *R-Adult Content*

Dear Catherine by Lynette Combs

Counterpoint by Linda S. Barth *PG-13 Adult Content*

~ ~ ~

Salute to the Dream Keepers by Cindy Rae

Dream Keeper by Langston Hughes

Dream Keepers Index

30 Years of Fanfiction Authors, Poets and Songwriters

30 Years of BATB Artists

*This zine was created strictly for the enjoyment of the fans of Beauty and the Beast and no copyright infringements were intended. All art, poetry and fanfiction in this volume was published with permission.

This zine may be printed for personal use only. Sale or use of anything herein for anything other than personal use is prohibited without express permission from the individual contributors. All rights to the material are owned by them.

“Champing his gilded oats, the Hippogriff

will stand in our stalls, and over our heads will

float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful and

impossible things, of things that are lovely

and that never happen, of things that are

not and that should be.”

-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

What My Heart Will Be

by Barbara L.B. Storey

~ ~ ~

No, what my heart will be is a tower,

and I will be right out on its rim:

nothing else will be there, only pain

and what can’t be said, only the world.

Only one thing left in the enormous space

that will go dark and then light again,

only one final face full of longing,

exiled into what is always full of thirst,

only one farthest-out face made of stone,

at peace with its own inner weight,

which the distances, who go on ruining it,

force on to deeper holiness.

Rainer Maria Rilke

~ The Solitary Man

~ ~ ~

Somewhere in the middle of the Park—he didn’t totally have his bearings yet – was his favorite place in the world Above.  At least, in as much of the world as he had seen yet; it had only been two months since his twelfth birthday, since Father had allowed him to go out at night unescorted and just for the sake of exploring. Vincent understood Father’s fear, understood the danger he invited every time he ventured out of the safety of the tunnels . . . but he had to go, he just had to.  He’d heard all the wonderful stories Mary and his friends had told him so many times, and he loved every detail.  But he couldn’t bear not seeing at least part of Above for himself anymore.  And so Father had finally relented – but only after grilling Vincent for days on all the major and minor places of access to the tunnels in the small area of the city where he would allow his son to go.

And now . . . he was here again.  Above, where he still marveled at the strange miracle of the wind in his hair.  It was so fresh, so clear and clean; he sniffed it, lifting his head slightly as he did, and compared the scent with the musty—though not unpleasant—dryness of the air Below. He wished tonight that he could bring some of this air back to his room. And the stars: no story had really prepared him for their actual beauty.

Vincent pulled his cloak a little closer. It was an early summer evening and the breeze was only a slight one, but he was used to the subterranean warmth of the tunnels, and he had promised Father that he would be careful not to catch a cold. Father was always afraid of colds, of sickness, of accidents, of not having enough medicine. Vincent knew that these things were important, but right now, he just couldn’t think about them. He settled down into a slightly relaxed crouch against the inside of the brick wall that surrounded the object of his wonder, the tin roof above it lending him the safety of darkness.

It was a carousel. Vincent hadn’t even known the word for it, had come running back to Father the first night he’d found it, almost babbling in his excitement at finding this amazing, magical thing. “Horses, Father, horses in the middle of Central Park! Beautiful horses of so many different colors!”

Once Father understood what he was talking about, he had brought out a book of the history of New York, explaining to Vincent all the while that this wonder he had found was the Park’s merry-go-round. The Michael Friedsam Memorial Carousel: named after a man who had been the president of a large department store in the city, B. Altman’s.  When this man had died, he had left a large sum of money for the benefit of the children of the city of New York, and since the existing merry-go-round had recently burned down, the city fathers had decided that his money would be best put to use by transporting this carousel Vincent had discovered from its home in Coney Island to Central Park, where more children could enjoy it.

Vincent had listened intently to the amazing story of Michael Friedsam’s kindness, and then asked Father if he could borrow the book to read it again later. After much thought – and rereading – he decided he didn’t like the word “merry-go-round”, even if Father did use it.  It was too . . . babyish. “Carousel” seemed much more special and fanciful, like something out of an epic tale. He went to see it every time he came Above, sitting and staring and studying it, touching – carefully – the bright and pastel colors of the horses and their saddles and reins.

And he dreamed about riding it. He was still too much in awe of it to dare even sit on one of the horses; it might all disappear from underneath him, and he didn’t want that to happen. So he just wondered, and imagined. Pictured himself astride his favorite horse – the black one with the streaming silver mane  and the red and blue saddle – riding off to perform some courageous deed at his king’s request. . . .

Just then a small, strong gust of wind blew its way inside the enclosure, whistling over the horses on its way to the other side. Vincent started, his senses instantly alert to the possibility of danger and the necessity of flight. He was almost through the iron bars that hemmed in the entrance to the carousel before he recognized the wind’s voice, still so new to him. He settled back down into his crouch again, but carefully, still poised to run.

The wind continued on its way. A pool of leaves rose to greet it, then fell back down in slightly altered patterns of disappointment as the breeze moved over them without lingering. Its real business was with a smooth, elliptical globe resting in the curve of the wall. Vincent watched curiously, head tilted to one side, as the breeze tossed the thing up in the air – the string attached to one end of it trailing sadly – and caught it, blew it sideways, let it almost drop, retrieved it again. He knew the principles and rules of science that governed wind and air currents; Father was very careful to give him a well-rounded education. But he had never seen the wind “play” with something before. As he continued to stare, a much stronger gust suddenly raced into the shelter and stole the object away from the smaller breeze, hustling it toward the iron bars. Vincent, in the act of pulling his cloak even closer against this invader, saw suddenly that the globe was being blown in his direction; the cloak forgotten for a moment, he darted out his hand and snared the string as it floated past.

He had it!  Vincent could barely contain himself as he reeled the thing in – so airy and delicate, its color a very light blue. Vincent had to think for a second before naming the color he saw so little of in his home below the city. He stared at the globe, patted it gingerly – mindful of the sharpness of his nails, somehow knowing it would break very easily. He did know what this was . . . he remembered it now. Pascal had explained it to him once, after all the other children had been Above to see something called a “parade.” This was . . . a balloon.  It was lovely.

Thrilled with the universal attraction of the ephemeral, Vincent slowly turned the balloon around, wanting to memorize it from all sides.  There were words on it—big gold letters: A Happening in Central Park they said, and underneath, June 17, 1967. Vincent wondered at the meaning of the words.

“Aren’t you a little old for balloons, Vincent?”

Terrified, Vincent lunged for the darkest corner of the enclosure, desperate to hide himself, heart pounding in his throat. How could he have been so inattentive? Father would be— There was no word in Vincent’s vocabulary for what Father would be if he were ever caught Above. He had known this kind of fear only once before—it felt like dying. He clutched at the balloon’s string as if to a lifeline.

Then he stopped, blinking in the darkness. The voice—that cold, cruelly amused voice—had spoken his name. It must belong to someone who knew him. But who? Who would want to frighten him this way? Vincent stood up slowly, flattening himself against the wall as he rose, searching the shadows beyond the bars. Nothing.

“Who’s there?” he whispered, his pulse so deafening in his ears he barely heard his own voice. Still no reply.  He waited several more minutes; then, after carefully wrapping the string of his balloon several times around his wrist to bring it in close to his body, he started to move again, sliding carefully along the wall toward the bars. If he could just reach the safety of the tunnels, if he could only make it home without being caught, he would never be so careless again. Please.... He had to make it back to Father.

“I said, aren’t you a little old for this, Vincent? Come on, speak to me.”

“Mitch.” This time Vincent recognized the voice. Mitch was the son of one of the Helpers, Sam Denton. Now sixteen, he’d been sent Below by his father eight years ago to protect him from a life in the streets; he’d been living in the tunnels ever since. Vincent let out a heavy sigh, and his heart stopped pounding, but he was still uneasy. He’d always been fascinated by Mitch—though he knew he shouldn’t be, and was attracted against Father’s better judgement—because of his familiarity with a world Vincent would never be able to know. Father did not want him to associate with Mitch, felt the older boy was a bad influence on Vincent—and with good reason.

Two years ago, when Vincent was just ten, Mitch had convinced him to go with him one night to the train yard; Mitch was going to meet his Above friends there to “hang out.” He had promised Vincent that it was not a populated area, no one would be there to see him, and that he would take care of him.  They wouldn’t have to tell Father. . . .

Vincent had not been able to resist the lure of Above. He had never in his life been out of the tunnels. He was only too aware of his “differentness”, and Father had impressed upon him thousands of times the deadly jeopardy he would find himself in if anyone Above ever found him, someone who didn’t understand him and love him, as his friends and family Below did. But . . . if there were to be no people around, as Mitch said . . . a deserted part of the city . . . and it would only be for a short time. . . . It was too much temptation for a ten-year-old boy who longed for a little freedom—a freedom that could never be. He always told Father everything—he never had any reason not to tell Father everything—but maybe, just this once, he could tell Father . . . later.

He hadn’t had to tell, as it happened. Father had found out. The deserted train yard had turned out to be inhabited by hoboes, who had resented the intrusion of teenage boys into their newly established living quarters. Not to mention the official attention they might bring down onto the place, if they caused trouble. Mitch’s friends had scattered as soon as they saw the flash of the hoboes’ knives in the moonlight, leaving Vincent and Mitch to run for their lives to the grate that would take them back to the safety of Below. Vincent had fallen, had almost been caught by the angry, ragged men, but Mitch had held the grate open for him, urging him on, and just managed to slam it closed in the second between Vincent’s leap into the tunnel and the hoboes rounding the corner to face an empty blind alley.

The two boys had huddled there, breathing hard but trying not to make any sound until the vagrants had given up their chase, bewildered and cursing. Vincent remembered that Mitch had thought it high excitement, laughing and making fun of Vincent’s terrified face. And then, as they turned a corner into the tunnel that led home, they had met Father, wild-eyed and terrible in his fear and rage. He had gone looking for Vincent, not found him in his room, and panicked. One of the other children had told him of Mitch’s plans, and he had hurried to try and stop them. Vincent had never felt so miserable and ashamed in his life. He had betrayed Father’s trust—and for what? A stolen moment of freedom that could have ended in his capture, or death, which would have brought Father an endless grief.

And to make Vincent feel even worse, Father did understand why he had done it, did understand his frustration at the restraints of his very special life.  It was Mitch he blamed for the fiasco. Father tried to be patient with all the children, and had tried to understand Mitch's loneliness for his father, his unhappiness at being sent to live in the tunnels. Vincent remembered many times when Father had tried to give Mitch the benefit of the doubt when trouble had been stirred up, or tried to make Mitch feel a sense of responsibility for the younger children. But when Mitch had involved Vincent in such a close call, that was the end of Father's understanding. He insisted on an immediate meeting with Mitch's father, determined to send him back Above. And it was only when Sam had begged him, weeping and pleading, that he relented—more for the father's sake than Mitch's—and agreed that Mitch could stay. As long as he kept away from Vincent. The memory of the disappointment in Father's eyes had prevented Vincent from even looking at Mitch for a whole year.

"Come on, Vincent, wake up. Mother of God, what's the matter with you? I'm not gonna bite. More like the other way around." Mitch laughed nastily as he came into Vincent's view from behind a tree.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you, you know that," Vincent replied. "I have to get home. It's late, and Father will be worried." He swung himself through the bars, just managing to squeeze the balloon through with him.

"Well, we wouldn't want to upset Father, would we now?" the older boy sneered.

"No, I wouldn't." Vincent said it clearly, proudly. "Never again."

Mitch ignored the reference and swaggered up to Vincent, circling him slowly as he pretended to study him. "I still say you're too old for a balloon—don't ya think? Gonna take the pretty blue balloon home with you . . . to Father?"

Vincent ducked his head, embarrassed for a moment. "I've . . . never had one before, Mitch. I just. . . ." He looked up, searching for some kind of understanding in the older boy's eyes.

Mitch's bearing suddenly changed, and he put his arm around Vincent. Vincent was too surprised to react.

"Aw . . . I'm just teasing you, Vincent. I always used to tease you, remember? Remember . . . the good old days, when you and I were friends?"

"I remember," Vincent replied, and the tone of his voice made Mitch pause for a moment.

"You can't hold that against me forever, Vincent. Didn't I save you in the end? Don't know what you're so upset about."

Vincent turned to stare at him then, really look at him for the first time in months. He saw the easy smile, the charm, the air of sophistication that he'd always envied and been drawn to. But now, he also saw something else--a carelessness, a lack of concern for anyone or anything other than himself. Vincent sighed.

"Don't you love your father? Doesn't his pain matter to you at all?"

"Now, don't go all noble on me, Vincent. I don't wanna hear it. My father is a fool, especially if he thinks he can keep me from where I belong—on the streets! That's where the real life is, man!”

Vincent turned away, suddenly anxious to feel the warm security of the tunnels around him again. “I have to go home, Mitch,” he repeated. “Good-bye.”

"Don't you want to know my secret? The one I was going to share just with you? The secret about the . . . carousel?"

Vincent froze in his tracks. He wanted to go back, wanted to know the secret about his wonderful, magical place. But he knew what Mitch was like, was certain it was a trick. Grimly determined, he took another step.

"I know you want to ride it, Vincent," Mitch said softly. He watched Vincent stop again and smiled, knowing he'd hooked the younger boy. "I've watched you come here almost every night, seen you sit and stare at the horses for hours. Guess what? One of my friends Above is a whiz with machines. He's learning all about it in school. He says he can start this thing up, Vincent, all by himself. Just think—you could actually ride the carousel, ride your favorite horse, too. I know which one it is. I've seen you—”

Vincent whirled around, a low growl rolling out of his throat, cut to the quick at Mitch's insensitivity to his fantasies. They were his only reality, all he had, while Mitch had all of Above to roam in. He closed the distance between them in an instant. Mitch started back, afraid; Vincent was reminded of the strength he was not even conscious of, and which saddened him when he saw how it made others afraid.

"Mitch," he said gently, taking a step backward, "please . . . don't tease me. This place is special to me."

"I know that, Vincent," Mitch said, suddenly sincere. "That's why I'm telling you this—because I know how much you'd enjoy it. I promise it'll be okay. I'll even get the guy to show me how to run it, and then I'll send him away. Nobody but you and me, okay, Vincent? It'll sort of make up for . . . before, you know. What do you say?"

Vincent looked at him, blue eyes imploring the other not to tempt him again.  “I have to go,” he said finally, turning on his heel and running away before he could hear any more of the siren song offering him a taste of a forbidden life.

Mitch leaned back against the nearest tree, smiling to himself.

~ ~ ~

Father looked up, surprised to hear the sound of Vincent's footsteps. The clock showed 10:30 p.m., and his son was very rarely home before midnight these nights. Ever since he'd been allowing Vincent to move about on his own at night, the boy had been gradually adjusting his body's timetable--staying up until two, sleeping until ten—to fit his own. Though it still seemed somehow . . . wrong to permit a twelve-year-old boy to stay up that late, Father could see that Vincent was thriving on it—and he himself was glad for the extra time they were able to spend together.

But something was different tonight; Father took off his glasses and unconsciously leaned toward the entranceway, straining to decipher the change in Vincent's approach. He was, of course, unusually large and strong for his age, but there was always a grace and elegance to his walk, a lightness to his step that had more to do with his heart and his imagination than his body. But tonight, Vincent seemed to be . . .  trudging through the passageway.

Father stood up just as Vincent appeared at the top of the small staircase that served as the entrance to his study. "Vincent! Home so early?" He reached out to embrace his son, as was their usual custom. Vincent returned the greeting, but as if in a dream. Father was further surprised to note that Vincent was not wearing the cape Mary had made for him, and which he treasured; obviously, he had already returned to his room before coming here.

Vincent threw himself into the nearest chair and stared at the candelabrum on Father's desk, a look of great sadness on his face.

"I went to the Park tonight, Father," he said finally.

Father was puzzled. "But why then are you so sad, my son? I know how you love the Park—especially the merry-go-round. Did you go there? Where are all your stories of knights and heroes and daring deeds?" Father smiled encouragingly, trying to raise Vincent's spirits. Receiving no smile in turn, he realized how deeply upset the boy was.

"Yes, Father, I did go to the carousel. It was beautiful, as always. But then, something happened to spoil it."

"What? What could have—?" Father choked on a moment of dark panic, his face pale as he thought of a thousand possibilities, all adding up to one tragedy. "No one saw you? You weren't careless, forgot the rules?"

"I was careless—for a second. Forgive me, Father. But it's not what you think." Vincent shifted in his chair, finally looked Father in the eyes. "I met Mitch in the Park. He was following me. I didn't realize it and he startled me, caught me unaware."

Father's face was grim. "I had almost believed that he'd left, gone Above for good, but Mary told me she'd seen him here in the tunnels last month. I'm going to talk to the Council. Despite the affection in which Sam is held here Below, we can no longer grant him this favor. Mitch has been nothing but trouble since—"

"Father." Vincent's clear blue eyes looked up at him, close to tears, pleading. "Please don't be angry. I can't bear to see you angry. Mitch is just unhappy because he's forced to live in the tunnels when he'd rather be Above." Vincent's head went down. "I can understand that."

Father stared for a moment, the heat of his anger cooled by the empathy, the sorrow in his son's face. Vincent had a sensitivity toward others that reached far beyond his actual years, that seemed to flow from him as easily as mischief flowed from other boys. Father thought—not for the first time—that it was a quality almost supernatural, its source hidden in the mystery of Vincent's beginnings. Slowly, he let out a sigh and returned to his desk.

"Come here, Vincent. Please . . . sit next to me, and tell me what happened."

Vincent got up and moved to his chair, a slightly smaller version of the one Father used. Winslow had built it especially for him, so that he could sit comfortably at Father's desk to learn his lessons. He drew his knees up into the circle of his arms.

"I was sitting in the dark, against the wall, looking at Black Beauty—you know, my favorite."

Father nodded, smiling, and motioned Vincent to continue.

"I was imagining a wonderful story, Father, full of magical people and things, dragons and treasures, knights and chivalry—and then Mitch called out to me from the shadows, where I couldn't see him. I was so frightened, I thought my heart would stop. And even after he let me see who he was, he still teased me, told me I was too old for such things."

Father felt his heart pierced as Vincent's head sank to his knees, hiding his face. Vincent had so few pleasures in his hidden life, so little of the freedom that was every child's birthright. How dare Mitch try to destroy what Vincent had been able to build for himself? He had always considered himself a fair and rational man, but right now, Father felt he could have killed Mitch Denton.

"Vincent . . . Vincent." He reached out a hand and stroked Vincent's red-gold hair. "You mustn't listen to such things. I've told you—each one of us is unique, with our own dreams and yearnings and fantasies. You and Mitch are different—” Vincent's head snapped up, and Father saw the tear rolling down his son’s cheek; he closed his own eyes for a second, tightly, and forced himself to go on. "Different—in many ways. But your most important difference is that you are filled with a positive, outward-looking spirit, a beauty of soul and heart that Mitch will never know. You are filled with a hunger to learn, to know, to feel all that life has to offer and not miss a single drop, while he is full only of the bitterness of thwarted selfishness. Don't let him stop you from dreaming the dreams that are Vincent's."

Father could see that, even though Vincent understood his words, there was another question, more important to his heart,  that the boy burned to know the answer to.

"But we were friends once, Father, friends! Why would he deliberately taunt me, say things to hurt me so? Why, Father, why?"

Father exhaled heavily and shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the weight of Vincent's expectations of parental wisdom. The boy had so many questions. And where would he find the answers for this trapped child, whose curiosity could never be fully satisfied?

He shook his head finally, reaching out to grip Vincent's shoulder while he searched for the right words. Vincent's face was tilted up toward him, the always-startling gaze of an old soul looking out through innocent eyes . . . waiting.

"I'm sorry, Vincent, but I can't tell you why. Cruelty—deliberate cruelty—can never be understood by the compassionate heart. It is true that those who care, who feel for others, are more easily hurt, but people like Mitch do suffer, in their own way and in time, believe me. Now, Mitch thinks only of himself, and doesn't care what he does to other people. Someday he will find himself alone, with nothing left of himself and no one to care about him."

Vincent turned his head away, impatient at tales of "someday" and long-term fairness. In this, Father noted, he was the same as any other child—satisfied only with justice in the here and now. Vincent's voice held a trace of anger when he finally spoke.

"But the others Below are not like this—they are my family, they care for me, and they would never harm me! Mitch has lived with us since he was eight years old. Why is he different?"

"Perhaps, Vincent, the truth is that Mitch has never really been one of us. He doesn't belong in the tunnels—he's made that quite clear over the years. Remember what he did to you two years ago, in the train yard?"

Vincent nodded grudgingly. "I know, Father, but—”

"No, Vincent." Father interrupted with an abrupt, chopping motion. "I know this is difficult for you to believe, but not all people are good, or kind. What he did to you—then, and tonight—was not kind, and he knows it. He thinks of tormenting people as sport, and doesn't take it seriously when his actions harm others. That's why he's so dangerous. Not to himself, and not even just to you, although that is very important to me." Father smiled at Vincent warmly, but the boy maintained a sorrowful silence, unwilling to be cajoled. Father took another deep breath and continued. "It is to the community as a whole that he is most dangerous. He must leave us. Surely you can see that, Vincent?"

The small, reddish-gold head nodded, barely.

"It really is for the best, Vincent. Please trust me in this. No one can hide from what they truly are—even though Sam thinks he can protect his son from the streets by hiding him in the tunnels. The others down here—our family—are not here because they want to hide or escape anything other than the madness and callousness of the world Above. We have all come here to belong, to be loved. There is no love in Mitch, only bitterness," Father insisted, hoping that his words were convincing Vincent. "He may belong somewhere, I don't know, but he doesn't belong here."

Vincent looked up, his face concentrated in such a serious expression of childish determination—fair, upswept brows knit tightly together, his curiously beautiful mouth pursed—that it was all Father could do to keep from laughing in fond amusement.

"What is it, Vincent?" he managed to say.

"It may be true, Father, that Mitch does not belong here, but I can't believe there is no good in him at all. It must be there, somewhere." Vincent struck the arms of his chair decisively. "It just has to be found, looked for."

"If it can be found by anyone, Vincent, you'd be the one to do it—certainly the only one with the patience to search for it!" Father looked down tenderly on Vincent, warmed by the generosity of the boy's heart. He bent and kissed him on the forehead. "But I still say it's a hopeless cause." It was time to change the subject; Vincent was too obsessed by the idea that he could somehow bring out the best in Mitch.

"Well, now, since you're home early tonight, why don't we do a little reading? You mentioned yesterday that you'd found a new author you wanted to explore. Where is the book?"

Vincent jumped out of his chair at the mention of books. In a life of restrictions and containment, they were his only freedom. He could roam and explore as much as he wished within the pages of the volumes in Father's library. And even though he had been able to read almost since he could talk, the times when Father read aloud to him were special occasions of closeness for both of them. Father smiled to himself as he remembered that he had even managed to "train" Vincent to eat spinach by withholding the crucial shipwreck scene from Moonfleet from him until the last spoonful of the dreaded leafy vegetable was gone.

He watched Vincent run to one of the oldest, least-used shelves, where the books wore a layer of dust like a garment. Vincent blew some of the coating away and pulled out a slim book, then hurried back to hand his prize to Father, who took a look at the title and frowned, unhappy with Vincent's choice for more than one reason.

The author was Rainer Maria Rilke—not someone he would have chosen for a child of twelve, not even one as serious as Vincent. Far too mature, difficult sometimes even for an adult. He found himself anxiously praying that Vincent had not found any of Rilke's other works yet . . . specifically his erotic poetry. He had had only one or two rather awkward conversations with Vincent about sex—basic, fundamental information the boy had to have—but he couldn't find it in his heart to bring up the concept of the joy and beauty and fulfillment that could be found in the act of love. How could he torture Vincent with knowledge of sensations and emotions that he would surely never experience?

And then there was Rilke's insistence on the advantages—no, the necessity—of solitude. His essays on that subject, which really had more to do with the artist's inner life than with the average person's existence, were severe, adamant, and as far as Father was concerned, unhealthy and morbid. Vincent's life was solitary enough; he didn't want to encourage brooding in someone for whom it could become dangerous.

Father's frown grew deeper as he perused the title of this particular volume: Stories of God. It was one of Rilke's lesser works, at least that's what the critics said. He himself had scanned it several years ago and been mildly annoyed by the simplistic, middle-European fairy tales that purported to explain the ways and means of a supreme being. Harmless enough, until he looked at it from Vincent's perspective. The boy had to fashion his own ideas about some things based only on what he could read or what he was told—certain experiences were beyond him. He himself was agnostic, and even if Vincent had been a normal child, free to move in the world Above, he would not have encouraged him to participate in any sort of religious community. He knew that a certain amount of exposure to things religious/mythic was inevitable, especially with Mary around, but Father still preferred to attempt to guide Vincent's experience in such things, for right or wrong, as he saw best. Vincent was very impressionable, and there would be time enough when he was grown for him to discover his own truths. And Rilke's version of God was not one he was anxious for Vincent to experience. Even Mary's tales of Roman Catholic saints and martyrs would be preferable.

Father glanced at the first story—“The Tale of the Hands of God”—rifling the pages as he tried to quickly get a sense of the story. Perhaps not this one. . . . He looked up at Vincent, who was waiting impatiently, and smiled brightly. "Which one should we start with, Vincent? How about—”

"We should start at the beginning and go through to the end." Vincent's tone was inexorable, his eyes steely blue. "It's the only way to read a book, the first time."

Father made a noise of exasperation and turned back to the front of the volume. He should know better by now than to try to get around Vincent when it came to stories. Half-measures were never accepted; the boy wanted to savour every single word of every single book he could lay his hands on, and he wouldn't be denied even the smallest one. Father had tried to play this game with Vincent before, and hadn't won yet. It was becoming more and more difficult all the time to censor Vincent's reading material, a sure sign that his son was growing up. There was a sharp pang of regret at that revelation.

"Yes, the beginning," he said gruffly. "I suppose so."

"That's what you told me, Father, a long time ago." Vincent settled back into his chair, arms folded firmly in front, not budging an inch.

Father found it in himself—just this once—to curse Vincent's remarkable memory; the incident referred to had taken place when Vincent was four years old. Recognizing a corner when he was in it, he turned back to the front of the book and began to read. He watched Vincent, secure now in his victory, relax gradually, his chin finding its way into his hand as he became absorbed with the words.

As he read, the details of the story came back to Father from his reading of it long ago. It was a creation story—on the surface, a simple enough folk tale of the type where inanimate objects and even parts of the body existed and acted independent of the person they belonged to. "The Tale of the Hands of God" told a story of a deity so distracted by the immensity of the creation of an entire world that he decided to allow his hands to complete the work of creating man while he watched over other things. A different approach, certainly, than the orthodox Judeo-Christian tradition, which held firmly to the belief that God was omniscient in all his attributes, at all times. Rilke assured the reader that, while God was all-knowing and all-capable, he had not—up to this point—had to focus his mighty "faculties" into "specific duties", and so they existed only as a "single great force" until the intricacies of creating a varied world required him to channel his energy into the different attributes.

Father could barely prevent himself from laughing at this simplistic yet bizarre theology. He would definitely have to divert Vincent's attention from this book, but it would have to be done subtly and indirectly. Perhaps if he gave Vincent one of Rilke's other, less objectionable books, it wouldn't occur to the boy that he disapproved of the author—disapproval being the best way to insure that children would do exactly what you didn't want them to do. Vincent was not willful, but he could be stubborn about books.

Father returned his attention to the story, trying to get through it as quickly as possible.

Then suddenly he saw something falling through space, something dark and in a direction that made it seem to come from quite near him. Filled with evil foreboding, he called to his hands. They appeared, all blotched with clay, hot and trembling.

“Where is man?” God thundered at them.

The right hand flew at the left: “You dropped him!”

“Excuse me,” countered the left, provoked, “you insisted on doing everything by yourself, you wouldn't even let me have anything to say.”

“But you ought to have held him!” And the right hand drew back as if to strike, but then thought better of it, and the two raced each other in saying:

“He was so impatient, man. He was in such a hurry to live. It is not our fault; really, we are both innocent.”

But God was seriously angry. He pushed both hands away, for they blocked the earth from his sight. “I've finished with you from now on; go and do as you like!”

And that is what his hands have been trying to do ever since, but whatever they start, they can only begin. Without God there is no perfection. And so at last they tired of it. Now they are on their knees all day long, doing penance—at least, so it is said. To us, however, it appears as though God were resting, because he is angry with his hands. It is still the seventh day.

I was silent for a moment. My companion used that moment very sensibly: “And do you think they will never again be reconciled?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “At least I hope so.”

“And when might that be?”

“Well, not until God knows what man, whom his hands released   against his will, looks like.”

"Father!"

Father started. Vincent had never interrupted the reading of a story in his life; he had sometimes even noticed the boy holding his breath as a story concluded, as if that act would somehow prevent its end. There was something very strange in the air tonight, and he glanced at his son worriedly.

"Yes, Vincent, what is the matter?"

"I understand now!" Vincent's boyish voice barely contained his excitement.

"Understand what, Vincent?" Father asked with patience—and growing apprehension.

Vincent leaned forward in his chair, clear eyes wide. "I've always thought that God had a reason for making me what I am—I had to believe something. But maybe there really isn't a reason. Maybe God's hands dropped me, and I’m a mistake!"

"Vincent!" Father exploded, unable to remain calm any longer. "I had assumed you were old enough to understand the nature of the story we were reading. It is a middle-European folk tale, a superstition, not to be taken as a reality. I have also told you my feelings on the subject of human nature: we are all presented, by an unknown power or force that is beyond anyone's capability to name or define, with a set of circumstances that is our life, and how we deal with that set of circumstances shows our character, and the strength of our inner being. I do not believe that there is a 'plan' for anyone's life,

Vincent nodded solemnly, taken aback at the outburst from his usually benevolent parent.

Father closed his eyes and tried to slow the rush of anger he felt. He was not, after all, angry at Vincent, but at this weird tale and its peculiar author. He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and reached out to cup Vincent's chin in one hand. "Hands can show love," he said gently, with great emotion, "but they do not have the power of reason, and they are not capable of deeds—or misdeeds—of their own. This is a fairy tale, Vincent, a myth." He stopped, unsure of how—or whether—to continue.

Vincent slid his hand into his father's other palm. "You didn't let me finish, Father," he said quietly but stubbornly. “I know about myths. I read somewhere that a myth is 'something that never was but is always happening,' and I'm not quite sure yet what that means, but I do know that a myth is sort of a— a metaphor for something that's real."

Father raised an eyebrow. Vincent's comprehension of the mechanisms of literature, not to mention his vocabulary, often exceeded adult expectations. "That is one way of putting it, I suppose," he allowed, curious to hear what would come next.

"And I do remember what you've told me before about human nature," Vincent continued with a grimace, indicating he was not satisfied with Father's interpretation. "But there must be something else to it, something that explains why we're not all the same, why some of us are different, and why some of us are happy and some of us are unhappy."

He paused, deep in thought, and Father found himself holding in a breath, waiting for the next step in Vincent's logic.

"So, there have to be such things as mistakes, Father—and mistakes don't always have to be bad.  Sometimes they can be for the good, in the end, can't they?"

"Yes-s-s," Father said slowly, feeling another corner closing in behind him. "But—"

"So I could be a mistake”—Vincent paused and looked carefully at Father, who made a face in reply— “and Mitch could be a mistake too, just another kind!"

"Mitch!" Father's voice rose again, this time in bewilderment as much as anger. "Vincent, what does Mitch have to do with all this?"

Vincent swallowed, but continued to look Father straight in the eyes. "Maybe God's hands dropped Mitch too," he said quickly.

"What?"

Vincent took Father's hand in both of his. "You told me that myths and fairy tales are ways of explaining things that people can't understand if they look at it only with their minds."

Father shook his head in exasperation. "Vincent, please—I did not say that it was the right way of explaining things, I—"

"But this helps me understand why Mitch is the way he is. I know he wasn't really dropped, but there is something missing in him, and maybe I can help him find it if l can just understand."

Father saw determination return to Vincent's face, and his own frustration suddenly melted away. How could you berate someone for wanting to care? Vincent did care, even about someone as worthless as Mitch. Hadn't he himself once tried to reach the boy, sure that he showed promise, during Mitch's early years in the tunnels? Maybe it was not his place to try to squelch Vincent's concern, or to try to show Vincent that a heart worn on a sleeve is easily bruised. But bruising was the price that must be paid for the understanding Vincent craved, and he would have to learn that lesson all alone. It was a parent's place to stand and watch, also alone. Father sighed as he pondered, not for the first time, who grew the most day to day.

"Vincent, Vincent," he said finally, head shaking, "one of these days you'll have me believing in fairy tales and magic myself."

"Well," Vincent said thoughtfully, "if you decide that something is magic, or something fantastic, at least you've explained it somehow." He pulled back from Father and began studying his hands, head tilted slightly to one side, a small frown on his face.

Father didn't like the look on Vincent's face, or the direction his thoughts seemed to be taking. He decided to nip such talk in the bud.

"Vincent, there is no such thing as magic," he said firmly, taking up Vincent's hands in his own.  "Except possibly for the magic of love." He smiled at his son, hoping once again to distract him from his thoughts.

Vincent sighed and looked up at Father. "Maybe love is magic," he said quietly. "And maybe each life is a fairy tale, Father, and we should live as if we were telling a tale, trying to explain ourselves and who we are—first to our own hearts, and then to someone else's. Someone else who really cares to know. Like God wants to know us, in that story."

Vincent stood up and leaned forward to kiss Father on the cheek. "I think I'll go to bed now, Father. Good night."

Father nodded wordlessly. He couldn't have trusted his voice to reply, but he held onto Vincent's hand for a moment longer before letting go. He watched as the boy left the chamber, his step as heavy as when he'd entered.

As soon as Vincent was out of sight, Father was on his feet as well, but headed in the opposite direction—toward Mary's chambers. There were certain times when, Catholicism notwithstanding, Mary could be counted on to share the special burdens of parenting. He blew out a row of candles on his way, leaving his study in semi-darkness.

~ ~ ~

Vincent stood at the entrance to his chamber, staring, suddenly unable to cross the threshold. This had been Father's other gift to him on his twelfth birthday, aside from permission to go Above: privacy. A room of his own. He was old enough now to be alone, Father had said, and old enough to take care of himself, too. He had started to make the chamber his own immediately, with treasures discovered in the brand-new world outside the tunnels: the old jukebox he'd found, and that Winslow had promised to help him revive; the china elephant—it reminded him of Kipling's The Elephant's Child—unearthed on a foraging trip with Sarah; the replica of the Statue of Liberty Father had given him to study until he could someday, perhaps, with the aid of a Helper in the right position, make the trip to see the real thing.

But now, as Vincent looked at all of them, they seemed strange to him, these articles that so short a time ago had been precious. He saw them now with another's eyes: they were stupid things, shabby, and he was a baby who had no idea of what was really valuable. Vincent shook his head, trying to dislodge the sensation of a sound, suddenly very strong inside his head. It was a low, mean laugh. It was Mitch's laugh. Vincent knew he was “feeling” it as surely as Mitch was at that very moment—as surely as if he were Mitch.

This connection with other people's hearts was something that Vincent had been experiencing more and more often lately. It was probably something that he should discuss with Father, but he didn't know quite how to put it without upsetting the person he loved most in the world. He knew Father would be very disturbed, would feel this was just one more proof of Vincent's "differentness"—but the truth was, it didn't usually bother Vincent at all. Not every difference was a bad thing, just as every mistake was not; he'd told Father that, but he wasn't sure Father had believed it.

All the feelings he had ever experienced through these connections had been good ones, from his family: the love and concern, the ordinary worries and problems of everyday life in the tunnels. Vincent had always welcomed them, savoured them, took them as cues to help out, to be in the right place at the right time, to be extra kind to someone who was upset. This was the Game he played for the benefit of those he cared for. He knew they wondered how he understood so well what they needed, but he never told them—part of the Game.

And, no matter how Father explained it, Vincent still couldn't understand why the feelings he received from Mitch were so harsh, so mean—like the laughter he'd just felt—when he had spent so many years in the tunnels and in the company of people who showed him nothing but love. He had tried to play the Game with Mitch many times, but it never seemed to work. Vincent could feel the nastiness Mitch projected, Mitch's disgust at being trapped in the tunnels . . . even sometimes a glimpse of the pain the older boy hid from everyone. Only Vincent knew how Mitch had once adored his father, wanted to be with him, to help him. And only Vincent realized that Mitch had felt discarded when Sam made the decision to send him Below, like he was someone who couldn't be trusted. The hurt had colored his attitude, and it hadn't been long before most of the people in the tunnels had looked on him as trouble—and not long before Mitch believed it himself.

Now Mitch was making Sam's fears a reality, hardening himself, refusing to be loved, or helped, or understood. Father had said that Mitch would always be alone—but Vincent just couldn't accept that. Father had also told Vincent not to let anyone stop him from dreaming his own dreams. And one of his dreams was to make the people he loved happy. There was a better part of Mitch, buried deep, and Vincent knew that he could find it. That was why he'd been given the ability to play the Game, he was sure of it: to help people, like Mitch, who were lost or alone in their hearts.

Reassured of the strength and rightness of his own feelings, Vincent took a deep breath and entered his room, a room that once again was warm and safe, well-loved and familiar to him. He fell onto the bed, rolled over on his stomach, and stared at the large wrought-iron grate that curved in a half circle over him. It was the one thing about his chamber that he didn't like—the metal bars seemed so dark, so confining. Then he remembered that, just the other day, Pascal's Aunt Jeanne had promised to teach him something that she alone of all the tunnel dwellers knew how to do, the art of making stained glass. The panels and lamps that she had created not only brought small patches of light and color to the darkness Below, but were also sold by the Helpers to the world Above to buy necessary supplies and food. Vincent was honored that she had chosen him to pass on her knowledge, too. After all, Pascal was already apprenticed to his father, learning the language of the pipes. Vincent was thrilled at the idea of being able to create beauty with his own hands and help his family at the same time. But now he began to think of another way he could use such a skill. Replacing the ugly bars with a large window of stained glass—specially tinted, light carefully focused behind it—would give his chamber its very own sun, something to make his room unique, his own. Vincent knew that it would not be an easy project, and that it would take a very long time just to learn the necessary skills, but he was so excited at his inspiration that he rolled over and hugged his knees to his chest tightly, giggling softly with pleasure.

It was still a little too early to go to bed, so Vincent turned to one of his bookshelves—all carefully placed so as to be in reach no matter which way he lay on the bed—and took out a small volume. There was something else he hadn't told Father; he'd actually already read one of Rilke's other books on his own, and was now starting on his second. Now he was glad he hadn't; Father's reaction to Stories of God had been very strong, and very negative.

Vincent didn't understand why Father didn't like Rilke. He found the words in Rilke's compact, richly textured poetry and prose difficult, sometimes frustrating, but always awe-inspiring and sadly beautiful. First, he had swallowed, almost whole, The Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christopher Rilke. It was a prose-poem inspired by one of Rilke's own ancestors, a brave young standard-bearer who had died in a war in Hungary centuries past, alone and unprotected by the token of any lady, as was the custom in those days. It had made Vincent weep and left his heart wounded and bleeding and strangely cleansed, comforted.

Then he had turned to another work, Letters to a Young Poet; he was struggling with that now. The book consisted of ten letters written to a young man who, like many others, asked Rilke for advice about writing, about life. Vincent found it both simple and difficult, and some of the writer's advice puzzled him. One letter spoke of ancient myths of dragons and princesses, things terrible and helpless—the words had no meaning for him as he read them, even though he thought they should.

Vincent opened the book as he leaned back against the pillows and began to read the fourth letter over again; it was one that had particularly puzzled him. But now, as he studied it, Vincent felt a great excitement rising up in his chest, and he took a deep breath as he read the lines over again.

You are so young, so before all beginning, and want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

Vincent smiled to himself as he finally understood the truth of Rilke's words. This passage had always baffled him; his whole life was a question, without even the hope of an answer. How could he be patient? But now these words revealed not only their own truth to him, but the truth of Father's words as well. Yes, it was difficult to be patient, to wait for the right time, the right moment, when life would reveal its mysteries to you. But the waiting was part of the answer; while you waited, you should be busy with becoming the kind of person who would understand, recognize the answers when they came. Just as Father had told him! How well you "lived into the answers" showed the strength of your character, your inner being. Not a plan, but a way, known only to one's own heart in stages as life unfolded. His way was the Game, which grew and changed as he did, becoming more difficult, then easier; now a well-loved part of his heart, and then an uncomfortable mystery. It was only his to live and discover.

Vincent sprang to his feet, anxious to share his insights with Father. Perhaps he would even tell him about the Game. Halfway out the door, another thought occurred to him. The balloon! He had completely forgotten about his treasure since coming Below, shamed by Mitch's cruel words into hiding it in his chambers before he went to visit Father. It had seemed so silly, so childish to hang onto it . . . when Mitch had been the only one to see it. Vincent realized now what he should have remembered before: that he could share anything with Father without shame. One of the wonderful things about loving and being loved that Mitch didn't understand. He went to his wardrobe, where he had hidden the balloon in the folds of his cloak.

But the balloon wasn't there. Vincent searched frantically through his clothing, and then gasped in disbelief when he finally saw it, deflated and half its original size, at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was wrinkled and small and ugly. Vincent felt sharp, hot anger and disappointment tighten in his chest, and he struck out, slashing at the balloon and leaving it in shreds—and the tension in his body suddenly drained. He stood, staring at the rubbery remnants of what had once been a lovely, airy thing, until suddenly the salt taste of a tear at the corner of his mouth brought him back to the present.

Vincent sniffed once, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and then made his way around his chamber, blowing out all the candles but one. Quickly removing his outer clothing and pulling on his nightshirt, he dove under the quilts on his bed, pulled them over his head, and curled himself into a tight, miserable ball.

~ ~ ~

The Park lay quiet under the weight of July's heat; not an animal, not a leaf stirred. Most of the people in the city were at home, in front of air conditioners, trying to keep cool—it seemed to Vincent that that he was the only person in New York. He sat under a tree on the top of the hill directly opposite the carousel, wearing the least layers of clothing he'd ever worn in his life—Father hadn't even fussed at him—and looked down longingly.

This was the first time he'd actually come back this close since that night in June when Mitch had surprised him. That encounter had saddened him so that he couldn't bear the idea of going to see Black Beauty the next night, hadn't gone Above at all. He hadn't even wanted to go the night after that, but Father had started to question him, asking him if he felt well, concerned that Vincent didn't seem to want to leave his room. Vincent couldn't worry him that way, and to try to discuss Mitch with Father again was pointless, so he went Above. And after a few nights of avoiding that end of the Park altogether, Vincent found he couldn't resist the lure of his beloved carousel after all. Slowly, every night a few inches closer, he allowed himself to be drawn back to its magic. Last night he had occupied the bridge closest to it, hovering over the little valley where the carousel sat for a full, dangerous fifteen minutes. He had drunk it in, peering into the shadows with his keen eyesight as he committed to memory details he had never noticed before, finally moving back to the relative safety of the nearest stand of trees.

And now he sat here on Chess Hill—Father had told him it was the place where people Above met to challenge each other's skills in the game Vincent was just learning—and stared at the object of his adoration. He didn't have the courage to go down, not even in the middle of the night when it really didn't belong to anyone but him. But as he scolded himself, Vincent admitted that what he was really afraid of was that it somehow wouldn't be his anymore. Mitch had changed that. Vincent was sure it wouldn't feel the same, and getting too close to it might prove his fears right. All because of Mitch. Mitch—who was waiting for him somewhere, and who would know just where Vincent's heart would irresistibly bring him. Vincent had told Father he understood Mitch and wanted to help him, but along with his sympathy and concern, Vincent was also afraid that the older boy would be able to lure him into trouble again. Simply because Vincent wanted to be able to trust him so much. The thought of being able to find a way into Mitch's heart, of having the Game succeed, was almost as powerful an urge as the thought that he should protect himself from the pain of being betrayed by Mitch's carelessness.

Vincent shook his head vigorously, sending the worries that had kept him crouched and frightened on the hill flying. He hadn't even seen Mitch since that night, and no one else in the tunnels had either. Perhaps Mitch had really left this time, as he was always threatening to do. And even if he should meet Mitch—wasn't Mitch a part of his family after all? Why should he be afraid of him? Mitch had always told him that he liked him, and had always paid more attention to him than to the other children Below. If he was careful, there was no reason to have to reject Mitch, as so many other people had done, as Father would have liked him to do. Father didn't know about the Game . . . and Vincent still had hopes.

Vincent stood suddenly, wiping his hands free of the dead leaves he'd been resting on, and walked carefully but purposefully down to the carousel.

He stopped just short of the building that housed it, and inspected the bars closely. They were painted black, but in the middle of each length of iron was molded a small carousel horse, painted over in a color that matched the horses inside. It was a small touch that delighted him, and he always looked for the bar that had the same colors as his favorite horse—silver and red and blue—and squeezed through at that point. Tonight Vincent traced the outlines of the horse over twice before taking a deep breath and pushing his way inside.

Once he was there it felt like he'd never been away. All the joy and magic he'd been so afraid of losing were there, and it seemed that they almost had a presence, and that the carousel had missed him. Vincent closed his eyes, glad that he had decided not to listen to his fears, overwhelmed with happiness at being in his special place once more.

Vincent opened his eyes again and scanned the walls, familiarizing himself again with all the details: the murals all around the structure and in the center of clowns and animals and other friends of childhood; the little booths where the men who operated the carousel stood. The book Father had given him explained that the very first carousel in the park, in the 1870s, had been powered by a blind horse and blind mule. Vincent felt a pity for those poor, long-gone creatures; at least when people worked the gears and mechanisms of the carousel, they could understand the enjoyment of the children who rode it, and see their faces as they clung to their chosen steeds.

Favorites. . . . Vincent's attention drifted back to the horses themselves, and he started to circle the ring of brightly painted wooden mounts, looking for Black Beauty. When a branch scraped along a row of iron bars, Vincent stiffened for a moment, not recognizing the sound, and searched for a familiar outline in the shadows around him, but he saw no one. After waiting several minutes in careful silence, Vincent moved, with more care and attention to his surroundings, toward the nearest black carousel horse. But this was not his horse; instead of the usual garlands and blankets carved into the wood, it had two fierce lion's heads staring out from either side of the back of the saddle. Vincent frowned. He had never quite felt comfortable with this one. He continued to move around the outside of the wooden platform where the horses were anchored until, finally, the one he loved most was just ahead.

"I told you I knew which one was your favorite."

Vincent stepped back with a sharp intake of breath, but he was not really surprised. The other boy was there in front of him, leaning against Black Beauty with a flashlight dangling from his hands. As Vincent recovered and took a step forward, the flashlight came up and on in an instant, blinding him.

"Mitch." Vincent put his hands in front of his face and tried to keep his voice steady. "We haven't seen you in weeks. Where have you been?"

Mitch seemed disappointed that Vincent hadn't been frightened. "'We'?" he said sarcastically. "Who is 'we'—you and the almighty Father? Well, you tell him not to worry. I'm still around. And I’ve been watching you.” Finally he lowered the beam of light and stepped down from the carousel's platform to stand in front of Vincent, poking him with the other end of the flashlight. "You've been afraid to come back, haven't you? Afraid to leave the straight and narrow path Father told you you have to walk. But have something to show you, Vincent."

He grabbed Vincent by the arm and led him over to the nearest railings, pushing him through and then following after. Vincent felt suddenly very vulnerable, being out in the open with another person—two people would be much more visible, noticeable to a passerby than one—but he also noted that Mitch was not being as rough as he sometimes could be.

"See this?"

Mitch was pointing at a plaque on the outside wall of the carousel. Vincent had seen it before, but he dutifully leaned forward and read it out in a loud whisper. "'Michael Friedsam Memorial—'"

"No, not that part—this, 'For the children of the City of New York.' That's what you are, Vincent—one of the children of the City of New York, so don't let Father tell you any different. You have a right to this carousel, too, and there's no reason you shouldn't at least sit on it. What d'ya say?"

Vincent felt Mitch's hand, tight and warm, over the sweater he wore; through that touch he felt a flow of kindness he had not had from Mitch in many years. He stared at the older boy, full of hope and wonder. He'd been right. There still was a part of Mitch that could be reached. And Father had been right about something else: He, Vincent, was the only one who could reach it. He could read that in Mitch's heart so clearly right now—a heart that had decided affection was a weakness it could not afford, but that still retained the ghost of a fondness he had always had for a little boy who had looked up to him, admired him once.

Vincent smiled. "Mitch. . . ." he began earnestly.

"Now don't go all soft on me, kid!" Mitch shook Vincent abruptly, his voice harsh. "And don't give me that creepy look, either, like you're trying to figure out what's goin' on in my head or something. All I'm saying is, you're the only one in that hole in the ground who's worth wasting my time on. We used to have fun, you and me, and that's all! I just think it's about time you started making your own decisions. Live a little! Don't always be doin' what Father and Mary tell you, like a good little boy." He laughed, a short, nasty chuckle. "Neither of them really knows what fun is."

Vincent shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and anxious to get back to safer ground. He was sure now that Mitch did not really want to hurt him or bring him into any danger. If he were to go along with the older boy, just so far, maybe Mitch would trust him a little more, and then. . . . Vincent made a promise to himself: if he could just once play the Game with Mitch, he would finally tell Father about it.

"Mitch," he began cautiously, "I've told you that this place is very special to me. And that's why I've stayed away—I don't want it to be spoiled, or ruined. It's not safe for me to be here even this long."

"But that's exactly why I’m here—so you can enjoy your special place." Mitch let go of Vincent and threw his hands up defensively. "I'll be your lookout, so you can sit on your horse and not have to worry about who's coming up behind you. I know you can't do things the way everyone else can, Vincent. I'm not stupid. That's why I'm offering to help you, as a friend." Mitch dug his hands into his pockets, shaking his head and trying to appear unconcerned. "But you better take advantage of my generosity now, or it may be too late. . . ."

Vincent was instantly wary. "What do you mean, too late? Is something going to happen to the carousel?”

Mitch made a face. "No, don't be ridiculous. I'm talking about me—I may not be around much longer."

"But, Mitch, you said—"

"Never mind what I said, and never mind what I'm saying now," Mitch said abruptly, sounding annoyed, as if he had revealed more than he had wanted to. "Do you want to do this or what? I've got better ways to occupy my time than babysitting you."

Vincent's good intentions were forgotten in a flare of hurt and anger. "Don't let me keep you from more important things, Mitch. I'll be just fine on my own. I always am when you're not here to be my 'friend.’”

Tension seethed between them for several minutes. Mitch finally spoke.

"You think I'm bad news, too, don't you? Just ’cause Father told you I was. Well, I'm not! I just want something different than he does, like getting out of that hell-hole and making a name for myself in the world Up Top. I don't fit into his grubby little tunnel world, like all the other good boys and girls, and he only makes me stay there because my stupid old man is his friend and he asked him to! I thought you and I had an understanding, Vincent, but I guess I was wrong."

Guilt-stricken, Vincent remembered what he had told Father. Mitch could be a mistake too, just another kind. . . . He was so ashamed of himself. He had ruined his chance with Mitch, just because of his temper.

"No, Mitch, no, you're not wrong! We do have an understanding." He grabbed the older boy's arm, desperate to prove himself. "I'm sorry, please believe me. It's just that I always have to be so careful, and know it's not something most people are used to. It's not that I don't trust you—’

"I should hope not," Mitch said gruffly in a wounded voice. "Don't forget, I've protected you before."

"Five minutes. Let's go back inside for just five minutes. I'll sit on Bla—the horse, and you keep watch. That will be all right, I think, and then I'd better get back to the tunnels. It's getting late."

"Suit yourself." Mitch said carelessly, as if it hadn't been his idea in the first place. "Let's go."

Vincent followed him back through the railings and over to his horse, where Mitch put down the flashlight and bent over, lacing his hands together. "Can I give you a hand up, sir?"

Vincent took a deep breath, put his boot into the makeshift stirrup, and . . . in the next minute, he was in a different place. Actually sitting astride Black Beauty, he finally felt like a true knight, his dreams finally had some substance. Vincent's hand smoothed the horse's mane, calming it and praising it for a deed well-done, encouraging it to go on as they searched for more wrongs to make right. He wished he could have actually known those times. Perhaps he might have belonged there. . . .

"Great feeling, isn't it? Someday you oughta try the real thing—it's even better."

Mitch's voice interrupted his reverie; the older boy was watching him, flashlight on again but this time trained at the level of the horse's saddle so that the strong light wouldn't hit Vincent in the eyes. Vincent was a little embarrassed, but he nodded, then made a move to dismount.

"No, no," Mitch said hurriedly. "Now that you're there, why don't you let me turn it on, just for a minute? You'll love it, Vincent. I promise!"

"Mitch, I can't, I told you—”

"What was that? Did you hear it?" Mitch stiffened, a hand to his ear.

"Mitch—"

"Be still for a second, will ya? I'll go see what that was." And before he could hear further protest. Mitch was gone.

Vincent struggled breathlessly to get down from the horse alone. He knew exactly what Mitch was going to do, and he had to get away before it happened.

Bright, glaring lights came on then; the whole platform began to move, and then Black Beauty began to sink and rise—slowly at first, but then more steadily. The carousel's music box came to life with a shriek that quickly descended into a steady wail. Vincent, half on and half off, fell to the cement floor beyond the platform and landed on his left arm. A sharp, hot pain shot out in either direction from his elbow. Ignoring it, he struggled to his feet and looked around in a panic, uncertain for a moment which was the fastest way out. There was a sudden rush behind him.

"C'mon—that goddamn music wasn't supposed to start! Now the cops have probably heard it. Let's get out of here!"

Vincent gasped as Mitch grabbed his injured arm and shoved him out the railings again, this time with much less care. They started to run, Mitch taking long strides toward the nearest entrance to the tunnels, by the edge of the Sheep Meadow nearest the Sixty-sixth Street transverse. Vincent was soon lagging behind, the throbbing in his elbow and the tears in his eyes making it difficult for him to see.

"Hey—you kids—what's going on here? Come back!"

Father. Father and Mary and Sarah and Winslow and Pascal . . . all the others. His family. . . . He'd never see them again, all because he'd been foolish enough to believe he could change Mitch with the Game.

Vincent stumbled, almost fell. Behind him, for an instant, he saw the policeman, still some distance away and shading his eyes as he squinted into the trees and their shadows.

He doesn't see me, Vincent thought wildly. Not yet . . . perhaps I can make it before—

He was almost pulled off his feet by a sudden yank at his head. Mitch had returned, grabbing a handful of Vincent's hair and hauling him off to the left, toward the drainage pipe that led to the secret door.

"This way, Vincent—quick!"

Startled and frightened and enraged at Mitch's betrayal, Vincent roared in pain and swiped at the other boy, but his arm wouldn't work properly, his nails only grazing Mitch's shirt before something cracked and the limb fell uselessly to his side. Vincent screamed and sank to his knees.

"Come on, stupid! I'm getting you out of here!"

"What the hell—?" The policeman was still behind them, closer now. He paused, feet shuffling uncertainly in the grass, trying to determine exactly what it was he had heard and what direction it had come from. He slowly pulled his gun from its holster. Mitch took advantage of his confusion and seized Vincent by his vest, covering the last few steps to the pipe and dragging Vincent with him.

"He still hasn't seen us—if we can just get to the door before he follows us all the way in, we're home-free, Vincent! Just a few feet more. . . ."

And finally they were at the tunnel entrance. Vincent sagged against the wall where Mitch had propped him and watched in a daze as he opened the iron gate and activated the hidden switch. The door slid open. Footsteps echoed behind them in the pipe.

"For Christ's sake, Vincent—get in here!"

Mitch practically threw him into the tunnel, and Vincent lay on the floor, unable to move any further. Mitch turned back to the door; as he banged the gate closed, he suddenly knelt and scooped up a handful of pebbles, which he threw into another pipe angled so that it led away from their door.

"There—he'll think we went out that way."

Just as the door thudded shut, Vincent thought he heard a whining sound ringing through the drainage pipe. Mitch collapsed in laughter against the rock wall.

"The stupid jerk! He probably thought there was a lion loose or something! I'm telling you, Vincent—I can give them the slip any time. I'm too good for them."

Vincent wasn't even listening anymore. He pulled himself, inch by agonizing inch, deeper into the tunnel, tears streaming down his face. He had thought he wouldn't make it, but he was home . . . safe. Father. . . . How could he face Father? He stopped his desperate journey and curled in on himself, weeping freely in his shame.

"Who's there?"

Vincent started at the sound of the voice, and then recognized it, remembered where he was. "Winslow," he whispered.

The tall, black youth came round the corner, a lantern held in front of him as he stared down the tunnel suspiciously. "Who's that—Vincent? What the hell are you doing here? You've never—” Winslow stopped as he got closer and realized what condition Vincent was in. "What in the name of God—?" He swung the lantern around, and finally saw Mitch. His eyes narrowed. "You." He almost spat the word. "I should've known you'd be behind this."

Mitch swaggered over to meet him; Winslow took a menacing step forward, and Mitch's bravado faltered.

"I didn't do anything, Winslow, give me a break! Ask Vincent. I was just helping him—”

"I ain't asking Vincent nothin'. Can't you see the boy's half-dead with pain and fear? And what's he got—a broken arm? What the hell did you do to him?"

Vincent started to protest. He was long past defending Mitch, but he knew that the real blame for this terrible night lay on himself. If he had not been so enchanted, so irresistibly drawn to the carousel . . . if he had not wanted so badly to trust Mitch that he’d disregarded all that common sense told him and thrown away his safety. . . .

Mitch exploded. “Me? I wouldn't hurt him! You've got a hell of a lot of nerve, you son of a—"

Winslow put the lantern down quickly but carefully; his hand lashed out and he had Mitch by the front of the shirt in an instant, drawing him in close to his face. "What were you about to call me?" he asked in a deadly voice.

Mitch swallowed and tried to look fierce, but said nothing.

"I thought so, you cowardly little rat. Now, I don't trust you even as far as I could throw you, so I tell you what I want you to do. Pick Vincent up—as gently as you know how—and carry him back to Father's chambers. I'm gonna be right behind you. Then you're gonna give the whole story to Father, and he'll probably want you to repeat it to the Council, of which I am the newest member. So hear me now—your story had better be good."

He let go of Mitch and pushed him toward Vincent, who began to struggle weakly against the rock wall in an attempt to stand. He would not be carried by Mitch, anywhere.

"Winslow, I can—"

"Forget it," Winslow said gruffly. "Do what you're told. I'd also like to know what the hell you were doing over here, so far from the entrance Father told you to use. You both have a lot of explaining to do. Let's go."

Vincent gritted his teeth in more than pain as Mitch lifted him and they began the trip to Father's chambers under Winslow's watchful eye.

~ ~ ~

“You can't be serious!"

Father was incredulous as he looked around his chamber at the faces of the tunnel inhabitants. Most of them averted their eyes; only Mary stood by his side, equally indignant. Winslow remained firm.

"It's got to be done, and you know it," Winslow said in a loud, determined voice. He scanned the room for support, and several people nodded at him quickly, but not without obvious guilt. He shook his head in disgust. "We've got to," he said stubbornly. "The Silence has to be imposed, on both of them. They've endangered the safety of our home, brought the police almost to our door! We're going to have to seal up that entrance indefinitely, and you know what kind of risk that is, reducing our entrances by even one. That was one of the main gates, too—the Helpers sometimes used it." Winslow turned back to Mitch and Vincent, who were standing by themselves in the middle of the gathering. "They have to be made to realize that their actions affect all of us." He looked at Father. "And you cannot play favorites."

Father sighed deeply and sank down into his chair, a hand to his forehead. It had been nothing short of a nightmare since earlier that evening when Winslow had come to his chamber, shepherding Mitch and Vincent into his presence. Winslow's intervention alone had prevented him from going for Mitch's throat when he saw the state Vincent was in. But then he had pushed both of them aside and tended to his son. His fears confirmed—Vincent's arm was broken—he went to work, setting the limb and preparing the last of his plaster of Paris for the cast, refusing to listen to anything until he was sure that Vincent was more or less comfortable.

And when he had heard the whole tale of the evening's folly and subsequent narrow escape from both boys, Father's heart had dropped into his stomach like a stone. He could not speak for several minutes. In his head, a silent litany went on: Vincent is safe. Everything is all right. Vincent is safe. Everything is all right. He had finally managed to get through his belated panic and return to the present, where Winslow insisted on an immediate Council meeting and Mitch sneered at him, filled with hatred for everyone and everything around him.

And Vincent. . . . Vincent sat off by himself, on the stone steps, refusing his own chair when Father offered it to him, his face a mask of pain and shame and . . . anger. He would not speak. For the first time, Father found himself unable to reach Vincent or draw him out, though he thought he might have had a better chance if Winslow had not been there, hands on hips, adamantly demanding that he be listened to. Father had had to relent in the end, and by early morning the entire community had been gathered together.

Father finally lifted his head. "I resent that implication, Winslow. I realize as well as any of you the seriousness of the offence and the necessity for self-regulation in a community such as ours. But this is not a simple situation. Vincent—"

"In this situation," Winslow interrupted, "Vincent is no different from anyone else."

Everyone was suddenly silent, and then just as suddenly began shuffling uncomfortably. Even Vincent's head came up, and he stared at Winslow for a moment in amazement before lowering his head again to hide behind the curtain of his hair.

"Winslow!" Mary's voice was disbelieving as she leaned forward.

"What I mean is, he has endangered all of us and he has to answer for that, just like anyone else." Winslow stuck out his chin defiantly, determined to prove his point. "We all care about Vincent, we all know he has special considerations, and there's not one of us who wouldn't defend him with our lives. But he can't be an exception when it comes to the rules—or to punishment."

Father pinned Winslow under a relentless gaze; the youth fell silent, but his posture was still pugnacious.

"As I was saying," Father continued slowly, "Vincent is an exception, for two reasons. One: He is a child. It would be psychological abuse of an extreme nature to separate him from the company of his family for a whole month. What will he do? He does not even know the homes or habitats of any of the Helpers yet. He's not been allowed out of the Park! And it is obvious that he cannot be allowed Above until his arm is healed—the risk of moving about in unknown territory with such a handicap is much too great. Look into your heart, Winslow. How can you condemn a child to such loneliness?"

Winslow made as if to speak, but Father raised a hand to indicate that he was not finished.

"Two: To punish Vincent with the Silence for this mistake is tantamount to telling him, 'You cannot go Above At all.' And who among us, myself included, has the right to tell him this, to restrict his life to such an extent even for the sake of his safety, our safety? It has been difficult for me to let go, to allow him to discover what part of the world Above he can, but he must learn this himself. Vincent understands the risks. Vincent loves all of us as fiercely as we love him. We must allow him the dignity of our trust."

"The needs of one person can't be more important than the needs of the community as a whole," Winslow insisted. "We all need this safe place, and that should be the bottom line."

Father waved his hand, angrily dismissing Winslow's words. "The person and the community must have equal importance. Without that . . . yes, we would be safe from the world Above, but would we be safe from each other?"

"Father?"

A small voice floated down from the spiral staircase and everyone turned to look. It was Pascal—one of the smallest children, even though he was the same age as Vincent.

Closing his eyes for a moment in an effort to regain some calm—he didn't want the children to be discouraged from speaking up by his anger—Father smiled encouragingly. "Yes, Pascal. What would you like to say?"

“I . . . know Vincent would never want to do anything bad, he just wouldn't. But it wasn't right for him to take such a chance either. Maybe two weeks of the Silence would be enough." Pascal looked around nervously to see whether anyone else thought his proposition made sense.

Father shook his head slightly as he tried to form an answer to the query. "The thought behind your suggestion is admirable, Pascal, but—”

"I think the boy has a point," Winslow broke in. "I'd be willing to go for two weeks. But it has to be done. Don't think this will be easy for me," he continued, looking around the chamber in an appeal for understanding. "I'm insisting on this because I care—about everyone."

"Like hell you do."

Father turned sharply back to the center of the room; Mitch had finally spoken. The boy had been standing in an insolent slouch in the middle of the room during the entire meeting, smiling and even laughing from time to time to show his contempt. The entire assembly had basically ignored him; there was no question as to his guilt, or the necessity for his punishment.

Mary stepped away from the wall and addressed him, hand outstretched. "You have lived with us for eight years, Mitch. Your father is one of our most beloved Helpers. Why do you resist the love, the place we have offered you here? We have tried so hard to give you a home, and you seem to take delight in endangering us, especially Vincent. Now we have no choice but to withdraw our love and support, and hope that its absence will bring about a change in your heart."

Mitch snorted in derision. "Don't give me that 'love and peace' garbage. You all hate me, I know it. Even Vincent does now. You've finally convinced him."

"It is pointless to attempt to talk to you, Mitch," Father broke in abruptly. "You have always been and will probably always be concerned only with yourself. There is no other explanation for the way you have treated Vincent!"

"Father. I would like to speak now, please."

Vincent's voice was clear and quiet in the chamber, and it stopped Father cold. He had never heard Vincent sound so serious, or so defeated.

"Certainly you may speak, Vincent," he said gently.

"Winslow is right. I am the same as anyone else in this. I have endangered my family, out of my own selfishness"—he looked at Mitch briefly—"and pride. I was given the privilege of going Above, and I misused it. And since I am the only one who can be responsible for my own actions, I should be punished, as any other would be."

Vincent finally turned to look at Father, whose eyes he had been avoiding during his speech. "I also must apologize to you especially, Father. I have betrayed your trust in me, and disregarded your wishes. I hope that you can forgive me."

Father saw the beginnings of tears in Vincent’s eyes as he struggled to contain them, and he longed to gather his son into his arms. "There is nothing to forgive, Vincent. There is never a time when I am not proud to hear you call me 'Father.'" But try as he might to reach out to him, Vincent had lowered his head again once he had spoken and would not look up.

Winslow cleared his throat. "I think we should vote now. Everything's been said that can be said." A murmur of assent went through the chamber, and Father realized that there was nothing more he could do to convince them. He turned to Mary, who smiled at him supportively. What would he do without Mary?

"It's time, then," he said quietly. "We will begin with Mitch, who has admitted the charge of endangering the community—”

"They should be voted on together," Winslow protested.

"They will be voted on separately," Father said, his voice icy. "There will be two Silences, and two votes. I want to count each one. Now—those who favour imposing the punishment, please so indicate."

The entire community turned their backs without hesitation on the older boy in the middle of their circle. His reaction was to study his fingernails carefully.

"Mitch," Father began, omitting the usual apology, "since you refuse to listen, perhaps our silence will teach you the lesson our words could not. You are sixteen, no longer a true child. So, for one month, no man, woman, or child among us will speak to you. The sentence will begin now."

Mitch continued to ignore everyone around him.

Slowly, his heart burning with pain, Father turned to his son. Vincent's head came up, and he met Father's gaze levelly, without hesitation. It was very difficult for Father to speak.

"Vincent . . . has admitted the charge. Those who favour imposing the punishment, please . . . so indicate."

Winslow's back remained resolutely turned. Slowly, as Father watched, a few of the tunnel inhabitants—including several of the children—began to move, facing the middle of the circle again to show their support for Vincent. Mary stood firmly with him, as he'd known she would. But it was not enough. More than half of the people in his chamber had their backs turned to Vincent.

"Vincent . . . I'm sorry." Father could not go on. The entire group held its breath, waiting to see what he would do. He had no choice. He was the head of the Council, and if their world was to survive, he could not play favorites. But he also knew he could not repeat the cold, ritualized words to this boy.

"Vincent, for two weeks"—Father's eyes dared the assembly to stop him—“no man, woman, or child among us will speak to you. The sentence will begin . . . now." The last word was a whisper.

"Now that sentence has been passed, "Mary's voice rang out in the quiet, "I have something to say. I am absolutely in agreement with Father. We are guilty of severe child abuse if we do this. I cannot, in all good conscience, participate in this sentence myself. While I will not openly defy everyone's wishes, I want you all to know that I intend to visit Vincent every day, bring him his meals, and make sure that he is well. It may happen that, in the course of those visits, a word or two will be exchanged—I cannot say."

Winslow was furious. "You can't do that! We decided—we voted! We all have to abide by the rules or there's no point."

Mary was unrelenting. "Ordinarily I would agree with you, Winslow. But not in this case. I believe special considerations—which were not discussed in the rush to sentence—are necessary and possible while still upholding the concept of punishment." She smiled down at Vincent, who averted his eyes. "Though, as far as I can see, Vincent's greatest sins are hope and poor judgment."

Mary returned her attention to Winslow. "So—you will have to deal with me as you see fit. Just remember that the Silence has very little meaning for me."

Winslow glared at her. He knew, as did everyone there, that Mary had once been a nun, living in a cloister where she kept a vow of silence for ten years. Her calm gaze of undisputed authority was familiar to all the children firsthand, and to many of the adults by association with their childhoods in Catholic schools. There was nothing he could say, and finally he stalked out of the room. The other tunnel residents began to follow him slowly, with occasional backward glances at Vincent.

Father embraced Mary warmly. "Thank you, dear friend." He knew that she had done it as much for him as for herself. As she patted him comfortingly on the back, he saw Mitch finally straighten and head out of the chamber—with Vincent on his heels. He made a move toward them. Mary saw what he was doing and held him back.

"No, Father. He must face this alone."

He gestured helplessly at the tunnel where Vincent had disappeared, and then, realizing the truth of her words, buried his face in her shoulder.

~ ~ ~

“Mitch? Mitch!"

"Yeah? What do you want?"

Vincent caught up to Mitch, slightly out of breath and wincing at the pain in his arm as he came to an abrupt halt in front of the older boy, blocking his way. Mitch stared at him sullenly.

"Where are you going, Mitch?"

"That's none of your business, Vincent. You've gotten me in enough trouble tonight, so why don't you get lost and leave me alone?"

"I . . . got you in trouble?" Vincent was speechless. "But, Mitch, you were the one—” He stopped and shook his head, trying to comprehend.

"Yes, you. I know Father tells you you're perfect all the time, that you can't do anything wrong. Look how he tried to get you out of the Silence just now! But you could’ve spoken up for me, Vincent. You could have told them that I was just trying to do something for you that no one else had even thought to do, that I was your friend. If I was really as bad as they all think I am, I would have just left you there. Wouldn't I?"

Vincent had never been more confused. He had gone after Mitch, hoping to talk to him, make him see how much he had betrayed not only the trust of the community, but his own trust as well. Because he had tried to reach out to Mitch, he had disgraced himself. Vincent thought that if he could only make Mitch understand just how deeply that had hurt him, and how important his honor was to him, that Mitch's own sense of honor would return to him. But instead, Mitch blamed him for the punishment they had both just received.

"I know you are angry," Vincent said slowly, frowning as he spoke. "I am also angry with you. You put me in danger of my life, Mitch; after I told you there were certain things that were not possible for me, you deliberately placed me in an impossible situation against my will. My arm was broken, I was almost caught by the police! I would never have seen my home and family again."

"Yeah, well, maybe I would have done you a favor. Family's not all it's cracked up to be, you know—mine or yours. They'll always let you down, Vincent, always. You're better off alone." Mitch shrugged away from Vincent and started to leave.

"No!" Vincent grabbed Mitch's arm, and was instantly assailed by a wave of pain stronger than any he'd ever felt before, from anyone. It left him gasping, astonished. In that instant, the Game was no longer a game, and it was not just about love and helping and feeling good, as he'd always thought of it before. It was about the pain and aloneness that came from the deepest corner of every person's heart—sharing the things that made life hard as well as easy. This . . . gift he had was a call to love, something more than just picking and choosing the feelings that made him happy and warm. It was a call to care for others in a special way that only he could. To become a part of them, and still have all of himself to give as well. He had been hurt, but so had Mitch, and this was something they could share, something that might help them both be better than what they were now.

"Get away from me!" Mitch gave him a strange look and pulled away, only to come up short against the wall.

"Mitch, I know we're both under the Silence now, but I don't think that means we can't talk to each other. And we need to talk. We're friends, we have an understanding—anger doesn't have to take that away!"

"You fool! Do you really think I'm going to stay here and abide by their stupid little rules? This is not the real world, Vincent, and what they say doesn't count, not to me. I'm getting out!"

"What do you mean?" Vincent said slowly, afraid that he knew just exactly what Mitch did mean.

"Do I have to spell it out? I'm leaving, running away! And Father can't stop me. You heard him, I'm 'no longer a true child.' Not that any of them would care if I disappeared off the face of the earth—or down one of these holes either."

"You would leave me alone, in the Silence'?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

"Our friendship," Vincent said quietly.

"Hah! I've forgotten about that already," Mitch said carelessly. But Vincent could see in his eyes that he did care.

Mitch pushed himself away from the wall and spat. "Just like you forgot about me, Vincent. But there are some things I don't forget—or forgive. You tell Father he'll be seeing me again . . . someday."

Mitch turned away and walked down the corridor; soon Vincent could only hear the sound of his boots. Eventually even that sound disappeared. Vincent stared down the passage after him, then looked back toward Father's chamber for one wistful moment. His head dropped, and he began to rub his injured arm gently, caressing it and holding it close to his body at the same time. A tear fell onto the rough white fabric Father had fashioned into a sling.

~ ~ ~

A brass candlestick stood near Vincent's elbow, flame sputtering and dipping occasionally when a bead of wax seeped away from the wick and down the side of the taper. He sat with chin in hand, oblivious to its waning, and read the book in front of him intently. His left arm, which was healing well and becoming itchier inside its cast every day as it did, rested lightly on top of the book. Vincent was scarcely aware of it when he was reading, except when it needed to be scratched.

He yawned. Just what time it was, he didn't know—the only clock Below was in Father's chambers—but he knew it was later than his usual bedtime. Sometimes Mary would drift by, at around this time by his body's clock, and remind him with a look that growing boys needed proper sleep. Vincent had been embarrassed when she had announced her intention of looking after him during the Silence—that awful night seemed like it had happened years before—but he was grateful for her presence, her quick hugs, and the extra little treats she sometimes brought with his evening meal. It was the next best thing to having Father with him. And tomorrow the Silence would be over.

The Silence. It had been just as terrible as he’d expected, in the beginning. The first two days he had spent crying himself into a state of exhaustion, and then sleeping for hours in order to recover, waking up to find himself alone in the relentless quiet. His heart refused to listen to his head: He was unlovable, unloved, unwanted. He had started pacing his room restlessly, still wearing the same clothes after three days, despising himself so much he didn't care.

Until he noticed, on one of his circuits, a small brown paper package by his door. "From Pascal" was scrawled on it, and when Vincent opened it up, there was a piece of Sarah's gingerbread inside. She baked it every Wednesday, and Pascal knew how much Vincent loved it. He burst into tears again, but this time they renewed him. When he'd regained some control, Vincent put the cake down on his table and went and washed himself, changed into new clothes, and combed his hair before he allowed himself to eat it. He would not permit self-pity to waste this time he had been given to understand and grow.

Once he had come to that realization, everything changed. It was still difficult to be alone, but he found that carefully structuring his time lessened the ache of having no one to talk to. He studied, and thought, and sometimes read old favorites just for pleasure—and he became obsessed with Rilke. Each new book he read said something different, something wonderful and mysterious and sometimes even frightening, and he stored all those messages up in his heart toward the day when he could find the answers to their questions, just as Rilke had told the young poet.

And his gift, the power to see into other's hearts and understand them, grew stronger, deeper—difficult, and yet comfortable. It seemed funny to him that he had ever called it a game. Even separated from his family by the Silence—not moving in their company so that he could use the gift—Vincent could now feel their thoughts in his quiet chamber, almost as powerfully as if they were actually there. He felt their love and concern for him, though he felt so undeserving, and realized for the first time that this gift was his to receive and enjoy as well, in a reflected sort of way. It was a gift, and a responsibility that he had taken too lightly.

He knew now that not everyone could be trusted, and not everyone could be loved; Mitch had taught him that, brutally. And Mitch had taught him something else the day he had run away, leaving Vincent alone in the corridor outside Father's chamber, never looking back. He had taught Vincent how to hate. A part of him hated Mitch for his carelessness, his insensitivity, his abandonment of their friendship, even though he knew these things were the older boy's protection against pain. He would never again be able to think of his childhood friend without hurt, and anger. Still . . . another part of Vincent's heart yearned to know that someday Mitch would find someone who could love him enough. It stung him yet to think that he had not been the one to reach him—and he knew that Mitch, in his own way, had been trying to reach out to him. But he locked away the pain until the time came that he would understand it.

There were other answers to look for now: what to do with this gift he had been given, how to use it wisely and well, what kind of power it should have in both his own life and the lives of those he loved. He had made a mistake this once, and he did not want to repeat the experience.

Vincent turned back to the book he had been reading; just a little more study before he went to bed. But the candle was low, and it was hard to see. He deliberated for a moment, then got up and went to his cupboard for a new candle. He would want to leave it burning while he slept anyway. Lighting it, he picked up the book again. It was a book of Rilke's correspondence; Vincent marvelled that someone could write letters so full of wisdom and understanding and compassion and suffering, and he wondered if Rilke had had a gift like his, and had also found it difficult to bear. Perhaps an answer to the mystery of his own life could be found in these very pages, in this author's life. Vincent struggled to concentrate through his growing sleepiness, turning the words over and over in his mind to find their true meaning.

To take love seriously and to bear and to learn it like a task, this it is that young people need. —Like so much else, people have also misunderstood the place of love in life, they have made it into play and pleasure because they thought that play and pleasure were more blissful than work; but there is nothing happier than work, and love, just because it is the extreme happiness, can be nothing else but work. —So whoever loves must try to act as if he had a great work: he must be much alone and go into himself and collect himself and hold fast to himself; he must work; he must become something!

For believe me, the more one is, the richer is all that one experiences. And whoever wants to have a deep love in his life must collect and save for it and gather honey.

To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is—solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate—?); it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another's sake; it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.

It was a long passage and a rich one. Vincent read it over twice, rubbing his temple with one finger while he concentrated, searching. Being alone he understood. His differentness had always set him apart, even within the love of his own family—except for Father. There would always be a life standing between him and the people he cared for that he could never know. But he could not see that his aloneness was a special thing, a positive thing that would grow and become powerful. He saw it as a burden, a sadness that he could not escape but only learn to endure—alone. There would not be another to share, to understand this quality of his life.

And there did exist a great love here in their world below the city, a love that was known not only by the adults, but also by every child. Father had often told him that the reason their community existed was that the comfort and safety of being loved was so difficult to find in the world Above, a world where people feared each other more than they cared for each other. If Rilke had been able to know a life in the tunnels, Vincent thought, perhaps he would have had more hope.

Vincent sighed heavily and finally put down the book. It was very late, and the truth of this particular letter still eluded him. Perhaps after a night's sleep. He changed into his nightshirt slowly, moved the candle to its nighttime niche in the far wall, and pulled back the bedclothes, sliding into the cool comfort of the sheets. Laying his head down on the pillow, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

But sleep would not come. Vincent tossed and turned, the words he had just read still in his head, still trying to speak to him. And then, in the darkness, one small voice began to make itself heard.  . . . whoever wants to have a deep love in his life must collect and save for it and gather honey . . . it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things. . . .

Vincent rolled over onto his side and hugged his arms to his chest, frustrated by his inability to sleep or understand. As he squeezed his eyes shut, he caught a glimpse of a picture propped up at his bedside—Central Park in the spring. Father had given it to him on his birthday, and it reminded him of the way the Park had looked the first night he had gone Above. He thought about that night, how going Above had brought such change into his life. . . .

And suddenly his chamber seemed darker, larger . . . a faint wind blew across his face . . . like being Above, but something was different. He knew—but did not understand how he knew—that this was not a memory, or a dream. He watched helplessly through eyes that were his, only . . . older. He saw the Park all around him, smelled the fresh breezes of spring, and then—then there was a body, fragile and wounded, on the ground before him, pain and fear and despair radiating from its unconscious state. Someone reaching out to him, claiming him—binding him in an inevitable spell. He felt the weight of the body on his shoulder, recognized the familiar walls and passageways of his home, the curve of the circular staircase that led to Father's chambers as he labored with his unknown/unknowing burden. He carried it with a quickening of heart and breath until its pressure lifted him up, out of all he knew, into another world, another place, another life.

And he heard a voice then—again his own, but deeper, rougher. Don't be afraid. Please . . . don't be afraid. He felt an elation sweeter than anything he could ever imagine experiencing . . . and it was gone.

Vincent sprang out of bed, crying out, reaching— He looked around his chamber, dragging huge gulps of air into his lungs and trembling. He could not remember what he had been about to grasp, what he had needed so desperately to hold on to. But it seemed unbearable that it had left him.

He felt a sudden surge, a clear, calm resonance that he often knew when the gift moved at its strongest. But he was alone; how could the gift be working in him when there was no one there to call it out? Vincent shook his head, bewildered, as a wave of deep, inconsolable grief filled him, and then also passed.

This was all too real to be a dream, and it frightened him. Groping for the edge of his bed, Vincent buried himself beneath the coverlets, but his eyes were wide with wonder as he stared at the ceiling, wide awake through the night.

~ ~ ~

Father came awake slowly, fighting his way through a fog; he had slept badly these past two weeks, during the Silence, and had seldom felt really rested when it was time to rise. But today, finally, the awful days of quiet would be over. That thought brought him fully awake, and he rose quickly, going through morning rituals with unusual haste, anxious to get to Vincent's room before his son was up. He wanted to be there when Vincent first opened his eyes.

Father left his sleeping chamber and was halfway through his study, on his way to the stairs, when he noticed, on the edge of his vision, Vincent. Vincent—curled up in his own chair and asleep, head resting on a pile of books that were balanced on the chair's arm. Father thought it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He moved across the room quietly and laid a gentle hand on his son's shoulder.

"Vincent? Vincent—wake up, son."

Vincent opened his eyes slowly, dreamy with sleep. As he raised his head a few inches, looking around in momentary confusion, Father noticed the imprint of the top book's intricate leather tooling on his cheek in dark red. He must have been waiting here half the night, he thought with a smile.

"Oh, Father!" Vincent launched himself from the chair into his arms, and for some uncounted moments, all that Father knew or cared about he held in his arms, tightly. Finally, he pulled back a little and frowned down at Vincent.

"Are you well, Vincent? How have you fared these last two weeks? Mary has told me that you ate well, and that you always had a smile for her, but I wonder if you didn't spend too much of your time reading. You look tired, and your eyes are red."

"I've been fine, Father, really." Vincent gave him another desperate hug, and then settled back into his chair, motioning for him to sit also. Father smiled and obliged him. It was hard to take his eyes off his son after those two long weeks. Which brought him to the first words he had planned to say.

"Vincent," he began slowly, “I hope you understand why Mary came to you in the Silence and . . . and I did not. It would have been—"

"I understand, Father," Vincent said quietly. "It would not have been right for you to break the rules, not for me. I knew it was hard for you not to, though. That's why I stayed in my room—so it wouldn't be any harder."

Father stared. He had been about to say that it would have been far too difficult for him to see Vincent and obey the Silence, so he had stayed away . . . and Vincent seemed to have taken the words right from his head. The boy was often sensitive to others, perceptive beyond his years, but this had an uncanny feel to it. He frowned. "Vincent—"

"Father, I have so much to tell you, so much to share with you! I’ve read and read and fallen asleep reading some nights. You were right about that."

“I thought so," Father replied with mock sternness, but he was still apprehensive. "And what have you been reading?"

Vincent sat back in the chair with a blissful expression on his face. "Rilke, Father. Books and books, and so many of his letters. . . . I know you don't like him, Father, but he’s a wonderfully wise man."

"It's not that I dislike him, Vincent. Every great writer has something to say to us, if we read them properly. But not every work is great, or appropriate to our situation.”

"But I felt as if he were writing these letters to me, Father," Vincent said with strained patience. "They were so right—they helped me realize something important."

"Which is? . . ." Father felt even more apprehensive.

"You remember 'The Tale of the Hands of God', and our conversation about mistakes?" Vincent asked anxiously.

Father nodded, frowning again.

"Mistakes aren't always bad, it's true—at least, God's mistakes. And I am one of God's mistakes. But I know now that Mitch isn't."

Father shook his head, baffled. "Vincent, what are you talking about? What does Mitch—?"

"Did you know Mitch ran away, Father? The very night the Silence began, he left me alone."

"Ran away? The little— Well, good riddance!" Father felt a flare of pure anger at the mention of Mitch's name. "I told you he did not belong here, didn't I?"

"Mitch doesn't belong anywhere, Father, because he's a mistake the world made. No one ever loved him the way he needed to be loved, so he can't love either. I don't understand that part of it—it's so easy to love. But there are a lot of people like Mitch in the world Above, aren't there?" Vincent put his head down for a moment, then looked back up, his bright blue eyes wide and staring. "But when God makes mistakes, they're because he loves too much . . . maybe he holds onto us too long. He makes people who know how to love so much better than everyone else, they don't fit in either. That's why we all live down here in the tunnels; it's why my home is here."

Father's head was reeling as he tried to follow Vincent's train of thought. He could tell by the pace of his son's speech that this was something that burned fresh in his heart, probably something he had spent all night thinking about. "Vincent—" He held out a hand for a moment, to stop the stream, searching for words. "Vincent, not everyone who lives Above is a . . . 'mistake.’ We have Helpers, and there are many others who love and care—"

“Oh, I know, Father, I know," Vincent broke in with a look of wonder. "I understand that! Father—I have something to tell you," he said, changing his tone abruptly. "Something about me that I never told you. It was only because I didn't want to worry you—"

"What, Vincent? Please—tell me!" He took hold of Vincent's hand, sick with fear. Vincent smiled and patted his hand. "I knew you would worry. But it's nothing bad, honestly. It's wonderful. Father"—his voice lowered—“I have a gift, a special way of loving people right from my heart to theirs, without words." He reached out toward Father's chest and drew a line back to his own. "Like we're attached . . . heartstrings."

Father sat, frozen, at his son's words. He remembered all the times Vincent had turned up just where he'd been wanted or thought about, before he'd been called . . . the kindnesses expressed, the things he'd done for others before a need could be spoken . . . his uncommon ability to comfort people in a way no one else could. He'd always put these things down to Vincent's restricted life making him more focused on the few people who made up his world, or the extra measure of politeness and respect Mary instilled in all the children, but which Vincent took more to heart than the others. But what Vincent was describing was empathy, true emotional empathy.

Father covered his mouth with his hand and bent over, staring at the top of his desk and remembering another time not so long ago, a sunny street, a bright and lively woman whose life had once been linked with his. That had been the special joining of a man and a woman, something far beyond Vincent's unique life here below the city. Vincent spoke of this love as an ability, though, not just a feeling. That couldn’t be possible.

He looked at Vincent's face, and saw a power, a knowledge there he had never seen before, and realized that, for someone like Vincent, anything might be possible.

"I don't know how else to explain it to you, Father, except to say that I've been given something very wonderful. And last night—last night I had a dream. No, not quite a dream. Something like it, though. At first it frightened me, but then— Oh!" Vincent broke off, agitated by his lack of words. "There was . . . someone else out there, and they had the gift, too! Someone who knows me, who's waiting for me—someone very special!"

Father's throat was dry. He'd known this would come someday, but he was a coward and had never been able to prepare himself—let alone Vincent—for it. What to say, to do? Save Vincent from future pain by inflicting the wound now? He cleared his throat and stared at his hands.

"Vincent, I think that perhaps you are too soon after experiencing the Silence, your mind too full of dreams you've concocted to make it bearable."

Hurt shone in Vincent's eyes. "Father! You don't believe me. You don't believe—"

Father smiled gently and stroked Vincent's hair. "That you are special? That I know." His face grew serious. "In the gift? I feel now as if I should always have known it when I looked in your eyes, but have only now recognized it. You should have told me, Vincent—this is something we must talk about, for I fear it may cause you pain." He paused. "Or has it already? Mitch?"

Vincent nodded, but did not speak.

Father nodded. He was tempted to stop there, but he should go on, in fairness to this . . . young man he now realized sat before him.

"That there is someone . . . special waiting for you—someone as special as you are—that I do not believe. Or rather, I do not want to believe it."

Vincent stared at him in amazement. "Father!"

"That kind of attachment can only bring you unhappiness, Vincent, I'm sure of it."

"No, Father." Vincent was resolute. "Someone is out there, someone who will be . . . another part of me. I felt them, just for a moment, but they were there! And now I have to hide that moment deep inside my heart until we find each other, and we both remember it again. I know you don't want me to be hurt again, Father—you love me. But please believe me, I know this will be! I will live into the answer—just as Rilke says."

Father felt a great despair. Vincent was not listening, did not understand—how could he, a boy of twelve? He would have to allow some time to pass, allow Vincent to grow and then discuss it again, when Vincent was older.

Suddenly he heard a tentative scraping of feet in the hall outside his study. "Yes?" he called. "Who is it?"

"It's Pascal, Father." The young boy emerged from around the corner, inching toward the desk shyly. Vincent still sat in his chair with his back to the door, and Pascal couldn't see him. "I'm sorry, it's so early, but Vincent isn't in his room— Oh, Vincent!"

Vincent had stood up, smiling, and the two boys embraced each other warmly.

"Pascal—I've missed you so much!"

The smaller boy pulled away then and looked up with a slightly shamed expression. "Vincent, I—"

"I want to thank you for the gingerbread. I should have known you would remember."

"Vincent!" Pascal said insistently. "I have to tell you something. I feel . . . as if I was not a good friend to you. I voted—”

"Pascal." Vincent's voice was soothing. "You did what your conscience told you was right. That is the best kind of friend to be, and it is everything I would ever ask of you. Now,"—he changed the topic abruptly—"you must teach me the new code you've been working on. I know you're very proud of it."

"How did you know?" Pascal's mouth was open in amazement. "I just began it this past week!"

"I recognized your touch on the pipes," Vincent said lightly.

"Oh—come on, Vincent!" Pascal turned red.

"Do you mind, Father?" Vincent turned back to face him. "I'll be back soon. There are some books I want to show you."

"Go, Vincent, please—I know I am not the only one who has missed you. Sarah is waiting for you too." He shooed them away. "Go!"

Vincent threw his arms around Father's neck and hugged tightly for a moment, then ran off with Pascal, his footsteps, Father noticed, lighter and more confident than they had been in recent weeks. He watched them go, something tickling at the back of his mind. Vincent had known about the new code—something Pascal never discussed until he was satisfied his work would meet his father's approval, and blend into the echoing language of the tunnels' pipes. An example of Vincent's gift. . . .

A thump brought him back to the present; one of the books Vincent had brought to show him had fallen off the arm of the chair. Father bent to look at it: Rilke. He scanned the other volumes still balanced on the chair: Rilke again. Angered and frustrated by this reminder of the disturbing words that Vincent took so much to heart, he swiped at the stack of books, knocking them all to the floor, and went off to follow the boys.

Behind him, one of the books had thrown itself open at a page near the middle.

. . . perhaps he is the one thing that never shifts,

around which the stars move in their hours,

and the motionless hub of the constellations.

For the city drifts and rushes and struts around him.

He is the just man, the immovable

set down here in many tangled streets;

the dark opening to the underworld

among a superficial generation.

~Rainer Maria Rilke --from Pont du Carrousel

~ ~ ~

What My Heart Will Be by Barbara L.B. Storey, originally appeared in Tunnels Vol. I, in October of 1988. Tunnels was one of the very first fanzines created for the BATB fandom. Published early in season two, while the show was at the height of its popularity, Tunnels Vol. I had over twenty original fan fiction stories and showcased several talented artists that were destined to become well-known throughout the fandom. The zines editors, Barbara L.B. Storey, Victoria H. Clark, Karen A. Swanson and Mary Ann Drach set the bar high for all authors and artists who would follow. Sadly, Victoria H. Clark and Mary Ann Drach have since passed away, but the contributions they made, and the gifts they left for us, continue to be greatly appreciated.

Tunnels Volume I and Volume II, are available on loan from the Crystal Rose Lending Library, http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/

This and other fan fiction by Barbara L.B. Storey can also be found on Tunnel Tales (http://www.classicalliance.net/tunneltales/tunneltales.html) and in the library archives of Winterfest Online 2013 (http://www.batbwfol.com/winterfest2013/gh/) and Winterfest Online 2014. (http://batbwfol.com/winterfest2014/gh/)

State of Grace

by Cindy Rae

*R-Adult Content*

Author’s note:  The story of Grace and Jacob is always one that tugged at me.  We know so very little, yet we know a great deal.  We know Jacob was in his first year (“the year I lost everything,” he tells Vincent,) and we know that Grace was a little older than Jacob was, and possessed of her own kind of wisdom.  We know her sad end, and we know that the two of them are Devin’s parents.

All that led me to wondering about Devin’s mother, the kind of woman she was, and what it was about her that drew Jacob to her.  How she, as an early tunnel dweller, might have helped shape what they became, in her own way.  As her story became clear to me, I realized that it was Grace who helped Jacob in his transformation from just “Jacob” into “Father.”  Not just by making him one, but in other ways, as well.

There aren’t very many stories that try to “meet Grace” in depth, as a fully realized person.  This is mine, and I give thanks to the editors who helped with it, most of whom give of their talents freely, and labor tirelessly behind the scenes.

It first appeared in the 2015 conzine, “Somewhere I Have Never Travelled.”

This is its first time appearing in a digital format, anywhere.

~ ~ ~

Jacob Wells was a beaten man, and he knew it. Which was to say, Doctor Jacob Wells was a doctor no more, not in the world Above.

After living in little more than a cave in the earth this past year, he wasn't sure just how much of his former self remained.  Or if much of that remained entirely sane.  Or if it would stay sane for much longer.  He called it “the year I lost everything,” and depression loomed large for him. Very large Yes, in the world Above, he was a beaten man.

In the world Below, he had very few tools with which to practice his art.  So in a way, he was beaten there, too.

One might call oneself a painter, but with no paint...

He had his medical bag, such as it was, and the clothes he'd brought with him, which were now meticulously put away.  He had the cast-off articles of clothing he now wore.

And every regret the human heart could carry.

The list of what he did not have was a lot longer:

He no longer had an office, a house, a car, a lab, a job at a research institute, a valid license to practice his profession, a competent nurse, a secretary, a table at a fine restaurant, a telephone, a closet full of suits, a hospital's diagnostic tools and medicines at his disposal, a list of waiting patients, a television, a way to listen to a Yankees game, season tickets to the Metropolitan Opera, and oh, yes - a wife.

Doctor Jacob Wells no longer had a wife.

"Well, at least we can't say there's no indoor plumbing."  Grace's voice interrupted his brooding as she eyed the copious pipes that lined the walls.  He'd lived this way, down among the pipes, for nearly eleven months.  She'd shared every day of that with him, being the one who'd introduced him to this place, to begin with.

Grace tapped on the metal conduit above her, and Pascal the Elder tapped back an answer.  They'd been working on using the pipes as a means of communication.  It was John Pater’s idea, but Pascal’s passion.  Grace was getting very good at it.  Jacob wasn't sure if he ever would be.

"And it has a telephone of sorts.”  She tapped again, telling Pascal senior “good morning.”  The tunnels' first pipe master returned her salutation, the tinny, staccato sound starting to become a familiar thing, down here.  She grinned at her own accomplishment and flipped a thick, brown braid of hair behind her, as she sat down.

"Brooding again?" she asked Jacob, settling herself at the common table near him, bearing a cup of tea.  It would be a meager breakfast for all of them, as a loaf of bread was split seven ways.  Toast.  Toast and tea, for breakfast.

William was working scraps into lunch, which would be soup again, heavy with mushrooms.  Jacob's stomach clenched a bit, at the thought.

"Just a little," he replied, trying not to sound short with her.  "Woke up on the wrong side of the ... cave, apparently."  He stirred what little sugar there was around in the bowl of the cup, trying to make it sweeter, knowing it was little use.  There just wasn't much sugar left.  William had needed it for something, and that was that.  For that matter, there wasn't much tea.  The bag he was currently using had been dunked already, at least thrice.

"Go sleep up in the park, and that cave seems right friendly," the dark-haired woman across from him opined.  She knew.  She'd done it, more than once.  And it had cost her much, the fourth time she'd tried it.  That was part of why she was here.

Jacob inclined his head, justifiably rebuked, as usual.  "That it does," he agreed.

He acknowledged the truth of her words as he acknowledged the dark wisdom in her brown eyes.  She was a little older than he was, and from a different world than his.  Well, at least a different world prior to their being stuck in this one, together.

Poverty and starvation have a way of equalizing the masses, Jacob mused unhappily.

"Have you seen John this morning?"  Jacob asked, just for the sake of making conversation.

"Up and about early, checking the east tunnels.  He seems to think there might be something useful in that direction.  I think Anna went with him."

Jacob nodded at that, having little else to say.

"Peter is supposed to drop by later," she offered.  "He said he'd bring some food."  She buttered a slice of toast with what little spread there was left in the crock.  She was careful to leave some for him.

"There has to be a better way than this.  Have the children all been fed, at least?" he asked her.

She nodded.  "You know we wouldn't be eating, if they hadn't."

Grace.  Practical to the point of wisdom, and plain in a way that had been lovely, perhaps some ten or twelve years ago.  Nearly his height, her forehead was broad, and her hands were large and capable.  The brown in her eyes could pierce you, sometimes a bit uncomfortably, but usually not unkindly.  Her dark hair was nearly always tamed into a thick braid.  She'd been a housemaid for one of the big hotel chains, among other fairly menial jobs.

She was learning how to be his nurse, a bit at a time.  And William's assistant cook.  And Mary's partner in sewing and mending the clothes they all needed to stay warm and alive.  Jacob had no idea what she was to John, or to Pascal, if she was anything.  She seemed to prefer his company to the other men's, though she harbored no dislike for any of them.  With the possible exception of John.

"Will you go Above for a while, do you think?”  Jacob asked.

"If I don't, some of the broody ones might freeze a bit," she chided him, rising.  “We’re burning through the wood.”

They were, and he needed warmer socks.  Alternatively, another pair of thin ones to go over the darned pair he currently sported.

He was properly chastised for his mood, and he knew it.  His hip had been bothering him more than a little, once the weather had turned from chilly to cold.  It was useless for him to forage when it was like this.  He couldn’t run fast enough to reach safety if there was trouble.  And God knew how much of that he'd be in if he were spotted by the police.

"I'm sorry, Grace.  I know I'm not much help right now," he admitted.

Her work-roughened hand covered his for a moment.  The fingerless gloves he wore were all that kept his hands warm.  Grace never wore regular gloves unless the weather was downright frigid.

She’s a tactile person, he realized.  She often traced the rim of her teacup with a calloused middle finger before she drank.

"You don't need to apologize, Jacob."  She gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.  "It's been a hard few weeks for everyone."

A hard few weeks.  On top of a hard few months, on top of a hard few years, he mused.  But regarding the last few weeks - they'd had to turn down three people, last month, for entrance.  There simply wasn’t enough food for the numbers they had.

"Thank you." He squeezed her hand back, knowing she was trying to offer comfort.  "Good luck, Above."

She nodded and drained her cup of the weak tea, settling the mismatched china cup back down on a chipped saucer.  Time to go to work.  Every line in her body said it.  She produced a cleaning cloth from her apron pocket, and wiped off the table, a bit.  As a matter of routine, she resettled the crock of butter, the empty sugar bowl and a set of salt and pepper shakers near the center of the table, readying the space for its next occupant.  Waitress’ habit.

"You want me to keep an eye out for anything particular?" she asked him, readying herself to go as she buttoned her patched coat.

A new life, he thought.

"Just bring yourself back safely," he answered.

By late afternoon, the food shortage had eased, mostly thanks to Peter Alcott and the two other helpers they had.

Grace remained busy with trying to see to it that they stayed warm, having spent most of the day making trips back and forth to a construction site that was shutting down.  There was a pile of scrap lumber, for the taking.  She reasoned that it would burn, rightly enough.  She'd also managed to cadge a few hand tools that had been left behind in the sand.  Pascal Senior was pleased, as she travelled back and forth.

Jacob had helped her haul most of the wood from the street entrance to the commons.  Some of the larger pieces would need to be split with a hand axe.

That he could do, at least.  He had spent some of the day tending a small group of children with runny noses.  It was nothing serious.

But now, he leaned against a wall, waiting for Grace to come down with the last of the wood.

Life in the tunnels had broadened his shoulders and made them firmer, from labor.  Were it not for the lameness caused by his hip, he'd have been a fine specimen of a man.

Intelligent, inquiring, otherwise healthy, Jacob was a man in his prime, though not at its beginning.  His hair was wavy, and longer than he'd worn it back when he'd had frequent access to a barbershop.  Hands which still tended the sick and injured now did their share of manual labor, as well.

He kept his fingerless gloves over those hands for warmth, but also to hide the third finger of his left hand, so he didn't have to see the place where his wedding band had once sat.  The ring now rested in the pocket of the suit coat he no longer wore, tucked inside a silk handkerchief he knew he’d never unfold.

He figured he'd never use either, again.

His hazel eyes were often sad, though never hard.  He had used a cane even before the scourge of McCarthyism had caused him to come Below.  That was nothing new to him, though the unevenness of the tunnel ground had taken some getting used to.

On good days, he barely needed the cane.  On bad days…well.  On bad days, it took a hot compress to get him moving out of his thin-mattressed bed.  He knew the hip would worsen with age, and that a steady stream of anti-inflammatories he didn't have would make it tolerable.  Arthritis was settling there, sometimes, with a vengeance.

But medicines were precious down here, and saved for either the children, the sick or the injured.  He was none of those.  And he'd learned a long time ago that no one wanted to hear you complain incessantly about your ills.

The manhole cover over his head moved to one side. The air was cold, behind Grace, as she made her last trip down through the circular opening, her arms full of scrap lumber.  She gave him half.

"That's the last of it.  Should keep us warm a good long while, if we aren't careless with it."  She slid the cover back into place.

"And that we never are," he answered, sharing her load.  They made their way back together, through the western passageway.

Grace had grown up poor.  A wood fire was not “new” to her, and neither was making do with what you had.  One of nine siblings, she'd buried two sisters to the privation of the Great Depression.

Jacob's situation had been very different.

And now, their situations were the same.

"I worked in a big house once," she said companionably, as they walked.  "Downstairs maid.  Three fireplaces in this big old house, and the master liked every one of them going, even if he wasn't in the room.  Always struck me as something of a waste, at the time.  But it was his money," she said, setting her burden down a moment, so she could catch her breath and adjust the shifting load.  She'd made this trip more than ten times, today.

Jacob leaned against the wall again, resting with her, glad to give her a break.  She'd worked hard.  They would all benefit from it tonight, when they were warm.

"Funny how we all remember the waste from up there," he told her.  "Trash cans full of food.  Clothes.  Blankets."

"And most of them know better.  Most, like me, came up through the Depression.  It's boom times up there, Jacob.  The boys are back from the war and they all want houses.  Every time they put a building up, I just keep thinking, 'What are they going to use it for?  Don't they have enough of those?'  But they build them anyway.  From the park entrance, you can see a whole bunch of high rises going up."  New York was thriving.

Well, good for New York, Jacob thought, a little bitterly.

Boom times.  The economic revival of the 1950’s.  World War II over.  The bomb dropped; the world changed.  Korea near done.  The great economic expansion under way.  Eisenhower and rockets and talks of space flight.  There was no television or radio below, but the newspapers were full of the news.  Brave new world.  Brave new bombs.  The paranoia that came with those, simmering like a stew on a low boil.

Speaking of stew...

"William says there will be carrots in the stew tonight," he told her.  Really?  This is what I’m reduced to for conversation?  Talking about carrots as if they were interesting?

"Not a favorite of mine, carrots.  Though, as mama used to say, they're good for your eyes, since you never saw a rabbit wearing glasses."  She picked up her bundle, ready to go again.

"You mention your mother and father often.  Did you never marry, Grace?" he asked, realizing she never mentioned a husband, and he knew she had no children.  He, on the other hand, still swore he could discern a tan line from his wedding ring when he washed his hands to handle a patient.

She shook her head at him, causing her long brown braid to swing.

"Jacob, the downstairs maid doesn't get a husband," she chided him.

For a lone moment, she let a bit of sorrow creep into her voice.

"The downstairs maid gets... something else."

She hefted the wood and walked ahead of him, as he absorbed her words.  Young.  Poor.  Alone in a house with its wealthy master, a man born before the turn of the century.  Of course.  The downstairs maid got something else.  If she wanted to keep her job, at least, and keep food in her mouth.

Jacob was not ignorant of the fact that, while the world could be hard on a poor man, it ate its poor women. - and sometimes their children.

"It's one of the reasons I went to work for one of the big hotel chains,” she said conversationally.  "It's a lot more beds to make, on the one hand, but a lot less foolishness to put up with, for the most part, as long as you don't get cornered by one of the guests."

She looked back to make sure he was coming with her.  There was no self-pity in her voice.  Just practical strength to go with her practical build.  Her voice was much like the rest of her, he thought.

He walked the rest of the way a little behind her, kicking himself mentally for the brooding self-pity he'd indulged in lately.  He'd bemoaned the loss of his country-club lifestyle.  His elegant home.  Not just a “warm bed to sleep in,” but a huge four-poster, gleaming with polish, and covered with heirloom quality quilts.

Whatever it was she missed, it surely wasn't being pawed by whatever male happened to be near her at the time.  This place was a kind of sanctuary for her.  Missing a few meals or having to go to bed under extra blankets to keep out the cold wasn't going to stop it from being that, to Grace.

They dropped the wood near where it would be split.  There was a makeshift chopping block and a decent hatchet in the chamber nearby.    He would split this last load so it would stretch farther.  Make sure the box beside her brazier stayed full.  And try to sneak her the bowl of stew with the least carrots.

~ ~ ~

"Little Pascal is learning to walk, finally,” Mary commented as most of the adults sat around the table, a few weeks later.

"Indeed.  One might have despaired of it,” John Pater said, in a rather deprecating voice.

Grace defended the motherless child.  "Perhaps he's just going to be a late bloomer,” she replied, working one end of a quilt while Mary worked the other.

"Or perhaps he is going to be a rather squat, clumsy little man, like his father,” John said dismissively.  John did that with increasing frequency these days, Jacob realized.  Anna sat quietly, more quietly than ever, darning a pair of socks.

"There are places where such a child might not even be allowed to live," John intoned, his voice giving nothing away as to whether or not he thought that might be a good or bad idea.

"Makes one wonder if any were ever killed for their personality.”  Grace let the sarcastic barb slide, but was wise enough to keep her eyes down, as she worked.  Her expression gave nothing away.

John cut her a glance, and then dismissed her again.  The table was absent Pascal the Elder, who was already putting his son to bed.  William would leave the table soon, they all knew.  He usually turned in early, since he'd rise to get breakfast going.

"Jacob."  John directed his piercing brown gaze at the table's other degreed professional.  "I do not think it wise to abandon the idea of spreading into the lower tunnels."  He ignored the women at the table, two of whom exchanged a subtle look.

"We have room up here.  And there is little down there but water, John.  What are you thinking of?"  Jacob asked.

"That the paths there were cut by people, like us.  If we can find a way to drain the water, there may be things down there we can use.  Usable places that are still dry.  Ingredients for some… things I’ve been working on.  Perhaps supplies of one kind or another," John reasoned.  His mind was sharp.  Sharp as the dark look in his eyes.

Jacob wondered about how those eyes were almost exactly the same shade as Grace's, yet so different.  In John, the deep brown had an obsidian edge, and could be cutting.  In Grace, it often invited confidences.

The two men had already begun to wrestle a bit, with how their community should govern itself.  Some of John's ideas were... undemocratic, to say the least.  No matter, Jacob had reasoned.  At this point, they were all in this together.

"If you find a way to do it, let me know,” was all Jacob would say.  John seemed content with that, at the moment.

"You know, I think I miss electricity the most, on days like this."  Mary rubbed her eyes, which were growing tired.  "An electric light would make this chore so much easier."  They'd been piecing the quilt together, and the small stitches needed to incorporate the bits of flannel were clearly weighing on her.

"I think I miss a good glass of brandy after dinner,” Jacob said, sitting back.

He knew the turn the conversation was fixing to take, and it was a therapeutic one.  There was no sense pretending that the world Above, with all its comforts, wasn't sitting right over their heads.  They all had reasons for being here.  But that didn't mean they didn't miss at least parts of their old lives.

"An electric oven would take the guesswork out of baking that bread."  William recalled the huge stove he'd used at a restaurant, fondly.

"Hot water from the tap.  Save you from carrying,” Anna reminisced.

"A Singer sewing machine sure would make this job faster."  Grace pulled needle and thread through the cloth.  Jacob realized she literally never stopped working all day.  Her hands were always busy with something.

John, interestingly enough, said nothing.  Either he was perfectly happy where he was, or too private to share his sorrows.  Either way...

"Well.  Tomorrow will be another day," Jacob concluded, once he realized John had nothing more to add to the conversation.  "Let me know if you have any more ideas about the lower tunnels, John.  And William, if I haven't said it enough, your bread is better than any I ever tasted.  Ladies."  Jacob rose and inclined his head, then ambled slowly toward his chamber.  His cane made a tapping sound, as he left.

I sound a bit like Pascal's code, he realized.

Jacob’s chamber was a smallish affair yet, and not as broadly carved out as it would one day be.  Stacks of books were already beginning to form against one wall.  He did not think of it as “home,” not yet.  Something in him couldn't quite do that, wasn't quite ready for it.  But it was his, and he was making it increasingly comfortable, in its way.

Grace's voice came up behind him as he reached the doorway.  "Oh, Jacob.  I forgot.  I found you something when I was foraging, today."

Before he even asked, he knew what she was about to draw out of wide pocket of the apron she usually wore over her clothes.  A book.  She knew his appetite for them.  She regularly brought them down for him, if they looked either in decent shape or interesting.  If they were neither, they could serve as firewood, or to hold a table level.

She produced a hardbound blue tome from the deep well of her apron pocket.

"I think I saw a copy of it in the big house.  Who's Faust?" she asked him, handing over Goethe's masterpiece.

"Ah, this is a classic."  Jacob appreciated it.  "Faust sells his soul to the devil for knowledge, material pleasures, and love," Jacob answered, caressing the slightly battered volume.  There was a little water damage to the back cover, but a red ribbon served as a bookmark.  It had once been an expensive treasure.

"Well.  If you're going to sell your soul, at least get something worthwhile, I suppose.”  She smiled at him, pleased.

She did not read much, herself.  Jacob realized her education in such things as classical literature was utterly lacking.  But her mind was sharp, and she had a wicked sense of humor.  He remembered the sarcasm she’d directed at John, all the while never missing a stitch.  She was a singular person.

"Have you ever been in love, Grace?" he asked her, hoping he wasn't prying, yet curious.

"Two dozen times, between the ages of thirteen and fifteen."  Grace grinned at him, again.  She had a lovely smile, and when she used it, she looked a bit younger.

Then her expression softened, and became more contemplative.  "But not like you.  Not that kind of love.  Not the kind where it left a hole."  She was forthright about it.  "I'm sorry, Jacob, for whatever happened."  Her voice was sincere.

Jacob accepted her gift of compassion, gratefully.  "So am I,” he answered softly.  What he’d found out at the Chittenden Institute had appalled him.  Then it had destroyed him.  Some days, he thought he might recover.  Some days.

Reflexively, his fingers picked up her long braid off her shoulder, and moved it aside so that it would fall in its customary position, down her back.

"You should have half a dozen children, and a husband who adores you.”  He stated it impulsively, unable to call back the personal remark once it was gone.  He knew he would not, could not, be that man.  They both did.  But that didn't mean he didn't wish it, for her.

"Ah, Jacob.  Good boys don't marry girls who aren't virgins."  Her language was as plain as her broad forehead.  "And the kind of boys who do marry them... well.  Let's just say that, for all I’ve had to put up with, it was probably better than getting beat regular by some man who was trying to drown his demons."

Jacob, too, was capable of compassion.  "I know that happens to women.  It shouldn't.”  He was amazed they could speak so frankly with each other.  She had a gift for that, for drawing that part out of him.

She tilted her head to one side.  "Some people sell their soul for love, others for drink.  If I have a virtue, it's probably that mine is still intact.  Good night, Jacob.  I'll see you in the morning.”  She turned, and headed down the path to her own chamber.

He nodded and watched her go, his eyes automatically falling to the sway of her hips beneath her long dress.  No.  None of that.

Cradling the book in his hands, he set it amongst his other scavenged possessions, and settled in for the night.

~ ~ ~

The day Grace brought the burned woman down, John was livid.

"She's lost everything,” Grace said.  "Her husband.  Her children.  She needs us, Jacob.”  Grace indicated the barely conscious woman who now lay across the table Jacob regularly used as an examining table.  Elizabeth Patton was fifty, badly scarred by burns, mostly healed from the worst of that, and frail.  Oh, yes.  And she was an artist.  A useless skill for them.

"A painter?  Can you tell me what good a painter will be to us, Grace?”  John demanded, arms folded across his rapier-thin body.

"It isn't about her use.  It's about her need.  She's dying up there, Jacob."  Grace did not address John directly.

"We barely have enough to feed ourselves,” John persisted.

"She can have my share.  I'll scrounge from garbage cans,” Grace shot back, not missing a beat.  "Please, Jacob.  Please.  I see her in the park.  She can barely stand, from grief.  She's lost her family.  She has no one.  She passed out from hunger, and she isn't well yet, from the burns."

Mary, behind Grace, stayed silent, but the look in her gentle eyes told Jacob which way she was leaning.  She knew the pain of losing a child.

"Burns can be difficult to treat, Grace,” Jacob warned.  “They have a terrible tendency to get infected.  We have no antibiotics, if that happens,” he reasoned, even though he wanted to help this woman.

Elizabeth lay in and out of consciousness on the examining table in the hospital chamber.  Which was to say she lay on a makeshift dining room table with a mismatched, splintered leaf set in.  The room had a set of shelves that served as the repository for every bandage and bit of medical supplies they had.  Mostly, it was empty.

Elizabeth wore a long skirt, far out of the current style.  It covered the extensive burns on her legs that Jacob knew full well extended up to the torso of her slight, willowy frame.  Her face and hands had been mostly spared, but her abdomen was clearly wrapped with gauze to keep the waistband of her clothes from chafing the marred skin.  Poor thing.

"If she gets infected, she can go back to a hospital for treatment,” Grace reasoned.

"And pay them with what?  A portrait?"  John sneered.

"It might be worth more than the nothing you contribute,” Grace snapped.

Jacob gasped.

"The firewood that kept you warm last night was carried by me, and split by him, while you were off trying to figure out how to get water to flow down.  So piss off, John."  Her temper was as sharp as her tongue.

John's voice and demeanor both became threatening.  "You are a low-born shrew, little better than a whore, fit for nothing but menial labor, you uneducated..."

"Grace!  John!  Please!"  Jacob raised his hands for peace before more words were exchanged.

Grace held her tongue, but only because she was aware that she wanted something, for Elizabeth.  She knew she needed Jacob on her side for this.  Mary was already with her.  If they put it to a vote, she felt sure she knew she would win, though she knew Anna would always vote as John told her to.

But this place was not a pure democracy.  They did not know quite what they were, yet.  But she knew that right now, with this woman on the table, Jacob was going to have to decide whether or not they were ruled by John, and his principles.  Whether they were guided by “use” or “‘need.”

"We will offer this woman shelter for the time being,” Jacob decided.  "When she wakes, we'll speak to her.  There's nothing more to be gained by arguing right now, unless one of us plans to carry her barely conscious body up to the park and dump it there."

Grace exhaled slowly with relief.  And did not miss the look of hate in John's eyes.  Jacob did miss it, as he checked Elizabeth's pulse.

"I consider the matter tabled for the moment," Jacob said.  "Grace, would you kindly bring me some fresh water?  It will need to be boiled, to make sure it's sanitary.  I'd like to clean and re-dress her wounds, at least."

Grace left the chambers for the other room to do as she was bid.  She knew when she needed to make a strategic retreat.  Mary went with her to help.

"You'll need to apologize to her, John.  And she to you,” Jacob indicated.

"I will do no such thing.  Honestly, Jacob.  There was a time such a woman would have been beneath your notice for anything other than to pick up your dirty clothes.  And maybe something else."  John's meaning was clear.

"No one person is beneath another,” Jacob insisted.

"That attitude, Jacob, is part of why you are here," John returned.  He then left the chamber, making it clear that whatever obligation this was, he wanted no part of it.

~ ~ ~

"I'm sorry,” Grace said later, as she returned with the roll of gauze and a bucket of sanitized water.  "I should not have said that to John.  I will... try very hard to work up the courage to apologize, later."  She handed the gauze to him, and went around the other side of the table.  She stroked Elizabeth's hair.  It was already very grey.  Its once reddish-brown color was being lost to the march of time.

"John does not make it easy to like him sometimes.  But I promise you he is a brilliant man, Grace,” Jacob offered.

"And I promise you his soul is farther gone than...  Faust's,” Grace answered him.  Of the two of them, she was by far the better and more rapid judge of character.  In her world, that was a necessary survival skill.  The fact that she was still alive was proof that her instincts were sharp, as far as she was concerned.

Jacob did not reply to her assessment as he turned his attention to the task at hand.

"You did a good thing," Grace said simply, realizing that, though she wasn't in love with Jacob, she could admire his virtues.  Between Jacob and John, Jacob was by far the better man.  God help them all if John got his way.

Poor Anna, Grace thought.

But Anna was not Grace's problem right now.  Elizabeth was.  One challenge at a time, Grace mused.  She'd made it this far on that very philosophy.

Covering Elizabeth with a thin blanket, Grace crossed to the foot of the table, helping pull the older woman's cheap shoes off her feet.  Her heel was seeping from blisters.  It looked painful.  And like she'd been in the shoddy loafers a long time.  They'd need to get a meal down her when they were done treating her.  Then they'd need to find her a place to sleep.

They had work to do.

~ ~ ~

Days later, Elizabeth gratefully accepted the offer to stay in the tunnels as a place of refuge.  Grace was wise enough not to lord her victory over John.  They'd had a vote.  Grace, William, Pascal, Jacob and Mary voted that she stay.  John had voted against it, and Anna had abstained.  Carefully.

Peter sent down extra medical supplies for Elizabeth's condition, once he knew of it and could safely divert them.  As a resident intern, he had an easier time getting them things like bandages and gauze, rather than controlled substances or prescription medications.  Helping Elizabeth was a thing they could do.  Jacob was content that the decision to offer her shelter had been the right one.

Elizabeth was shy, battered by her circumstances, and very, very grateful.  She took up a small chamber near Mary, and the two women began Elizabeth's journey of healing.

Grace had a feeling that, though others among them might come and go, Elizabeth might be one that would stay.  Maybe.

John was annoyed, but simply told them, "When you save a person's life, you then get to become responsible for them.  Enjoy your new toy, children."  He dismissed them all with an autocratic wave of his thin hand.  If he was angry at the outcome, he was smart enough not to show it.

At any rate, John had been spending more and more time in the lower tunnels lately, once he'd devised a pump and pipe system that drained most of the water into the falls. Jacob realized he saw increasingly less of the acerbic, sharp-featured man. And to a certain extent, the tunnel’s

physician was relieved at that.  He saw less of Anna, as well.  Oh, well.  That could not be helped, more than likely.

Winterfest came with some twenty or so people in attendance, counting the children and helpers.  It was a happy, if understated, affair.

Elizabeth was fascinated with the tapestries.  William spent the day baking cookies, and the children and adults had danced to a wind up music box and Pascal the Elder, as he sawed folk tunes on a handmade violin.

When it was all over, Grace stayed behind in the Great Hall, helping to clean up.  Jacob stayed as well, to help her.

"You didn't dance,” Jacob told her as she wiped down a table.  He'd sensed a kind of restlessness in her, the last few days.

"I have two left feet.  Thank you for my present," she told him, having tucked the small book of poetry into her apron pocket.  Walt Whitman.  So far, she liked it.

"Thank you for mine," he replied, eyeing the nearly full bottle of brandy she'd scavenged for him.  It was a decent vintage.

"Somebody must have decided to take the pledge," she told him, moving a chair back.  "And you didn't dance, either."

"I have two left hips.  And one of them is bothering me," he replied, shoving a small side table back into place, anyway.

"You didn't say.  You don't tell people when you're in pain very much, do you?”  She knew it was true.

"I'm a doctor.  Physician, heal thyself.”  He pushed a chair back in, holding his breath against a twinge, as he did so.  It wasn't bad tonight.  He'd known it to be worse.

"Not just that kind of pain.  The other," she told him, gathering things into a basket.  It had been a long night.  He would need his cane to get back to his chambers from here, hip or no.  They both knew the havoc “distance” played with his injury.

"Not much sense in complaining, either way," he said, making sure nothing was left behind.

As always, she was the practical one.  "You go first.  I'll carry.  William is coming back later with some of the others, to get his long table back.  They’ll close it up, after."

She lifted the basket containing his presents.  Jacob accepted her kind offer of help.  He’d be hard pressed to manage the basket and his walking stick as he struggled through the Tunnel of the Winds.  Learning to accept help when it was offered had been a large change for him.  He was rapidly concluding it should become a tenet of their life down here.  To offer what help you could, and accept help when it was offered to you.

Grace settled the light burden on her arm and left the tidied Hall with him.  She looked inside his basket.  Mary had knitted him a scarf.  William had baked him cranberry bread.  She'd given him the brandy, and John had... well.  Grace wasn't sure what John had given him.  Probably something nasty.  Or nothing, which was more likely.

Not for the first time, Grace wondered how a sweet and gentle woman like Anna could stand to be married to the tunnels’ resident alchemist.

"I think I saw Elizabeth smile, once or twice,” Jacob told her, taking the scarf out of the basket and wrapping it around his neck against the stiff wind.  Once they got past the blustery areas the walk wasn't so bad.  And conversation could be had, at least.

"She did smile,” Grace agreed, as they continued on.  "She danced with some of the children, and drew their portraits.  She looked wistful, for the most part, and she cried once, when she thought no one was looking.  But she smiled, too."

Not for the first time, Jacob marveled at her keen powers of observation.  Grace did not miss much.

They wound their way through the hallways of stone, getting closer to “home.”  "But yes.  She had a good time,” Grace continued.  “Thank you for standing up for her, Jacob.”  Grace said it, and not for the first time.  She wanted him to understand the good that had been done there was his doing.  And to see the power a kind gesture could bring.

"Lately, I've been thinking about the people we had to turn away, before, realizing that perhaps I was hasty,” Jacob confided.  "Perhaps they should have been given a chance to be here, to try, before we decided.  Their need was certainly great.  And I'm sure they would have done all they could to contribute to the community,” Jacob mused.

Ah, so possible mistakes stayed with him, did they?  Well.  Good for him.  Grace liked that this dark, polished man had a conscience, and that it pricked him when it should.  Whatever life had beaten out of him, it hadn't beaten that.

"I remember them, too," she told him.  "They might still be near.  Foraging.”  They reached his chamber, and she went inside to set his basket on the table.

"That's very reasonable," he agreed.  "Do you think they can be found?  Be contacted?"

"I think at least one of them can.  The other two may have moved on."

She unpacked the basket, and surprised him by uncapping the bottle of brandy, and pouring a little into two disparate glasses he had sitting on top of a battered dresser.  She handed him one.

"Speaking of moving on, that's something I've meant to discuss with you, Jacob."  She raised her glass to him.  He touched his to hers.  He both knew it was coming, and wished it wasn't.

"You're leaving, then?" he asked.  She'd lived there a little more than a year, but not much more.

"I think it's time.”  She took a sip of the brandy.  So did he.

She traced the rim of the glass with her fingertip.  “John and I obviously don't see eye to eye, and, well, I've always had a bit of wanderlust in my bones.  I thought I'd wait until spring, maybe.  Maybe not.  I don't know."  She shrugged her shoulders and took another sip.  "The year I've spent here is almost a record, for me, for staying in one place.  I've a bit of a yen to see the mountains.  They have fine hotels all along the Appalachians.  Vacation places for rich folk, like you."  She smiled as she said it.

Even down here, without a dime to spend between them, she still considered him a “rich man.”  The irony that she was still aware of the separations “class” could bring was not lost on him.

He nodded at her revelation that she was going.  And, truth to tell, he was a little relieved.  John had Anna, and Pascal was older, widowed, and had his hands full with his little son.  William seemed to keep Mary company, though Mary could just as easily be found helping Jacob.  Mary had “matron” in her blood.  It was part of why being here suited her.  She could mother the children without the complications of marriage.

But then that left the obvious pairing of him and Grace.  And Grace did not have “matron” in her blood.

He'd grown to think of her as more attractive as the days had gone by, and he'd had at least one vivid dream of her.  When the needs of his body became ... un-ignorable, he tried not to fantasize about her, knowing such games would be suicide.

Overall, it was probably a good thing she was thinking of moving on.  She wouldn't be the first to do so.

That didn't mean he wouldn't miss her, however.  As the thought crossed his mind, it crossed his eyes.  That, and something more.  Something warmer, like the brandy.  He wasn't drunk.  But he desperately wanted the feeling that he was, or at least that he could be, all of a sudden.  His gaze filled with a gentle kind of longing, and he didn’t try to hide it.

Grace saw the look, and was far too canny and too honest to pretend she hadn’t caught it, and didn’t know what it meant.  She set down her glass, and so did he.

"I'm not her.  That woman you miss.  She isn't me, and I ain't her, Jacob."  Grace let the contraction stand, to make her point.  Grace knew that Margaret had never used the word “ain't” in her life.

"No, you aren't.”  He said it softly and, surprisingly, without the pain he'd once felt at the thought of Margaret.  "And I am not any of the men you used to work for.  Or who used to think you were beneath them, somehow."

And there it was.  A bargain, or at least a proposal, between them.

"Fair enough, then."  She stepped closer to him and gave him her mouth, and he tasted the brandy, and something spicy beneath.  They were nearly the same height, and her breasts nestled temptingly against his chest.

So long.  It has been so long, Jacob's mind whispered, his body taking over on instinct with what his senses told him was before him.

She had never been a prostitute, yet was no virgin, both by choice and by circumstance.  She was worldlier than he was in some ways, and a good bit smarter in others.  She already knew that things between him and John would end badly.  Already knew he needed Peter Alcott more than he thought he did.  And none of that mattered right now.

His arousal was not a slow thing.  Neither was hers.

She felt warm.  Her mouth opened fully beneath his.  She either walked backward toward his bed, or he nudged her there.  He was never sure which was more true, only that both were.  They both felt the back of her legs hit the mattress as it perched on the makeshift brass frame.  Her arms dropped from his neck as they both felt her bump the bed.

The kiss broke, and she untied the apron and then pulled it and her tunnel dress up and over her head, in one motion.  She was unselfconscious about standing before him braless, in her underthings.  She kicked her way clear of her slippers, and reached down for her thick stockings.

"May I?" he asked, fascinated by the length of her legs, the obvious strength in her thighs.

"Of course.”  She smiled at him, sitting.  She offered him her foot, clad in a long grey woolen sock that should have been anything but sexy, and suddenly was just that.  She leaned back a little, interested that he was not fascinated, as most men were, by her rose-tipped breasts.

Almost reverently, Jacob knelt at her feet.  He reached up for the top of her right stocking, and softly began brushing it down.  Grace tipped her head to the side, feeling his physician's hands stroke her legs.  She regarded him through warm, half-closed eyes, as he softly pushed her hosiery down her legs, and then finished undressing her.  He kissed her left knee, and then rose to disrobe.

He was not unaware of the effect tunnel life had wrought on his thirty-three-year-old form.  Barring his hip, he was a good specimen of masculine health, if not strength.

His shoulders were broad, his torso the compact, muscular form of a man who had taken wrestling in college and swam for therapy.  The body hair on his barrel chest was brown, springy, and somewhat thick at the top, thinner down his torso.  His legs were stronger than they ever had been, the result of walking everywhere, rather than riding in a car.  His arms were stronger, as well, from the result of his labors.  He was not a tall man, but his abdomen was well formed yet, and leaner from his current diet.  He had no illusions about the effect the hip would have on his later life.  But this was not that life, not yet.  This was “now,” and a lovely, healthy woman with no illusions was willing, in his chambers.

His hands stroked her thighs as he felt his own arousal at her response.  She had beautiful legs.  Legs he realized he'd never really seen, until this moment.

She walked everywhere, and stood regularly.  Jacob was a leg man, and even as the name “Margaret” whispered across his consciousness, he had to admit that Grace's longer, firmer legs were enticing.  Toned.  Shapely.  They flowed into hips that were deep-seated and wide.  Her waist was not waspish, but it was there.  Jacob leaned over her and pulled her head up for a hungry kiss.

He would have taken her on his knees, but for the effect that would have had on his hip.  It pulled, and set him off balance.  Sensing his need, Grace simply moved herself backward on the bed, and locked her legs around him to draw him with her.

It was not brief, nor was it long.  Neither had made love to another human being in a very long time, and simple length of abstinence had certain... effects on both of them.  He liked the strength in her thighs as she held him.  She liked the rasp of his beard.  Neither pretended the other was someone else, even if they both wished it could be so.  Neither pretended they were in love.  But Jacob was a considerate lover, and he knew it.  If he could give her nothing else, he could give her that.

Afterward, she covered his sleeping form and shrugged her way back into her tunnel gown.  She slipped her shoes on her feet, simply carrying her stockings.  There was no sense staying until morning.  Not now.  She had no desire to see the look of guilt on his face, a look she knew would be there.  It was time to go.  She had already decided that, anyway.

Picking up her belongings in her chamber, she changed into the plain black dress, tights, and soft soled shoes she'd worn the day she'd come to the tunnels, and she went back to the world Above.

~ ~ ~

"You do know he's yours," she told him over eight months later, as she held her swollen belly.  She was in his examining room.  The shelves were a little better stocked.  The table was the same.

"I never thought to imply otherwise, Grace.  You should have come back to us much sooner."  He did not like the swelling of her ankles, or the anemic look of her skin.  And he was stunned at the realization that he was about to become a father.

She closed her eyes, relieved.  He wouldn't deny it.  And she knew something was wrong with her.  Right now, the former seemed far more important than the latter.

She took off a brass ring that she'd used as a wedding band.  The old trick, to keep her from censure as she carried his child.  This was New York.  It was easy to become anonymous in a city with millions of people in it.  Above, she was Grace the cleaning lady.  Her “husband” was in the military and, like so many other brides, she was bearing her child alone.  It was a common ruse for the unwed and pregnant.  It had scored her a semi-decent apartment and a waitress job on weekends, until she began to show too much for comfort, either hers or those of her patrons.

She never did make it to the mountains.  At least not the ones in the Appalachians.

Though she felt like she'd been climbing one, the last eight months.

Her finger was green from the cheap ring.  Brass ring.  Carousel.  Free association.  She'd never understand what that word would mean to her son, one day.

"You don't have to tell John it's yours.  You don't have to tell anyone.  Just let them think what they will."

"Grace.  I am not ashamed of you.  Surprised, yes, but you can hardly blame me for that," Jacob told her in the privacy of the examination room.

Grace nodded.  "Jacob, I don't feel well.  I haven't for several weeks.  I didn't intend on coming back until after the baby came, if at all.  But I had a terrible dream last week, and that kind of decided it for me."  Her brown eyes met his.  "If I die when this baby is born, I don't want her given up to an orphanage.  Not when her father is still alive," she told him.

"Her?"  Jacob checked her pulse.  It was rapid.

"Her, today.  Him, tomorrow.  Some days I think I know."

Jacob noted the deep shadows under her eyes.  She was exhausted.  He prayed that's all it was.

"Your old chambers are still empty.  You may tell the others anything you wish.  I will corroborate whatever you want to say.  I think we both agree that I owe you that much, considering,” Jacob replied kindly.

Grace nodded, aware that he was being more gracious than he had to be.  He could have shouted at her, or asked “why.”  Could have simply denied that it was his.  Could have done any number of things, both forgivable and not.

But he had done none of those, and it was then that Grace became truly afraid.  He hadn't denied she was in rough shape either.  He was willing to let her have any truth, any lie, just to get her to lie down a bit.  She made peace with that.

~ ~ ~

To most of the world Below, she stuck to the same story she'd told to the world Above.  She'd “got caught up with” a man in the military.  She didn't look as far along as she was, though there was no doubt she was pregnant.  The gift of her wider frame and sturdy build.  She looked closer to six months along than eight.

John sneered, but truly paid the situation little attention.  He was busy with his own concerns, and one more lowborn female, more or less, was hardly a thing he cared about, one way or the other.  His attitude was characteristically dismissive.  Anna, however, was supportive, though her dark eyes struggled to hide their envy at Grace's form.

Mary, interestingly, knew.  She knew before Grace even began to tell the lie, and raised her hand one time, when the two women were alone together, begging her not to continue to tell it.  When Grace asked, “How do you know?”  Mary simply replied, "After you left.  I was the one who did his laundry.  And saw the rather lost look on his face, the morning after."

It was the last time Grace ever tried to lie to Mary.

Grace died on a Thursday, bearing a Thursday child.  A son.  Thursday's child has far to go.  Eclampsia took her, shortly after Devin Wells howled his way into the world.  She loved him all of twenty minutes before she drew her last breath.

"Take care of him, Jacob.  I'm glad it's a boy.  If you can...make sure he sees… mountains…" were the only coherent words she said before delirium and seizures took her.

Jacob wept as he held her still form, not knowing what to do or where to begin.

He looked at Mary as she cradled the infant.

"Mary, would you please find out if we have any condensed milk to feed my son?"  He would not deny who Devin was.  Not today, at least.

Mary nodded sadly.  Her face covered with tears, she took the little boy into the maze of the tunnels.  A maze that would not hold him, ultimately.

His brown hair and broad forehead were like Jacob's.  But they were like Grace's, too, so nothing about the wee, crying spirit in her arms gave up his parentage.  His eyes were blue, but would later turn to brown, like most infants.

"There, there," Mary comforted the infant.  "Devin.  That's your name.  Devin.  Your mother loved you very much, Devin.  And she was very brave.  I don't know if I could have been that brave.  I'm your Aunt Mary.  And I'm going to take care of you."

The slender woman who had never been a wife became a mother, yet another time.  Pascal the Elder was there to greet her as she walked into the kitchen chambers.

"Grace is gone?" he asked.  Mary had already tapped out that message, and she nodded.  "He's ours now, Pascal.  He belongs to all of us.  He and your son can grow up together, perhaps."

"That would be good," the elder Pascal told her.  "There's a young couple coming down next week.  Perhaps there will be more children, in time."

"Wouldn't that be a blessing?"  Mary said, cradling the baby in her arms while William pulled down a can of milk, listening to the exchange.

"Jacob is devastated.  He's with her now.  Peter is coming down to... take care of things," Mary said, referring to Grace's body.

"May I hold him?"  Anna's voice, came from the doorway.

"Of course, Anna.  He'll need all the mothers we can rally for him,” Mary told her while William heated milk in a saucepan.

"I know John and Grace did not always... share the same views,” Anna said as she cradled the baby boy.  "My, but he's a handsome one, isn't he?  Such thick brown hair.  His eyes are blue, but they'll probably turn brown, don't you think?"  Anna asked.

"I do, Mary answered simply.

"You know, I always thought there was something very courageous about Grace,” Anna remembered, thinking of all the times she'd stood up to John.

"So did I,” Mary said.  The men agreed, silently.  There were times when it was simply best to let the women set the tone.  This was obviously one of them.

"We should have a service for her.  By the Mirror Pool?”  Mary asked it.  Anna nodded at that.  "There are things I would like to say to her,” Mary said.  "Maybe I'll write a letter.  Send it, there."  Pascal approved, solemnly.  Grace had stood up for his son when John had been ... less than kind.  The older man, too, had a few things he wanted to say to their fallen friend.

The baby's bottle was made, and Devin returned to Mary's arms.  She took her seat on a stool and fed him while the other adults gathered around her.

"He's ours now,” Mary told them all, no compromise in her voice.  "Ours and Jacob's, too."  They thought she said that since she was including the name of the man who was not there.

Later, of course, they would find out more.  But for this moment, a newborn boy drank thirstily in Mary's arms, surrounded by the warmth of William's kitchen and the companionship of a group of people he would come to know as family.

~ ~ ~

In a chamber not far away, a tired, all but broken man said goodbye to the only woman who would ever bear him a child.  He sat near her on the same stool he’d used when he’d brought their son into the world.  Her face was peaceful in the sleep of death, and he'd wiped the sweat of labor from her face, and adjusted her braid so that it lay neatly down her form.

"It should have been me, somehow, and not you," he told her, feeling deeply in his heart that it was true.

"Of the two of us, you were the better one.  The stronger one, Grace."  He kissed her forehead, aware it was a gesture he'd never made to her while she lived.

"I will do all I can for him,” Jacob vowed.  "Help him to fit in here.  Make him a leader, if I can.  If he has your spirit, he'll be apt to go his own way, some.  I'll have to make sure he knows he always has a home here.  Such as it is."

He held her hand, which was now cold.  "I will miss you, Grace.  And so will he.  More than either of us will ever know."

"Jacob?"  Peter's voice came from the doorway of the chamber.  "Pascal told me, on the pipes.  I came as soon as I could."

"She's gone, Peter," Jacob said sadly.  "And I have a son to raise."

"Then we all have a son to raise, Jacob."  Peter did not intentionally misunderstand about Devin's parentage.  Though he and Jacob had never spoken of Grace, it took no math giant to count backwards from this day to deduce Grace's child was likely Jacob's.  Peter squeezed his friend's shoulder.

"Do you want me to take him above?  If he's healthy, he'll be adopted before the end of the week, more than likely.  One less burden for you to bear."

Jacob shook his head.  "No, Peter, no.  Grace didn’t want that, for her child, and neither do I.  He'll be a challenge, but he isn't a burden.  He's mine.  I will make sure he knows it, someday."  Jacob rose, about to leave Grace in Peter's care.

Peter nodded.  "She was a good woman, Jacob.  Whatever part of her still lives, it lives on in her son, in her boy."

"He's also my boy," Jacob said.  "And I am his father, though I don’t think she ever wanted anyone to know it.  I pray I can be better as ‘Father’ than I ever was as 'Jacob.'"

Jacob felt the almost transformative change of that title, as he picked up his cane.  Father.  It rang in his psyche like a bell, and it rang true.  For all he'd ever been in the world above, he'd never been “Father” to anyone.

Perhaps it was time for that to change.  No.  It was definitely time for that to change.  Not just for Devin, but for all the rest of the children Below.

Margaret and his life before had made him a “husband.”  But Grace had made him a “father.”  It was time he made the change from his old life to this one.  Time he stopped regretting his losses.  Time he acknowledged who he was, now, at last.  Time he stopped longing for what had been, and finally, finally embraced what he now was, and more - what he could become.

"I need to go check on my son,” he told Peter, leaving the sorrows of the chamber behind.

He could all but feel Grace chiding him out the doorway.  “Why are you sittin’ here with the dead, you fool, when it's the living that need you?  Now go tend my son.  Father.”

"I need to see what he needs.  Make sure he's healthy.”  Jacob steadied himself on his cane.  "And love him, until the day I die."

Peter watched his old friend hobble out the narrow doorway, the cane helping steady his gait.  Peter had worried for a long time that Jacob would never find peace here, never find himself.  He had a feeling that the departed woman on the bed and the sleeping baby in the kitchen might just prove his fears groundless.

"Goodbye, Grace,” Peter told her, drawing the sheet up, slowly.  Her braid had been placed gently over her shoulder.  Her face looked peaceful, in sleep.  He would take her to the catacombs so she could rest.  Perhaps Elizabeth would paint a headstone for her, or perhaps carve one.  Something simple.  Just her name, perhaps.  Grace hated it when people “put on airs.”  He would have to find her a marker she would have approved of had she been able to choose for herself.  He owed her that much.  He wrapped her body with care.

"You might have just saved Jacob's life,” Peter whispered to her, a world of regret in his voice.

Beside him, a candle shimmered and seemed to grow brighter.  The flame wavered a little, then burned stronger.  It shouldn't have.  There was no breeze in here to move the fire.  Peter acknowledged it, and let his understanding go.

"I know.  I'm going.  I'll examine him,” Peter said it aloud, as if Grace had just chided him, too.  "Two doctors are better than one.  When I come back, we'll take you to the catacombs."

And Peter left to join Jacob, Mary, Devin and the others, all in William's kitchen.  A kitchen where Thursday's Child now slept peacefully, on the first day of his life’s journey.

---fin---

This is the first time that A State of Grace, by Cindy Rae has appeared online. It debuted in the conzine Somewhere I Have Never Traveled for the 2015 Annual Beauty & the Beast Convention in Calgary, Canada. The complete conzine is available on loan within the United States from the Crystal Rose Lending Library. http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/

Ragged Little Kingdom

by Mai Phan

“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

-Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley

~ ~ ~

It's a ragged little kingdom

'Neath a jagged little spire

And I've a ragged little resting place

To sleep on when I tire.

It's a vagabonded life

Wrapped in vagabonded clothes.

Most of which will keep me warm

(Excepting for my nose.)

All the tenements and towers,

And the signs along the way,

Scream "Ozymandias was here!"

- Before he went away.

There are canyons made by castles,

Where the narrow sky is thin.

So I prefer the open park,

Though it lets the winter in.

And I gather up the cast-offs

While the subject go a-toiling.

At least the falling temperature

Keeps my milk from spoiling.

There's a Sister and a Father

As a family, quite odd

And they'll preach a soup each evening

For those who still believe in God.

And the soup is served with sermons,

Because soup ain't had for free,

And I still believe in God;

Not sure if he believes in me.

Oh, it's the land of milk and honey,

Even for the self-anointed.

And long as you don't ask for much,

You won't be disappointed.

There's a Beauty on a balcony

That overlooks my park,

And a Beast upon the battlements,

Prowling after dark.

There's a winter in the offing,

And an empty jug of wine.

I scorn to change my state with kings,

'Cause Brother, it's all MINE.

“Feast”

Jodie Boyle

~ ~ ~

Come to me…

At midnight

When a cloak of darkness covers the world

Seek me at sunrise

The morning mists caress me

Hues of red and pink

Staining the sky the colour of your lips

Escape the midday sun

That fiery ball heating your skin

It is cool here

Ice blocks are close at hand

To slide down the back of your neck

When Persephone is visiting the Underworld

Her mother crying, and sending howling winds of grief

We have our chambers of warmth and light

No shadows linger here…

A candle shall guide you

Flames will make your shamrock eyes come to life

Or, surprise me, visit me in the darkness

But your heart is a beacon

You cannot hide for long

I need you…

Crave and adore you

The touch of your hand

Your voice – each syllable an endearment

The curve of your lips leaves me breathless

Say the word

Reach for me

Take me in your arms

For you are already in my grateful heart

Let me taste the sweetness of your mouth

Allow me to feast at your breast

Grant permission for me to make love to you

Today...tonight…for all time

In return for this great gift

I give you my body and soul

The only love I will ever know

Once Upon A Time

by Judith Nolan

“Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.”

~ Robert A. Heinlein

~ ~ ~

Are you really sure you’re okay with this, Cathy?” Charles Chandler looked around the open door of his daughter’s bedroom. “It’s getting late. You’ve been in here for hours.”

“Of course, Dad.” Catherine turned from her dressing table mirror to smile at him. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine. I just needed to make sure I looked my best.”

“And yet, here I am, dragging you to another corporate event, when you’ve just turned sixteen.” Her father shrugged, entering the room. “I would’ve told my old man he’s crazy to even ask. That I had better things to do.”

“It’s fine, Dad, honestly. You needed a companion. This is an important night for you, so where else would I be?”

Now there’s a question that makes me shudder.” Charles laughed as he came up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders before bending to place a kiss on the top of her head. “A Saturday night in summer, New York City, and sweet sixteen – a terrifyingly volatile mixture. I know I found some new grey hairs when I looked in the shaving mirror this morning.”

“Come on, Dad. You know you can trust me.” Catherine shook her head at his reflection. “I’m not likely to run into trouble with you there to protect me. Besides, going to corporate functions with my father is about as exciting as my life gets right now.”

As she spoke, she lifted a denying shoulder against a rising sense of dissatisfaction. It was an unpalatable truth, but it was still a fact. Even at sixteen, she already knew that any interesting male who wanted to get to know the real Cathy, who did not see her as just a rich man’s daughter, were very few and far between. And there would be none at the party tonight.

“Oh, Cathy, I know…” Charles sighed. “Being my daughter will never be easy for you. Sometimes I wish it could be different. You’re still young, but some day, somewhere out there, in that great, big city, is the one for you. I know he’ll find you one day, and I hope he makes you as happy as your Mum and I were. I just hope I’m there to see it, to give you away at your wedding.”

His mouth compressed with regret. “And if only your mother could have been here to see you, to help you make your way in the world, now that you look so grown up and very beautiful. I know Cathleen would be so proud of you…you look amazing. I have no idea what I did right, but it must have been something.”

“Well, I imagine there are people out there who would tell me that there are far worse fates than being a rich man’s daughter, on my way to a fabulous party. Do you really think I look pretty? Like Mum?” Cathy asked, with hopeful eyes.

“You’re her very image,” Charles assured her sincerely. “You amaze me each and every day. And every day I love you more.”

Catherine swallowed tightly, and sighed. “Thanks, Dad. I know you’ve done your best, and I love you so much for that.” She smiled mistily, even as she admired his King Lear costume. “I must say you don’t look too bad yourself.”

“I’m sure I look like a complete fool.” Charles grimaced as he looked down at himself. “I’m still struggling to understand why anyone would want to throw a masked ball themed on Shakespeare’s characters. ‘Corporate bonding’ is apparently the new catch phrase around the office these days. Whatever happened to throwing a good, old-fashioned, meet-and- greet cocktail party? It was so much simpler.”

He frowned at his daughter’s reflection. “Remind me. Who are you supposed to be again?”

“Rosalind…” Catherine dabbed at her eyes as she tilted her head to study her own image, critically. “She’s the heroine in As You Like It. I am the beautiful, intelligent daughter of Duke Senior, before I was exiled to the Forest of Arden and forced to disguise myself as a shepherd boy called Ganymede and go around dressed like a man.”

“I knew your expensive education that I slaved day and night to pay for would come in handy one day.” Charles laughed, shaking his head. “But it really does my heart good to see you in a dress for a change.”

“Now don’t go all old-fashioned on me, Dad.” Catherine stood, shaking out the satin and organza skirts of her Elizabethan costume before picking up her mask. “Trousers are cool too.”

“Yes, but only on a man.” Charles spread his hands in bewilderment.

“Oh, Dad…” Catherine turned to press a kiss to his cheek. “Lighten up a bit. It’s 1974, not 1874.”

“I wish. Men knew what to do with their disobedient daughters back then.” Charles hugged her carefully, not wanting to disturb her extensive preparations. “Shall we go and be fashionably late?” With old world gallantry, he bowed as he offered her his arm.

~ ~ ~

Vincent stood in the shadows of the drainage tunnel entrance to Central Park, testing the warm night wind as it sighed through the trees. A gibbous moon floated lazily overhead, unhindered by clouds. In the distance, he could hear music and laughter coming from the Tavern on the Green.

No doubt there was yet another party going on, and his curiosity about the world Above often drew him forward to investigate.

He crept closer, keeping to the fringes and the dark places beneath the trees where he could watch and not be seen.

He was well aware of Father’s deepening concerns that he should be so bold. But, at nineteen, Vincent was still young enough to want to seek out the possibilities for adventure in his endless wanderings, instead of being mindful of the inherent dangers of imminent discovery.

His big brother Devin had taught him that before he left the tunnels for good. There had been adventures aplenty in the old days of their shared childhood.

Vincent’s boots made little sound as he walked across the clearing. After a few minutes, the restaurant came into view. The bright lights of the Crystal Room spilled out into the adjacent garden. The doors had been flung wide to the night air, and the place seemed alive with people, all masked and in fancy dress. It appeared as if they were enjoying themselves, hugely.

Vincent inched his way forward into a good position from where he could survey the party and contemplate the spectacle. But he wasn’t in the spot he’d designated for more than a few moments, before he heard someone arguing off to his left.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Let me go!” It was a woman’s voice, filled with intense exasperation. “Stop it!”

Vincent growled softly, deep in his throat, as his hackles rose. The woman sounded as if she was having trouble with someone. Perhaps she was dealing with the unwanted attentions of a man from the party. Despite his innate sense of caution, Vincent knew he couldn’t just stand by and listen.

He moved forward slowly, treading noiselessly towards the woman’s position. As he walked, he reached back to draw the hood of his cloak up and over his head, secreting his unusual face within the voluminous depths, where it couldn’t be readily seen.

The voice came again. “I’ve had enough of you. Oh, please! Come on…I want to go back to the party…”

Vincent pushed aside a low tree branch and peered around. The woman’s back was to him, but she was twisting to look down at something before her. He couldn’t immediately see anyone else. He was forced to assume whoever she was arguing with must be either on their knees or very short.

“Let me go!” Her voice rose to a new level of exasperation, her hands working at something in front of her, making tugging movements. And then Vincent heard the sound of cloth tearing. “Oh, help. Now look what you’ve done! This was such an expensive dress. Dad is going to kill me.”

Vincent frowned. He didn’t understand what was happening, or the evidence of his eyes. Was her already small attacker also mute?

He edged away quietly to the left, coming in from a different angle and, moving into the open, he immediately saw the problem.

The woman’s determined assailant is a rose bush!

He couldn’t stifle the laugh that escaped him. He ducked his head guiltily, intending to step quickly back out of sight, but he was already too late. The woman’s eyes turned to glare in his direction. Trapped in the moonlight, Vincent stood indecisively, debating the merits of an immediate retreat against daring to step forward and offer his help.

The woman – he assessed her to be quite young, despite the fantastical white mask of lace and ribbons that concealed the upper part of her face above the generous curve of her mouth – pointed an accusing finger at him.

“It’s all right for you to laugh. Obviously you think my predicament is very funny…” She drew herself up haughtily, staring at him disdainfully. “So I guess you’d rather laugh at me than help. Fine then. I don’t need your help. Go away!”

“I’m sorry.” Vincent shook his head. “It’s just that I have never seen anyone fighting with a rose bush before. And losing.”

The young woman was still tugging at the delicate material of her dress, trying to free herself. “Yes, well, I guess you could say the bush is winning,” she agreed tersely, her lips compressing with displeasure.

She abruptly surrendered the fight, spreading her hands in appeal. “All right. Can you help me, please? I have got to get back to the party before I’m missed. I’ll already be in enough trouble for ruining my dress.”

Vincent stared at her, assessing the risks involved. If he was careful, if he worked quickly, he would soon have her free and he could be on his way. He ignored the echo of Father’s cautioning voice in the back of his mind.

Where is the harm in offering a helping hand?

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.” Vincent approached her cautiously, keeping his face partially averted, his body blocking her view of his unusual hands as he worked at the fabric of her dress, carefully disentangling it from the rose bush’s thorny clutch. The young woman strained to see how he was progressing, but he managed to keep the broad width of his shoulder, blocking her line of sight.

“I only stepped outside for a breath of fresh air,” she complained on a ragged sigh. “It’s so hot in there. But my father worries about me; too much sometimes. I’m sixteen now, and I’m no longer a child, but he treats me like one. If he can’t see me in there, he’ll soon come looking. How embarrassing if he catches me like this.”

She shifted her stance impatiently. “Just as I was about to go back to the party, a breeze sprang up. It took my dress straight into the bush. I was so mad, I could have screamed.”

“That certainly would have brought your father to your rescue,” Vincent admitted, as he straightened from his task. He glanced at her over his shoulder, keeping his face well back, inside his hood. “There you are. You’re free at last.”

He moved backwards slowly. He was aware the celebration going on behind them was a costume party. If he wished, he could pass as an attendee. It would give him enough time to make good his escape before the truth was discovered.

“Oh, thank you.” The young woman hurried away from the offending bush. “But what about you? Did you come from the party too? I know Central Park is not a safe place to be walking alone after dark. Don’t leave me. You should come back inside with me.”

“I…” Vincent hesitated, as he moved further away from her, still keeping his face averted.

He kept his hands tucked into the concealment of his cloak, praying she would not want to stand around making small talk. Hoping her father would soon come looking for her and he could leave.

But on the heels of that fervent wish, he found he enjoyed listening to her speak. She was lovely, like a waking dream, and she possessed a truly beautiful voice, soft and warm.

He sighed regretfully. “I was passing, taking a walk just as you were. I heard you arguing with the bush. I thought you were in serious trouble.”

“I will be, when Dad sees the state of this dress.” She shook her head, smoothing fretfully at the long, jagged tear in the delicate fabric. “But thank you again for rescuing me. You’re certainly dressed for helping a damsel in distress. You look like you should be at the party. Or do you always walk around in such a fancy outfit?”

She indicated his thigh boots, black leather trousers, and the fullness of his concealing cloak. “I mean, under that hood, you could be anyone from the plays. I don’t know whose idea it was to have a masked ball with a Shakespeare theme. Someone had the bright idea that we should all get dressed up.”

Her eyes assessed him carefully. “If I were to guess, I would say you’re going for Othello, or perhaps, even, my very own Orlando.” She passed a graceful hand over the front of her dress. “Tonight, I’m Rosalind.”

“Ah, from As You Like It.” Vincent nodded. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”

Rosalind clapped her hands. “Oh, you do know your Shakespeare. We had to study it at school. I was never very good at remembering all the lines. I loved the sonnets best.”

“My…father has a deep passion for the Bard.” Vincent edged further away. “Really, you must get back to the party before you are missed. I wouldn’t wish to be the cause of your getting into more trouble.”

“Oh, my father I can handle.” Rosalind waved a dismissive hand. “He’s way too overprotective, but really a decent man. Tell me more about your father.”

“He…he is a doctor.” Vincent fidgeted, anxious to be gone, but not wanting to leave…not just yet. “He and I, we live together.”

“Oh, just like me and Dad.” Rosalind nodded quickly. “My mother died when I was young. It’s been hard, and I miss her terribly, sometimes. I guess that’s why Dad hates to let me out of his sight.”

“I never knew my mother.” The words were out before Vincent could prevent them.

“Oh, now that’s so sad,” Rosalind sympathised, moving towards him, but he stepped further back into the shadows. “You must miss her so much.”

“You should get back to the party. It is not safe for you to be out here…alone.”

“But I’m not alone, I’m with you,” Rosalind argued reasonably. “You’re not dangerous, are you?” Behind the mask her eyes gleamed with speculation. “Is that why you won’t show me your face? Do you have something to hide? Or are you always this mysterious around a woman?”

“There are many dangers for a young woman alone, here in this city and this park, but no, I am not one of them.”

“Good, then we can still talk.” Rosalind smiled, before sighing dramatically. “But maybe we should get back to the party. All these dark shadows out here could hide anything. You never know.”

She raised an inviting hand towards him. “Would it…is it too bold of me to ask, but would you like to dance with me?”

Vincent’s racing heart nearly stopped. His sharply indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. He’d never danced with anyone before, let alone a lovely young woman.

He shook his head sadly. “I…don’t dance.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Rosalind made a disappointed moue. “You look like you should know how to dance. You look, um, oh, I don’t know…” She shook her head in frustration. “Somehow different, not like the men I know.” She grimaced at her own description. “Otherworldly, like…like…” She shrugged her dissatisfaction. “You really puzzle me.”

“Now, see here. This is no longer funny!” In the distance, a man’s raised and exasperated voice suddenly cut across their conversation. “Stop playing silly games and come back inside at once! Where are you?”

“Oh, Lord! That’s my father.” Rosalind’s hand flew to her lips. “I have to go. Are you coming back with me? I can introduce you to Dad. Supper will be served soon, and we can talk some more about our parents.” She extended her hand towards him once more, beckoning with her fingers.

“No, I cannot come with you.” Vincent stared at her hand for a moment, before retreating fully into the surrounding darkness, then stopping hesitantly. “Please…” He half raised a detaining hand before quickly removing it from her line of sight. “Tell me your name…before you go…”

“My name…” She inhaled sharply, frowning at him. “But I already have. It’s Rosalind, remember?”

“No, not your character’s name.” Vincent shook his head. “Your own name. Can you tell me what it is…? So I can remember this night…and you…always…”

She took several steps back, watching him carefully, suddenly appearing to be unsure of his question, and him. Then she shrugged. “Well, I guess it can’t hurt…” She watched him closely for several more heartbeats and then said, “It’s Catherine.”

“Catherine…” Vincent breathed, more to himself than her. “Thank you. It is a beautiful name.”

“And you…?” She moved back towards him. “What’s your name? You still haven’t told me.”

Vincent hesitated, before retreating into the deepest shadows once more. “Another time perhaps. We may meet again, in the park, on another warm night like this. Perhaps, then, I will tell you my name…”

~ ~ ~

Fourteen years later…

Catherine fussed with her preparations. She wanted it all to be so perfect. She’d invited Vincent to her apartment for a movie evening, but it was to be an evening with a difference.

After she’d recovered from the loss of her father, Catherine had given herself the task of clearing out his effects from the family summerhouse by the lake, before it was sold. It was during this sad task, sorting through the cluttered attic that she stumbled across an old projector and a screen. There was also a trunk full of film reels.

Kneeling before the collection, she carefully sorted through them, realising she’d uncovered the history of her own life. It was all here, everything she had thought had been lost, years before.

On impulse, she loaded the projector and then set up the screen. She quickly became lost in the bittersweet memories the pictures invoked. But almost immediately, her tears began to flow, and she missed half of the images due to her impaired vision. When the telephone suddenly rang downstairs, she breathed a grateful sigh, glad she was forced to abandon her task.

It was only later, when she was getting ready for bed in her old room, that she realised Vincent had never seen photos or anything of her childhood, and what a wonderful gift it would be for the two of them to sit together one evening and watch the films.

She readjusted the projector now, straightening the screen once more. She had sent a message Below some hours ago and she expected Vincent to arrive on her balcony very soon. She had been deliberately cryptic in her note, wanting it all to be a secret until she was ready to reveal her discovery.

Besides, she doubted she would get through the whole evening without Vincent beside her, to hold and comfort her. He’d done that very thing recently, when the memories when the memories got too real, too sad, and she’d been forced to seek refuge with him, safe and secure in his unquestioning love.

She glanced through the balcony windows. “It will be dark soon…”

She sighed. “This one’s for you, Dad. Wherever you are, I pray you and Mum are happy together. I so miss you guys.” She smiled sadly. “I wish you both could have met Vincent. You were right, Dad. I did finally meet a man who cares for me alone, for who I am.”

~ ~ ~

Vincent dropped easily over Catherine’s balcony wall. The night was closing in around him, bringing a hint of rain from the scudding clouds overhead. He pushed back the concealing hood of his cloak from his hair, turning to inhale the evening air, and all its sounds and scents.

He paused, sensing Catherine’s rising sense of sadness over her father’s recent death. It rippled through their bond, full of sensations and memories. Grief-stricken and confused, she had come to him, filled with the agony and pain of her father’s passing, and he had kept her warm and safe as he comforted her, helped her come to terms with her loss.

Now her level of pain was bearable, an abiding sadness that would lessen with time.

He looked again at the note in his hand. Catherine had invited him to a movie evening. It was such an unusual request it brought a questioning frown to his face.

He had no real idea of her taste in movies. He knew he would enjoy anything she liked, but it was still a puzzle he had not quite worked out yet. And he didn’t often enter her apartment, preferring the open air and space of the balcony. He was still hovering uncertainly, when she looked up and saw him through the glass doors.

“Vincent…” Catherine flung the doors wide, running up to him, throwing herself headlong into his arms.

He caught her, holding her close as she mumbled something incoherent into his vest. “It’s all right; I’m here.” Vincent sighed, gathering her slender body closer against him. Slowly, he rocked her from side to side, allowing the warmth of his body to calm, her as she burrowed deeper into him.

Finally, Catherine turned her face to one side. “I have missed you so much. I know I’ve only been gone a few days.”

“And I have missed you.” Vincent drew back fractionally to look down at her. “How are you now?”

“I’m doing okay.” Catherine sighed. “I’m taking one day at a time. It was a wrench to let the house go, but I can’t use it now; too many memories. And Joe’s been very good about giving me some more time off work. So, once I got back from the lake, I had an idea for us, for tonight…”

“You know you don’t need an excuse to bring me here.” Vincent held up the note. “You only have to think of me and I will be with you…always…”

“I know, but I thought…” Catherine drew back to clasp his hand between hers. “I thought we might go inside tonight. It’s too cold out here. I thought we could spend the evening together.”

“A movie evening?” Vincent’s questioned with a renewed frown. “I will admit to being intrigued. What are we going to see?”

Catherine wiped a hand across her damp cheeks. “I thought we could do something different. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a decent movie. And had someone I care about to see it with.”

“Catherine…?” Vincent cupped her face between his hands. “What are you up to? You are being very mysterious tonight.”

“It’s just a little something I thought you might enjoy…with me. Come on. Please come inside.”

She tugged insistently at his hand, and he allowed her to lead him into the softly-lit warmth of her apartment. She closed the doors behind them and drew the curtains.

“See, I’ve even splashed out on popcorn and soda. I can order pizza if you’re hungry.” Catherine smiled as she took him into her lounge, indicating the array of food on the coffee table. “Sit down here.” She pointed to the couch.

“So what are we seeing tonight?” Vincent did as she asked, looking from the screen to the projector with deepening curiosity.

“I have something special, just for us.” Catherine lit a few candles behind them before switching off the lights and returning to sit beside him, curling her legs beneath her. “You don’t mind, Vincent, do you?”

“Mind…?” Vincent shook his head. “Why should I mind? If you wish to show me something, Catherine, then I am happy to see it. I’ll admit the subject matter interests me. I have no idea of your tastes in movies, but I am prepared to be entertained.”

“Good.” Catherine slid her hands around his arm, laying her head on his shoulder. “Ready to begin?”

“Why all the secrecy?” Vincent raised her chin with the backs of his fingers. “What are you hiding?”

“All right…” Catherine pouted. “I’ll tell you.” She straightened up. “When I was going through Dad’s things the other day, I found a whole trunkful of home movies he’d made. I had thought they were lost years ago.”

“Home movies…?” Vincent questioned. He straightened to stare at her. “Of you?”

“Mainly of me.” Catherine nodded quickly. “Do you want to see them?”

“You know the answer to that.” Vincent cupped her cheek in his palm. “You know how much I have wanted to see something of your life before we met. To know you, then.”

“Okay, good.” Catherine reached to switch on the projector. “But you must promise not to laugh. I only managed to look at a couple back at the house. They did make me sad, but, I know some of them are, honestly, a bit embarrassing.”

“I promise,” Vincent avowed in a mock-solemn tone. “As long as you don’t laugh before me. Then all promises are off.”

Catherine chuckled. “All right. It’s a deal.”

After a few moments, the screen flickered into life, and Catherine was soon lost in a host of bittersweet memories. There were images of her mother and father, holding hands and laughing together, as they kissed. Catherine making faces as her father filmed her opening her gifts. Her joy was evident, along with the occasional pout, if the gift was not quite to her childish liking.

There were scenes of her dancing a waltz with her mother, as Charles conducted an unseen orchestra, with exaggerated gestures. Their shared laughter underscored everything they did together. It all made Catherine’s early childhood seem idyllic, and blessed.

Hearing a muffled sob, Vincent turned to watch his love’s reaction. He saw her wipe her fingertips across the line of tears running down her cheeks. He leaned closer to place his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close against him, as they watched.

A Christmas scene unfolded. “Oh, I’d forgotten all about that doll.” Catherine sat up to look closer. “I was so determined I was going to get a pony that year. My soft-hearted father said we would have to wait and see.” She sighed.

“A pony in Manhattan would have been difficult to keep.” Vincent smiled as he kissed her hair.

“I know…Dad said the same thing afterwards.” Catherine laughed softly. “But try telling that to a five-year-old with a mind of her own. My father hated not being able to please me. And I could be wilful when I wanted to be. He once said he should have sued me when I was five, because I always went my own way. Now I can see why.”

The images changed, and Catherine grew up, steadily. Vincent held her, comforting her, as she cried softly for her mother, whose beautiful images flickered across the screen, before she was gone all too soon.

Then it was just Catherine and her father, coming to terms with their loss. But time moved inexorably on, and the teenage Catherine began to grow into a beautiful young woman.

All too soon, they were drawing towards the end of the films. Hours had passed, but neither noticed. The moon was beginning to sink towards the far horizon beyond the balcony windows. “Well, that certainly was a trip. Last one.” Catherine hugged Vincent before getting up to change the projector to the final reel.

She held up the case. “I don’t know what’s on this one. Dad didn’t label it, and I don’t recognise the box as one of his.” She came back to sit beside Vincent, drawing his arm around her shoulders and kissing the backs of his fingers, one by one, as the reel flickered into life.

“Oh, yes. I remember this…” She gasped. “This was years ago. I think it was a really strange party some of the guys at Dad’s firm got the idea for. ‘Corporate bonding’, I think they called it. We all had to get into fancy dress. We went to the Tavern on the Green that night.”

“I can’t see you anywhere…” Vincent frowned at the images as they flickered across the screen. “What were you wearing?”

“I can’t remember now, it was so long ago. I wonder where Dad got this from…” She laughed as she shook her head. “I guess it was filmed to make some promos for the firm. If I’m in it, I’ll turn it off. I think it was just too awful.”

As she turned, Vincent reached to take her hand away from the projectors ‘off’ switch. “No, Catherine, we will see this all through to the end. Now I am truly curious to see this hideous outfit of yours.”

“I’m really sure it was awful. Most of them were, in those days,” Catherine complained, as she shook her head. “I know it used to take me hours to get ready, and I think I tore the darn thing, in the end.”

She frowned then nodded. “Yes, I did, and my father didn’t forgive me for days afterwards. If I remember correctly, it cost him a lot of money.”

As she spoke the camera angle panned away from the Tavern’s Crystal Room and took in the night scene outside. The operator moved forward, leaving the crowded room behind, passing through the open doors and into the garden beyond.

In the distance, two figures could be seen, standing close together. One was a tall man, standing in deep shadow and barely visible, the other a slender, young woman, in a fanciful Elizabethan dress.

They appeared to be arguing, the woman suddenly extending a hand in appeal towards the man, who replied, then shook his head. He moved deeper into the shadows as the camera zoomed in on them.

The woman seemed frustrated as she moved her shoulders, shaking her head as if she disagreed with something her companion had said. The man was hooded and mysterious, the woman’s face obscured by a fantastical white mask of lace and ribbons…

“Now see here. This is no longer funny!”  A man’s voice, raised in exasperation suddenly shouted, not far from the camera’s vantage point. “Stop playing silly games and come back inside at once! Where are you?”

The camera angle jumped and suddenly dipped, as if the operator didn’t wish to be caught filming the ensuing incident. Then the camera swung quickly back to the party scene. Neither Vincent nor Catherine moved as the screen suddenly flickered to blank and the spool ran out. The silence that ensued was fraught with disbelief.

“I don’t believe it…” Catherine frowned. “That was Dad’s voice; he was calling to me. Now I remember what happened. That was me, in that weird fancy dress with the white mask. I was outside, in the garden…”

Vincent sat forward abruptly. “And your father came looking for you...”

“What did happen that night? I don’t remember meeting anyone in the garden.” Catherine stared at the blank screen. “Well, not that I can think of…and yet, there I am, talking to someone…”

“The rose bush…” Vincent shook his head. “You were fighting with a rose bush…”

“How can you fight with a bush…?” Catherine turned to him, grasping his shoulder. “I mean, it’s all too crazy. What are you trying to say?”

Vincent frowned into the middle distance. “You said you were taking a walk, to get some fresh air, and the bush attacked you. You needed help, my help, to get free.”

“I don’t understand…” Catherine’s lips parted in astonishment. “What is this?” She sat up to kneel beside him. “Are you saying we met once, nearly fifteen years ago, in the park, at that silly party? Because of a rose bush?”

“Rosalind…” Vincent mused slowly. “You said you were dressed as Rosalind. You thought…you thought I was Othello or your Orlando.”

For Catherine, realisation has just dawned. “That’s right…” She nodded slowly, pressing shocked fingers to her trembling lips. “Oh, Lord, how could I ever forget you? Please, tell me. Did I make a total fool of myself?”

“You were very sweet and direct.” Vincent drew her close against him. “You asked me to dance with you.”

“Oh, help…” Catherine swallowed tightly. “What did you think of me?”

“That you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. That, in another life, another world, I would have gone back to the party and danced with you.” He shook his head. “I do not understand this. How could I have forgotten you and that night?”

“Perhaps because it was simply a night out of time, for both of us. I was sixteen, and I’d been missing my mother dreadfully that summer. Dad thought if he kept me close to him, I would be all right. But my mind was scattered, and too full of sad memories. I found it hard to concentrate on anything for too long, without breaking down.”

She touched his cheek in apology. “Did you…I mean, I seem to remember, when you were leaving, you said you would tell me your name. If we ever met again in the park.”

“I did, yes.” On an impulse he did not stop to question, Vincent leaned across to scoop Catherine up into his arms, turning to place her across his lap, her arms going around his neck, her lips only a whisper from his own. “I said if we ever met again in the park, on another magical night like that, perhaps then I would tell you my name…”

“I remember now; you asked me my name.” Catherine looked deep into his sapphire eyes that gazed so seriously at her. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. But Dad was coming, and I didn’t want the moment to slip away…not so quickly. I had just found something, or someone, so magical…”

“And I didn’t want to leave you…” Vincent admitted slowly. “But I could not stay. There were things I could not tell you, or allow you to see. Secrets that were not mine alone.”

“I understand that now. Oh, Vincent, do you know how much I love you?” Catherine sighed, leaning closer to place a soft kiss against his mouth. “In that last moment, when you were with me, I felt as if you could truly understand who I was, inside. I had never felt that before. No man had ever taken the time to see the real me. Does that make any sense?”

“Perfect sense, my love.” Vincent traced the line of her lips with one questing fingertip. “You saw me that night as well. You didn’t run from me. You didn’t question why or how I was there; you simply accepted my presence as part of a magical night. As if we were old friends who just happened to meet in the park. In that moment, you were very young and innocent, but also very old and wise.”

“I think that is a compliment.” Catherine smiled. “If my father had not intruded then…what might have been?”

“Your father loved you and worried for you.” Vincent shook his head. “I had nothing to offer you, Catherine. He would have seen that in an instant and made sure we never saw each other again. He was a good and careful father.”

“But if you were all I wanted…” Catherine’s eyes dropped to his mouth once more. “My father would have understood. I would have made him see sense.”

“Ah, my sweet Catherine.” Vincent shook his head. “It is a pity your father and mine never met. They love us, but both would have stood on the sidelines, worrying and clucking over us like a pair of old hens, giving us no peace. And they would have found themselves in perfect accord. How could a love as impossible and as complicated as ours ever hope to survive?”

“Because we wish it to be so, Vincent.” Catherine laid her head against the broad strength on his shoulder. “Because Rosalind needs her Orlando to keep her safe and warm. To understand and love her, beyond everything.”

“Even in the Forest of Arden?” Vincent drew her closer still. “And from the impending attack of any marauding rose bush?”

“Oh, definitely from all the rose bushes. You never know when one might leap out and attack me again…”

“Of course. Then I will be here, to love and care for you.” Vincent kissed her with lingering tenderness. “Against whatever happens and whatever comes, and all the dangerous rose bushes of this world.”

“Thank you, Vincent.” Catherine laid her hand against his cheek. “And this time, I shall never forget you.”

Vincent smiled. “And I am truly glad I finally was able to tell you my name…one night, deep beneath the park…”

~ FIN ~

“They say a person needs just three things to be truly

happy in this world: someone to love, something to do,

and something to hope for.”

~ Tom Bodett

~ ~ ~

Once Upon A Time by Judith Nolan was originally published online during the 2014 Winterfest Online celebration. It can still be found via this link;   http://batbwfol.com/winterfest2014/submissions/fic/nolanonceupon.html

You may find yourself wanting to stay and explore for a while. You never know what treasures you will find while wandering the deserted tunnels of Winterfests past.

The Watchful Guardian

By Vee Horning

Author’s Note: This story begins two days after "No Way Down."

~ ~ ~

Mary sat in Vincent’s large chair in the darkened chamber. A single candle flickered beside her teacup cooling on the bedside table next to her and her knitting needles rested, forgotten, in her lap. She watched the quilt, pulled midway over his bruised chest, rise and fall with each labored breath. His right hand, extending beyond the grayish-white case, clutched the fabric tightly; while his left arm lay at his side, strapped to a padded arm board to prevent him from accidentally disconnecting the IV tubing again.

Although heavily sedated, Vincent still fought in his dreams. Periodically, his facial muscles contorted into unnatural grimaces while he emitted low snarling sounds that broke her heart. Mary learned that if she leaned close and whispered assurances in his ear, the nightmare would release him and he could return to a less fitful rest.

Over the years, Mary had spent untold nights comforting many traumatized children. Her natural gentleness and innate ability to ease almost any distress had earned her the respect of every individual of the close-knit community. In fact, she considered it her sacred calling to care for anyone she felt needed to be looked after.

But her relationship with Vincent had always been different, deeper and more substantial. Vincent had always been the surrogate for her own son. Born during winter, Oscar’s tiny deformed body never had more than a feeble grasp on life and he gradually slipped away after less than an hour in her arms.

Alone and suicidal, Mary staggered into this world beneath the streets, those many years ago and struggled to find a life worth living. Then came the day, Jacob, as he was known back then, placed a sickly infant in her arms. The azure blue eyes focused on her face and tiny clawed fingers gripped a lock of her hair. On that day, the helpless baby claimed a singular exclusive place in her heart. Despite her considerable devotion to each child who came had come into her life since that moment, her love for Vincent was unparalleled.

"Catherine?"

Vincent turned his face toward her but knowing he could not see her, Mary leaned closer and brushed a tangled lock of his hair from his forehead.

"No, dear. It is only me. Catherine’s sleeping but I can get her if you need her."

"Mary?"

"Yes, that’s right."

"Mary, I…I can’t see."

"It’s all right, dear. Don’t be frightened. There are bandages over your eyes, but it’s all right. Everything will be all right. Would you like me to get Catherine for you?"

As she watched, his face relaxed into sleep once again. Readjusting her shawl, Mary shifted into a more comfortable position in her chair and settled into her familiar role as watchful guardian.

~ ~ ~

The Watchful Guardian by Vee Horning is a rare find indeed. Vee wrote several stories for fandom beginning in 2008. Sadly, she is no longer actively involved in BATB fandom. As a result, her work is no longer available online and is difficult to find. If you are lucky enough to have read any or all of her stories, you will agree that this fandom has lost a real talent.

Thank you, Vee, for your contributions to the dream. There will be an empty chair with your name on it at our Winterfest table, should you ever wish to return.

Unmasqued

by Barbara L.B. Storey

Cathy! Where have you disappeared to? It’s been almost four months since you left here in the middle of the night—borrowing our car because you couldn't wait an hour and a half for the train—and not a word from you! What's going on?"

“Nancy!” Catherine felt more than a little embarrassed as she recognized her friend's half-amused, half-annoyed voice. She really should have called; it was pretty inexcusable, after the way she had flown out of Nancy's home that night. Anyone would have thought she was a mad thing; but no one, not even Nancy, would have completely understood her urgency. The call of the bond, muted by the deadweight of her depression, had surged through her, bringing her literally to her feet.  Her need to be with Vincent had been too strong, too insistent.

"What can I say, except maybe that we always abuse the ones we love, the ones we know will always forgive us? Right?"

“Don't try to get around me with that line, kiddo.” Nancy’s voice was trying to be stern, but the chuckle that escaped ruined the effect. “As if I didn't always fall for it. It's true, we've always been able to pick right up with each other, no matter how long between talks, no matter where we were."

“It's only one of the truly great things about you, Nance,” Catherine replied warmly. “I'm afraid my excuses are just more of the same old stuff—hectic life in general, a heavy load at work in particular. No rest for the D.A.’s office—or its 'fashion-law' investigators. The city's just too chic and too crime-ridden.” Catherine uttered a quick prayer that the weak joke would divert Nancy's attention from the line of questioning she was afraid was on the way.

“And what about your hectic love life? It was ages ago, I know, but I can dimly remember a heavy-duty talk at three o'clock in the morning about a certain man in your life . . . I also remember how good you can be at avoiding serious conversations." Nancy's voice lost its teasing edge and became subdued, concerned. "I mean it, Cath—I've been worried as hell about you. What was I supposed to think? First you come to my house in the middle of the night, looking like you're on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Then you wake me up out of a sound sleep two nights later because of some sort of nightmare—"

"No, Nance." Catherine firmly interrupted her friend. "That was no nightmare." She thought back to that beautiful dream of “what-if” that still glowed with a golden light somewhere in her heart. Many nights, when she and Vincent couldn't see each other for one reason or another, she played it back in her mind like a well-loved movie. And now, of course, she and Vincent were working to make that dream of hope as real as it could ever be. They knew how foolish it was to be afraid, to hold back. A smile played on her lips as she thought of Vincent; then she felt a sudden surge of heat as she realized that it was that particular smile that Vincent called “his”—one she had promised to save only for him from now on—and that he was sensing her happiness.

“Well, you could have fooled me. You were hysterical and I didn't know what to do. And then when we talked, you seemed so much better all of a sudden—and then you were gone.”

Catherine could feel the frustration in her friend's voice, and she hesitated. She had felt so raw and vulnerable that night, she had let her old friend share some of the pain. Actually, she hadn't had much choice; she’d been so full of hurt that it had had to go somewhere. And she did trust Nancy, more than she trusted any of her other friends. But it all came back to that one, inescapable truth: this was not totally her secret to share. What she and Vincent had could be told, up to a certain point; she knew Vincent understood, expected her need for friends with whom she could speak of her love for him. But after that point she would be infringing on the lives of others who survived only because their world was hidden. Vincent first and foremost, of course. But what of Father, Mouse, Jamie, Mary, Elizabeth, and all the children? All these people she had come to cherish and respect, as family and friends. To tell too much would be to reveal them, to destroy their hard-won safety, and that was something she could never do, not even for her own peace of mind and emotional comfort.

"Nance—" she began uncertainly, "I really don't know where to begin. . . .” Or end, either.

Nancy sighed heavily on the other end of the phone. "Cathy, I really don’t want to pry, honest. I know you've always been a very private person."

"It’s not that, Nancy. I just have certain . . . promises to keep."

"Keeping promises can be lonely sometimes, Cath."

Don't I know it, friend, Catherine thought to herself. But sometimes they are worth any price.

"And you've always been a little too lonely for my liking.”

“Now you’re sounding like a real mother hen, Nance. Better watch that.” Catherine said lightly.

“It is true, Cathy, you know it is. Especially since . . . Stephen.” There was a brief silence as the two friends let that memory go by. “But I got just a glimmer of a feeling that night that maybe, just maybe— What I’m trying to say is, don't tell me any details if you can't. Just tell me if you're happy, finally.”

Catherine grinned into the phone. Good old Nance. She could always count on her to care, to be there for her. “Yes, my dear friend, I am having a happy life, at last,” she said decisively, sweeping out of her mind all past sadness associated with the words. “And it's partly because of you, I want you to know.”

That was true. The words Nancy had spoken to her that night, about growth and change and choices, had really rung true for the first time. Catherine had always thought of herself as a modern woman, a feminist, someone who wanted to “have it all”. But it had taken the experience of Vincent's special love for her and Nancy's perspective on the joy and pain of a whole life to make her see that all she'd been doing was playing a role. No cares . . . and no chances, no commitments.

“Always glad to help, Cathy," Nancy replied fondly. “You said that this one understood you. All I can say is I hope so, or he’ll have me to answer to.”

Catherine chuckled, imagining Nancy giving Vincent a piece of her mind. It was a good feeling to have friends standing on both shores of her life, friends who, although they couldn't really know each other, both knew what made her tick. As Nancy always had. As Vincent now did. . . . It made her very warm and content.

“I’ll assume that's a private joke, since you're not sharing it with your dear friend. I guess there are some things that are better left to the intimacy of one's own chambers,” Nancy continued in an outrageously suggestive tone, changing the mood of the conversation completely.

Catherine gasped and laughed at the same time, almost choking. “I’ve changed my mind—you are the truly disturbed person, not Jenny!”

“Takes one to know one, Ms. Chandler. But, speaking of getting together. . . .”

“Were we?” Catherine said innocently.

“You know what I mean, sweetie. Just because you won't give me the sordid details doesn't mean I can't tease you! Anyway, back to the second reason I called you. I'm having another party, I want you and your Vincent to come, and I am once again not accepting 'no’ as an answer. I miss seeing you, Cathy. Those couple of days you were here really showed me that.”

Catherine sighed, the giddy bubble of their conversation broken by this return to the concerns of real life. There was no way she could take Vincent to a party in Westport, but explaining that to Nancy. . . . She'd revealed in their talk that night that there was no way for her and Vincent to have a life together, but not why. How to make that clear without telling the whole story?

“Nance, I’m sorry, but we just can't—”

“Please don’t tell me this guy won't travel to Westport for a Halloween masquerade party. It's not that far to go, Cath."

“It’s not a matter of won't, it's a matter of— What did you say? A masquerade party?" Catherine was stunned at the direction her thoughts were suddenly taking.

"Yes, a masquerade party. Tell him he can come as Prince Charming. The way you talk about him, he might as well! Saturday, October thirtieth, nineteen-eighty-seven, eight o'clock. I can’t promise you that Buddy won't be there, mooning over you, but that's your—and Vincent's—problem. And to avoid further argument, I'm going to hang up now. Good-bye! See you then!”

"Nancy! No—Damn it!" Her friend was true to her word and had actually broken the connection. Catherine slammed the phone down and sank back in her chair, frowning. It was crazy to even allow herself the pleasure of the fantasy now spinning in her head. Just because they had pulled it off last year —attending Brigit O'Donnell's party and then roaming the city under the protection of darkness—was no reason she should even entertain the notion of taking Vincent to Nancy's house. He had to be near the tunnels, close to their hidden safety, even on Halloween . . . didn't he? And Father—the words "apoplectic," "furious," and "speechless" came immediately to mind. He would ban her from the tunnels for the rest of her life.

Still, she smiled in barely contained excitement at the thought of being able to take Vincent somewhere, have him meet her friends, see another little corner of her world. That was what their dream was about, wasn't it? Sharing each other's lives, as two people in love were supposed to do?

She sat there for a while, basking in a daydream. Suddenly she felt a slight tug of curiosity: Vincent, wanting to know what had made her so deliriously, deliciously happy. Catherine pursed her lips, puzzling over the problem for a moment or two. Then she jumped to her feet, smiling again, and sent a shorthand message through the bond for Vincent to meet her in the basement. Maybe she should just tell him about the invitation. It was not up to her alone to decide which risks were too great and which were acceptable; that was something she had taken him to task for, making such decisions for her.

It was his life, his dream that she shared, not just her own. And besides, he could handle Father better than she could.

Catherine grabbed a flashlight and a jacket and headed for the elevator.

~ ~ ~

Vincent stood uneasily outside the entrance to Father's chambers, listening to the end of the story of Ichabod Crane; it was normally one of his favorites, but tonight he couldn't concentrate on it. He knew that as soon as he stepped into the room, dressed in the new outfit Catherine had given him especially for this occasion, the argument would start again.

When Catherine had first told him about the party, Vincent had rejected the idea at once—a wonderful dream, but a reality far too dangerous—even though her crestfallen face had almost gotten the better of his common sense. She had quickly agreed that it was not possible, she had just wanted to pass the invitation along to him, but he could feel the keen disappointment she'd tried to hide from him. The topic of conversation had been quickly changed, their meeting that night brief. But later, as he lay in bed, his thoughts reaching out to her, he'd marveled at the wisps of her night fantasies that had come to him through the bond. Catherine was actually proud of him, wanted her friends to meet him, wanted to enter a room on his arm. . . .

The temptation was very powerful, and he began to chafe against the restraints on his life that prevented him from a normal life with his Catherine.  Danger—always danger. The boundaries of their love always seemed to be measured by fear. He suddenly yearned to meet Catherine's friend Nancy, the woman who had done so much to relieve her depression and sadness when no one else could. Vincent knew he would like her.

The idea of an entirely foreign world within his grasp for a night, Catherine at his side, had stayed with him all the next day. And when he had shown up on her balcony the next night, as early as was safe, she had been waiting for him. They'd talked long into the night, finally deciding—together—that perhaps it was time to take a chance such as this. But only for a few hours. Caution could not be thrown entirely to the winds. Catherine promised solemnly to deliver him back to the tunnels before midnight, swearing that her car would turn into a pumpkin if she did not. When he'd reminded her that he was no Cinderella, she'd taken his hand and whispered, “But I am.” Vincent shivered at the memory.

It had seemed so simple: making the decision, making plans. But then he had gone to Father, to tell him of their decision. Vincent had known that Father would not be pleased, and there was certainly reason to object, but he had assumed Father understood by now the necessity of Catherine's presence in his life, the imperative nature of their relationship. But instead, when Father realized that they were actually serious about this outing, his face had gone white with shock, and he had left the room, refusing to speak to either of them for a whole night. The next day he had begun pleading with Vincent at every opportunity to be reasonable. When Vincent answered that, despite the risks, this was something he and Catherine must do, and that they would take all possible precautions, Father only grew silent again, and his anger and hurt moved like a cloud over all their dealings.

The intensity of this anger and pain disturbed and frustrated Vincent. He and Father rarely disagreed, and actual arguments were even rarer. Mary often teased Vincent that he alone had the magic touch that could neutralize Father's famous temper, a gentle reminder of their special bond, as natural to both of them as breathing. The first Vincent had ever formed, and as intense in its own nature as the union he shared with Catherine. Catherine. . . .

He had always known that parental protectiveness lay at the root of the infrequent clashes he had with Father, but since Catherine had come into his life, there had been an element of fear, a fear of loneliness, in Father’s blustering. Vincent also realized—acutely so since Devin's return—that Father had made many sacrifices of an extremely personal nature on his behalf, willingly and lovingly. But something was now becoming obvious, especially in the last two years, that had never before been a question for either of them. Father was not prepared, had never expected their relationship to change; had certainly never allowed for the admittance of another into their own previously unchallenged society of two. Vincent was amazed that Father could even consider that, one day, he might not be needed—by him and by Catherine—but he sensed the fear there nonetheless.

And there was one other thing: Vincent had also admitted to himself that Father, at least in the beginning, had seen in Catherine an uncanny example of history repeating itself. A rich, young socialite with a strong attachment to her father: he had undoubtedly feared she might leave Vincent, as Margaret had once left him, when commitment became too real, too necessary a thing. But that expectation had long been banished, or so Vincent had thought.

Despite all these obstacles, which Vincent made extra efforts to be understanding of, Father had come so far in getting past his fears and resentments, accepting Catherine gradually but ever more warmly into their home below the city, even—eventually—approving of her decision to make Vincent's world, as much as possible, her own. He had seemed to accept that their love was destined, for whatever reason; Vincent remembered the beautiful words Father had spoken to him while they had been trapped in the cave-in, and then, later, as he’d left on his search for his anniversary gift to Catherine, the crystal.  Why was he reacting so badly now?

“This time he’s afraid I’m going to steal you away from the tunnels for good.”

Vincent started at the unexpected, soft whisper in his ear; he’d been so intent on his thoughts he hadn't heard her approach. He smiled and sighed, missing the days when she'd been new to the tunnels and he had had to meet and escort her to these deepest chambers.

“Catherine.” He turned to greet her, and then caught his breath. “Catherine,” he repeated in a lower, softer tone as she turned slowly so he could admire her.

She was dressed in the simple, elegant lines of a medieval princess’s gown: square, low-cut neckline with matching back; close-fitting long sleeves that extended to points over the backs of her hands, with loops to anchor them over her middle fingers; a single inverted pleat set into the front of the dress from neckline to hem; and a gauzy train that trailed in the same position from the back. But the colors! The dress seemed to move with shifting colors: first an opalescent lavender, then a pale, iridescent green, next a combination of the two, all accented by the candlelight from the wall sconces. This must be the color of the sea, Vincent thought to himself.

He slowly took in the rest of her: the soft, loosely curled hair, the slight flush on her cheeks, the silvery powder sparkling on her eyelids, and the white satin slippers whose tips just showed beyond the hem of the dress. And the crystal. Tonight it hung on a different chain, a thick gold rope that was shorter than the one he had given her, so that the jewel rested on her fair skin just an inch from the edge of the neckline. Other than that, she wore no ornament.

"You are beautiful, Catherine," he said finally, simply.

“As you are to me, Vincent,” Catherine replied softly, smiling her special smile.

He looked down, still a little self-conscious at such a declaration, and surveyed the clothing she had insisted on giving him. Part of the costume, she'd said. Silky white blouse with grandly flowing sleeves caught neatly into cuffs at his wrists, and smooth black velvet pants and vest, the latter fastened with gleaming, red-gold buttons that Catherine declared were the color of his hair. When he'd first looked at himself in the mirror, Vincent had almost felt beautiful, knowing he was wrapped in Catherine's love and pride as surely as if her arms had been around him.

Vincent made a slight obeisance. “As you say, Catherine.” He gathered her into his embrace then, and she slid her arms around his waist and snuggled in close. Vincent gave a deep sigh, savoring the safety he always felt at moments like this.

“Are you ready?” Catherine's words were muffled slightly against his chest, but he had no trouble hearing the question.

"I am ready," he replied, "but there is still someone who is not.”

"I know. I could sense your thoughts. . . through the bond.”

She paused, and Vincent was warmed by the familiar thrill she still experienced at the evidence of this unexplainable connection of their souls.

"And I was serious," Catherine continued, "about what I said. Father is desperately afraid that someday I will take you away from here. And away from him."

Vincent pulled back and looked at her, his eyes showing his confusion. "But he knows that's not possible—we all know that. You would never endanger me just to satisfy your own needs, or ask me to choose between him and you. I know you, Catherine. You couldn't.”

Catherine's eyes were gray in the dim light. “I know . . . our dream can never come true, Vincent," she said in a husky voice. "Not as we would like it to.”

She gazed at him with such longing, and he could only answer her with the pain of his own silent desires.

After a moment Catherine shook herself and grasped Vincent's arms fiercely. "But we have decided this: we must live our lives in the fullest way we can, and that still makes him afraid. I think we'd better go talk to him."

"Yes."

Catherine sighed, let go of him reluctantly. "Oh, my God, I almost forgot,” she said suddenly, hand to her mouth. She went back down the corridor a few paces and picked up two large shopping bags; she handed one to Vincent, who had followed her curiously. He looked at her, puzzled, and then looked inside, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Trick or treat,” she said sheepishly. "You said Father won't let the children go Above anymore for Halloween because of all the sick and twisted people who think razor blades in apples and rat poison in candy are entertaining. So . . . I brought some candy for the children." Catherine shrugged her shoulders and made a hopeful face.

Vincent continued to stare at her, but now he was grinning slightly, the white tips of his teeth showing. "Some candy?" He indicated the two overflowing bags. “For the children?" he continued, head tipped to one side.

Catherine gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes. "Okay, so it is a bribe! I'm desperate and I’ll try anything!”

Vincent laughed affectionately and put his free arm around her, marveling as he did so at how easy that gesture had become. Catherine slipped her arm around him with an understanding smile; they both took deep breaths as they stepped into Father's chamber.

Father was just at the end of his story, his eyes animated with the telling and focused on the children. As he finished, he looked up and saw Vincent and Catherine in their finery. The light in his eyes faded, and he suddenly looked quite old.

Vincent felt Father's pain in his own heart, and he closed his eyes for a second. There must be a way to make him see! He opened his eyes and stepped forward firmly.

"Children, Catherine has brought you a special treat . . . for Halloween. Now there is no need to risk going Above, and you can still have all the candy your stomachs will hold. Why don’t you thank her now—for you may not thank her tomorrow—and then take these bags to Mary so that everything can be divided up evenly among us all?"

"Shall we save some candy kisses for you, Vincent?" Josie, a small girl of about eight with straw-blond hair, ran over to pull on his sleeve and smiled up at the two of them impishly. "They're his favorite, you know," she confided to Catherine in a stage whisper.

Catherine smiled and blushed slightly as she ruffled Josie's hair. Vincent noted that it only made her more beautiful, something he could scarcely have believed possible. Then he put on a serious face and knelt to look Josie in the eye, tapping her on the nose in mock reprimand and then stroking her cheek fondly.

"Thank you, Josie, for your offer, but there is no need. I am . . . going out this evening, and I would like you all to enjoy my share.” He glanced up at Father, whose frown grew deeper.

Kipper—who had been sitting at Father's feet, engrossed in the story—turned to Vincent, who could see the distress on the young boy's face. “It’s not fair, Vincent. Why can't we go trick-or-treating this year? We've always gone before, we're old enough, and I can take care of the ones who are younger. You've always said I was very responsible."

Vincent left Josie and walked slowly over to Kipper; he noted that Catherine remained where she was, carefully outside the circle, for the time being. This question was for him to answer.

“Of course you are responsible, Kipper. Father and I trust you absolutely. But that is not the problem. There are many people Above who do not know the warmth and protection of the love we share here Below. Because of this, they would hurt you as easily as look at you, and for no more reason than that you were there. You are still too young to be able to judge people Above—who will hurt you and who will not. Such a judgment is difficult for anyone to make, even an adult. When you are older, you will have the greatest responsibility of all. You will be responsible for yourself.” Vincent paused and glanced up at Father, who quickly looked away. Vincent sighed, and then continued. "Until then, you must accept the care of others more experienced in life. It is difficult, know. I remember.”

"All right, Vincent.” Kipper made a face, looking distinctly unconvinced. "If you and Father say so." He stood, picked up the bag Vincent had been holding, and began to make his way toward the stairs, in the direction of Mary's room. Josie wrested control of the other bag from Catherine, and Vincent watched as she laughed gently and bent to kiss the little girl on the head. All the other children followed, intent on the candy they’d soon be enjoying, and soon the room was empty except for Catherine, Father, and himself.

"Well, Vincent," Father said abruptly, "after that little speech, I suppose you think I am going to give you my blessing and send you and Catherine on your way." He limped over to his desk, leaning heavily on his cane, and sat down, hands folded uncompromisingly in front of him and face grim. “But I can't. There’s a slight difference between Kipper being responsible for himself and you being responsible for yourself that you failed to point out to him. He can, someday, move about freely in the world Above, if he chooses. You cannot.”

Vincent looked back and held out his hand to Catherine. She moved forward and grasped it firmly, then looked up at him with eyes full of love and encouragement, chin set determinedly. He smiled at her, and they both advanced to stand together in front of Father’s desk.

“Father, please try to understand,” Vincent began softly. "I do know what the risks are, what the world Above is capable of. That remains unchanged, but my perspective, my attitude has changed. My life is different since Catherine came into it, and I must follow that different path. She and I share a life, but we have few enough opportunities to do so openly, and we must take the chance when it comes to us. We would like you to share, not just the worry and pain that fate has brought to us, but our happiness as well, wherever we can find it.”

Father stared but said nothing.

Catherine cleared her throat and brought her other hand to rest on top of Vincent’s. “I love Vincent, and he loves me. We must live our lives according to that love.”

Father looked at her sharply. "Even if it kills him?"

“Father!” Vincent was aghast at the bitterness in the older man's voice.

"No, Vincent—let me finish.”

"I’m not finished yet, Father." Catherine's voice was inflexible as she let go of Vincent's hand and leaned over Father, her palms flat on the desk to support her. "Vincent and I love each other. We also respect each other. This is a decision that he has made—I would not have asked it of him. And I must honor his decision, if I respect him." She paused; Father was studying his hands. She continued in a gentler voice. "I know that you have the same respect for him—I’ve seen it. But your love, your desire to protect him is getting in the way of that. As my father's love for me sometimes does."

“Catherine.” Father's voice was thick, his eyes suddenly bright with tears. “Please do not misunderstand me. Of course what you say is true, and my concern, my fears, are for both of you, you must believe me. I have grown . . . quite fond of you.”

“Yes, I know—and I am very fond of you.” Catherine smiled and reached out for Father's hand; he gave it, gingerly at first, then more surely. Vincent let out the breath he'd been holding.

“But Vincent needs more protection than you,” Father continued, still grasping her hand.

“What Vincent needs—what we both need—is your love most of all.”

Father stared at Catherine for a moment. Then he held out his other hand to Vincent, scrutinizing him carefully. Vincent enclosed his father's hand in his and waited.

“You both underestimate me, you know,” Father said finally. “I know about fate, destiny. It has stared me in the face, in the form of both pain and joy. I saw that you two were fated for each other long before either of you fully recognized it, which is why I fought against your relationship so hard, hoping to deter its path before your love could get a proper foothold. And not because I didn't love you, Vincent, or didn't want you to be happy. Because I did.”

Vincent smiled down at him. “I know that, Father.”

“And I know, Catherine, that you thought I was being a grouchy old fool who couldn't remember what it was like to fall in love.”

“Well . . . maybe in the beginning.”

Startled, Vincent turned quickly toward Catherine and saw her teasing smile as she gazed affectionately at Father, who chuckled at her response. Then the older man grew serious again.

“Vincent, you will remember I told you once that I felt as if I stood on the banks of a raging river, watching helplessly as you and Catherine made your way, praying for you and admiring your courage.”

Vincent nodded carefully, wondering what Father was leading up to. Instinctively, he reached for Catherine’s other hand, so that the three of them formed an unbroken chain.

“Please remember, both of you. . . .”

Father stopped, and Vincent suddenly realized that he was very near tears. He looked at Catherine, concerned, but she merely shook her head and gripped both of their hands a little more tightly.

"Please remember," Father finally continued, "that to stand and watch also requires a great deal of courage." He rose from his chair, relinquishing both their hands, picked up his cane, and slowly left the chamber.

~ ~ ~

Catherine peered out the windshield at the headlights coming toward her and then glanced at the digital clock on the instrument panel. Eight-thirty; traffic was fairly heavy tonight. She looked over at Vincent, who was staring out the window on his side of the car, intent on the countryside that whizzed by. It was almost completely dark, but she knew that he could see it far better than she could. Fulfilling her dream of walking in the sun, picnicking in the park, was more than they could hope for, but Catherine found herself wishing that they had been able to leave for Westport earlier, so that Vincent could have enjoyed the trip in daylight. That was far too risky, though; they'd both agreed that the entire outing should be conducted under only the light of the moon. No sunlight for Vincent. If there was one thing she ached to be able to give him, it was that.

That thought reminded her of the “gift” Vincent had given her just as they'd left that evening. After the difficult, emotional encounter with Father, Catherine had turned to leave his chamber, ready to head back through the tunnels to her basement and from there to her garage, only to have Vincent stop her.

“I have one last thing to do, Catherine. If you wouldn't mind, perhaps you could go up to your apartment and wait for me there?"

"But, Vincent, I don't need to go upstairs. I’m ready--" But he had already melted into the darkness of the tunnel beyond her. She couldn’t even hear him anymore. Puzzled and shaking her head, Catherine had had no other choice than to go up to the eighteenth floor and wait.

After fifteen minutes, she'd really begun to worry. This was not like Vincent. What if something had happened to him? Father was right—this had been a bad idea, ridiculous from the start. She'd been about to become frantic when suddenly her intercom had buzzed. Now who the hell could that be?

"Ms. Chandler, a gentleman by the name of Vincent is here to pick you up?" The doorman's amusement was obvious as he inquired as to her willingness to admit what he certainly regarded as a well-dressed reveler who took Halloween very seriously.

"Oh—my—uh, yes, George, yes, of course!  Send him up!" Catherine had waited, anxious and amazed, until she heard a soft knock on her door a few minutes later. She'd flung it open to find Vincent standing there in his cloak, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"I believe your carriage is ready, Cinderella.”

"Oh, Vincent—you shouldn't have done this. Father would be furious! Even tonight, it’s not really safe.” But the look of pride on his face at being able to call for her on this one night had kept her from scolding him any further. She had accepted his offered arm and they’d taken the elevator down to the garage together. It had been like a dream come true: a small shred of normalcy in their otherwise distinctly un-normal lives.

But it was only for one night, Catherine reminded herself, one night out of three hundred and sixty-five. Would that really be enough for them? Or would it be too much? Would these special nights someday make the other three hundred and sixty-four unbearable? She and Vincent had decided to pursue as full a life as possible, but she had never thought of that particular cruel twist. Catherine frowned and bit her lip as she guided the car carefully down the freeway.

Vincent turned suddenly from the window. Catherine’s thoughts had called him away from his study of the fascinating world outside the car. She was his world, and she was distressed. Carefully, he touched her hand on the steering wheel.

"Catherine, are you . . . nervous?"  he asked quietly.

"Oh—Vincent!" She started at his touch, lost in her imaginings, then smiled and squeezed his hand. “Well . . . maybe I am a little worried. What if Father is right? Maybe this step we're taking is too dangerous, too far off the safe, beaten path. There are risks here we haven't really stopped to consider."

Vincent sighed and caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. Six months ago he would not have dared to say what he must say now. "Catherine. I can sense your fears, what you're thinking. I also know now that our love is strong enough to survive any risk, even the risks of growth and change. A love that cannot risk those things would be no proper love at all—nor a love that we would be able to accept for or from each other."

Catherine looked at him for a moment with great tenderness, wishing that they were not in the car so she could give him a proper hug. "I love you," she said softly.

“And I love you,” Vincent replied, in a voice that was little more than a throaty whisper.

They drove on in silence for another fifteen minutes. “We’re almost there,” Catherine said finally. “Nancy is going to absolutely flip when she sees us.”

"But she told you that she would not take no for an answer.”

Catherine laughed. “Nance always says that to me, but she’s still surprised when I actually do show up. My record of attendance is not exactly spotless, I’m afraid.”

"You are perfect in everything you do or don't do," Vincent said firmly.

“Liar.” Catherine chuckled at Vincent's declaration of loyalty. "Eyes of love."

Vincent shook his head decidedly. “Eyes of truth.”

And then—quite suddenly, it seemed—they were in Nancy’s driveway. Catherine looked at Vincent, and he returned the look.

“Now we are both nervous," Vincent said quietly. Catherine could see apprehension in his eyes for the first time since they had decided to come to the party. Discussing a trip to Westport in the tunnels was one thing; actually sitting in a car outside the house where the party was in full swing was another. She stroked his hair, smiling her most optimistic smile.

"We’ll be fine. Just hold on to my hand, and remember our story. Oh, yes—wait just a minute.” Catherine reached for the elaborate silk mask, tinted to match her dress, on the dashboard. She tied it on tightly, and Vincent checked the knot in the back when she was done. She felt his hands tremble as he touched her hair.

"Let's go," she whispered, and they headed for the door.

~ ~ ~

Vincent stood stock-still on the front porch of Nancy Tucker's house, wonderfully terrified by the fact that he was actually here, all his firm declarations of surety to Father forgotten. He felt Catherine squeeze his hand gently, reassuringly; she must be sensing the apprehension he was now feeling.

"It’s too late now," she whispered.

Just then the door opened, and Vincent instinctively stepped back out of the light that spilled over them. A dark-haired woman with lively, happy eyes peered out at them from the hallway. She was pretty, but—Vincent tried to be objective, and found he couldn't—she could not compare to Catherine. There was, however, a very . . . welcoming aura about her, and Vincent suddenly felt much more comfortable than held expected to.

"Cathy? Cathy!"

Catherine laughed heartily. "You’re not supposed to know who I am—no fair! And what are you looking at me like that for? You told me I had no choice, remember?”

“Yeah, but I don't ever expect you to listen to me.”

Vincent could feel Catherine's joy at seeing her friend again. The two women hugged each other so tightly he wondered that they could breathe. He closed his eyes as the wave of their love for each other washed over him, through Catherine's heart. It was more wonderful than he had even imagined, sharing Catherine's life this way—worth every risk. He felt a slight (unexpressed) sigh of disappointment when Catherine and Nancy broke their contact, and Catherine stepped back to survey her friend more carefully.

“Nance—what is the idea of this get-up?”

Vincent looked as well, and noticed for the first time the colorful, authentic-looking Japanese costume Nancy was wearing. She looked down at herself and shrugged good-naturedly.

"The geisha look? It was Paul's idea. He said I was going to spend the entire evening fussing over everyone, so I might as well dress the part.”

Catherine made a face and shook her head. “I'm going to have to talk to that man.”

"Don't worry, Cath, I'll get even. I'm going to make him wear it later. Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, finally turning toward Vincent. "You'll have to excuse us—we get a little silly when we haven't seen each other for a while. You must be. . . .” She paused and leaned closer, trying to see him better.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the light. “Vincent," he said politely. “Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

Nancy stared at him, a stunned expression on her face, and Vincent felt saddened by her reaction. Catherine had often told him that he was “impressive”, but he knew that the truth was often something more like “intimidating". He had wanted so badly to get to know Catherine's friend, just a little. His eyes met Catherine's in a helpless look, and she smiled gently at him.

“Nance?” Catherine tugged at her friend's sleeve in an attempt to distract her. “Nance, I have to ask you something.”

Nancy roused herself finally and turned to Catherine, her amazement plain. “This is Vincent?”

Catherine nodded proudly, her arm twining around Vincent's and drawing him closer. “This is Vincent. I'm so glad you two have finally met. But, Nance, we have to ask you a fast favour before we go inside."

“What?” Nancy's eyes were still fixed on Vincent; he ducked his head slightly, now uncomfortable with her intent perusal. She seemed to recover at that action, and covered her mouth with both hands for a second. "Oh, l'm so sorry, Vincent. Please forgive my rudeness. It's just that that costume is absolutely phenomenal. I'm usually not this socially inept. Cathy, tell him I’m not a jerk."

"Vincent, she's not a jerk. Now listen, Nancy." Catherine shook her friend gently; Vincent knew she was anxious to explain her plan for the evening before someone else came to the door. "Vincent and I are going to do a little role-playing game tonight, to go along with our costumes. I need you to back us up, just in case somebody gives us a hard time."

"Role-playing game?" Nancy echoed. "Whatever for? Everyone will know who you are at least, so why—"

“Please, Nance. Don't ask me why, just help us if we get into trouble, okay?”

Nancy looked back and forth at the two of them. "In trouble? Cathy, only you could have trouble at a Halloween party." Finally she sighed heavily and smiled. "All right, I'll do what I can—but I’m still not sure exactly what it is I 'm supposed to do!"

"You'll know when the time comes, Nance—trust me."

Catherine kissed her friend on the cheek and proceeded into the house. Vincent, still holding onto her hand, followed, gazing at the bright white interior of the house in open curiosity. Nancy closed the door behind them and then hurried past Vincent to catch Catherine by the shoulder, whispering something hurriedly in her ear. Catherine grinned and whispered back. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"Never mind, Vincent," Nancy said mischievously. "Girl talk."

"Cathy! You made it! I'm so glad to see—"

Vincent turned back to the living room door in time to see a man with brown hair, slightly shorter than himself and dressed in a musketeer costume and false mustache, run toward Catherine. The man was brought up short as he realized Catherine was not unaccompanied, and he looked at Vincent skeptically, then down at their intertwined fingers.

Catherine smiled up at Vincent and gave a slight nod of her head. Vincent remembered that this was the signal to start the game Catherine had devised to protect him. He had not even realized, until she had pointed it out, that one of the biggest pitfalls of this outing was normal conversation. When people got together socially, what did they talk about? Their families, their jobs, their friends, what happened to them day-to-day. His life in the tunnels was not something that could easily be worked into a casual chat with a stranger. As Catherine had put it, what would he say when someone asked him what he did for a living? So, they would play a game. A role-playing game, she called it, where they would pretend to be the royal fairytale figures they were dressed up to represent, denying their real identities for safety's sake, and begging Halloween as an excuse. Vincent was doubtful, but he could think of no alternative.

"Excuse me, sir, but I do not recognize the name you call me," Catherine said grandly, then gestured gracefully at herself and at Vincent. "I am the Princess of Oz, and this is the Prince of Shangri-la, and we may only be seen by mortal eyes on this special night of Samhain—a night of masks, when the walls between the worlds grow thin, and anything is possible, and nothing is quite as it seems.”

“Good God, Cathy!”

Vincent started and looked past Buddy to where a strong-looking woman with dark blonde hair and dressed as a clown sat in an easy chair, laughing. Catherine had described all her friends to him at length, and he guessed somehow that this was Jenny. He looked at Catherine inquiringly, and she nodded.

“You lawyers are all alike,” Jenny continued, “melodramatic in the extreme. Although it is true that 'mortal eyes'—in the form of your friends—never get to see you anymore. You'd better watch out. We might just start remembering what you look like.”

Catherine stuck out her tongue but made no reply. Vincent was amazed at the easy way Catherine had with all her friends. Life in the tunnels was, of necessity, lived at a more intense pitch, a much more careful pace. Familiarity was only for those you actually lived with, your family—even contacts with the Helpers had to be cautious, stolen moments with business transacted and then separate ways taken. Like many of his encounters with Catherine. Vincent sighed, and then quickly chided himself for his indulgence in self-pity. He and Catherine only had a few hours here; he should not waste them.

He decided it was time to join Catherine in the game. Letting go of her hand, he daringly slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close, noticing as he did so that the man in the musketeer outfit frowned. He must be . . . Buddy, the older brother of Catherine’s friend Rebecca. Catherine told me he is very . . . fond of her. Vincent experienced an uncharacteristic smugness as he reflected on the fact that Catherine had chosen him over Buddy, even in her dreams. He nodded at the man and smiled, then marveled at his own boldness. Moving about freely in the world Above was definitely a heady experience, just as dangerous as Father had feared it would be—but it was just for one night.

Vincent moved around the room with Catherine, not speaking except to briefly acknowledge greetings. Most of the people seemed almost reluctant to talk to him directly, asking his "princess" for details about him instead and staring at him inquisitively. He also received many compliments on the intricacy and detail of his “costume”. Vincent smiled, careful not to reveal his fangs, at each comment.

Catherine, on the other hand, chatted glibly with all her friends, acknowledging them and their lives but refusing to let go of her mythical persona. When asked how she could know them all so well if she were not Catherine, she simply smiled and reminded them that she was from another place, a magic place. Eventually—after a few well-timed diversions from Nancy—they all gave up and played along.

When they had finished their circuit of the room, Catherine found a place for them to sit, slightly off by themselves in the corner of the living room, and then went to find them some food. She came back with only one plate, heaped with delicacies.

"I want you to try this. I know you didn't get the chance last year," she said with a sly grin, holding out a small cracker piled high with Beluga caviar. “You were too busy looking for Brigit—you didn't even know I was there!"

"Catherine. . . ." Vincent began to protest, but he realized she was only teasing him. He knew that Catherine admired Brigit as much as he did, and had told him she regarded that Samhain night as the night she actually fell in love with him. He touched her cheek gently, cherishing the memory of that first night spent together.

Then he turned his attention to the caviar, wrinkling his nose at it; he was not sure he wanted to try it now, after meeting it at such close quarters. But Catherine was insistent, and finally he took the cracker and its precious cargo whole into his mouth.

“Well?” Catherine asked eagerly.

Vincent rolled his eyes and tilted his head as he savoured the taste of it. Finally he said, “Salty.”

"Oh, you!” Catherine said in mock disgust. "It’s an acquired taste, Vincent.”

“One that I should not attempt to acquire then. Father would not approve of such an expensive change in my diet.”

Catherine laughed and turned back to the plate, selecting other morsels for him to try and insisting on feeding him with her own hands. Vincent was embarrassed, noting that a few of her friends were watching and smiling at Catherine's indulgence, and tried to prevent her, but she would have none of it. So, finally, he relented. Paul, Nancy's husband, came by with two champagne glasses; Catherine accepted one and looked at him questioningly, but Vincent shook his head. The pale, airy liquid was tempting, but he could not afford any dimming of his faculties when he was Above. Catherine nodded, understanding his reasons, and offered to bring him a bottle the next time she came down to visit. He wondered if he would like it any better than the caviar.

Vincent also managed to extract from Catherine the details of the whispered exchange between her and their hostess at the door, and turned slightly pink when she revealed that Nancy had been berating her for not revealing how “gorgeous” he was.

Most of the food was strange to him, and for the most part wonderful, and he enjoyed the meal almost as much as he enjoyed sharing it with Catherine. But as they finished, he detected a slight melancholy in her heart.

“Catherine? Is there something wrong?” He leaned toward her, concerned that he had done something to make her unhappy.

“Vincent. . . .” She paused and looked down at her hands. “I feel selfish. It’s so wonderful for me to be here, enjoying you, enjoying my friends—the best of both worlds. But I’m afraid I’ve made you feel out of place. You can’t even really talk to people, get to know my friends the way I’d like you to. Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”

“Catherine!” Vincent was genuinely surprised. “To be here with you, to share a part of your life in this way, is more than I’ve ever dared dream. We know that our worlds can never completely mingle, so we must take what we can. You told me so yourself.” He took her hand firmly. “It seems to me that we are taking turns being nervous.” Catherine smiled at him tentatively. “Please believe,” he continued, reaching up to caress her hair with his other hand, "that you are more than enough for me, for the rest of my life.”

They remained lost in each other for several moments, until a loud voice distracted them. Jenny was standing in the middle of the room, attempting to make an announcement.

“I say we should do something really Halloween-ish, not just sit around and talk about how things went in the office this week. Does anybody know any good ghost stories?”

Catherine sprang to her feet. "Vin—" She stopped herself just in time. “The Prince," she said in a more composed voice, “is an excellent storyteller.”

"No, Princess, I do not think—" But Vincent's protests were blown away by the overwhelming enthusiasm of Catherine's friends. He looked at her, and realized how important it was to her that he was able to participate, feel a part of the evening rather than just an observer. So—again—he relented, settling cross-legged into the chair in his storyteller's pose, while the guests at the party gathered round his feet.

He told the story of John and Deirdre, the one Father always told the children on this night, and by the end, his soft, gentle voice had every person in the room wide-eyed and eager for more. Everyone except Buddy, who sat on the couch looking very unhappy, and Nancy, who moved in and out of the kitchen while she listened. When she was in the living room, Vincent had the feeling she was studying him intently. But whenever he looked directly into her eyes, she only smiled and moved back out of the room.

Vincent continued with “The legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and then a weird Russian ghost tale he'd learned from Pascal's grandmother as a boy, before excusing himself with a dry throat. Paul further broke the mood by insisting that it was time to break out some records and start dancing.

“Dancing! That's a good idea." Nancy, in again from the kitchen, clapped her hands. "I'd like to see some people dancing." She looked pointedly across the room at Catherine and Vincent.

Catherine, who had been by his side throughout the storytelling, glanced up at him hopefully.

“Yes, I can dance,” he said quietly, and gave her a brief, whispered description of Mary teaching him and the other tunnel children proper ballroom deportment. Catherine giggled and offered him her hand.

“I've never danced with a princess before. Would you mind, Prince, if. . . .”

Vincent turned; it was Buddy. But Vincent was sensing something different from him now, not the resentment and hostility the man had been unconsciously directing toward him all evening. Now it felt more like . . . resignation.

"I know when I'm beat," Buddy continued, extending his hand to Vincent. "I can see it in her eyes.  But if it's all right with you—"

Vincent took his hand, grasping it firmly as he would a friend's. “That is not for me to say, Buddy.  It is the Princess you must ask for permission.”

Catherine's face glowed as she gazed at him fondly; then she gave her hand to Buddy. "Why, of course, kind sir. I'd be delighted.” As she moved to the middle of the floor, she looked over her shoulder at Vincent. “I’ll be back for you later.”

Vincent settled into his chair, content to watch Catherine as the music started and she and Buddy began moving gracefully to the strains of a slow, moody song. It came to him suddenly that this was the first time he had been able to watch—or even think of—Catherine with another man without feeling either pain for himself or guilt that he was interfering with her life. There was no longer a need for those emotions. They were sure: of each other, of what must be. He had long since given up trying to protect her—or himself—from the love he now needed as much as he needed air. Two short years had brought about such a change in his life.

"Well, Vincent, aren't you going to ask me to dance?"

It was Nancy, standing at his side and offering a hand. Vincent looked at her and blinked.

“It’s considered rude to turn down your hostess.”

Vincent came to his feet, her challenge instinctively activating his upbringing. “I-I am not . . . accustomed to dancing much,” he said lamely. “But if you care to risk your toes. . . .”

“I’ll take the chance,” Nancy said firmly. “Besides, this may be my only real opportunity to talk to you before Cathy whisks you off to—wherever.” She took his hand and put her other hand on his shoulder. The music was soft and smooth, and she made no effort to move out of the corner of the living room they were in to join the other dancers.

Vincent concentrated on matching her rhythm and avoiding her eyes; she was studying him again. He was also aware that, with her touch, he was experiencing a very slight empathic connection. Certainly not of the intensity that he shared with Catherine, or even of the bond he could tell existed between the two women, but it was there. This woman was Catherine's closest friend; it made sense that they should both be sensitive, emotionally. He would just have to be careful not to let his own feelings escape through the tenuous link.

"Cathy told me about you—a little, anyway—when she was here visiting four months ago. She said she couldn’t tell me everything, which is okay, I understand. Cath has always led a very complicated life, and I’ve accepted that, over the years. But I worry about her, you know?”

Vincent nodded at the rhetorical question.

Nancy pursed her lips for a moment, then continued. "Now that I’ve met you, I can see why she was so upset, and so moved, that night. You are an unusual guy. There's something. . . ." She paused, at a loss for words. “What I'm trying to say is, I love Cathy like she’s my sister, and I just want to make sure she’s happy.” There was silence for a moment between them. “For some reason, I feel I can trust you to tell me the truth. So I’m going to ask you. Is Cathy happy? Do you make her happy?”

Vincent blushed at the frankness of the question; he was still not used to thinking of himself as the source of a woman’s happiness. But he knew what he must answer.

"Yes, to both questions.”

Nancy nodded, pretending not to notice his discomfort. "Now, the second question—though I'm not really sure why I'm asking this, since I’ve just met you. . . .”

Now it was her turn to feel embarrassed; Vincent could feel the emotion in her, and confusion as well. She must be getting some sense of him and his feelings, either through their light contact or through her connection with Catherine. He waited breathlessly, trying to tamp down his own apprehension.

Nancy took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “Does Cathy make you happy?”

Vincent had not been expecting this. Before he could stop it, a rush of his deepest feelings for Catherine exploded through his body. He felt Nancy start under his touch as he said, "I have never known a happiness as complete as the one Catherine gives me."

Nancy stared at him again, music forgotten; then a look of shocked recognition and wonder came over her face. She stepped away from him for a moment, then seized his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. Vincent looked back to see Catherine, still in Buddy's arms, following them with a worried gaze. Their worst fears were about to come true, and he didn't know what to do.

Once they were in the kitchen, Nancy let go of his hand; she reached out as if she wanted to touch him, then drew her hand back and covered her mouth. She moved to the other side of the island counter, putting it between them.

"Cathy told me," she started nervously, "that you were . . . a very special person." She stopped, gulping air. “You are special, aren’t you?”

Vincent was at a loss for words: what could he say? It was not in him to lie, even to save himself, but how could he give her the truth? He stood paralyzed, eyes darting back and forth as he searched for words.

"Vincent!" Catherine came bursting through the kitchen door and then stopped short, out of breath but desperately trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, there you are," she said, as if she had not had any idea as to his whereabouts. "They're playing an old favorite of mine, and I really would like to dance with you. You don't mind, do you, Nance? Thanks!” She grabbed Vincent and headed back out to the living room.

Vincent clung to her fiercely as they moved to the middle of the floor and began to sway gently. “Catherine. . . .”

“What happened in there?” Her eyes were wide as she searched his face for a clue. “I could feel that you were very upset, but—”

"Nancy has guessed what I am," Vincent said simply.

“Oh, dear! Vincent, how?"

"She seems to possess a certain . . . sensitivity to both of us, to our bond, which touched her while we were dancing."

"Vincent, I’m so sorry, it was so greedy of me to want this. We should have stayed home, with Father and the children."

Despite his fear and her distress, Vincent was pleased at her reference to the tunnels as home. It grounded him, gave him a measure of calm somehow. “Catherine—perhaps, along with her sensitivity, she has the understanding we need, that the people who love us can give. She has been your best friend for many years . . . could she be that different from you, in her heart?" He paused, remembering his light link with Nancy and his experience of her inner questions and emotions.

"I hope not," Catherine said quietly. "And if she is . . . maybe I don’t want to know it. I think we’d better make our excuses and leave, as soon as possible. It is almost eleven.” She turned her head suddenly. "Looks like we’re about to find out just what Nancy thinks."

Vincent looked at the far side of the room. Nancy had just re-entered the room, and her eyes were fixed on them. For what seemed an endless span of time, her expression was unreadable; and then a slow smile began to grow, curving her mouth and making her eyes bright.

Vincent felt a warmth inside himself that he knew did not come from Catherine. He smiled with satisfaction, glad that his perception of Nancy had been sound. Pulling Catherine closer, he determined to enjoy these last moments and share her joy in her friend's love. This evening had been the right thing to do after all.

They moved in a tight circle in the middle of the living room; this was the first time they had danced, and Vincent revelled in the feeling of Catherine’s lithe body in his arms. It was a sensual encounter that left him quite suddenly weak, and short of breath. He let himself fall, deeper and deeper, into the luxurious comfort of their bond, unconsciously drawing her with him, neither resisting what they had formerly kept such a cautious guard on . . . melting to their very bones until they were connected at the deepest levels possible. Vincent saw Catherine’s face in front of him, so beautiful he thought his heart would break, and he leaned forward. To touch his lips to hers . . . just for a moment . . . not in his dreams. . . .

There was a hand on his arm: Nancy, shaking her head slightly at the two of them. Catherine blushed, a deep rose shading her neck and face. Vincent shook his own head sharply and let go of Catherine, breaking the spell. It was past time to leave. How had he allowed himself to lose control that way? And then he knew: he was in the home of a friend.

Catherine began to speak, stammering slightly. "I—uh—we have to get going, Nance."

“I know, Cathy.” Nancy reached out to steady her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but we have to go.”

Buddy came over, looking very upset. “You’re not leaving now, Cathy? It’s not even midnight!”

“Duty calls, I'm afraid. I have a deposition to take tomorrow.”

Paul came over and put his arm around Nancy. “So, Cinderella has to hang up her shoes for another year, eh?”

Catherine turned to Vincent with a secret smile; he returned it and reached for her hand, his feelings safely restrained—for the moment.

"Not quite, Paul—not quite," Catherine said.

Nancy insisted on walking them to their car, leaving Paul behind to take care of the other guests. Vincent experienced a thrill of anticipation when they were alone, the three of them, by the car. What would Nancy say? Do?

“Vincent.”

He turned to her; Catherine stopped in the act of opening the car door. Nancy walked right up to him, slowly raised her hand and—gently, shyly—touched his cheek. Vincent stood very still. Nancy left her fingers there on the soft, reddish-gold down for a few seconds, then dropped her hand and quickly leaned forward to kiss him on the same spot.

"Take good care of her." Her eyes were bright, and she held him in their gaze.

“I will,” he replied solemnly.

Nancy nodded, satisfied with that. Then she gathered Catherine into a fierce embrace, kissing her on the cheek as well. "And you—you take care of him," she said, her voice unsteady.

“Nance. . . .” Catherine grasped her friend's arm. "Don’t worry, Nance, we’ll be fine."

Nancy nodded and kissed Catherine one last time, then turned and walked back to her porch. She waved to them, and went inside.

Vincent reached for Catherine then, as they stood in the dark, and she fell into his arms, sighing heavily.

"What a night, Vincent!"

Vincent only nodded, enfolding her in his cloak.

~ ~ ~

“So, Cathy—have you recovered yet from Halloween?”

"Nancy!" Catherine was surprised—and delighted—to hear her friend's voice on the other end of the phone. The masquerade party had only been last week; she and Nancy usually let months go by between contacts. Then she smiled to herself, remembering Vincent's discovery of Nancy's slight empathic sensitivity. The connection between them, a close one ever since college, now seemed to have an added element of strength . . . because of Vincent. It was wonderful to realize he had actually enriched her relationships with others, rather than hindering them, as he so often believed he did. She would have to remind him of this when she saw him, later that night.

"I just wanted to call, see how you were doing, and to see if you'd gotten my little package."

“Oh, yes, I did! I couldn't believe it!” Catherine reached across her desk for the envelope that had just come that morning and opened it. “You're getting pretty sneaky, Nance—I didn't even see your camera.” There were two sets of three different photographs from the party: one of her feeding Vincent caviar; one close-up of Vincent, which Nancy had written “Gorgeous!” across the back of—a judgment she agreed with; and a shot of the two of them dancing.

"Fast film and zoom lenses, my dear—they come in very handy sometimes. I . . . had the feeling Vincent wouldn't have sat still if I had asked him to pose. You, of course, were beautiful, positively glowing. I don't know if I've ever seen you look better. Um, can you give Vincent the other set?”

“Of course, Nance.” There was a slightly awkward pause then, with the inevitable question hanging. She had to ask it. "So, Nancy—what did you think of Vincent?" Her friend had seemed supportive at the party, but maybe she'd had time to think it over. Catherine heard a deep sigh from the other end of the phone.

"I like to think I can handle anything—good old unflappable Nancy, you know—but you keep throwing me these curves. Don't you ever have the desire to lead a simple life?"

"What do you mean, Nance?" Catherine said carefully.

"You know what I mean. Vincent is just what you said he was—special. I don't think I want—or need—to know any more than that. You said you had promises to keep, and I respect that. Not everyone is meant to lead a normal, boring life in the suburbs. We've been through that before, too. But I guess the only thing I can say is. . . ."

"What, Nancy, what? You're killing me with suspense here!" Catherine was relieved to hear a deep chuckle from her friend.

"I love him! He's terrific and wonderful and sensitive and shy, not to mention drop-dead beautiful! Wherever did you find— No, I don't want to know. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you did find him, you’re both happy, and I’ll never breathe a word to a living soul. Not that I'd know exactly what to breathe. He’s not exactly someone you can describe and do him justice. You really have to . . . experience him, if you know what I mean.”

Catherine giggled—a little hysterically, with a sense of relief. She should have known. Nancy was a true friend; someone you could trust, someone who loved you unreservedly and only wanted your happiness, someone you didn't have to explain things to if you couldn’t. "Believe me, Nance, I know what you mean.”

“I guess”—Nancy seemed to be searching for words—“I understand now why you were in such a state that time four months ago. It must be awful to love someone as much as I know you love Vincent, and not be able to share that with the world."

“It can be, sometimes,” Catherine said quietly, "but we’re working on making the best of what we've got. It’s the only thing we can do."

“Mmm,” Nancy murmured softly. “If it will help you get through the hurt sometimes, kiddo, just remember that I’m here, rooting for you. Always have been, always will be. And the same goes for Vincent. He's now been officially adopted by Nancy Tucker, big sister."

Catherine nodded at the phone, her throat too tight to speak, her eyes too blurred with tears to see.

“So,” Nancy continued a moment later, her own voice suspiciously thick, “I guess I’m gonna have to have a masquerade party every year now. Just so I can see Vincent, I mean.” There was the slightest hint of a question in her voice.

“For you, we’ll try to make some special arrangements.” Catherine was suddenly inspired; perhaps, if Nancy could make it into the city from time to time for an overnight trip by herself, she could make a special dinner, invite Vincent to come. . . . She knew he would like seeing Nancy again.

"That would be great.” Catherine could feel Nancy’s smile over the phone. “Just take care of yourselves in the meantime. And don't ever let him get away from you, Cath. This is the right one, I can tell.”

This time Catherine didn't try to stop the tears from running down her face. “How'd you ever get so wise, old friend?”

“Life, Cathy—life and love. They make you wise.”

~ ~ ~

Unmasqued by Barbara L.B. Storey was originally published in Tunnels Vol. I, in October of 1988. (See zine information on page 44) It has since been made available online at Tunnel Tales, http://www.classicalliance.net/tunneltales/tunneltales.html , a website featuring an extensive collection of Classic Beauty and the Beast fan fiction.

Fair Answers

By Zara Wilder

For my friend, E

Originally presented online May 8, 2014

~ ~ ~

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —

~ Emily Dickinson

~ ~ ~

Tap-ta-tap ting. Tap tap-ta. Tappeta ting tap.

The two underworld sentries listened to the syncopated message ring along the pipes from Matthew's sentry station. Brizo's eyes widened a little as the encoded string of words concluded. "She doesn't know," she said to her companion.

"No," Rebecca agreed. "Obviously, she doesn't."

"Who should tell her?" Brizo asked, pulling her hood up over her long black hair.

Rebecca, relieved of her sentry shift by Brizo's arrival, reached into the wide pocket of her coat for her tapping key. "I will." She used the tapping key—one detached half of a pair of steel tongs—to signal her reply to Matthew and all others listening in on the line. Her pipecode plinged down the old iron pipe, which ran along the cement wall of the alcove where she and Brizo stood together. Rebecca informed everyone that she should be able to intercept Catherine before their visitor reached the Perimeter of Tunnelfolk territory.

"Good luck," Brizo told her as Rebecca turned to go.

Rebecca smiled grimly at her friend.

She walked quickly, not sure how to prepare herself to greet Catherine Chandler. Ambivalent emotions seethed through her heart and generated turbulence in her thoughts. Rebecca was sure, however, that she didn't want Catherine to march unawares into the Hub tonight.

A few of the more sharp-tongued Elders were not happy with the most recent actions of this Helper. No one possessed the whole story at the moment, not even Father, which worried the community greatly. But some among the Tunnelfolk were piecing together enough bothersome facts to begin to trace out a long-term pattern in Catherine's relationship with the underworld—and with the underworld's most beloved citizen.

It was not a healthy pattern, and talk had circulated that the Council might need to get involved to correct things if Vincent and Catherine could not get matters under control on their own. Everyone felt uncomfortable with this possibility. Everyone was also waiting for Vincent to set the example for how to proceed. But Vincent had other problems to deal with at the moment. And until Vincent regained his equilibrium, the subject could not in all fairness be publicly broached. This left the community on edge and disquieted. No, Rebecca did not want Catherine to stumble into the current quagmire Below without advance warning.

She came upon Catherine just as the other woman reached the foot of the Spiral Stair. Catherine was a delicate, slender woman from the world Above, dressed in fashionable layers against the chill. Her dust-brown hair had been pulled back from her temples, the tresses held in place behind her head by a flat, bronze-colored barrette, and she wore no makeup on her pale face. As she stepped down from the last iron tread onto solid cement, Catherine looked up, saw Rebecca, and hesitated. Then she came forward and joined the tunnelwoman at the mouth of the lower tunnel.

"Hello, Catherine," Rebecca said.

Catherine's cautious voice came out hoarse and cracked. "Hello."

She wore a high-necked sweater tonight, but Rebecca could see dark black and violet marks mottling Catherine's throat all the way up to her jaw. Catherine held herself stiffly, as though afraid to bend or twist her body. Rebecca met Catherine's guarded green eyes.

"Have you come to see Vincent?" Rebecca asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"Vincent isn't here."

Catherine glanced down the tunnel behind them. "I can see that."

Rebecca observed her closely. "I mean, Vincent isn't home," she said.

Something like dismay registered in Catherine's demeanor. She started to turn back toward the Stair. "Oh, did he come Above? Did I miss him?"

Rebecca placed a calm hand on Catherine's shoulder. When Catherine stopped and looked at her again, Rebecca said, "He isn't Above, Catherine."

Catherine frowned. "Then I don't understand," she croaked.

Rebecca held on to Catherine's shoulder. "He went away. Deeper Down, Below our Tunnels."

Catherine blinked.

Rebecca waited for a more concrete response.

After several silent seconds, Catherine stepped back from Rebecca's light grasp. "He went away to be alone."

"Yes."

"Did..." She swallowed with a little shudder. “Did he leave a message for me?"

"No. If he had, we would have delivered it."

Catherine folded her arms over her stomach and shuddered again. Rebecca watched her profile. A tear glided down Catherine's cheek.

Rebecca waited for her, aching for her. How well she knew the overwhelming forces of soul-crushing misery! Catherine pulled in a shaky breath.

"Do people down here know what happened?" she asked.

"Some of it," Rebecca replied. She lowered her voice to a sad murmur. "Several of us saw Vincent as he returned Below that night. He spoke to no one besides Father, but...we saw him. I prepared supplies for his journey. And...I looked into his eyes, Catherine. When I bade him farewell."

Cold, feral eyes, Rebecca remembered. Eyes haunted by abyssal shadows. Eyes that shifted quickly from the faces of Vincent's loved ones, trying to protect them from a wildness that surged within himself, a burning darkness that he could not share with them. Standing so near to Vincent while his pain reverberated through the emotional atmosphere around him had made it difficult for Rebecca to breathe.

"Then all of you blame me for what happened to him," Catherine said dully. "And...you're right. It was my fault. You should blame me."

Rebecca stepped close and caught Catherine's face between her lye-scarred hands. She sent her cool gray gaze into Catherine's sleepless eyes and told her, "You must not believe anything so foolish, Catherine." With feather-gentle fingers, Rebecca touched the bruised skin visible above Catherine's knitted collar. "Not ever. Not ever."

Catherine's face crumpled. Rebecca held her tight as Catherine wept into the heavy canvas fabric of Rebecca's patchwork coat. Rebecca said nothing and just listened to the rending sobs, feeling the spastic rhythm of Catherine's muscles against her body. She stroked Catherine's hair.

Facts known Below: A man from Catherine's past had returned to the city. Catherine had renewed her relationship with this man, opening doors to friendship. Vincent experienced disturbing premonitions that Catherine had entered terrible danger. Catherine had rejected Vincent's warnings. Then Catherine's former fiancé had enticed her out of the city, to visit his recently purchased home in New Rochelle. Once he brought her there, he sprang his trap and attacked her. Vincent felt her terror from afar and left the city to aid her. Catherine fought for her life. The man wounded her. He almost killed her. Vincent stopped him. Catherine survived.

Vincent returned home six hours after he had left the Tunnels. No one had heard from Catherine again until her arrival Below tonight. She had been very busy Above, wrangling the legal aftermath.

Rebecca thought Catherine looked just as exhausted now as Vincent had two midnights ago.

The sobbing eased into more throat-clenched shudders. Rebecca moved to Catherine's side, keeping one protective arm wrapped around Catherine's shoulders. "Come," said Rebecca. She guided her guest one halting step at a time into the tunnel and toward the Inner Circle. At the opposite end of that first tunnel, Catherine's tears subsided. They walked together through the underworld. The few people they met along the way nodded or waved to them in silence and, after one look at Rebecca's stern face, hurried to get out of their path.

Finally, Rebecca ushered Catherine into the small cave where Rebecca made her home. She steered her guest to the back of an armchair and rested Catherine's hand upon its worn upholstery, giving her a tangible anchor in the dimness while Rebecca lit candles. Rich golden light began to fill the chamber. Rebecca also touched a flame to the burner of her little camp stove, setting a kettle of water there to heat.

"Be welcome," she said to Catherine as she ignited the candle in her ceramic diffuser and added water and lavender oil to the shallow reservoir.

Catherine sank down into the armchair. Despite her weariness and low spirits, the woman looked about her with real curiosity. She had never visited Rebecca's chamber before.

These were simple, uncluttered quarters. Sara had once dubbed the chamber, "Spartan," but Mary's favorite depictive term was, "Amish." Neither adjective described the chamber's solitary resident. Rebecca thought of herself as a plain and practical-minded Scotswoman. She glanced around too, trying to imagine what impression of Rebecca's life Catherine might construct.

She saw the faded blue armchair in which Catherine sat. Nearby: a plain walnut rocking chair. Two painted wooden stools at a small round dining table. A small bookshelf packed with well-loved tomes beside the narrow, quilt-covered bed. A smaller shelf for dishes and mementos bolted to the stone wall above the dining table. A strip of coat hooks bolted to the wall behind Catherine, where Rebecca hung her coats and robes and aprons and pinafores. A battered cedar chest at the foot of the bed to hold Rebecca's clothes. A low cabinet set against the inmost wall of the cave, its floor-level cupboards filled with supplies for Rebecca's sewing and handcrafting work, its deep drawers containing, from left to right, towels and personal toiletries, headscarves and hair ribbons, and writing materials.

On top of the cabinet sat a modest square mirror in a pivoting maple frame, an empty blue enameled basin, a white china ewer filled with water and covered by a clean if tattered cloth, and Rebecca's essential oil diffuser. Her camp stove, food canisters, and collection of three oil lamps occupied the surface of a long workbench Winslow had built for her, years ago. Sconces for candles were placed at intervals along the walls, and candelabras on the shelves and tables held tall yellow tapers Rebecca had made herself, all now aglow. Rebecca slipped her matchbox back into the large drawer of the workbench.

Catherine lifted her eyes to the wall adjacent to the chamber entrance. She studied the many framed paintings that hung there. The one-wall art gallery comprised the most colorful feature of the chamber.

"Vincent has a wall like that," Catherine whispered. "Only, he collects posters and magazine clippings."

Rebecca smiled. "Vincent likes the upperworld photography. I like best the artwork my friends create."

"Do you know when he'll come back?" Catherine asked.

Rebecca shook her head, no.

Catherine looked down at the braided rug on the floor, pressing her lips together until they turned white.

Rebecca retrieved her eclectic, mismatched tea set from the shelf on the wall and brewed calendula and chamomile tea laced with rose. The fragrances of floral tea, lavender oil, and warmed beeswax mingled in the air. Catherine sighed. Rebecca brought her a steaming cup, honeyed to soothe an aching throat. Catherine sipped her drink and sighed again.

"Thank you, Rebecca."

Nodding, Rebecca poured a cup for herself and sat in the rocking chair beside Catherine.

They drank and listened to pipesong filtering into the chamber from the outer passage. Catherine clutched the china cup in her hands. "I...couldn't bear another night alone. I had to come Below."

Rebecca listened.

"And...I wanted Vincent to know...I called the hospital this afternoon. They say Steven will live."

"Steven is...your friend, from before."

"From before," Catherine repeated. She shivered. "I almost married him."

"But you didn't."

Catherine closed her eyes. "We were...wrong for each other. He drank too much. He got angry too easily—but maybe we both did that. He was controlling. Manipulative. He always...left me hungry. Starved for love. I could never live up to his expectations. He wouldn't let me be me."

Catherine hunched her shoulders as she spoke. She opened her eyes and drank more tea. "How could I be so stupid?" Catherine creaked out.

Rebecca resisted the unsettled urge to rock in her chair. "Did he tell you he had changed?" she asked.

Catherine looked at her sharply.

"Did he tell you he knew how horribly he had treated you, all those years ago? That he wanted to make it up to you?"

"He told me he was dying of a brain tumor. He told me he didn't have much time left to make it all up to me. But he wanted to do the best he could with the time that remained."

Rebecca's stomach tightened in sympathetic knots. This man had come back into Catherine's life armed for bear. "Does he have a brain tumor?" she asked.

Catherine considered the question. "When they came to the house, I explained to the police and paramedics what Steven had told me about his illness. When I talked to the nurse at the hospital today, she was in a rush to be somewhere else and I didn't even think to ask about that part. I was more worried about the surgery." Her eyes widened. "Oh, God. Maybe he lied about being sick, too."

"You can't know he lied until you ask his doctors."

"Oh, God." Catherine rubbed her forehead with one hand. Rebecca noticed that both her hands were cut and scabbed. Black sutures closed four of the worst gashes. Others had been dressed with adhesive butterfly bandages.

Catherine began to cry again. Softly, this time. Tears of hurt and shame.

Rebecca rose and took Catherine's teacup, setting both of their cups on the round table. She returned to the armchair and leaned over Catherine to hold her. Just to hold her, to cradle that broken heart and prove that Catherine was not alone. Catherine gripped Rebecca's forearm. The tunnelwoman took one steadying lavender breath after another.

"I'm a wreck," Catherine gasped. "I'm sorry."

"You're alive. I'm grateful."

This evoked a tiny laugh. Catherine sniffled. Rebecca reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a handkerchief. Catherine accepted it.

"Nothing I do ever fazes you," Catherine commented, when she could speak clearly again.

Rebecca thought back to the day they had met in Vincent's chamber, whispering hesitant introductions while Vincent lay abed, recovering from a street gang's homicidal onslaught. She recalled the second time she had seen Catherine, during the crisis of the cave-in that had trapped Vincent and Father in the Maze. The two women had not had a chance to speak to each other on that occasion, but later on, after Vincent returned home from unexpected imprisonment at Columbia University, Catherine and Rebecca shared several quiet conversations. Their other meetings over the past several months had been brief, for Catherine spent most of her time in the Tunnels alone with Vincent. Rebecca simply took each moment with Catherine as it came, just as she did for all the people she cared about.

A rebellious strand of strawberry blonde hair tickled Rebecca's neck. She tucked her wayward curl back in place behind her left ear. Satisfied that Catherine was regaining her composure, Rebecca retreated to the dining table.

"Would you like more tea?" she asked.

Catherine said, "Please."

They settled in with fresh cups. Rebecca gathered her thoughts. So many memories. She chose one to begin with and said, "When I was a little girl, my father told my mother once a month or so that he was sorry for everything. He was going to turn over a new leaf. Everything would be better from now on. He was trying so hard, couldn't she see? He'd gotten that new job, bought her that new dress, given me that new toy. We could be a happy family, happily ever after. Daddy's Prince Charming act. She always let him back into her heart."

Catherine listened.

"But something always happened. Daddy's boss would reprimand him at work for making a mistake. I'd spill my milk at dinner. Mom would forget to take out the trash. It could be anything. He'd stand up tall, blowing air like a bull, and he'd take off his belt."

She sipped tea to moisten her dry mouth.

"'This is how you repay me,' he always said. 'I work my life out for you, and this is how you repay me.' Then he wrapped one end of the belt leather around his hand and repaid us for our...ingratitude."

Catherine was still listening, riveted.

"I was eight years old the night Daddy dragged us into the car to drive us to the hospital. He was very drunk. Mom was begging him—loudly—to let her call her mother. My grandmother could drive. It would be better if Daddy stayed home. Couldn't he see that it would be better for everyone if he stayed home? He didn't need to go to the emergency room with her. It was only a broken arm.

"Daddy said he didn't want that old bat butting in. Why did my mother have to bring half the city into private family business, anyway? What was wrong with her brain? We screeched out from the curb, Mom and Daddy still shouting at each other. I was trying to be invisible in the back seat, wishing I could be with my grandmother in her cozy apartment filled with potted plants and the smell of good things baking. Zucchini muffins. Shortbread cookies. Her wonderful buttermilk biscuits, my favorite food in the world. I stared at Mom's arm, bent all wrong above the elbow, where she'd smashed into a shelf after my father threw her across the room."

Rebecca breathed the lavendered air. "Even I could tell that Daddy wasn't driving right. None of us were wearing seatbelts. When the car crashed, I thought the sky had fallen on us. It sounded that loud. I thought I heard Daddy screaming for a while, but that might have been a dream. It took me a long time to really wake up. Days. I had many strange dreams that week."

Catherine whispered, "Did you wake up...in the Tunnels?"

"No. In the hospital my father had been driving us to. My grandmother sat beside my bed, watching over me. My parents had died."

"Oh, Rebecca."

She gathered more thoughts, sifted more memories. "The morning my grandmother brought me to her home, I curled up in a wing chair and trembled for hours. She was so patient with me. She sang. I covered my ears. She brushed my hair. I couldn't look at her. I didn't deserve her. I knew I didn't deserve to be there."

"Because you survived?" Catherine asked.

"Because that was what I had wished for," Rebecca replied. "To be safe in Grandmother's apartment. I knew my wish had killed my parents...so I could be safe in Grandmother's apartment. I knew I did not deserve to be alive. My parents fought that night because I had left my lunchbox on the floor in the front hall, and Daddy tripped over it when he got home from drinking with his friends at the bar down the street. I broke the rules. I had made Daddy angry. That whole night was all my fault."

"Rebecca," Catherine said, aghast. "No."

Rebecca smiled gently at her. "Yes, Catherine. For a child caught inside a living nightmare: yes."

Catherine sat in the armchair, pressing Rebecca's handkerchief into a flat square on her knee.

"Catherine, I could never blame you for anything Steven did to you. Everyone Below has a history. You know that. We have all been shattered by someone, something. No one—no one—in the Tunnels blames you." Rebecca leaned forward in her chair. "Because what he did is not your fault. It was never your fault. I tell you what my grandmother told me, all those years ago: It is not your fault."

Catherine put one hand to her throat, gazing into space.

Rebecca fell silent. Past and present seemed to revolve around the two women, pinching at them with ghostly fingertips. Rebecca lifted her cup to inhale the aroma of the herbal tea. Scents of sunshine to banish every inner chill.

"Okay," Catherine said at last. Her green eyes focused on her companion. "Okay, but...what can I do with this...this feeling that I should have known better? Somehow, I didn't know what Steven was going to do—but I should have."

Rebecca had no answer.

"But Vincent knew," Catherine whispered.

"Vincent knows many things," said Rebecca. "You can talk with him about that when he gets back."

Dread flashed across Catherine's face. "Rebecca, when he gets back, will he be all right?"

A very good question.

Rebecca thought of the pattern that so worried the Tunnels Elders: those strange intertwined currents of duty and desire that swept Catherine headlong into peril, straining the bonds of love that sent Vincent chasing after her, struggling to free her from violence, fighting to save her from certain death. This pattern, perhaps stagnating into something akin to habit, weighed heavily upon Vincent, damaging his balance—endangering him in unforeseen ways. The uneasy sentiment growing among the Tunnelfolk expressed the fear that Catherine might be willing to do everything within her power (often using everything within Vincent's power, or everything within the underworld's power, as well) to spare Topsiders from suffering and harm—but not to spare the Tunnelfolk. And especially not to spare Vincent. Underworld checks and balances did not seem to enter into her thinking.

She always chose the riskiest available option, even when Vincent or Father asked her not to. And more than once, Catherine's choices had exposed the underworld to serious dangers from Above: attracting the attention of a subway vigilante; dropping Vincent into the front lines of a gang war on the Lower East Side of Manhattan; leading a vengeful Chinatown tong to a secret Tunnels entrance; pressuring Vincent and the Council to either confront an old enemy or cope with police intervention in underground affairs; scornfully threatening to reveal Vincent’s brother’s, Devin's, secrets to the city's legal system; and, of course, drawing Vincent Topside over and over again to protect her during repeated bouts of combat with criminals.

No other Helper had ever behaved this way. No one else in their world had ever believed they held the inalienable right to behave this way. Thus far, Catherine's compassion for vulnerable people had justified her priorities. However, concern—and doubt—gained momentum Below. The love between Topside Princess and Tunnels Prince astonished and delighted the community. Still, the people were Tunnelfolk; life had taught them not to trust the imperious demands made by Topsider society. Catherine gave tremendous help when she could; and she also demanded tremendous help without prior consultation. She was proving more loyal to Topside Law and her own inclinations than to Tunnels Law and communal authority. She also expected capitulation without argument to every course of action she chose. The Elders were no longer sure Catherine's help was worth its price. Those closest to Vincent, folk like Rebecca, those who knew what to look for in his eyes, understood that Vincent was paying the highest price of all to keep Catherine alive and connected to their community. Things could not go on like this forever without destroying Vincent, or Catherine—or both—or all.

So, would Vincent be all right?

Rebecca drew a long breath and answered, "Catherine, I suspect that much of Vincent's well-being—and your own well-being, too—is going to be up to you."

Catherine hunched her shoulders again, and winced. "Yeah. I'm figuring that out."

"You don't have to figure everything out alone, though," said Rebecca.

Catherine slowly shook her head. "Alone is what I'm used to. It's all I really know." She sipped more tea.

Rebecca let Catherine's words resound in her mind. Maybe therein lay the heart of the problem. Catherine's aloneness. Frightened, lonely people tended to take refuge in familiar territory. And a romantic relationship with Vincent had to be the most unfamiliar territory in the world.

Rebecca tried to imagine how the world Below must appear from Catherine's point of view. She privately doubted she'd ever get very far with this line of thought: Catherine's life comprised an utterly foreign universe existing parallel to Rebecca's. Yet surely the things they held in common could bridge a lot of gaps: shared pains, shared fears, shared joys, shared loves. Shared human nature. A shared longing for connection.

She said, "Catherine, may I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes," Catherine replied.

"Do you believe Vincent is trustworthy?"

Catherine sat up a little straighter. "Of course I do."

Rebecca braced herself. "Then why don't you trust him?"

Catherine's frown reappeared. The question hummed through the stillness. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why don't you trust Vincent?"

"How can you ask me that?" Catherine said, her tearful voice suddenly aflame with anger.

"I am your friend and I am Vincent's friend. I ask with deep concern for the health and happiness of two people I love," Rebecca answered.

Catherine glared at her.

It was not the first time Rebecca had been on the receiving end of Catherine's consternation. She waited patiently for Catherine to think things through. But after the silence just kept spinning, Rebecca realized that Catherine was not going to be the one to break it. She looked at the older woman's tense posture and clenched jaw and knew Catherine had every right to feel defensive. She also had every right to hear the full truth spoken aloud—in particular those aspects of the truth she did not want to admit to herself.

Quietly, Rebecca told her, "I don't know why, for only you can decide why...but your actions show me that you do not trust Vincent. Or, at least, you do not trust him completely."

"I trust Vincent with my life!"

Rebecca inhaled, and exhaled. "Yes...and no. I think you trust Vincent with parts of your life. And I think you trust only some parts of him. You don't trust his judgment. You don't trust his culture or his values. You don't trust him to love you truly and completely, for who you are here and now, and to love you for the person you will become tomorrow. You don't trust his fear, and you don't trust his courage. You don't trust him to honestly and respectfully disagree with you. You don't trust Vincent to perceive the truth, and to speak the truth to you."

Rebecca fingered the smooth exterior of her teacup. "If I am wrong, you can tell me so. Now, or some other time. And I will listen to you tell me the truth about your own life, and I will believe you." She paused. "Am I wrong, Catherine?"

Her guest said nothing. She sat quite still in the blue armchair, looking haggard. Rebecca reached for her, resting her left hand on Catherine's wrist, careful not to touch one of those painful unhealed gashes.

"Now, or any other time," Rebecca reiterated. "I will be here for you. We will all be here for you."

Catherine whispered numbly, "Vincent...isn't here."

"We are here for Vincent, too," said Rebecca. "He's where he needs to be tonight. So, we let him be there, for as long as he wishes to be left alone. That is our way."

A long silence ensued. But this time Catherine did not pull back from Rebecca's touch. "You trust Vincent to know what is best for Vincent," she murmured at last.

Rebecca felt a flicker of relief. "Yes."

"Everyone Below...you trust each other. Protect each other."

"Yes." Rebecca felt a little smile tug at her mouth. "We even trust one another to protect us from ourselves, should we start wandering off in strange directions. We are free at all times to voice objections, and ask questions, and to argue with anyone else's ideas regarding how we ought to go about living together in community. We speak up for each other, during those debates. We stand by each other. Vincent comes in high demand at such times. He is eminently reasonable. He makes a good advocate."

She let the smile fade. "Do you understand? The essential element of life Below is trust. Without it, we have nothing."

Catherine gazed into the depths of her teacup.

Rebecca added, "Trust is what distinguishes Tunnelfolk...from Topsiders."

"Are you saying I'm a Topsider?" Catherine asked.

Rebecca waited until Catherine met her eyes again. Then she said, "I'm saying that our way of life is not easy for anyone." Rebecca's heart brimmed with love and empathy for her troubled, wounded friend. "I'm saying that our community trusts Vincent with all our heart...and he trusts us with the same. This is how we know that we are forever part of one another."

Tears slid once more down Catherine's cheeks.

"I believe you are a part of us," Rebecca said. "This is how I dare to ask my terribly personal question. Catherine, if you believe Vincent is trustworthy, then what is keeping you from giving all of him all your trust?"

Her roughened voice breaking, Catherine said, "I don't know."

"A fair answer," said Rebecca. She had nothing more to say. She sat quietly beside Catherine and left her companion free to think her own thoughts as the minutes slipped by. At length, Catherine sighed and bowed her head. She also had nothing more to say.

They had finished their tea. Without speaking, Rebecca collected Catherine's cup and brought their dishes to the workbench. She took a towel and a jar from the leftmost drawer of her cabinet and poured a little water from the ewer into the enameled basin. Cupping a pinch of soap shavings from the jar in one hand, Rebecca returned to Catherine, kneeling before her and setting the basin on the braided rug. Catherine watched her form a sudsy slurry in her palm, using a few drops of water from the basin. The two women faced each other, Rebecca silently asking permission. Catherine silently gave it.

Catherine held her hands quiet on her lap. She shut her eyes. Rebecca tenderly washed Catherine's tearstained face. She took care to work around each cut and gash on Catherine's hands as she washed her palms, her fingers, her scratched knuckles and torn nails, her rope-burned wrists. The gentle soap removed the evening's grime and sweat and tears. Cool, clear water washed her clean.

"Every time I close my eyes," Catherine whispered, "I glimpse the nightmares lying in wait for me."

Rebecca rinsed the last of the soap from her hands. She reached for the towel and dabbed Catherine's pallid skin dry. "Stay here tonight," she said. "Where you won't be alone."

Catherine looked at her, need warring with fear behind her trembling lips.

Rebecca bent low to pull Catherine's ankle-high leather boots off her feet. She set the boots on the floor to one side of the armchair, safely out of Catherine's path. "Come," said Rebecca, standing up. She held out her hands, supporting Catherine by the arms as she stood. Rebecca unclipped the barrette from Catherine's hair, careful not to press the swollen lump of bludgeoned scalp she found at the base of Catherine's skull. She left the barrette with the handkerchief on the seat of the blue armchair.

Catherine let Rebecca undress her. She held out her arms like a child in a sister's keeping at bedtime while Rebecca removed the heavy turtleneck sweater. Static electricity crackled through Catherine's hair. Rebecca placed the sweater beside the barrette on the seat of the chair and gravely smoothed the levitating flyaways. She glanced without comment at the painful damage to Catherine's neck, stark handprints above the ring collar of the gray long-sleeved tee-shirt Catherine wore. Rebecca's deft, uncut fingers unfastened the snap of Catherine's jeans and pushed the denim fabric down past the peach-colored nylon covering her hips. Catherine stepped out of the jeans, holding Rebecca's shoulders for balance. Rebecca saw more bruises on Catherine's legs, scrapes on her knees and shins, more cuts on her thighs.

"Glass panes," Catherine explained. "I escaped the house through a set of patio doors. They were locked at the time."

"You were very brave," Rebecca answered.

Catherine made a harsh sound that might have been a laugh or a moan. She stood uncertainly in her shirt and panties and stocking feet, beginning to shiver. "Come," Rebecca said once more, and led Catherine to her bed, turning down the blankets for her.

Catherine slid her savaged body between the vintage linen sheets. "Steven lied to me," she said. "He lied. And I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I let myself be deceived. Again."

She lay back upon the pillow. Rebecca pulled the blankets and quilt up to her chin. She brushed Catherine's hair from her brow.

"I can't trust my own judgment, Rebecca. This throws my whole life into question. Even...even what I feel...even what I have...with Vincent. What I think I have. What I might not really have. I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to do."

Rebecca leaned close. "Do nothing. Not tonight. Maybe not for a few more days yet. You have to let your wounds close first. You have to let the bruises fade, or you'll only hurt yourself, trying to do more than you should with heart and hands and voice that are broken and swift to bleed."

She kissed Catherine's cheek.

"Rest. Just rest now, Catherine. I'll keep watch tonight. Let me guard you and tend the lights. Will you trust me to do that?"

Catherine let out a slow breath. "Okay."

Rebecca gave her a goodnight smile and turned away, crossing the chamber to the sitting area. She folded Catherine's jeans and sweater into a pile on the armchair's well-patched seat cushion, topping the pile with the barrette. She took the basin, handkerchief, and dampened towel back to the cabinet. Quietly, she prepared the assorted towels, combs, and jars of soap and toothpowder that Catherine would need to use in the morning.

From the bed, Catherine called softly, "Rebecca?"

"Yes?"

"How did you come to live Below?"

Memories. So many memories. Rebecca looked into the mirror. Catherine was watching the reflection of Rebecca's face. "That," said Rebecca, "is another story altogether."

Catherine smiled a very tired smile. "A fair answer," she said.

Rebecca added a spoonful of water to the diffuser and dripped in more aromatic oil: more lavender, for healing and comfort, and also sage, for cleansing and protection. Drizzle, and drop. Be safe while you dream, Catherine. Drop, and shine. Be safe during your pilgrimage, Vincent. The diffuser's tea candle shone within its hollow, warming the water and the oils. Be safe in yourselves, and with each other. Rebecca breathed the fragrances of hope and wished with all her heart: Be safe.

She retrieved a bag of Weaver's softest reworked yarn and a crochet hook from her cabinet, then nested in her rocking chair, centering the chair upon the rug so the wooden runners would not creak against the stone of the floor. She busied herself by candlelight, continuing her work on another cozy sleep gown for Kanin's and Olivia's newborn son. Across the chamber, Catherine's breathing gradually deepened as she fell asleep.

A step at the entrance signaled the arrival of another visitor. Rebecca looked up. Sophia, councilwoman and chief coordinator of the foragers, peered in through the oblong opening in the rock. Rebecca nodded a greeting. Sophia took in the sight of Catherine's slight form lying at rest beneath Rebecca's bedclothes. She raised her white eyebrows at Rebecca. All is well? asked the gesture.

Rebecca nodded again. As well as it can be.

The Tunnels Elder offered her mild, affectionate smile. She touched one side of the entryway with her hand, a blessing of presence, and turned, and left. Rebecca went back to work. Her fingers shaped the yarn that would clothe a precious baby's tiny body. She rocked slowly in her chair, keeping watch through the long Tunnels night.

~ ~ ~

Fair Answers, as well as much more of Zara Wilder’s work can be found on her website, Piece of Eternity, at  http://www.batbland.com/pieceofeternity/fiction . You can also find her stories posted on Treasure Chambers at http://www.treasurechambers.com/Features.html , in the Library Chamber, and on the Cultivating BatBland monthly creative challenges page at http://www.batbland.com/challenges/challenges.htm

No Words

by Angie

“Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.”

- William Shakespeare

~ ~ ~

Vincent sat back in his chair, and thought about what he had just written in his journal. He knew himself to be a man of few words, and those he did speak were always carefully considered. Since rescuing Catherine, he had been writing entries in his journal in the form of letters to her. They helped him to understand their relationship, put into words what he did not seem able to say to her face. This time, however, even the words he had written seemed inadequate.

His bond with Catherine seemed stronger than ever - after he had given up hope of ever seeing her again and had lost faith in their friendship and in that bond. She was now home, preparing for bed. She was happy and it occurred to him that if he had not shut himself off from their bond after she told him she was going to Providence, he might have known she was looking for him when he became a captive and been consoled. How many kinds of fool could he be?

It had been a terrible day and night. Catherine … yes, Catherine … had rescued him, released him from the cage and found his cloak and other clothing, as well as all the notes from lab tests, in a nearby locker. Professor Hughes was nothing if not thorough. He had obviously not trusted the younger man at all.

Then Catherine had helped him escape the University campus under cover of darkness, accompanied him to the nearest tunnel entrance, and insisted on staying with him all the way home. Word had passed quickly on the pipes and by the time they had reached his chamber, it was full of his family, despite the late hour. Father had wept with relief at seeing him unharmed and been profuse with his thanks to Catherine. It had all been somewhat embarrassing for Vincent, since he knew he was entirely to blame for his capture.

Finally, he had had to plead fatigue in order for his family to leave himself and Catherine alone. Truly, there were no words then that would express the relief he felt at knowing she had not left New York, that she had searched for him and found him – and that she would not now be leaving him. He didn’t know how this had come about or what had led her to him - but she had shown great courage.

His gratitude was boundless. He would have died in that cage – he had wanted to. He would not have allowed himself live to be made into a spectacle or lab experiment.

Words were his tools, his refuge, what made him human – and they could be a burden, a heavy one. They were what he withheld from enemies, so they would not ask questions, demand answers he would not, could not give. He was safe now, so how could he not express what he felt? Sometimes, especially when he thought of Catherine, words weighed him down, seemed unable to rise to the heights she deserved.

Words, he decided, were not enough to repay her for what she had given him – his life. She would probably say that there was no payment needed, that he had once saved her life. True as that was, his differences made his danger a very different prospect to hers. Father had often warned him about being captured. He had thought he understood the risk – but he had been very wrong.

Being captured by the Silks had been a life-threatening peril, one he might not have survived, but capture by the two scientists was another risk entirely. They offered nothing, thought nothing of him, except as they would an animal. In that, they were much like the Silks. Hughes, even as he died and asked forgiveness, had not really understood what capture had denied Vincent. Hughes had thought only of himself and what his scientific colleagues would think – until it was too late.

Freedom, Vincent realized, was not just an airy conceit that could be embraced or not as convenient – it was a humanizing concept. Animals did not think about freedom. They were restricted by their natures, could do little to change their environments. Humans had no such restraints. True, he had less freedom than some men, but he was still immeasurably more free than any wild or domesticated beast. There were words for all the advantages men had over beasts. Yet they were just words, if freedom was not included.

Watching Catherine as she read to him, he had realized he loved her. It was a word he had never expected to be part of his vocabulary, at least in relation to a woman. There were no words to describe the depth of his feeling for her now. He knew her heart and knew she loved him too, but somehow, it did not seem right to burden her with the knowledge of his love. What other opportunities might she have? He knew now that if she left New York, it would be like losing half his heart - but how could he tell her that?

Perhaps she knew. Wordsworth’s poem, as she read it, seemed to take on new meaning. Yet, she had smiled when she read it. It was not a poem one normally thought of as happy – but she had smiled. Looking at her, he had felt his face respond with an almost smile too – and immediately he had felt better. He had been so recently in such despair, that a true smile was impossible. Yet, she had deserved a smile – more – although what more he could give her, he did not know.

Yes, he had to let her know how grateful he was, somehow. Tomorrow night, he would visit her on her balcony – that place he had feared never to see again – and hope that the right words came to him. With a sigh, Vincent lay down on his bed and pulled the blankets over himself. He truly was bone-tired. He would never regard his home below as a prison again.

~ ~ ~

The next night, Vincent stood on Catherine’s balcony, waiting for her return. She was still on her way, he knew, but could not deny himself the balcony any longer. He peered through the glass doors and saw that her living room was full of large boxes, some of them taped shut. Of course - she had been packing to move! The sight made his heart clench all over again. He staggered to the end of the balcony and gazed dumbly at the city lights until the pain receded somewhat. But for his stupidity, she would now be embarked on a new career. How could she forgive him that lost opportunity? What did he expect now?

He almost left then, but was stopped by the patio door opening and the sound of his name. He spun around and saw her, and knew he could not leave now. That would be the coward’s way out. She deserved better than to see him flee.

She began to walk towards him and he felt the magnetic pull and walked towards her, gathering his courage as he did so. He stopped while still a step away from her, but she did not. She was almost touching him when she stopped and looked up into his eyes. She spoke his name again, softly.

Words failed him completely. His throat seemed closed with rocks. He could do nothing but look at her.

She reached down and took his hands in hers and brought them up to her waist. She seemed to understand his silence, and continued to gaze up at him while her thumbs stroked his hands. Nothing had ever felt so wonderful and he wondered if his heart would burst with the joy of it.

Then she moved to lean against him, placing his hands on her waist and wrapping her arms around him under his cloak. He felt her love envelop him, speak silently to his own. He said her name then, whispered into the top of her head, so quietly, she might not have heard. It was the only word he could speak.

It didn’t matter. He could feel what she felt – what she was telling him. She was relieved that she wasn’t leaving New York. More than that, she was happy that he had come to her, wanted him close.

She tightened her arms about him and said his name again. He looked down at her and realized she was crying and felt his own eyes follow suit. They had so nearly lost each other, that thinking about it made him quail. He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling the top of her head and whispering her name as his own tears fell. He found no other words to say, and she, it seemed, could find none but his name.

They stood so for some time, and then gradually, Catherine pulled away slightly and looked up at him with a pleading expression. She steered him to a rug that lay on the balcony, near the front wall. She sat down on it, tugging at his arm. He could not refuse her anything and meekly followed, sitting down with his back against the wall. She sat up then, folded her legs to one side and took a hand in hers. She regarded him with a slight smile. He glanced in the patio door and was reminded of all she had given up for him. He dropped his head and tried to hide in his hair. A finger under his chin made him look at her, but his expression must have told her something, for she spoke at last.

“Vincent, don’t feel badly. It was very noble of you to tell me what you did, when I told you about Providence. I know there was a lot more you didn’t say. I wasn’t sure of my own mind then, but as I packed up boxes, I kept finding things that reminded me of you. I realized that I was leaving behind more than just memories. Then, when Father told me you were missing, I hoped you were not dead or injured somewhere above. I didn’t know what to do. Then Edie’s newspaper headline jumped out at me and I knew, somehow, that something had happened to you.

“When I saw you in that cage, I was afraid I was too late, that you had left me. I couldn’t have borne that, Vincent. The thought that those men had brought you so close to death made me angry. I would have done anything to save you – anything!

“Vincent, you must understand that nothing and no one is more important in my life than you. I’ve told you this before, but now I know what that truly means. It means I can’t – won’t - ever leave you, not ever. We’re connected and any parting would be too painful to endure. I hope you don’t want me to leave.

“Don’t worry about my career – my life above. It’s grueling work, never-ending, but without you, it would be empty. You saved my life, Vincent, and made me look beyond myself. I can’t go back to what I was, nor do I want to - but I am what I am because of you. Don’t feel guilty – please.”

Vincent didn’t know what to say. How could he explain what she meant to him, how their bond let him share her life in daylight, a life he could never experience any other way? He could no more give that up than he could live without her.

He had been a fool. He had implied he would experience Providence with her, that she was going there for both of them. But he had not even allowed himself to feel her preparing to leave, nor had he visited her to say goodbye, the very least he could have done … if he had believed what he had told her.

A noise escaped him that made her look at him, but still he could think of nothing to say. She was too good to him. Instead, he pulled her against him. She looked up into his eyes and stroked his face gently with one hand. She seemed to understand his muteness.

“You have nothing to regret, Vincent. Say my name and say ‘yes’, she whispered.

“Catherine. Yes,” he said softly, obediently.

She sighed then and laid her head against his chest.

There was no more need for words then – for which Vincent was very grateful, but he swore to himself he would find some. She deserved all the words there were, all the gratitude and love he could give her.

Surely there must be words for that.

END

No Words is just one of many stories by Angie that can be found in the Treasure Chambers at treasurechambers.com. Angie has been an active participant in the BATB fandom for many years. She is one of the most prolific fan fiction writers this fandom has ever seen, with well over 100 stories to her credit. She is also the maker and administrator of the Treasure Chambers website, which is hosting the Beauty and the Beast 30th Anniversary Online Convention. Her site is aptly named, for any visitor will soon find themselves amazed by the many Beauty and the Beast “treasures” that have found a home there, from the wide variety of fan fiction, which includes all three seasons, to the alternate universe stories. But don’t stop there! Take a look at the art, the memorabilia, the poetry and the crafts. Angie has truly created a corner of the BATB tunnels that welcomes fans of all interests.

Unworthy Knight

by Rhonda Collins

“…These hands are my hands.” Catherine cradled his hands in hers, and Vincent's head fell forward, touching hers. He couldn't bear it...this pain. His, and Catherine's. She was so good, and he so very unworthy of her love. He cried until his entire body hurt, and Catherine held him, never letting him go. So unworthy. Yet she loves me.

Later, after leaving her--dawn had come far too soon--Vincent headed reluctantly back to the Hub. The farther from Catherine he traveled, the more he hurt. Something in him wanted only to rush back to her, hold her close to him, and stay there forever. For the first time, he'd admitted to her in so many words that there could be nothing between them but what they now had. It had broken his heart to do it--to say the words and to tell her of what he'd done. Yet still she didn't understand. These hands are beautiful. These are my hands. No. She didn't understand, and perhaps she never would.

Frustrated, Vincent pounded the wall until his hand bled. The pain didn't distract him from the emotions, or vent the caged desire--or the anger of having to suppress it. He cradled the injured

hand in his other, uninjured one and continued home, hoping only for the sanctuary of his chamber.

Knowing Father would already be up and about--he was always an early riser--Vincent tried to make it past Father's study without being seen, but as usual he found it to be impossible.

"Vincent! Come here a moment. I want to share this with you." Father rose and started toward him, his eyeglasses adjusted to read something in a book he was holding... then he stopped and pushed his glasses up. "What is it? Good God, Vincent! What've you done to your hand? Quickly, come over here." The book forgotten as it was tossed upon the desk, the physician quickly prepared a basin to wash his son's injury.

As Father gently cleaned the grit and splinters of debris out of the wound, Vincent reassured him. "It is nothing, Father, truly. I...slipped, is all." The lie was difficult for him. He used to never lie to Father. But lately, telling small untruths seemed far easier than explaining large truths.

Father glanced at Vincent quickly, sensing something in his son's voice--or perhaps with a father's instincts, he realized that something was not quite right. "Are you certain, Vincent, that everything is all right? Is Catherine well?"

Vincent nodded, almost frantic to escape Father's queries. "Yes. Yes, of course. Catherine is fine. I have just come from her." He rose after Father finished binding the hand, and flexed it experimentally. It took all his control to hold his facade of normality. "Thank you, Father. I'm sure it will be fine by tomorrow."

~ ~ ~

Catherine thought she'd die when Vincent broke down and cried in her arms. He'd cried before, but never quite like this. She wished she understood him better. She was closer to him than she'd ever dreamed she could be to anyone. To know he sensed her every emotion was exhilarating--and a little terrifying. To be known like that and still loved for everything she was, was an incredible gift. Yet sometimes she felt at such a loss. There was so much about him she didn't understand. Might never understand.

She repressed a dull surge of resentment and anger at Lisa. And at Father. Catherine could understand how Lisa could have unthinkingly led Vincent on, then been upset and frightened when she'd realized just how far it had gone. Lisa had been a child. However, the knowledge didn't make Catherine less angry with the girl, or the woman Lisa had become. But her resentment of Lisa only made Catherine wonder how often she, too, had been guilty of the same offense.

Granted, Vincent didn't make it any easier on her. She tried very hard to be objective about her past love life and behaviors and found everything sorely lacking. She wasn't aggressive in her sexuality at all. Never had been. She'd always let the man take the initiative. That was the way it was supposed to be, wasn't it? She stayed confused, now. Vincent, strong and masculine though he was, was always so tentative in any physical contact, and that threw her psychologically.

She moved over to the railing and stood overlooking the park and the city. The terrace seemed so empty without Vincent's presence. Frustrated with the direction her thoughts were taking and needing to think things through, Catherine went inside. She curled up in bed where she was warm and safe. Not as warm or as safe as in Vincent's arms, but it would have to do. She wished that, like Vincent, she could pour her words out onto paper, but she didn't dare. She could never have any written accounts of her life with him that might be found here Above. It was unthinkable. If anything were ever to happen to her, it would be found. So she tried hard to examine their relationship by going over things in her mind.

For so long, she thought, I was frightened of truly being intimate with a man again. I tried, with Elliot, and maybe could have. Elliot would've been a gentle lover. Every time Catherine thought of allowing herself to be as open and vulnerable with a man as a sexual relationship would have to be--for her--she immediately thought of the night of her attack. She shuddered and started to curl up tighter in the covers.

Suddenly she sat up, startled with herself. Maybe that's why he's never pushed. Because he knew I wasn't ready. But she shook her head. Instinctively she knew that wasn't the reason, or at least not all of it. Most certainly part of it. But more than that, it was this Lisa thing. And the way he looks...the way he feels he is.

Vincent had told her a bit of how Father had sent Lisa away afterwards. She'd not said anything, but she'd gotten the impression that Father had shuffled Lisa away the way parents in his time had hurried unwed mothers off to avoid the shame--but this time it was to avoid the issue of Vincent's differences.

Catherine had known for a long time that Father simply couldn't quite see Vincent as completely human and he couldn't imagine any woman seeing him as a man. But in his handling of the situation, he'd created a far greater problem than he'd realized.

Finally uncurling from her warm nest, Catherine went to brush her hair. She guessed she couldn't really blame Father. All parents made mistakes. He'd thought he was doing the right thing.

Catherine tried as she went through her ritual of brushing, to quiet herself and relieve the stress. Sighing tiredly, she realized she had to get some sleep. Fortunately it was Saturday, so she could sleep most of the day...if she could manage to settle herself. In addition, she knew Vincent would be picking up how she felt, and she didn't want to make the situation any worse than it was already.

She gazed at her reflection in the mirror and smiled, deliberately easing away the lines of worry and frustration. She'd become very practiced at this in the time she'd known Vincent. It had been a necessity. She'd come to realize over time that by sharing this bond with him she also bore a terrific responsibility. Think happy, Cath. Think of the good times. So she did. She was determined that Vincent would only feel from her the love he deserved, and none of her foolish regrets. By the time she was able to fall asleep, she'd once more succeeded into lulling herself into the belief that all would be well.

~ ~ ~

Vincent tried to settle for some sleep, but he couldn't. His chamber seemed more an enclosure--a cage--than a sanctuary. He paced restlessly. The sound of the pipes was unnerving, and the rumble of a subway car set his teeth on edge. Around it all, woven through it, was the insistent presence of the bond. A tickle here, a brush there, and a growing ache. He'd felt Catherine's changing emotions after he'd left. They'd confused him even more. Her concern for him had eased finally and she was feeling contented. Strangely, that very contentment frustrated him...since he was far from that state, himself. Vincent threw back his head and groaned aloud, the sound growing to a growl. He could feel a pulsing need to escape the boundaries of his life...to lose himself to the darkness. Just for a time.... He was shocked at the thought. He couldn't allow that. Not now. Especially not now. If he lost himself now, here...he would go to Catherine, and.... "No!"

Hastily, he scribbled a note for Father, knowing it would be found if he left it on his desk. Rummaging in the corner of his wardrobe, he found the small pack he kept there. It had a few provisions in it...dried meat, a blanket. Little more. He knew he probably wouldn't use any of it in any case. He rarely did. But it was better to take it. At the last moment, almost as an afterthought, he gently placed his journal and pen in the pack. He blew out the candles and left--heading far below the Home Tunnels, to the nameless black river that flowed in the darkness.

~ ~ ~

"I haven't any idea what you're talking about, Joe. The deposition on the McGorty case is on your desk, and I've already started on the notes for the trial. I think I've made good progress."

Joe tossed his coat over his arm and leaned on the desk. "I'm not saying you're not working, Radcliffe. All I'm saying is that you're not really with it, if you know what I mean." He waggled his fingers dramatically in the air. "Your mind seems to be off in the ether somewhere."

Catherine forced a cheerful grin. "It's okay, boss. Just got a lot on my mind. You keep me pretty busy, you know." She glanced at her watch. "For example, I'm due for a deposition right now, and I'm going to finish this stuff on my desk today! I want to go to a concert tonight, and unless you get out of my way...."

Joe threw up his hands and backed off, laughing as Cathy blundered past him, trying to squeeze through the small space. A stack of files fell with a thud, scattering papers across the floor, and she yelped, "Dammit!"

"Ow! Sorry, Radcliffe. My fault. I'll get 'em. You go on."

"Thanks, Joe."

Catherine hurried off to her deposition, stopping only long enough to drop a note for Vincent off with a helper--asking him to meet her at the threshold at 6:30 for the concert. She knew that if he couldn't make it, he'd get a message back to her. That done, she suddenly felt better and the day seemed brighter, somehow. She'd see him tonight...and she'd see how he was doing. If things were still unsettled, she'd make him feel better. She knew she could, but she needed to see him to know what to do, what to say. Can't solve anything if we're not together. Humming a little to herself, she looked forward to the evening with a delightful anticipation.

~ ~ ~

It had been days, he knew, that he'd been down here. But the time slipped away so easily. He didn't even remember most of what he'd done, though he felt a pleasant sense of belonging. It was quiet here, in the dark. He could think...if he chose to. Which he didn't. He was tired of thinking. He'd rather feel.

A memory tickled, leaving a sense of guilt. He did remember something about a hunt. Yes. He'd hunted something. Something that had died well. A memory surfaced of a huge bearlike man with a club who had threatened him. A dream, he thought, uneasily. But he knew it wasn't. The man had fought too well, and the taste of blood was still in his mouth. And the blood was on his hands. Sated and lethargic he rolled over, muscles screaming. Yes, a part of him said. It was a good hunt...a good kill.

In the distance Vincent could sense Catherine. She was happy. Good. Let her be happy, if we cannot be happy together. Perhaps if I stayed away permanently....

Vincent shook his head to clear it, disturbed by a growing sense of guilt...of having once more done something wrong. He knelt by the river to wash the blood from his hands and hair--for the first time disturbed by it--then stripped to wash his clothing. I must go home soon. Father will be concerned, I know. And eventually I must face Catherine again. But not right now.

He finished cleaning himself and allowed his clothes to dry. He dressed carefully, then reached into his pack, bringing out a strip of dried meat. It was his first taste of food since he'd retreated down here. His stomach rebelled, and after a few bites he put the rest away. He pulled out his journal and opened it. There was no light here, though, and even with his acute night-sight, he could not read his last entry. Why did I bring it? I cannot remember. Why can I not remember?

Reluctantly, Vincent placed the journal back in his pack. His memories were blurred, but they were returning. Always it was like this, afterwards. After the loss of self. Usually, however, the blurring cleared almost immediately. It disturbed him tremendously that it was taking him so long to separate himself from the Other.

The man he'd fought--Vincent remembered him now, and knew him to be a minion of Paracelsus. One of his simple guards. Vincent encountered them from time to time, but most often he avoided them. He hadn't even tried to avoid a confrontation with the man. That thought disturbed him a great deal. It had been entirely too easy to let himself go, this time.

Vincent closed his eyes and allowed himself to absorb Catherine's happiness. He wondered briefly why she was so pleased, but was happy for her...and with her.

~ ~ ~

Father fingered Catherine's note restlessly. There was little he could do. Vincent wasn't here, and Father didn't even know what the note said. Angrily, he jotted a few words onto a sheet of paper and tucked it into an envelope to send back to her...but then he tore it up. I will not become Vincent's messenger. In any case, he was angry with Catherine. Vincent had been with her that night, when he'd come home with his hand bloodied and torn...then disappeared. Whatever has she done to him? Or perhaps it wasn't her at all. He ran his fingers through his hair. He made decisions constantly as Patriarch of this world. Why can't I seem to decide just how I feel about Catherine? Eventually he chose to send Kipper back to Catherine's apartment to tell her that Vincent was not available, but was off in the lower tunnels. It wasn't an ideal solution, but it was all he could do. It satisfied his sense of correctness. If Catherine needed more, he was sure she would come down here, or otherwise let him know.

~ ~ ~

As Catherine was dressing for the concert, she heard a tentative knocking on the door. Puzzled, she pulled on her robe and looked out the view-hole. Nobody. Further intrigued, she opened the door to find Kipper standing there...just short enough so she hadn't seen him.

"Hi," the boy said, a little self-consciously...pulling his hat off.

Catherine smiled, though she felt a growing sense of dismay. "Hello, Kipper. What is it?" She brought the boy into the apartment, where he looked around with interest. "Ah. Kipper...did you have a message for me?"

Startled, Kipper blushed. "Oh, yeah. Father says to tell you that Vincent's not home."

Her expression must have been ludicrous because Kipper laughed, then went on to explain. "I mean, he's not in the Home Tunnels. He's way down below the Catacombs. Don't know when he'll be back."

"I see," Catherine murmured. Though she really didn't. It struck her again just how little she really knew about what Vincent did when she wasn't with him. Sometimes she thought he only let her know the surface things, about the children and Father...thinking those were all she'd care about. That thought disturbed her. It was unsettling to once more be reminded that he knew so much about her, and she was virtually deaf and blind as far as he was concerned. "Well, thank you, Kipper. And thank Father for the message."

She dug in her cookie jar and gave him a cookie. "I'll bring some for everybody next time I come, okay?"

After Kipper left, Catherine walked out to the balcony and sat deliberating for awhile. So. What's he doing down there? Father doesn't say he's working--just basically as Kipper said--that he's `not home.' Am I getting the brush off? Then she reconsidered. That's ridiculous, Cathy. Vincent wouldn't do that. Even if he didn't like you, he'd still be polite... and he certainly wouldn't have Father send a message for him. No. He really wasn't home. You're just being hypersensitive. Then she started worrying. He was really upset when I saw him last. Maybe he's down there thinking I don't love him. But that worry was cast aside as quickly as it formed. Of course Vincent knew she loved him. How could he not, with the bond? Maybe he's still thinking about Lisa. Cathy's chin lifted imperiously. Now that's really ridiculous.

Spinning away from the city, Catherine launched herself at the telephone. She refused to miss her concert just because Vincent was off doing whatever it was he was doing. She called Jenny. When Jenny's cheerful voice answered, Catherine said, "Hi Jen. How would you like to go with me to a concert in the park tonight?"

~ ~ ~

Vincent returned from his trip a few days later. He realized that Catherine had been missing him--and he felt a little guilty about worrying Father.

After his return he dutifully sat through Father's lecture about responsibilities (which he'd been neglecting) and the rather tart comments about reducing his parent to a messenger for him. Vincent watched Father through strands of blond mane as the older man sermonized, and restrained a sigh. It might have been humorous had Vincent not felt all too guilty. Most of Father's points were well-taken.

Once Father had finished his lecture, it was as though the subject were a book that had been closed and put away. Father had a tendency to do that. Vincent knew Father simply assumed that once one knew where he was in error, the error would not recur. Father was accustomed to dealing with intelligent and reasonable people. Vincent couldn't seem to make him understand that at certain times his son's intelligence was questionable and his reason deserted him completely.

Vincent wanted desperately to see Catherine, but after the intensity of their last time together, and his loss of control, he was too embarrassed. He was unsure of how to approach her. He could feel the bond calling to him. Catherine missed him. But somehow he couldn't force himself to simply present himself on her balcony. So he waited... unsure just what he was waiting for.

~ ~ ~

After the concert, Catherine had twice more tried to contact Vincent. Once, she'd sent another note--which had again elicited a polite messenger--and this time she simply went to the threshold below her apartment and waited. She tried wanting him there as hard as she could, but it didn't help.

She stood in the small circle of light from the threshold, staring out into the darkness. She'd thought for sure if she simply went to him, that he'd meet her--as he always did. The only other time he'd not met her when she really wanted him was when she had been so unsure of his culpability in the subway killings. He'd felt her insecurity and fears then and stayed away--his feelings had been hurt by her lack of faith. She knew that now. Now, though, she was a little irritated as well as worried. Can't he feel my love and concern? When she called, Vincent came. He always had. He always will...won't he? She had a brief moment of panic that she pushed away angrily. Of course he will. He'll come back. He has to. I love him.

After waiting for almost forty-five long minutes, Catherine gave up. If he were intending to come, he'd have been there. She thought seriously of trying to find her way down to the Hub, but decided against it. If Vincent truly was gone off somewhere and she became lost.... It was unthinkable. It would be too embarrassing to have to pound on the pipes for a rescue from someone else.

Turning away reluctantly, she climbed the ladder and went home. I'll get him a gift. Something very special. Something that can say what I feel so much better than I can myself. Yes. That's it. The thought of Vincent's face when she offered this gift to him made her feel much better. Of course he'll come back. He loves me.

~ ~ ~

Vincent could feel Catherine's desire to see him. He sensed her misery at his absence, but he still couldn't quite force himself to go to her. The memory of what he did to Lisa...and of his recent kill were too fresh in his mind. He felt unclean. There was no other way to put it. He wasn't good enough for her...and in fact wasn't good for her at all. His desire for her was becoming too great. At some point he knew he would no longer be able to control the Other, and running away would no longer be enough. He needed a distraction. Sighing, he went to see if Father would care for a game of chess.

~ ~ ~

Catherine went with Joe to the Village for lunch, and as they passed a bookstore, she dragged him inside. Having decided that a gift for Vincent would help heal the rift in their relationship and bring him back, she threw herself into the search with a will. This bookstore looked like a good place to start.

Joe was unhappy at being pulled off-course. He glanced uneasily at his watch. "Cathy, how long is this gonna take? We're running late already...."

Joe's tone was anxious, but Cathy refused to be budged. "I just want to browse for a few minutes. I love old books."

Joe grabbed one off a shelf and held it out hopefully. "Here. This one's old."

Dubious, Cathy took it and read the title. "The Collected Sermons of Cotton Mather?" She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Not exactly what I had in mind."

As she was putting the book away, an elderly man--rather portly and kind-looking, said politely, "Perhaps I can be of some help."

Joe turned, seeming relieved. "Yeah. She's looking for a book."

The man shrugged and indicated the shelves. "Well...."

Cathy could see that Joe was losing patience, though he was trying hard to stay cheerful. She smiled at the man--obviously the bookstore's owner. "Something very special. A first edition maybe? Poetry?"

"English poetry is at the end of aisle three. Feel free to browse as long as you want."

Joe sighed and tried to look ferocious. He didn't succeed. "We've only got like...thirty-two minutes...."

With a cheerful lilt, the bookstore owner interrupted...obviously sensing someone with sensitive skin. "Young man. There is a video store on the next block. I understand they have Vampire Cheerleaders in stock...."

Joe bristled. "Hey. I read. I'm a lawyer!"

"We shan't hold that against you."

Cathy couldn't stand it. The grin that had been steadily growing broke into laughter, and Joe turned to her. "I'll be back in twenty minutes. You're on your own for lunch, Radcliffe!"

"We shall miss you young, man," the owner called after him, then turned to more suitable company. "Now. This way, please."

He showed her down two more aisles and pointed. "I hope you find what you're looking for, miss. If you have a problem, please call."

Cathy laughed. "I will, and thank you." She watched the man as he wandered back through his books, and thought of how Vincent would love this place and appreciate its owner.

Fifteen minutes later, as she searched the dusty shelves and read the titles, she was beginning to get frustrated. Nothing seemed quite right. The book had to say what she was feeling...and she wasn't sure....

There was a soft masculine voice beside her. "Try this one."

Startled, she glanced up to see a rumpled young man in a Mets cap...but what really caught her eye was the book--and the man's smile. She took the book and opened it. "Tennyson. A first edition!" She felt a leap of joy and wonder that this should so serendipitously come her way at this particular time. "This is perfect! Thank you...." But when she looked up from admiring the book, the man was gone. Puzzled, she looked around the corner, but he was nowhere in sight.

~ ~ ~

Father had not been in the mood for chess. Instead, he was on a heated search for an obscure passage in an equally elusive volume of poetry. Vincent knew better than to get in his way, so he merely stood aside and watched.

"I know I've got it here somewhere--Ah, yes--I think this.... No. That's not it."

Vincent couldn't help but be amused by Father's search. It amazed him that Father could find anything at all in the untidy piles and shelves that made up his "library."

The older man rummaged about a little more, commenting quietly, as though to himself: "You know, I really must get Mouse to build me some bookshelves...ah...no. On second thought, I'd better ask Cullen."

While Father was musing, Vincent suddenly had the strangest sensation. It was indescribable...a coldness, like death...yet...strangely joyous at the same time. And it was connected with Catherine...somehow. He realized he must have shown his consternation because Father asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing." He shook his head in bewilderment and expelled a breath in surprise at himself. "For a moment...I felt a...coldness."

"A...coldness." Father stared at him and looked thoroughly disgusted with the lack of a definitive answer.

Vincent shrugged. For lack of a more descriptive answer, he merely said: "It was nothing, Father. Did you find what you were searching for?"

~ ~ ~

That evening, Catherine made her way across the park with the treasured volume cradled against her breast. Her day had been so strange. There were so many things she wanted to talk to Vincent about. She'd really missed that--being able to share the things that happened in her world with him--and today's happenings would make him laugh, she knew. She loved to make him laugh, and managed it so seldom.

Right now, though, the most important thing was to ease Vincent's mind and make things right between them. Catherine knew she needed to make him understand that no matter what the future held, they would handle it together. That if he wanted to continue their relationship as it was, she understood. Catherine was positive Vincent knew what was best for both of them. He knew her better than she knew herself. He'll know when we're both ready for more.

The feeling of having resolved the issue--at least in her own mind--gave Catherine a sense of satisfaction. She was ready and anxious to face Vincent. Surely he'll come tonight. If he doesn't, I don't know what to try next.

She picked her way through the rough stones and broken concrete to the threshold and waited outside. It made her a little uneasy to wait in the open like this, in the park. She felt very exposed. But for some reason she couldn't quite name, she felt equally uneasy simply going into the tunnel to the gate as she normally would. She leaned against the concrete wall and waited hopefully.

~ ~ ~

Vincent proceeded very slowly toward the park threshold. He could no longer postpone his meeting with Catherine. He felt her coming to him...and felt the call pulling him to her. It was not fair to her for him to keep ignoring her call. Nor was it possible for him to continue doing so in any case. It was simply too difficult to stay away. She was so hopeful...but he could feel the sadness flowing beneath that. She'd become discouraged, and the joyousness he'd felt from her earlier in the day had faded. He pushed back the lever for the steel door and once it had rolled almost soundlessly back, opened the gate. He hesitated before taking the few steps out into the open. She was unaware of his presence. He could still leave. Then there would be no embarrassment, no apologies...and most importantly, no danger for her. But neither would there be the sense of her joy when she saw him...or the scent of her, or the touch of her hands...her hair...nor the sound of her voice as she said his name.

When she turned to leave and he felt her sorrow and disappointment, Vincent took a ragged breath and stooped to clear the tunnel. As he'd anticipated, her joy at the sight of him came through the bond, suffusing him with an equal joy. He wished desperately that he could give back to her the joy she gave to him.

She hesitated...obviously unsure of how to respond to him after his shameful behavior. "It's been so long. I was afraid..."

"...that I might not come?" He looked away and down...ashamed of the pain he'd caused her. He offered a beginning of an explanation. "I was away. There is a place...miles beneath the city. There is a nameless river that runs through the darkness." He hesitated...only a fraction of a moment, then began again a little awkwardly. "Sometimes I go there." He didn't know what else to say. It seemed, though that further explanations were unnecessary.

She came toward him, holding something out to him. "I...wanted you to have this."

Hesitantly, he took the gift and held it reverently. He would have held anything she'd given him thus...but as he examined it, he felt even more honored at the care she'd taken in her choice. He tried, still, to distance himself a little, lest his emotions overwhelm him. "Tennyson...a first edition."

She leaned in a little closer, more intimately, her voice soft. She sounded like a little girl...full of hope. "I always loved Idylls of the King. I even knew some parts of it by heart. Some nights I dreamt of Camelot..." She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes, and the look was full of hidden meanings--her emotions confused him. But her next words solidified what she was trying to tell him, and set his heart pounding. "...and Lancelot."

Lancelot. She had dreamt of that. Knights in shining armor....brave and pure. He tried to liken himself to Lancelot, the flawed knight. To make her understand. He, too, would never be successful in his quest for love...for the one perfect thing in his life. For he, too, was flawed beyond redemption. "Lancelot was fatally flawed. Destined never to find the grail."

Her answer was intense and determined. Full of meaning for both of them. There could be no mistake in what she was telling him. "Still, he was the greatest knight of all."

Suddenly she was in his arms, and nothing else mattered. Nothing. She was his... and he was hers. Despite everything, unworthy though he was...Catherine loved him. He had to accept that, since there was no other explanation. Unbelievably, she loved him. Therefore all that he was, all that he could ever be was for her. Perhaps they would never have anything more than this. But it was enough. For this--her trust, her love--he would gladly die. He would be her knight. Never would he let anything harm her. He would love her in the way of a knight to the lady he champions. Purely. Devoutly. And surely there could be no harm.

~ ~ ~

Unworthy Knight by Rhonda Collins was originally published in the 1993 convention zine, Great Expectations: A World of Dancing Lights. It was later reprinted in 1995 in Friends and Lovers, a zine featuring even more works by the same author. Both zines are available on loan within the United States from the Crystal Rose Lending Library at http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/

Unworthy Knight can also be found online at http://rhondacollins.tripod.com/unworthy.htm . More wonderful stories by Rhonda Collins have found a home in the Library Chamber on Treasure Chambers at http://www.treasurechambers.com/Features.html

No Heaven for Fallen Angels

by Cindy Rae

~ ~ ~

He was closed off from her, intentionally.  Both emotionally and spiritually closed, through their bond.  Shut down.  Withdrawn.  Done, and past done.  Retreated.

Gone. And she was gone, physically.  Gone because he'd sent her away.  Gone because he needed her to be.  Gone because, among other things, he swore he could still smell the big man's blood under his fingernails, and feel…bits of him, there…

The level of this disaster might have no rival, and few equals.

There was hell to pay for lifting a man from under his chin with the nails of your right hand, then pulling him forward until you bashed his brains into an overhanging rock.  Or at least, there were “bits” to pay.

He’d washed the blood, but he couldn’t ask Father, couldn’t ask anyone to clean that from him.  Jacob had been getting out the bullet, so he couldn’t use his left hand.  Now the right one was uncomfortable.

Vincent suddenly understood why lions cleaned their claws.

Ah, well.  Sometimes it was worse.  Sometimes, there were bits of bone trapped under there, rather than just… something else.  He’d pare the nails clean, once Jacob left, again.  He’d been too tired to move from the chair, before.

She was gone.

And she’d seen it all.

Hell to pay.

Hell to pay for knowing where the main branches of the femoral artery were, in a leg.  His claws had found that, too, unerringly.  That had been the first kill, of all of them. She'd seen it.  From first to last.

Hell for bashing Micah against the stones until his slack body was only being held up by the force of the throw.

She'd seen that, too.

No salvation for any of them, this time.  For the Outsiders.  For Jacob.  For him.  No salvation.  No chance of Heaven now, he thought, feeling locked into the heavy chair.  Heavy thoughts.  Heavy memories.  Some of them weighed, like anchors.

"No…Stop.”  Her voice had been weak, and coming from near the floor.

But he couldn't stop.  Not yet.  The doomed deviant had held a knife to her face, near her throat.  Stop?  Oh, not yet.  Not yet, my Catherine.

Vincent wasn't done killing Micah, by half.  He’d thrown their dead leader against the tunnel walls, side to side, enjoying the subtle and not-so-subtle breaking of the warped degenerate’s bones.  There was no question that the vicious sadist would not, could not, run away.  He no longer had kneecaps capable of bearing his weight.  Or much else.

This wasn't killing for necessity, or self-preservation.  This was not that.  This was sport.  And it was grotesquely and irrevocably satisfying, in its own dark way.

It was almost ... fun, in the most twisted perversion of that word.

Ah, twisted perversions.  Well.  At least Vincent felt he was in the right company for that.

He’d let the body drop for variety, not out of fatigue.  Now the evisceration could begin.

So it had.  Horribly.

"Stop.  Just... stop!”  Her voice.  Repeated.  Aimed at him.

Vincent was furious, and screaming, and he was feeding.  His arm wasn't even tired yet.  Stop?  But why, Catherine?  Rigor mortis hasn’t even set in, yet…

In that darkness, part of me … feeds.  And I am… lost in it.

He’d said it.  They’d made him say it.  All right then, so now she knew.  Knew what he knew.  She should know it.  She’d seen it.

Do you understand, now, Catherine?  Do you?  You should.

In that darkness, part of me … feeds.  And I am… lost in it.

But her voice had penetrated, finally.  He’d looked over to see her there, lying in the dirt among his ... what could he call them?  Victims?  Targets?  Playthings?  It had taken less than two minutes to kill all of them.

And she had seen it, seen it, seen it.  All.

He’d only let Micah fall, knowing no force in this world would get the man back on his feet again - If he still had any unbroken bones in those, anyway.  Had knelt over him, as he bled into the ground, tearing.  Tearing.

It had been raw, and ugly, and darkly glorious.  He had been raw, and ugly, and darkly glorious.  Destroyer.  The Shiva of the tunnels.  Shiva dancing.

Shall we dance, Micah?  Shall we dance, Hog?  Try to keep up now.  I am so light on my feet, as I take you off of yours.

Perhaps not Shiva.  Perhaps Abaddon.  Abaddon was the demon of the pit.  And Vincent knew his tunnel home had surely become that.  A pit of the damned and the dead.

Vincent had a feeling he knew which one he was.

And then he’d been shot.  Proof that no matter how bad this day was, there was always room for a little more deterioration.

That had been…what?  An hour ago now?  Two?  No matter.  Play time over, and all the playthings, all the toys, put in their place.  Broken toys, now.  The abyss for all of you, then.

Someone else would have to clean up the mess.  He'd played hard today.

The room was quiet now.  Such a juxtaposition, that.  There had been so much screaming before.  Some of it was him.  War cry.  War scream. War roar.  The last thing most of them ever heard.

War.  War was Hell, they said.  Well, Hell had an address now.  It was his home, and he was living in it.

Alone.

He'd sent her away, alone.  Now he sat here the same way.  The bond was like so much static, in his ears right now.  It often was, when his Beast held court.

Oh, and what a courtroom it had been.

Tried, convicted, and executed; the only one who made it out alive had been the idiot child.  The one who'd put a bullet in his arm.  Perhaps there was someone else to help him left of their number, somewhere.  Perhaps.

Part of Vincent wished desperately that the aim had been higher.

His Beast was pleasantly exhausted now, feeling fat from the kill.  Kills, Vincent’s mind amended.

Hell had a buffet, it seemed, to go with its address.  Curled up and sated, and sleeping, his Dark Self dozed.

Vincent himself had no such relaxing instincts.  Vincent himself didn't know quite where “he” was.  The hopeful lover in him was exiled.  The scholar in him was nowhere.  The teacher in him, nonexistent.

What could I show them as a teacher?

Today, Children, we will discuss the fastest way to obliterate half a dozen armed maniacs.  Pay attention now, and don't forget to take notes as I snap any arm that holds a weapon out, before I reach my claws in for vital organs and major blood pathways...

He swore he could still smell blood under his nails, no matter how much water and disinfectant Jacob had used.

His right wrist was sore.  That was the one he’d used to lift the big man, as he’d smashed his head against the rock lintel.  On his left hand, the muscles in his fingers ached.  It was the hand he favored for gouging.

Well, that should be some form of consolation to them.  They had made him sore, at least.  It took muscle to snap a man's neck when it did not want to go around.  Took strength to make that turn.  Not much, apparently, but some...

And she had seen every ... single... second of it.

So of course, he had sent her away.

Jacob had returned after a few minutes, just to check the tightness of the bandage, and of the sling.  He was putting away the rest of the medical things, quietly, sensing that quiet was called for.  He was moving with the studied carefulness of an exhausted man, as he set his items back where they belonged.  He looked tired.  Old. Older than he was now, at least.

Micah would grow no older.  Nor would any of them.  Shrug.  The mental kind of shrug, not the actual kind.  Vincent knew that lifting his shoulder was a bad idea, right now.

Vincent watched Father, but did not so much as turn his head to do so, simply following his parent with his eyes.  The old man looked slow.  Ah, well.  “Slow” was better than nothing.  Ask the playthings.

Vincent was not sorry they were dead.  He was only sorry that she’d seen them die.  All of them.  All but the child.  Oh, wouldn’t that just have been the icing on catastrophe’s cake.

"Can you sleep?"  Jacob asked him, adjusting the sling again, needlessly.

Vincent gave no answer, for an answer.  The bullet wound wasn’t what was keeping him awake.  Well, in a way, that was part of it, but not from the pain.

The question.  The one Vincent had been waiting to ask, the only one he'd been waiting to ask the old man.

"Why was Catherine down here?  With a gun?"  Vincent sent the words out between them.  It had been bothering him all evening, on some level.  He'd told her to stay Above.  Told her to stay safe.

Jacob's blue eyes were full of guilt.

"I...  I told her to bring it," Father confessed, not wanting to meet his son’s gaze.  Jacob busied his fingers with a roll of gauze.

"You did?  You?"  It seemed the night actually could hold one more shock for Vincent’s system.  Remarkable.  Would wonders never cease?  Lord, how Vincent wished they would.

Jacob continued, haltingly.  "I told Catherine I feared we might... need it.”  Jacob checked Vincent’s expression then had the remarkable good sense to keep his eyes lowered.  “I didn't want this to happen, Vincent.  I didn't want you to have to be the one."  Jacob’s eyes rose again, full of honest remorse.

"So you brought Catherine down, into what had become Hell?"  Vincent's voice would have been louder, but his throat was already sore from roaring in rage during his killing spree.  Another point for the invaders.  His throat was sore.

The raspiness of his voice did not lessen the severity of the charge.

"I did."  Jacob accepted full responsibility.  "I'm sorry, Vincent.  It is my fault you were shot."

Do you honestly think that’s what this is about?

"No.  It is an idiot child's fault I was shot.  It was your fault Catherine nearly died with a knife in her eye, Father."  He wanted to be very clear on this point.

Jacob had the good grace to look embarrassed, at the censure.

"I did not think things would... collapse so quickly.  I wanted the gun so you would not have to do... exactly what you had to do."  Jacob sighed, having lost his moral center and his son’s trust in the same night.

"William isn't right, Vincent.  You are not some sort of..." he struggled to find the word.

"Weapon?  Killing machine?  Assassin?"  Vincent supplied the words for him.

Jacob shook his head.  He looked very old, indeed.

"There are some half a dozen bodies in the hallway that call you a liar, Father."  Vincent closed his eyes wearily, leaning against the back of the chair, knowing he would not sleep.  The nightmares would be... legendary.

He was too tired to even call Jacob a fool, all of a sudden.  Another time, perhaps.  But on one thing, they must be clear.  He lifted his leonine head.

"You do not risk her to save me.  Or yourself.  Or anyone here."  Vincent said it in a tone that would barely brook breathing, much less an argument.  He pinned Jacob with steel inside the blue of his gaze.  "You do not risk her for anyone, for any reason.  Do we understand each other?"

The tattered threat of violence still simmered inside Vincent, even in his exhaustion.  Jacob knew a lick of fear and a pound of contrition at what he'd wrought.  He'd been wrong.  And he knew it.

"Vincent.  I am so sorry.  I only sought to spare you... all this," Father tried to explain.

God, would none of them understand?  Was this a willful blindness?

"There is no sparing me... ‘all this,’” Vincent mocked.  “It is who I am, Father."  Why would no one listen when he tried to say that?

"It is not who you are."  Jacob was adamant.

"Of course it is!”  A little strength left.  Just a little, for this fight.

“William knows it.  Everyone here knows it.  Even all of them knew it, in the end.”  Vincent jerked his head toward the open doorway.  “Their leader most of all.  I had to save him for last, while I killed the others.  I could smell his fear, like the urine that ran down his leg, when I broke him against the stones."

Vincent's head dropped back again.  Would this night never end?

Jacob owned his guilt, and bowed his head.

Vincent's beaten form sat in the chair, eyes closed, his good hand gripping the arm.  By the end of the argument, Vincent’s voice had grown weary.  Beyond it.

So was Jacob's.

"Try to rest," Jacob said weakly.  He didn't know anything else to say.  He covered Vincent loosely with a blanket, and made his way quietly out.

Vincent opened his eyes again, to watch Father's retreating back.  Rest?  If only.

He could not feel the bond, and could not feel himself.  Numb desolation.  He wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.  Probably a blessing, at the moment.

He rose, cleaned the offending hand of the bit of … something that had been caught there, and walked down to his own chambers, wanting his rooms, wanting his chair.  It was more comfortable than Jacob’s, not that comfort was the issue.  All animals went to ground in times of stress.  Went to their dens, to their familiar places.  He simply obeyed that urge.

Vincent removed the useless sling, and tossed it aside.  The bed was there, but it was useless, too.

He sat in his chair, hating the feeling of the adrenaline crash almost as much as he hated the feeling of the rush.  The rush was power, and purpose, but it was carnage.  This was a kittenish weakness, and a rudderless feeling, inside of him.

Just the walk from Father’s chamber to here had been effort.  Yet he knew he would not sleep.  His bed and his window were to his back.  He needed neither.  Was not sure if he ever would, again.

His Shadow Self slept deeply, gorged, while he, Vincent, felt empty and barren.

She can't love you.

Not now that she's seen it, really seen it.  She can't.

The message, and the static sound that kept buzzing in his ears would not go away.  The message of loss.  The message of separation.  The shut-down bond, and the “nothing” of sound it left behind, like a television on a dead station.

Surely, they were done now?  Even if he saw her again, they were done?

She can’t love you.  Her saying she does doesn’t make it true.

He'd smelled the brutal fight coming.  Felt the whip crack of lightning in his veins, the warning rise of tension in his frame, as his body trickled adrenaline into his system.  It had been doing that for days, getting him ready.

Wishing it away would not make it go.  He knew his senses would become sharper.  He would be able to see in the dark better, begin to breathe deeper, pulling in air to his lungs, and muscles.

He knew he was getting ready to kill.  Didn't want to face it until he had to, but he knew.

It was the main reason he wanted Catherine out of the tunnels.  So she wouldn't have to see... wouldn't have to see...

Exactly what she'd seen.

God, I am an effective abomination.

The most venomous snake on the planet couldn't take down that many human beings that quickly, and he knew it.  One man, perhaps, or two.  But that many?  Armed and ready?  No.  It would run out of venom, first.

The most successful apex predator couldn't do it, not with bare hands.  Bare claws, excuse the description.  No marvelous hunter, no matter how skilled, could unleash that kind of obliteration.  They lacked either the strength, the size, the tools, or the intelligence to do it.

His opponents were armed.  Knives, boards, chains, a pick axe…  All of that, and more.

No beast on the planet could have matched them all.

Save one.

And oh, how he’d matched them.  Every bestial trait he had, on full display, and in its full, ugly, inhuman glory.

He had every animalistic advantage he’d needed, and he’d used them all.  Claws that dug, and cut, and ripped.  Fangs that could tear, or just intimidate. An arm that could swing in a blinding arc, to dig the nails into flesh.  Strong.  Fast.  Steady.  A thresher, with conviction and cunning.

Sinewy muscle tore, until you hit bone.  Bone broke, and then you felt marrow.  Arteries felt different from intestines, though both were warm, at first.

The sand drank blood.  God.  Did she have to see it all?

They hadn't run from him, he'd give them that.  They'd just kept coming at him, like fools, stepping into his range of motion.

The young one with the knife had died first.  Maybe.  Sometimes, it was tough to tell which one of them had stopped breathing first, considering some of them were bleeding out, or dying as their brains hemorrhaged out of their shattered skulls.

Killing was such a ... a varied business.

He'd tried to reach out to the child.  It was almost comic irony that the smallest of them had been the only one to hurt him.  Because the boy had stayed out of range, that's why.  Let the gun do the damage for him.

And then run for his very life, while Vincent bled and Catherine covered him.

Shot by Catherine's gun.  Well.  Wasn't that an unusual turn of events.  He wondered if she felt as guilty as Jacob seemed to.  He hoped she didn't.  And he still wished the aim had been higher.  Or more to the right.

He had the horribly certain feeling he would not see Catherine again for a while.  Or if he did, that the look on her face, the tone in her voice would be very different than what it was when she’d left.

You can't pretend you didn't see it, Catherine.  Can't pretend it was just me saving you, or protecting everyone else.  I wasn't resigned, this time, was I?  I was marvelous at it.  Gifted.  Sublime.  The studied and ancient art of mutilation, and I am its bereft god.

She'd have time to process.  Time to think about it.  Time to remember what an excellent slaughterer he'd been.

She would never want his hands to touch her again.  Would never want him near her.

Would she flinch, the next time he stood next to her on her balcony?  Would she wince, at his nearness?

No.

Because he knew he was never going there again.  The balcony was for civilized men, and civilized women.  They were through pretending he was one of those.

Alone.

God, what a desolate feeling this is.

It was worse, for having known her.  Had this happened three years ago, before Catherine, he might have borne it.  But she’d made him wish so much that he was a man.  So much, that she could be his, somehow, some day.

“Father, am I a man?”

“Part of you is.”

Ohhh, but the part that wasn’t.

His dreams for them turned to ash, and he slid down in the chair, brooding.

Vincent knew he must have dozed, some, sort of a twilight sleep.  He must have.  The sounds of muffled tunnel tapping reached his ears.  He had no idea how much time had passed.

Not much, probably.  Maybe.  He didn’t know.

Every muscle screamed in protest as he tried to move.  Adrenaline crash, still.  The amazing achiness that came from every muscle you owned being tense, and being used, and then over-used, for too long.

He stood wearily.  He did not want to sleep.  He did not know what he wanted.  The static sound in his ears was much quieter, but it was still there.

He half-stumbled forward, not knowing where he was going.  Back to where he'd killed them, perhaps.  To the abyss, which now doubtless contained their bodies, maybe.  He didn't know.

He emerged into the hallway, and almost tripped over her.

He'd told her to go.  So she'd left.  The rooms, though apparently not the tunnels.  If she'd made it to her exit, she'd turned back around.  He had no real idea how long she’d been lying there.  It looked like a long time.  Since after he’d entered the chamber, certainly.

She hadn't left him.  Even when he couldn't feel her, she hadn't left him.

She'd taken off her jacket and was using it as a pillow.  She’d washed up some, before she’d even left him with Jacob, but that was just her face and hands.  She was lying on the stone floor, still in her street clothes, still half filthy from having been thrown into the sand by a maniac.  She was curled nearly into a ball, facing the entrance of his chamber.  There was a frown line between her brows as she slept, very uncomfortably.

She should have at least asked to sleep in one of the guest chambers.

But no.  He knew why she didn’t.

That would have been too far away.  From me.

She hadn't left him.  Even when he told her to, she hadn't left him.

She’d come back, got as close as she could, and simply dropped, wherever that was.  She shifted a little in her uncomfortable sleep, her little hand trying to cushion her beautiful, fragile cheek.  The soft fall of her hair covered the scar he knew to be there.  The one the bloodthirsty blonde had held a knife to, wanting to cut it out of her.

She hadn't left him.  She’d gone out.  Circled back.  And was still here.  For him.

Knowing he wouldn't accept her in his chambers, she'd simply bedded down in the hallway.  Exhausted.  Dirty.  And needing to be near him so much that none of that mattered.

Lord, how he loved her.  So much, it bent him in half some days.  Like this one.

He crouched softly near her sleeping form, head bent, collecting himself.  At least as much as he could.

He thought she'd left.  He was sure she had.

She must have returned.  Obviously.

“There are dark places in all of us … I love you.”

He reached out with his left hand, because he was left-handed.  Ouch.  Twinge, from the arm.  It didn’t matter.  He lifted her gently and stood, feeling the torn muscles pull, in his bicep.  That didn't matter either.

"Mmm?"  She was dead tired, and groggy.

"Shhh," he told her, carrying her into his room.

"Your… arm,” she murmured, still sleeping.

He ignored her, and settled her on his wide bed, then climbed in after her, kicking off his boots.

"'m dirty," she told him, trying to rouse.

"You are perfect.  Sleep."

She settled her body down, her back curled to his front.  She drifted, at first, then, aware, suddenly tried to sit up.  "Your arm!"  She was trying not to brush it.  He laid on his good side, and put the injured one over her, lightly.

"Is holding you."

It was the only way to keep her still – to set the injured limb on top of her.  He let his hand rest on her hip.  She reached for the other one, and pulled it under her head, using his arm for a pillow.  She threaded her fingers with his, kissed them, and let them lie, hands still entwined, loosely.

Not repelled, then.

"I am sorry, Catherine."

She laid facing away from him, toward the stained glass window, still, for a long moment.  He was here.  He was near.  He was injured.  In more ways than one.

"No.  I am," she answered.  She'd disobeyed him.  She'd brought down the gun.  But she would not implicate Jacob.  There would be no point.

"It wasn't your fault.  Father told me."

She kept her face away from his, squeezing his lax palm with nearly idle fingers.

"That doesn't mean it wasn't my fault."  Both the gun, and the dismayed look on her face when she’d begged him to stop.  He’d deserved neither wound.

He was too tired to argue.  So was she.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow, there would be plenty of guilt and blame to go around, for everyone.  For five minutes, and then maybe for a couple of hours after, he just wanted to let it go, somehow.

"You didn't go home."  He stated the obvious fact.

"I wanted to stay near you."  Also obvious.

"You have a bad habit of doing things I advise you against."  He removed her fingers from his, and pulled her more tightly against his large frame.  It felt so sweet, to have her so warm, and so near.  She sighed with comfort.  So did he.

"I know,” she said.  “It doesn't mean I don't love you."  The words were whispered.

She'd told him she loved him when she left him, earlier that evening.  Openly.  Vulnerably.  She didn't expect him to say it back.  She’d just wanted him to know.

"I know it doesn't.  I know it doesn't mean that,” he answered.

Nothing meant that, apparently.  Not him killing a room full of people, or him brutalizing their leader, or him being the weapon they all used to keep themselves safe... nothing swayed her, or shook her off, or meant she didn’t love him.  Nothing.

He couldn't give her the words back.  Not now.  Not when he thought his love was so ... worthless a thing.  But he could accept hers, perhaps.  A little.  Accept the words, and try to hold them to his battered heart.

"I thought you'd gone," he said simply, talking to the honeyed fall of her hair.

"Do you want me to go?"  She shifted a little, trying to see his face.

He was glad she still couldn't.

"No.  Yes...  I don't know," he sighed.  "I'm glad you didn't, Catherine."  He left it at that, as he tucked her body even more firmly against his.  The static buzz in his ears dimmed.  Ceased.

"Then I'm glad, too," she said, feeling his warmth.  Feeling his weight, as it sank down in.

And they drifted off to sleep, together.

~ ~ ~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love. ~ Cindy

~ ~ ~

No Heaven For Fallen Angels by Cindy Rae was first published at the Beauty and the Beast reading chamber (the BBRC http://jacalyns.u28.nozonenet.com/classic/classic_author_r.html ) in July of 2014, after the author found and BATB fandom earlier that year. Although Cindy Rae has only been in fandom a relatively short time, she has written a surprisingly large number of enjoyable and exciting stories that can be found in several places around the internet. If she keeps up her current pace she will soon join “The 100+ club”, a handful of prolific writers that have gone above and beyond to keep the dream alive for us all.

My Beast

by Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

Without you here, to light my way,

Without your love to push back the darkness…

I would be lost.

Without your hand held out to me,

Gifting my cold fingers with warmth…

I would be alone.

Without your trust and belief in me,

Without you to say “I see you”

And mean it so…

I would not know how to love.

I would be as an empty vessel,

Whistling a tuneless song in the wind.

With no ears to hear,

Nor eyes to see…

The Facts of Life

by Linda Mooney

The night was alive with fire. The sky exploded with pinwheels of color as the rockets boomed and screamed, throwing shattered light over the upturned faces below. The children oohed and clapped at the more dramatic displays, waiting to see where the next one would appear, exulting in the simple joy of watching fireworks go off on the Fourth of July.

Father turned to check his charges around him and noticed Catherine and Vincent were keeping the ones to the rear herded. Mary, Jamie, and Mouse were closer to the railing where the smaller children could see. It had taken them almost an hour to convince the elderly man to partake of their sojourn to the East Side. One of their entrances was near an abandoned mattress factory, and the second floor had several huge, barred windows overlooking the East River. The site was just right for viewing the seasonal event in the safe, dark cover of the night.

Seeing the children’s reactions, Father silently admitted to himself that he was glad they’d pestered him until he’d thrown up his hands in surrender. The winds were calm, the heavens without a cloud to mar the perfection of the evening. It was as perfect as one could ever hope to expect.

After the show was over, everyone slowly began to make their way down the stairwell to the entrance Below. The children laughed and argued amiably over which firework, which shade of light, which cannon of noise they enjoyed the most. Near the front, Vincent and Catherine led the pack, walking hand in hand. Although he appeared at ease and mildly interested in the comments made by the children, although his attention seemed to be more focused on the woman by his side, Father knew that a part of his son was keeping a diligent eye and ear on any possible danger that might occur before the group was back in the deeper,  more familiar sections of tunnels they used as their home.

About midway in the line, Mouse and Jamie strolled. Their bodies were close but not touching, their hands occasionally brushing in the briefest, shyest of meetings. Mary tugged on Father’s sleeve and pointed out the two young adults, commenting on how fast they seemed to have grown. Father nodded.

“It appears the closest of friends may be entering a new stage in their relationship.” He looked around to see if anyone had strayed behind them as he and Mary were bringing up the rear. His hip kept their pace a little slower than the rest of the group’s.

Vincent paused and turned to see how everyone was doing and how far down the tunnel the line extended before resuming the lead. The bright, crystal sound of Catherine’s laughter carried back to the older adults, and Mary smiled in response.

Mary wasn’t the only person affected by the joyous sound. Mouse’s attention suddenly shifted to the two ahead of him. His brow furrowed slightly under the mop of blond hair, and he got an expression on his face that told Father he was puzzled about something. As quickly as it came, the look disappeared, and Mouse began explaining to Jamie how he could make their own fireworks in the tunnels. Father jumped in immediately.

“Whoa, now, Mouse. I will not see any form of pyrotechnics within these tunnels. Am I clear?”

The blond head bobbed. “Yes, sir,” came the morose reply.

Eric piped up. “Can he make us some sparklers instead?”

“Sparklers?” Father echoed.

“Yeah! Sparklers!”

“Awwriiight!”

“Can we? Huh? Can we?”

“Oh, puh-leeze?”

Father halted and held up his hands for quiet. Gazing over the sea of pleading faces, the older man looked to Catherine for clarification.

“Pray tell, Catherine. What are sparklers?”

She grinned. “They’re like fireworks on a stick. They give off a very pretty glow when they’re lit, but no gunpowder or explosion is involved,” she explained.

“Are they safe?” he emphasized.

“As long as you handle them carefully. Part of the stick gets very hot, and you could burn yourself. But lots of children Above play with them, with supervision.”

Father leaned on his cane. “Very well,” he acquiesced. Amid the cheers and multitude of thanks, he added a bit more loudly. “But only as long as one of the adults is in charge.”

The group’s excitement transferred to Mouse as the young man attempted to get Catherine’s attention to ask her how sparklers were made. But she and Vincent had resumed their lead, engrossed in gentle conversation. Again, the nose wrinkled, the eyes narrowed slightly, and Father wondered what he was thinking about.

The trip took longer going home than it did at the outset, but when the entourage emerged back into the main hub of tunnels, the children scattered, taking their various ways home and leaving the adults by themselves. Mouse claimed he needed to check up on Arthur and disappeared. Jamie wished everyone a good night before retiring herself.

Father glanced around, somewhat reluctant to let the evening end. The gaiety of the celebration was still wrapped around them like a comfortable fog, the closeness of their being together too precious to disperse after so short a time.

“William told me at supper tonight that if there were any turnovers left from dessert, he’d put them in my chamber for us when we returned. Anyone game?”

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry,” Catherine volunteered. That broke the awkward pause, and the four of them went to Father’s chamber to discover William delivering a tray of freshly brewed tea and half a dozen apple turnovers.

“Have you suddenly turned telepathic on us, William?” Father accused, smiling.

The cook harrumphed. “No trick to it. You and the children were making enough noise to wake the dead.” Everyone laughed as Mary took the task of pouring the tea while William listened to the stories of the group’s sightseeing trip.

Catherine perched on the arm of the old overstuffed chair Vincent was relaxing in, enjoying the warmth of him by her side. Seeing her lick her fingers of their sweet stickiness, Vincent reached over to the desk to get her a napkin when he spotted Mouse standing in the doorway leading to his chamber. He motioned for the young man to enter.

“Care to join us, Mouse?”

Happily, the little man plopped down on the worn Turkish carpet and snagged the last turnover, listening without comment to the on-going conversation, but keeping his eyes on Vincent and Catherine as they occasionally made a comment to each other during the course of the gathering.

Once more Father noticed the slight look of confusion on the young man’s face and decided to find out why. “Mouse? Is there something bothering you?”

Blue eyes looked innocently up at him. “No. Why?”

“Well, you’ve had the oddest expression on your face all night, ever since we left to go see the fireworks. Are you all right?”

“No…” The voice trailed off slightly. “Well, just wondering.”

“Wondering?” Vincent raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Turning to the couple, Mouse bluntly asked, “Are you going to have a baby?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, except for the choking cough coming from Father as he tried not to spew his tea he’d been sipping.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Mary blurted out.

Vincent glanced at Catherine to see her desperately trying not to laugh, holding her napkin to her mouth as her shoulders quivered.

Nonplussed, Mouse shrugged. “Mouse sees couples in love, like Vincent and Catherine. Like Kanin and Olivia. Like Steve and Gina. Couples have babies except for Vincent and Catherine. Why not Vincent and Catherine?”

Father cleared his throat. “Well, Mouse, it’s not all that simple.”

“Why not?”

The question took him off guard.

“Well, people don’t have babies just because they’re in love,” Mary answered, trying to be helpful. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Then where do babies come from?”

William’s snicker earned him a stern look from Father. Catherine hastily got to her feet, still trying to stifle her giggles as Vincent rose with her.

“It’s getting late, and I need to be getting back. Thank you for a wonderful time,” she stated, unable to hold back the laughter much longer. “Vincent, will you walk me home?”

Vincent followed her out into the tunnels before he, too, succumbed to a fit of hysteria.

Mary choked behind her cup of tea. Taking a deep breath, she tried not to show the broadening grin on her face and moved to clear away the late-night snack dishes. William stood to assist, and with a quick goodnight, the two of them retreated from the chamber. It didn’t take Father long to realize he’d been abandoned.

Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his chair. Mouse remained sitting cross-legged on the rug and patiently waited for an answer.

“So, you wish to learn where babies come from, correct?” Father cleared his throat. He knew Mouse had attended classes in biology like all the rest of the tunnel children. But somehow, he felt that Mouse’s attention had wandered during the reproductive part of the lecture. If it wasn’t mechanically based, it held little interest to the young man. “How much do you remember from your studies, Mouse?” he began.

“Stupid subject,” Mouse remarked. “Stamens, pistils, eggs, seeds, DNA, genes. Just words. Stupid words. Has nothing to do with babies.”

“But it does,” Father interjected. “The way flowers and animals reproduce is very similar to the way humans do.”

A spark of interest. “Humans carry pollen?”

“No, not really. They carry sperm, which acts like pollen.”

“They rub it on them? Then rub it on others to make babies?”

“No, no. They inject… I mean, the male injects it into the female.”

Blue eyes grew larger. “They use a needle?”

“Not exactly a needle, Mouse, but a part of their anatomy which, in a way, you could think of as a needle.” Father could tell this whole conversation was already starting to spiral out of control, but he was determined to continue.

“All men inject? All men have a needle? Mouse has a needle?”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could say you have—”

“Where is Mouse’s needle? Can Mouse make a baby?”

Things were getting away from him too fast for him to handle. Instead, Father tried to reroute the topic. “Let’s look at this another way.”

“Why does Mouse have a wacker, and Gordon have a wacker, and Vincent have a wa—”

“Where did you learn that word?” Father exploded.

“—but girls don’t have them?” Mouse continued, now completely warmed up to the subject. Apparently, these questions had been fermenting inside him for quite a long time. And now that he had the opportunity to discuss them with someone he trusted and looked up to, all the doubts and problems gushed from him like water through a broken dam.

Completely bowled over by Mouse’s view of human anatomy, Father tried to calm himself. Rising from his chair, he went over to a stack of books by his desk and searched for his copy of Gray’s Anatomy. “Maybe if you read a book I have on—”

“Don’t want book,” Mouse interrupted. “Books have too many big words. Not enough pictures.”

“Oh, I assure you, this particular book will have the kind of pictures you’ll need—”

The unexpected sound of running footsteps drew their attention to the main entrance into the chamber. Eric flew in, then halted upon finding Father had company.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the boy began, shoving his thick-rimmed glasses back up his nose with a forefinger.

“Quite all right,” Father half-smiled, suddenly grateful for the diversion.

“Father’s explaining where babies come from,” Mouse explained.

Eric looked expectantly at Father, causing the patriarch to flush.

“Actually, we were attempting to discover—”

“Do you know why men have wackers?” Mouse innocently inquired of the youngster.

Father broke in. “Mouse, I believe we’ve heard enough of that word.”

Eric glanced from one to the other until a slow grin of understanding dawned on his feathers. Stepping into the room, he walked up to Father to deliver his message. “Vincent sent word on the pipes to tell you he wouldn’t be back until early in the morning.” Dropping his voice to where only the older man could hear, he added,” Would you like for me to tell Mouse where babies come from?”

Father stared in amazement at the lad, then back up to where Mouse was picking at a stray thread unraveling from the seat of the chair beside him. Glancing once more at the pale face staring intently up at him through the thick lenses, he gently cleared his throat. “Would you?” he whispered gratefully. “It would appear I cannot explain things on Mouse’s level, and I’m currently at a loss.”

Eric smiled and waved a hand nonchalantly. “No problem.” He turned around and went to stand beside the young man, holding out a hand to him. Mouse stood and looked back at Father, who nodded an affirmation, before taking the proffered hand.

“Go on, Mouse,” Father urged. “I believe Eric can explain things far better than I can.”

“Yeah. Come with me,” Eric said as he started to lead Mouse out of the chamber. “I think it’s about time we had a man-to-man talk.”

And with that, they left the room together.

~ ~ ~

The Facts of Life by Linda Mooney originally appeared in the zine, Eternity In An Hour. Linda teamed up with Lucy Green to create the zine, as well as several others. Some of her stories can be found on Tunnel Tales at http://www.classicalliance.net/tunneltales/tunneltales.html , as well as in the library archives of Winterfests past, namely WFOL 2008, 2012, and 2013. However, most of her work is only available in the hardcopy zines she wrote for and edited. Many of them are available on loan, if you live in the United States, from the Crystal Rose Lending Library. You can find Linda in the CRLL authors list at http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/collection/

Outside of BATB fandom, Linda Mooney is also a published author. You can find out about her and the many novels she has written at http://www.lindamooney.com/

Hearts of Fire

By Avril Bowles

In New York City it was a hot, airless night and residents’ ingenuity was being sorely tested to invent new ways to get cool. Those with balconies threw open their doors while they slept, in the hope that the humidity would prove too much even for determined thieves. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that earlier in the day there had been a freak power surge followed by a shutdown of the electricity supply, thereby causing total disruption in the air conditioning units throughout the City.

Catherine Chandler lay on her bed in pale blue silk pyjamas, fanning herself with an exquisite oriental fan, a gift from her father after a business trip to Japan, but its effect was minimal. She wondered if anyone else in or beneath the City was able to sleep tonight …

~ ~ ~

In the Tunnels it was marginally cooler than Above. Returning from his earlier visit to Catherine, Vincent had wanted to update his journal before retiring. Now he put the book away with a sigh as he glanced at the time, three forty-five a.m. If he didn’t get some sleep soon, he wouldn’t be at his best for the back breaking work ahead of him the following day.

Several members of the Tunnel community had decided to improve their accommodations by knocking through the rock walls of their chambers to provide more comfortable, private bathing facilities. Having obtained Father’s sanction for the operation, and under his close supervision, Mouse and Winslow had drawn up plans for rerouting the water and excavating some of the walls without causing any damage to the main structure. Vincent had been appointed overall leader and coordinator of the various work parties. It was a job he accepted in his usual quiet, resigned manner, knowing how the others always looked to him for strength and leadership in any of their projects. His only condition was that his chamber too should benefit from the same improvements, a reasonable request in the circumstances, and one with which everyone was happy to comply.

Since he had to rise again at five, Vincent merely pulled off his boots and lay down on his bed. Closing his eyes he waited for sleep. Catherine’s face crept, unbidden, into his thoughts and he allowed himself to replay in his mind the time they’d spent together that night in her apartment. It was getting harder for him everyday now. He needed the closeness they shared but he hated leaving her. It seemed so often these days one or the other of them had an identity crisis over what should be done about the escalating depth of their relationship. It was easy for each to tell the other that there was no way they could live a normal life together, and more than they could live apart. The reality of it caused them both so much pain.

Just as Vincent felt he was drifting into a light sleep, his keen senses suddenly alerted him to the fact that something was amiss in the Tunnels. Jerking awake, he looked around him. What had startled him into full consciousness so abruptly? He sniffed the air and his blood froze in his veins … smoke. Not the comfortable, waxy candle smoke which gently permeated every chamber, but the smell the underworld community, and Vincent most particularly, dreaded above all other … FIRE!

Instantly, Vincent was off the bed and pulling on his boots. As he bolted from his chamber and began to race through the passageways, calling urgently to others, he stopped briefly en route to tap out an SOS on the pipes. He knew Pascal would relay the message throughout the whole tunnel system, but for now Vincent had to find the source of the fire.

He ran as fast as the narrow rock corridors would permit, his long hair flying out behind him, the smoke visible now for the first time. People began emerging from their chambers wondering, disorientated as they were with sleep, what the commotion was. As he neared Father’s chamber, Vincent’s heart began to pound even harder, as with a sense of icy dread, he realized he had found the source of the fire.

“FATHER!” he shouted. “Are you still in there?” There was no reply, and when Vincent tried to go in, he found the way barred by something blocking the entrance to the chamber. Smoke billowed out, choking him as he put his shoulder to the massive object that separated him from Father. Others began running to help … Mary, in her long nightgown and carrying a candle, William and Winslow, their broad faces masks of horror and fear at what they would find. Mouse scampered ahead of them with Jamie and Kipper, and all the while Pascal hammered out the same message over and over again through the pipes. FIRE … GET TO SAFETY … GO ABOVE IF NECESSARY.

No one voiced their fears, but everyone knew that the only one among them for whom going Above would be more dangerous than staying right there, was Vincent.

The men joined him in trying to gain access to the chamber, but even with three pairs of strong arms attacking it, the object refused to budge.

“What the hell is this?” gasped Winslow, peering through the deepening smoke. “Can you see?”

“I believe it is Father’s bookcase,” grunted Vincent.

“But he couldn’t have pulled it over himself! It’s too heavy!” yelled William. “Even the three of us can’t shift it!”

“We must,” Vincent muttered, and bent to examine a gap he had spotted near the stone floor.

“Father will die if we don’t. He may be dead already.” Behind them there was a gasp from Mary, and Vincent immediately regretted his rash statement, born of fear.

“What if we try and rock it?” suggested William, beginning to cough now as the smoke filled the passage.

“Are you out of your goddamn skull!” countered Winslow roughly. “What if it fell inwards? He might be lyin’ just the other side of it. Ain’t that right, Vincent?”

“That’s right, Winslow. It’s too dangerous to continue from this side. I have to try and squeeze through this gap to reach Father. The rest of you go now while you still can.”

“Vincent, you can’t!” cried Jamie. “You’ll never get through there, let me!” But Vincent wouldn’t hear of it.

“Mouse, fetch me an axe, QUICKLY! And someone bring some cloths wrung out with cold water!”

Everyone was feeling the effects of the smoke now, eyes were watering and throats were becoming parched. Again Vincent shouted to them.

“I know you want to help but it’s too late. The smoke is becoming thicker with every second that passes. If you do not go Above now, soon you won’t have the strength to leave and you’ll die here. Now GO, PLEASE!”

“But what about you Vincent, and Father?” cried Mary, “We can’t just leave you!” Vincent was frantically trying to enlarge the space where the bookcase had tipped sideways and formed a gap, by breaking away pieces of scorched wood and tossing them aside to give himself a clearer path. He paused briefly to look at Mary in desperation.

“Mary, I don’t have the time to argue with you! I have to get to Father! Now GO!” He deliberately bared his fangs and gave a slight snarl. Mary and the others jumped in alarm and began to back away, as he had known they would.

At that moment Jamie appeared, out of breath from running, and tied a wet cloth around Vincent’s head to cover his nose and mouth. She immediately began coughing, and as Mouse returned with the axe, Vincent stuffed the other wet cloth inside his shirt and glared at them both.

“Mouse, take Jamie and go with the others. Leave me … NOW!” They began to retreat, reluctantly he knew, but he couldn’t take the risk of any of them getting hurt, and it wouldn’t be much longer before the smoke got the better of all of them anyway. He began to swing the axe at the base of the bookcase and soon had a hole big enough for him to squeeze through. Crawling on his stomach he inched his way into Father’s chamber.

The sight which greeted him on the other side was terrifying. Flames leapt from the bed and had spread to some items of wooden furniture and objects around the room. At first he couldn’t see Father at all, so dense was the smoke, filling his eyes and lungs even through the slight, inadequate protection of the damp cloth, which was already beginning to dry out.

“Father!” he shouted. Searching the floor area around him with his hands and finding nothing, Vincent scrambled to his feet and peered about him, trying to make out shapes in the choking grey atmosphere. Suddenly a weak voice reached his ears.

“Vincent, is that you? H..help me. Over here.” Vincent was beside Father in an instant. The old man, presumably overcome by the smoke, was lying face down on the rug in the middle of the floor, his face partly buried in its pile.

“Father! Are you injured?” As urgent as it was to get Father to safety, Vincent didn’t want to risk manhandling him if he had broken bones.

“I don’t think so. I...I tried to get out but the smoke… it was t…too much for me. I heard a crash and then, nothing till just now. H…help me up, Vincent.”

“Try not to talk, Father, it will only increase the speed with which the smoke reaches your lungs.”

Vincent delved inside his shirt for the other wet cloth, which he pressed against Father’s nose and mouth and the old man held it in place with one hand while the other reached for Vincent’s strong arm, which lifted him easily to his feet.

“How are we going to get out, Vincent?” enquired Father weakly. “I c…can’t see much but it looks as if the doorway is blocked.”

“It is.” Vincent’s expression was grim. “I crawled in through a gap at the bottom, but I fear we have too little time left to risk leaving that way.”

“What are you going to do?” In answer Vincent took hold of the smouldering bookcase, swept away as many books as possible and pulled for all he was worth, a mammoth feat even in normal circumstances, but now, with eyes streaming and heat burning his throat and hands, it was almost a miracle that after three attempts, the bookcase came crashing inwards and Vincent dodged backwards to throw Father out of the way.

Thanks to his son’s quick action, the old man was pushed back against the rock wall without further injury, but the massive bookcase caught Vincent’s left side as it fell to the ground, delivering a savage blow to his shoulder and knocking him off balance.

“Vincent!” gasped Father, but Vincent was on his feet again immediately, propelling the old man towards the doorway.

“I’m alright, Father. Come, there’s no time to lose. You have to go Above with the others.”  Father turned anxiously.

“What about you! I’m not leaving without you! The smoke, Vincent … it will kill you!”

“Father, please! I must extinguish the fire. Now hurry, the others will be nearby. GO!” Almost roughly, Vincent pushed Father out into the passageway.

Turning back to the chamber, he knew it was a potential deathtrap. But what was the alternative? They could hardly call the Fire Department. He just prayed that the other chambers were untouched. Every area of living accommodation held a fire extinguisher and fortunately Vincent knew the exact location of most of the equipment. Yanking the cylinder from its bracket, he aimed the jet of foam at the orange tongues of fire which had already consume the mattress and bedding and now licked angrily at anything combustible.

Vincent could barely see anything now through scorched and streaming eyes, and despite the power and unusual capacity of his lungs, he was painfully aware he had been exposed to the choking fumes for far too long. He realized the odds against him being able to get the fire under control, and reach the safety of the upper levels, before being overcome by the choking fury of the fire, were frighteningly high.

~ ~ ~

Catherine had finally managed to drop off to sleep about 3 a.m. Suddenly she awoke, literally fighting for breath. Her chest felt as if someone had strapped a heavy gauge steel band around it and her throat felt as if it was burning. On the verge of panic, Catherine sat up in bed and switched on her lamp. Surely the humidity of the night couldn’t produce such unpleasant physical sensations in her? And it certainly couldn’t account for the pain in her shoulder. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge for several seconds, gasping for air. Suddenly she heard the sound of fine rain outside and noticed the curtains fluttering gently at the doors. Well if it wasn’t the temperature… Almost before the question was fully formed in her head she knew the answer. Vincent! Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing… his life was in deadly peril.

Splashing her face with cold water she threw on jeans, tee shirt and trainers, grabbed her keys and raced down to the basement. She scrambled down the ladder and ran to the iron gate. Seconds later she was running through the maze of tunnels, her heart thumping painfully as images of Vincent, unable to breathe and confronting some unknown danger, filled her mind.

Suddenly she smelled smoke and her fear escalated almost uncontrollably. A fire in the tunnels? God no! That and a major rock fall were the most feared disasters in the world Below.

All at once people began streaming towards her. They were coughing and spluttering, holding on to each other as they ran. Some were crying and wild-eyed, carrying bundles of possessions. When Winslow and Mary appeared, Catherine grabbed them.

“Where’s Vincent? What’s happened?… I can smell smoke!”

“Oh, Catherine,” cried Mary “there’s a fire in Father’s chamber and Vincent insisted on going in alone to get him out. It’s terrible down there… I’m so worried about them!”

“But you all LEFT them down there?” Catherine was horrified.

“Hole on a minute, Catherine,” warned Winslow, “d’ya think we wanted to? God dammit, Vincent means a whole helluva lot to us too, you know! He forced us to go back. He said he could manage alone. Some of us just tried to get back there again but the smoke is too much.”

“Then how do you expect Vincent to get Father out! He’s in trouble down there… believe me, I know. I can feel it!”

“Bad down there, could be dead already,” said Mouse, tears threatening to fall as he thought of Father and his best friend trapped in the smoke filled tunnels.

“NO!” cried Catherine. “Vincent is not dead! I have to go to him.” She turned to leave, shaking off all those who tried to restrain her.

Suddenly William and Father appeared, grimy-faced and coughing. Father, almost to the point of collapse, was leaning heavily on the bearded cook and his voice cracked when he spoke.

“It’s all my fault… I took a candle to bed to finish a book I was reading. It must have fallen over as I fell asleep. I’ll never forgive myself if…if…” He appeared physically and emotionally unable to finish, and Catherine elbowed her way past all of them, determined to find Vincent.

~ ~ ~

As the last of the flames finally succumbed to the blanket of foam, Vincent sensed the remainder of his strength evaporating with it.  He felt as if a massive rock was pressing on his chest, crushing him and cutting off his air supply, a sensation that was making him feel lightheaded. He needed to get out … fast.

Hurling the cylinder to the floor, he risked a further few vital seconds by pausing to retrieve half a dozen of Father’s books, before groping his way to the doorway. Desperation to breathe clean air was the only force driving him on. He had long since abandoned the damp cloth around his head, and had relied merely on holding his breath for as long as possible and taking shallow breaths of the choking, black smoke when he could hold it no longer. As he wove his way unsteadily through the passages towards the surface, it took every ounce of strength and willpower he possessed not to give in to the waves of blackness which threatened to engulf him.

“Vincent! Oh, Vincent, thank God!” Catherine?  Her voice penetrated his fogged brain and thankfully seemed to jolt him into coherent thought. The smoke was less dense here and although he couldn’t see her clearly, the moment she threw herself at him, encircling his waist with her arm and pulling him along beside her, he could feel her own strength and determination flowing between them like an electric current.

“Catherine,” he croaked. “Father… did he get out?” Every word was painful but he needed to know.

“Yes, Vincent, he’s alive. He came out with William just as I arrived. He needs medical help for smoke inhalation but Peter’s with him now and I’m sure he’ll be okay. What about you… can you make it as far as the drainage culvert? You have to get some fresh air in the park before it gets too light.” He nodded, tightening his grip around her shoulder, and before long they emerged into the early dawn to be greeted by the others.

Catherine took the books from him and stood back slightly while everyone clustered around Vincent, their relief and joy at seeing him safe, if not completely, obvious in the warmth of their greetings. He waited patiently, acknowledging gratefully their hugs and handshakes, all the while looking around anxiously for Father. Suddenly he saw him. He was stretched out on the ground and Dr. Peter Alcott was kneeling beside him administering oxygen from a portable cylinder and, over the mask, his eyes locked with his son’s in mutual relief and understanding.

Gently, Vincent disentangled himself from the crowd and walked slowly over to where Father lay. The old man held up his hand and Vincent grasped it tightly. For a moment they just stared at each other, both men too exhausted to say anything, but the message between them required no clarification.

Peter turned his attention to Vincent.

“Thank God you’re alive. Are you hurt?” Vincent shook his head wearily. “Jacob’s been out of his mind with worry,” Peter continued, “he’s been blaming himself for the fire. I dread to think what might have happened if … well, let’s not even think about that now. It’s over. Come on Vincent, sit down before you fall down. Here…” As Vincent lowered himself to the ground beside Father and leaned gratefully against the bank, Peter removed the oxygen mask from Father’s face and held it over Vincent’s nose and mouth, silencing his protest immediately.

“It’s okay. He’s had enough. Don’t want him to overdose! In any case, right now you need it more than he does… okay now just try to relax and breathe deeply… that’s good. Obviously you can’t stay up here long; it’s getting light, so I’ll take a look at you as soon as we go back inside.”

Vincent nodded his thanks and closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of long, deep lungfuls of air for what seemed like the first time in hours.

Wanting to be free of anything that further restricted his breathing, Vincent tugged at the fastenings on his belt and tunic. Suddenly he felt small, slim hands finishing the task for him and he opened his eyes to see Catherine on her knees before him. She coiled his belt on her lap, eased his clothing away from his neck and reached up to place a cool palm against his scorched cheek, a smile of love and traces of tears on her beautiful face. He squeezed her hand and replied to her unspoken declaration with his eyes, and she continued to sit quietly beside him until he felt able to walk back inside without his legs giving way.

As daylight crept over the city and the first of the early morning joggers was spotted in the park, Father was carried by Winslow and Pascal back to one of the guest chambers on a makeshift stretcher. Everyone hurried back inside to reassure themselves that their home was relatively unscathed and that the fire hadn’t ignited somewhere else. Vincent had done a good job. No other chambers had been touched and the main passageways were now clear of smoke, although the smell would remain for some time, reminding them what a dangerous situation they had faced.

Vincent and Catherine followed behind, and as soon as Father was safely installed in his new temporary chamber, Vincent insisted on seeing him for a few moments before submitting to Peter’s examination. The old man was propped up on pillows when Vincent came in. He held out his hand and Vincent sat on the bed beside him.

“I don’t know where to begin, Vincent. I’m so sorry … so very sorry.” Turning over the clawed hand, he gasped when he saw the blisters already beginning to form on the usually smooth palm. He immediately reached for the other one and shook his head despairingly when saw it was in the same condition.

“Look at your poor hands. What can I say to you?” Vincent gave a slight smile.

“That I am excused from work duties until they heal?” But Father refused to be joked out of his guilt.

“I should never have taken that candle to bed. I really don’t know how I could have been so unforgivably stupid! I risked all our lives Vincent. If it hadn’t been for you, I would probably be dead and possibly others, if the fire had spread.” Vincent patted the old man’s arm.

“Fortunately it didn’t … and no one is dead, so stop tormenting yourself Father. We all make mistakes.”

“If…if you had died Vincent… I don’t think I could have gone on. If I had somehow come out of that mess and you hadn’t, I could never have forgiven myself… ever.” The old man covered his eyes with one hand.

“Father, will you please stop this.” Vincent rested the back of his hand on Father’s shoulder and rubbed it gently. “There is nothing the matter with me that a few hours sleep and a jar of antiseptic cream will not rectify. You must not put yourself through this any longer. Now, do I have your word?”

“If you can find it in your heart to forgive me...” In reply, Vincent took the old man in his arms and held him, until his silent sobbing subsided.

Catherine, who had been standing silently in the doorway, felt a lump in her throat, and was unable to suppress the tears which suddenly flooded her eyes. She had always known the relationship between Vincent and Father was something special, but watching the two men now she felt almost like an intruder in their world. The love they shared was a rare thing and only served to remind her of the death of her own father a few months before. She was still lost in thought when Peter appeared beside her.

“I need to examine Vincent,” he said. “Perhaps you can persuade him to come with me.”

“He’s alright, isn’t he?” Peter smiled reassuringly.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. You know how strong he is. But he’s been through quite an ordeal. I want to make sure the smoke hasn’t done any damage to his lungs.”

Vincent stood up wearily and walked over to them.

“Shall we go to my chamber, Peter?” I can see you’ll allow me no peace until I have subjected myself to your professional care and…” He inclined his head slightly in the endearing way Catherine loved, “… your cold stethoscope.”

Catherine slipped her arm round his waist and he leaned on her slightly as all three of them made their way through the passageways. En route they passed Father’s chamber and she felt a shudder run through Vincent and his footsteps slowed as they glimpsed the devastation beyond the doorway, as the acrid smell of smoke invaded their nostrils. She tightened her grip on him and soon they reached the room that Catherine had begun to think of as her second home.

“Do you want me to leave, Peter?” she inquired. The doctor smiled.

“Only if Vincent wants you to.” Vincent shook his head and slumped into his favourite chair. He drew in his breath sharply once, as Peter helped him remove his blackened scorched shirt and Catherine gasped in horror at the broken and grazed skin and heavy purple bruising that was already developing over his left shoulder. Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Is this what you call not being hurt?” Vincent waved a hand dismissively.

“It is not important. I had forgotten about it until just now.” The doctor began an examination to determine if any bones were broken and Vincent sat silently, his face inscrutable as Peter manipulated his shoulder.

“Sorry Vincent. You’re lucky this time, nothing seems to be broken but this is going to seize up by tomorrow.” Peter took some gauze and a tube of cream from his bag and first cleansed the area before applying the soothing cream and a protective pad. He repeated the procedure with Vincent’s burned and blistered hands, bandaging them expertly.

“I think I’ll let Catherine see to these superficial burns on your face,” he smiled. “Now, let’s check your eyes. Look up, that’s right. Are they sore?” Vincent nodded as the doctor directed the beam from his ophthalmoscope into his eyes. “A little.”

“Mmm-hmm. Well I can do something about that.” He reached back into his bag and took out some eye drops which he swiftly dripped into the edges of the blue eyes which looked up at him.

“Right. Almost done.” He placed the ear pieces of his stethoscope to his ears and held the other end against Vincent’s chest.”

“I was right,” said Vincent with a wry smile. “It is cold.” Peter was very thorough, instructing Vincent when to breathe in and out, tapping with his fingers front and back and listening every few seconds. At last he replaced the instrument in his bag and closed it.

“Okay, nothing to worry about. Just take it easy for a few days and you’ll be fine.” Vincent stood up and shook his hand.

“Thank you for your concern, Peter.”

“Glad I was able to help.” He turned to Catherine. “Do you want a lift back Cathy, or are you staying for a while?” Catherine glanced up at Vincent.

“No thank you, Peter. I want to stay with Vincent. It’s the only way I can be sure he’ll get some rest.” She gave Peter a hug and after he’d left she turned to Vincent.

“What can I do?”

“I would love a drink, Catherine, but it will have to be something cold.” He placed the fingers of his left hand at the base of his throat and gave a rueful half smile. “Perhaps some orange juice?” Her expression was sympathetic as she stroked his neck with gentle hands, her thumbs caressing his Adam’s apple with a feather light touch.

“I know how sore your throat must be by the sound of your voice… which incidentally, is even deeper and huskier than usual.” Her smile was full of love as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his grimy cheek. “Why don’t you get into bed? You must be completely exhausted.”

“I believe I could sleep for a week,” he confessed with a sigh. Sitting on the edge of the bed he stared irritably for a moment at his bandaged hands, and then suddenly Catherine dropped to the floor in front of him and began to remove his boots.

“Thank you, Catherine.” She lifted his legs and he lay back on the bed, the cool sheets like balm to his heated skin.

She poured two tall glasses of orange juice and put them down on the bedside table. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she smoothed his hair back from his face.

“Tomorrow I’ll shampoo your hair for you,” she said. “You won’t be able to do it yourself for several days.” She lifted up a lock of his hair and looked at it sadly. “It’s singed, Vincent. Your lovely hair is singed.”

“It smells of the fire in that room.” His blue eyes misted as his mind travelled back. “I almost lost him, Catherine,” he said. “I know he will not live forever, but when the end eventually comes, I hope it will not be through a tragedy such as we almost suffered today.” Catherine felt her eyes fill with tears for the second time in less than an hour.

“Try not to think about it, Vincent,” she said. “He is alive today because of you… as am I.” Gently she ran a finger over his face trying to decide which marks would come off with bathing and which were burns that would need treating with the special cream left by Peter.

“My wonderful, battle scared hero” she whispered.

“I am no hero, Catherine,” he replied. “There was no choice to be made. He is my father. I merely did what was necessary, as anyone would have done. And it was not I who defied the danger and ran into the tunnels while everyone else waited outside. Your courage knows no bounds, Catherine.” She shook her head with a smile.

“Your modesty is one of your many endearing traits, Vincent. But you have to face the facts sometime, you’re a hero to every one of the good people who live down here, and that includes Father… and I need hardly add that includes me. And what you said about me? Courage had nothing to do with it. You were in trouble. God, Vincent, I was so frightened! The physical sensations actually woke me up… I couldn’t breathe, and suddenly I realized it was because you couldn’t either! I thought I was going to lose you. Like I told you once before… it wasn’t courage… it was love.”

Slowly, being careful not to touch his injured shoulder, she leaned forward and kissed him tenderly.

“I love you so much, Vincent,” she whispered.

“I know, I feel it,” he replied. “To know that you feel our bond as strongly as I do is a miracle to me, Catherine. One that I hope will last forever.”

“Oh it will,” she assured him softly. “I’ve done so much thinking about my life since I’ve known you, Vincent. And I understand now, that something was missing in previous relationships I had. Sometimes I almost convinced myself I was in love… with Elliot when I thought it might solve ‘our problem’… before that, with Tom… even with Steven and one or two others in college… but I was so wrong. Until I met you, I had absolutely no idea what the real thing felt like. It felt like you, Vincent. I may not have realized it immediately but… the first time I loved forever was when you whispered my name…”

~ ~ ~

Avril Bowles is a British fan fiction author who began writing in the early days of the fandom. Her stories are still widely read and enjoyed.  Hearts of Fire is one of many fan fiction stories written by her. It was first published in her zine, Candlelight Two, the second of three zines in The Candlelight Collection published from 1991 to 1992. These and many of her other zines are available on loan within the United States from the Crystal Rose Lending Library at http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/collection/

Teach Me

by Judith Nolan

There is so much I wish I could tell you,

To teach you about love and life,

Experience with you and make you understand,

You, who so deserves to be loved and allowed to be,

You come from a beautiful world,

Far different from mine…

Beloved Vincent,

What I wish to show you,

Is how you could be in this world of mine.

And where you and I might travel together

For truly, whatever happens, whatever comes,

I will love you always…

A Little Night Music

By Judith Nolan

“Say you’ll share with me, one love, one lifetime…

Say the word and I will follow you…

Share each day with me, each night each morning…

You alone can make my song take flight,

help me make the Music of the Night…”

~Erik, the Phantom

~ ~ ~

“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication! Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation! Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write – the power of the music of the night…you alone can make my song take flight – help me make the music of the night…”

An intensely reverent silence descended in the great hall, as the last strains of the soaring music died away into the shadows. Playing the role of the Phantom, Tony Gilbert turned to offer Shannon O’Neill his hand, bringing her to her feet, helping her to step from the elaborate boat into which he’d just laid her down.

“Thank you, my Christine.” He smiled as he bent to press an appreciative kiss to the back of her hand. “You were brilliant.”

“That was wonderful fun.” Shannon smiled, inclining her head in tribute, as they both turned to the audience, looking a little concerned that their magical performance from Phantom of the Opera had somehow just fallen flat. Tony raised Shannon’s hand in his, spreading wide his free hand in a sweeping theatrical gesture, indicating his expectations of the crowd.

Pandemonium suddenly erupted. Previously spellbound audience members jumped to their feet, shouting, stamping and clapping before they crowded forward, trying to be the first to shake Tony’s hand, or kiss Shannon’s cheek.

“I have never been so moved…” Father clasped Tony’s hand tightly. “I forgot where I was for a moment there. Your incredible singing transported me to another realm entirely. And, to think, I taught you everything you know…”

“Jacob!” Mary admonished him. “Surely you can’t take all the credit.”

“Well, I was the first to realise the boy’s potential,” Father argued his corner stoutly. “Now look where it has taken him.”

“All the way to the bright lights of Broadway.” Elliot drew Shannon back against him, kissing her cheek. “And, for tonight, quite a way beneath it.” He laughed. “You were both wonderful. That was a very special performance.”

“Thanks, Elliot. You know, it really is great to be home again.” Tony looked around the vaulted ceiling of the great hall, shadowed with mystery in the dancing candlelight. “I never realised what excellent acoustics this old place has. Andrew would be envious. Pity we can’t stage the whole of Phantom down here. The cast would just love this hall.” He brought his gaze down again. “And all of you. You guys make the best audience.”

“Well, you know how much we would love to go Above and see the show and your performance.” Catherine came up, Vincent at her side. “You have been very generous to bring a sample of it down here, to us. We are simply grateful you could spare the time, on your one night off.”

“Anything for my family, you know that.” Tony smiled. “If it hadn’t been for Vincent, that long ago night on the subway, I wouldn’t be here now. I owe you all so much. It’s time to pay it forward, I guess.”

Angelo appeared from his place at the grand piano, his hands moving eloquently, expressing all his thoughts and feelings. His long fingers flashed around in the candlelight, impossible to follow.

Tony raised a hand. “Hang on, mate, it’s been a while. Slow down. Give that to me again.”

Angelo frowned as he shrugged his frustration and began again. This time he enunciated every word clearly, his face split by a huge grin.

“Any time, you know that.” Tony grasped his shoulder. “I’m sure you and Andrew would get along fine.”

Angelo nodded and clapped, bouncing up and down. They all laughed.

“I’m serious, I’ve never heard a kid as young as him, play like that.” Tony turned back to Father. “Send him up to me when you think he’s ready. I’ll arrange for him to have advanced tuition. One day we’ll be going to his concert in the park.” He stripped off the Phantom mask he was wearing and handed it to the boy. Angelo clutched it happily, knowing he had done well tonight.

A shaggy blond head appeared in their midst. “Okay, Mouse did good with the boat? Worked fine?”

“Mouse surpassed himself,” Vincent acknowledged. “It all worked perfectly.”

“Which is more than we can say for the real one.” Tony sighed ruefully. “Radio controlled, it has a mind and a life of its own, and it’s possessed by a malevolent spirit, I’ll swear to it. The one in London used to follow Michael around the stage like a puppy. This one here on Broadway sometimes chooses to ignore me entirely. I’ve been forced to walk on water more than once, in the underground lake scene.”

“Okay great, need Mouse to fix?” The tinker looked hopeful. “Get tools, go now?”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Father interposed quickly. “Better stick to all the work you have to do down here, Mouse.”

“Mouse find, Mouse fix, all the same to Mouse. Call me.” He curled and extended his fingers into an imaginary telephone receiver and held it to his ear.

Everyone standing nearby suddenly turned away, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter at the intriguing idea of Mouse possessing a telephone. The tinker scowled at them all.

“What’s so funny?” he muttered in an aggrieved tone.

“Nothing, Mouse.” Vincent ruffled the boy’s hair. “We are sorry to offend you. It has been a magical night, and you staged the whole show, brilliantly. No one could have done it better.”

“Okay, good then.” Mouse shrugged. “Trust Mouse. He knows what he’s doing.”

Vincent turned to Tony. “So, you will go back Above tonight? You cannot stay with us for some of the Summerfest celebrations?”

“Oh, I wish I could.” Tony shrugged. “But I have early call tomorrow, for the matinee. I can’t afford to stay out late.” He clasped his throat. “Bad for the voice.”

“Well then, I shall ask William to pack you some of the banquet to go. You look like you need fattening up.” Mary bustled away.

“It is a shame you can’t come Above and see the entire show.” Tony sighed as he looked around the group. “I know you would all appreciate it. But I do understand the difficulties. One day, perhaps, things will be different…”

“I can walk among them on Halloween.” Vincent shrugged. “We make the most of our once a year treat. It is simply how it must be. Topsiders are afraid of their own shadows. Of what they don’t understand, and I remind them of what they are most afraid of.”

“But you have brought us some of the magic down here tonight, Tony.” Father took his arm. “We are so very proud of you and all you have achieved. Come and say goodbye to everyone, before you go.”

“Actually, guys, there could be a way…” Elliot put up a detaining hand, as the small group started to drift apart. “I mean, if you all really would like to see the show and Tony’s performance. I’m sure I can swing it, given a little time to organise things. I would love to try.”

“Really…?” Catherine was the first to turn back, her face alive with speculation.

It was very dear to her heart to help Vincent experience all he could of the culture of her world. But she was ever wary of the possible consequences. “Jacob is old enough to be left for an evening. Samantha is an excellent babysitter. It would be so wonderful if we could do it. But, the risks…”

“Is that not a dangerous idea?” Father looked worried. “I mean, surely the dangers would be too great? What if Vincent was discovered?”

“Are you sure it’s even possible?” Shannon caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It would take a miracle…”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re all wrong. None of you are thinking outside the box.” Elliot shook his head. “I’m on the board of several charities and they’ve all got events booked for the show months in advance. I’ve bought several blocks of seats to auction off for some of those charities. So, if I make a substantial contribution, I can secure all the bookings we might need.”

He smiled slowly. “Now I know that, on at least one of those nights, they’re planning to have a masquerade evening, to celebrate the show’s success. Everyone attending must come in masked fancy dress, or as his or her favourite character from the show. What could be simpler?”

“You mean, just walk in?” Vincent frowned. “Through the front door, like everyone else? Could it be possible?”

“The masquerade ball, what could be more perfect! You can go as yourself, Vincent. Who’s going to guess your face is real?” Tony gripped his arm excitedly. “You’ll blend right in with all the other characters. Think of it. You can come and see the show and even have a meal afterwards. I’m sure Elliot could arrange a private party just for you guys. And no one would be any the wiser. I think it’s a great idea. Paying it forward, remember?”

“And no one looked twice…” Catherine breathed, remembering that first, long ago Halloween night when she and Vincent had walked the city unmolested. “I think it’s a brilliant idea! If only we could somehow pull it off…”

“Mouse come too?” the tinker asked hopefully. “You got good stuff. Like radio controlled stuff and computers. Mouse could go up and see it all.”

“I don’t know…” Father frowned at Vincent, his expression mirroring his disquiet.

“How about we ask Tony to arrange a private time for you to go and see everything backstage, Mouse?” Vincent glanced at Tony, who nodded. “When it’s quiet and you can take your time looking at it all.”

“Tony can do that?” Mouse looked hopeful. “Mouse can come another time, then?”

“Tony can do that,” Tony replied, understanding Father’s concerns. “You can look at anything you like.”

“Okay, fine.” Mouse nodded happily. “Not sure about all that singing anyway. Why can’t you just tell the girl you love her?”

“You certainly know how to cut to the heart of the matter.” Tony laughed, shaking his head. “Why, indeed…”

“I’m afraid it’s still Elliot’s call.” Father looked across to his friend, hopeful, but prepared to be disappointed. “You could not surely take everyone up there…”

Elliot looked around the faces of the group, all expressing various degrees of hope, curiosity and disbelief he could actually pull it off. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, drawing out the suspense a little longer, trying not to smile.

“Stop teasing them,” Shannon admonished him, kissing his cheek. “You know very well, the final say is yours. Anyone who wants to come is invited. Just give us the numbers and we’ll arrange everything. We’ll make it a Summerfest gift to remember.”

“Are you sure we’re not putting you to too much trouble?” Father worried the point. “But, I must say, to be able to see the whole show would be a real pleasure. Especially, since the Phantom himself, is now being portrayed by one of our own and no one, but us, knows of his origins. Aren’t secrets wonderful things?”

“Then consider it done. I shall arrange everything.” Elliot spread his hands. “Just give me some time to get things sorted. The masquerade night is in two weeks. We’ll need to know who’s coming, so we can be sure they have seats for everyone.”

“Jacob, I think it’s a wonderful idea.” Mary reappeared with a basket of food. “It’s a long time since we’ve stepped out on the town.”

“This is not exactly stepping out on the town,” Father chided her. “This is far more dangerous than that. We’re putting a great deal at stake here. Vincent’s safety for one.”

“Then stay home, old man.” Mary linked her fingers with his. “Vincent will be fine, it will be night time after all and he will fit right into the theme of the night, as he does on Halloween. Where’s your sense of adventure? We will have Elliot to take care of us all. I’m going to see our sweet boy perform at his best and make us all very proud. And Vincent and Catherine will have a lovely, romantic evening together. What could be more perfect?”

“All right, all right.” Father subsided. “I can’t say I am unwilling to try something new. It has been a long time since I’ve attended the theatre.”

“Then, it’s a date.” Tony clasped Father’s free hand. “Two weeks from today you’re all coming to see the show. I can guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

“I know we won’t.” Catherine kissed his cheek. “And Vincent will love it. It will be the first time we have been to the theatre together.”

“A palace of dreams…” Vincent mused softly. “Just like Father tonight, I will look forward to being transported into another realm. But it is truly more than I dreamed possible.”

“No pressure, then.” Tony grinned. “I shall make sure I don’t disappoint you. Just pray the boat behaves itself on the night. Or I might need Mouse’s help, after all.”

“I’m sure all will be fine.” Father took his arm. “So, we must look after your throat. Come on then, time to say your goodbyes, for now. I want to be sure you’re in good voice for our night of nights. I want you in bed by midnight.”

“Yes, Father,” Tony acquiesced meekly, his eyes twinkling, allowing the older man to lead him away into the crowd.

“Well, I’m off to alert the sewing ladies,” Mary said briskly. “They’ll need time to assemble the costumes. We’re going to need lots of things, feathers and lace, tons of velvet and brocade. And I know I still have some of that good Spanish leather set aside for a special occasion…”

“Come on.” Shannon linked arms with her as they hurried away. “Let’s go and see what we need. We’ll make out a shopping list of what we don’t have…”

“Why do I get the awful feeling this idea is going to cost me a lot of money?” Elliot laughed. “But, I also have a large debt to pay. Especially to you, Vincent.”

“Then consider this idea of yours payment in full,” Vincent replied, drawing Catherine in close to his side and kissing her hair. “One magical night to cancel all the debts. Then we will speak no more of what you owe us.”

“Somehow I don’t know if there could ever be enough to repay all you have done for me.” Elliot’s eyes followed Shannon’s progress across the hall. “All you have given me in these last few months.”

“Come on, you two. We’ll talk about who owes what to whom, some other time.” Catherine took Elliot’s hand. “It’s Summerfest and a beautiful night. Let’s go and sample some of William’s excellent cider and discuss our plans.”

She linked arms with both men and they walked with her to the tables groaning with food.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, Vincent…” Catherine walked into their chamber to find Vincent waiting for her.

Mary and her team of seamstresses had excelled themselves in the last two weeks with frantic periods of measuring and fitting. Every one of the thirty-five people who had expressed an interest in the evening’s adventure, had been secreted from each other, only on the evening of the show would they finally be revealed in their finished costumes.

Vincent turned slowly before Catherine now, a slow smile lightening his features. The full length of his black evening cloak billowed around him as he paused, striking a pose as he faced her. Dressed as an eighteenth century gentleman in sumptuous formal style, his long, black thigh boots clung lovingly to his legs over grey leather breeches.

Lace ruffles fell to his hands, now concealed beneath black leather gloves. A silk waistcoat of varying shades of emerald green and peacock blue set off the deep ruffles of a cream linen shirt beneath the elegant cut of his tailored evening jacket.

His hair had been combed and tamed, tied back into an elegant ponytail with long black silk ribbons that draped over his shoulder. He held a wide brimmed hat in his hands, complete with nodding ostrich feathers. His smile grew wider as Catherine stared at him. She returned his smile as she licked her lips.

“I did think the hat could be a little much…” Vincent ventured quietly, when she didn’t speak.

“Oh, no…” Catherine shook her head vigorously. “No, no, everything is just perfect.”

She drew out the last word like the purr of a cat. She licked her lips again as she advanced into the chamber. “You look good enough to eat.”

“And you look like every one of my fantasies,” Vincent teased. He flourished a gloved hand elegantly, palm uppermost, making a formal bow as he did so.

“Does that mean you like it?” Catherine went up on her toes and did a slow pirouette. “It seems they have matched us in our century, at least.”

Her midnight blue velvet gown was cut low across her breasts, creating an inviting cleavage behind a narrow collar of fine cream lace. The gown clung close to the slender curves of her upper body, before flowing out from the waist to drape elegantly around her feet, now clad in neat lace-up boots of an antique cut with diamante studded heels. The length of her sleeves ended at her elbows where long falls of exquisite lace reached almost to her wrists, her hands also clothed in long evening gloves of cream kidskin.

Her hair had been gathered to the crown of her head and then teased into a riot of perfumed curls and ringlets. She carried a full-face, silver Phantom mask by its ribbons in one hand, an evening cloak of crimson silk draped over her arm. She lifted the mask to her face, making a sensuous moue behind it.

“I like it all so much that…Are you sure we need to go out tonight?” Vincent murmured, capturing her free hand and carrying it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her inner wrist, where he could feel a pulse beating rapidly.

“Merci, Monsieur…” Catherine curtseyed. “Tres bon, magnifique…”

“Mademoiselle, shall we go, before I lose all my good intentions…?” Vincent drew her hand behind his arm to rest in the curve of his elbow.

“Ah, Monsieur, who says I wouldn’t allow it?” Catherine replied, with a saucy smile, as she hugged his arm.

“We should get dressed up like this more often.” Vincent laughed. “But I’m not sure my blood pressure could handle it…”

Catherine laughed gaily as they left the chamber, heading for the agreed meeting place in Father’s room. She was extremely interested to see what miracles Mary and her team had performed for everyone else. But she was sure no one could compare to Vincent’s magnificence.

Father and Mary were laughing together as Vincent and Catherine entered the chamber. “What do you think?” Father questioned, spreading his arms wide as they entered. “I believe I am costumed as one of the opera managers. I trust I am rich enough to afford this night.”

He’d been neatly turned out as a wealthy Parisian man about town, complete with an elegant floral waistcoat, fob watch and a bow tie. He held his hat and gloves in one hand while leaning on a silver and ebony cane Catherine had not seen before.

“Madame Giry, at your service.” Mary smiled, as she curtseyed. “I thought it was an appropriate character to choose, from the gorgeous costume drawings that Tony sent down for me to copy. I am, after all, in charge of the young ones and I do try to be strict.” She shook her head ruefully.

Mary was formally dressed as the Phantom’s ballet mistress, the dark severity of her costume livened by an elegant evening jacket of silver and red brocade. She carried a ladies satin reticule looped over one arm and opera glasses on a long chain around her neck.

“You both look fabulous.” Catherine smiled. “This night is going to be such fun.”

“And you two look spectacular. We should do this more often.” Father looked Vincent and Catherine up and down. “I must say, Mary, you have excelled yourself tonight. Well done.”

The other tunnel dwellers began to appear, all beautifully turned out in period costume; some as characters from the musical, others masked and mysterious. Soon the chamber was full to overflowing, those who were not making the journey Above, gathering in the outer tunnels, watching and speculating on all the costumes. Mary’s efforts and those of her ladies came in for much praise and comment.

“Shall we go to the opera?” Father extended his arm to Mary. “I think we are in for a memorable night.”

“Anywhere you go, let me go too…” Vincent whispered softly to Catherine, as they followed the others. “Love me, that’s all I ask of you…”

Catherine reached up to kiss his cheek. “Oh, Vincent, I love you.”

~ ~ ~

To avoid unwanted attention, the various groups of people who were attending the show passed from their underground home by different exits. Catherine and Vincent, with Father and Mary, went out through the door to the basement of Elliot’s building. Shannon and Elliot were waiting for them on the other side.

“Wow!” Elliot approved of Catherine’s costume immediately. He turned to survey the others. “Look at you all. Thank you, Mary, you’ve done wonders, in the short time you had.”

“It was great fun.” She nodded, smiling. “But, I did have a lot of help.”

“I’m impressed.” Elliot turned to scan Vincent, critically. “I must say, you’re going to take some beating. I hear there’s a great prize for the best costume at the end of the night. I excluded myself from the voting, because I’m far too biased.” He grinned at them.

“You’re not looking too bad yourself.” Catherine assessed his outfit. “The classic robber baron, I presume?”

“How did you guess?” Elliot looked down at himself. “I’ve always fancied myself as a highwayman.”

“And I’m the angel of mercy who hides him from the law.” Shannon indicated her elegant, French aristocratic lady’s costume with a sweep of her hand. “My secret lover, I keep him only for my pleasure.”

“I know what you mean.” Catherine took her hand. “We almost didn’t make it up here tonight.”

“I’m not surprised.” Shannon’s eyes ran approvingly over Vincent, who tried not to notice, as he talked with Elliot and Father. “We were running late, too. Tony has a lot to answer for. He’d better live up to his billing.”

“If we’re going to make the curtain, we need to get going. I’ve got the limo waiting up there.” Elliot indicated for them all to go before him up the steps to the world Above.

“The others are being met at agreed points and will be conveyed to the theatre by people I trust. I, for one, plan to enjoy myself hugely tonight.”

With Mary and Catherine on each side, Shannon placed herself between Father and Vincent, linking arms with them. “I love watching the audience reaction to the musical, especially those who are seeing it for the first time. You are in for a truly magical treat. I expect to see the copious use of hankies, ladies.”

“Mouse wants a full report on the antics of the boat,” Vincent commented. “He’s sure he can fix it.”

“Tony will have his hands full with that one.” Elliot shook his head ruefully. “I do not envy him the task of keeping an eye on Mouse as he pokes around in all his stuff.”

They were all laughing as they reached the street. The city’s hectic pedestrian traffic paid them no attention as they appeared among them, even though they looked decidedly out of place on such a warm summer night, dressed in exotic period costume. Catherine breathed a cautious sigh of relief that Vincent elicited no comment and few glances as they crossed the pavement. Elliot summoned the limousine with a wave of his hand and, when it drew level with them, they all climbed inside.

“I have champagne on ice, and anything else you might like.” Elliot indicated the coolers. “Strawberries, anyone?”

“I could get very used to this,” Father commented dryly, as he accepted a flute of sparkling wine, and helped himself to the dish of strawberries Elliot held out to them all.

Dusk was falling as they drove through the city streets. It was a different perspective from Vincent’s usual vantage point of the rooftops.

“Are you ready for this?” Catherine asked, with a trace of anxiety, seeing Vincent frowning at the crowds beyond the car’s windows.

“All life is a journey that begins with the first step.” Vincent looked back at her and clasped her outstretched hand. “Please don’t worry about me. This is one night I can truly be myself. I am looking forward to it.”

The limousine drew up smoothly at the front entrance to the theatre, and Elliot was the first to alight. “Come on,” he encouraged. “Get through this lot and we’ll wait in a private room for the others to arrive, then we will all go in together.”

As they all assembled on the sidewalk, a wall of sound assaulted their senses. It appeared that half the city had turned out to watch the arrivals.

Father immediately got into the spirit by waving to the crowd and sharing in their appreciation of his expansive gestures. Cameras flashed, people called and chattered.

Catherine linked arms with Vincent, Shannon moving up on his other side and, together with Mary, they quickly crossed the pavement, following Elliot as he entered through the front door of the theatre and into the plush interior of the foyer. Father followed reluctantly, turning back to wave at the crowd with both hands, one final time.

As they regrouped inside, Elliot turned, shaking his head. “Sorry about the crowd out there. But, on a gala night, everyone turns out to see and be seen. At least we’ve made it this far, without incident.”

“And I entered by the front door...” Vincent smiled, releasing a long sigh, gazing around. “It is wonderful to be here. This place is amazing. And no one looked twice.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Vincent.” Shannon laughed. “I think you caught more than one woman’s appreciative eye, tonight.”

“We’re in here.” Elliot led the way into a side room and shut the door on the hubbub outside. “It shouldn’t be too long before the others get here. Then we can go into the theatre by another entrance. You can leave your hats and extras in here, we’ll collect them later.”

“I can’t wait for the performance to begin,” Mary said, on a sigh. “I’m sure Tony will be wonderful. His Summerfest performance was incredible enough.”

“Remember, I was there at the beginning,” Father reminded her, as he removed his hat and gloves. “I knew the boy had potential. I could see it in him.”

“You just won’t let that old bone go, will you?” Mary shook her head in despair. “But, I will admit, you did say he would be great, one day.”

As she spoke, a small rear door to the room opened and a man walked in. Tall and dignified, clothed in full evening dress, complete with a swirling cloak and wide-brimmed, black fedora hat, he paused, surveying the tunnel group with cool disdain and narrowed eyes. He exuded an intriguing air of power and pride, overlaying a striking sense of innate vulnerability. As if he was stealing himself to be seen in public.

Behind the white half-mask he wore, his cruelly deformed lips curled and his eyes became chill and menacing. He drew himself up to his full height, sweeping the cloak across his body with a flourish.

“More intruders into my theatre tonight?” he complained, in a deep, powerful voice filled with resignation. “It seems, once again, I shall have to speak to my managers. It is becoming utterly insupportable.”

Everyone stared, aghast at his haughty contempt, unsure of what to say next. Someone muttered an apology for intruding. It took a few moments before they began to realise the truth.

“Hello, Tony.” Vincent frowned, surveying him closely. “You did have me guessing there, for a moment.”

“And I thought if I made such a grand entrance, you wouldn’t recognise me.” Tony abandoned his haughty pose with a laugh. “It is so good to see you all here tonight. It’s not often I get to perform for my family.”

“Thanks to Elliot’s generosity.” Catherine took Tony’s hand between her own. “We are all really looking forward to this.”

“And I can see you’ve all gotten into the spirit of the occasion. Every one of you looks amazing. I’m one of the judges of the competition tonight, but I promise to be impartial. Well, I’ll try.”

The door behind him opened and a woman looked in. “Time to go, Tony, they’ve called the half hour. You need to get ready.” She beckoned to him.

“Kate, my dresser.” Tony acknowledged the woman’s summons. “She tries her best to keep me on the straight and narrow. I’ll meet up with you again, after the show. Have fun, everyone.”

The stage door had barely closed behind him when the outer door opened, and the rest of the tunnel community began to stream in. Soon Vincent and Catherine and all their family and friends were being shown to their seats. All around, excited people greeted each other, showing off their costumes and speculating on the evening’s events and the treat ahead of them.

“How are you?” Catherine took her seat next to Vincent, who was looking all around him. “You look pensive.”

“No, I’m truly intrigued,” Vincent acknowledged. “This is a place where dreams are made.” He looked down at her. “I finished reading the Leroux book last night. I wonder what he would have made of all this.”

“I’m sure Gaston would approve.” Catherine kissed his cheek. “And I love that we can be here tonight, together. You have given me so much; this is a small measure of what I owe you. I’m glad we could do this together.”

“It is wonderful to be here with you, on a night such as this.” He lifted her hand and kissed the backs of her gloved fingers. “But I am glad I was able to put that hat aside.” He smiled wickedly.

On his other side Elliot laid a hand on his arm. “And this is still not payment enough for all you have done for me. Consider this night simply a down payment.”

“Very well.” Vincent shook his head. “But you and I are going to talk more on that subject. However, that is for another time.”

“Another time, then. I shall look forward to it,” Elliot nodded, as the lights dimmed and a hush began to fall over the crowded theatre.

There was a long silence fraught with anticipation, before the stage lit up with a scene of an auction and a gavel was pounded. After the first lot, the auction continued with bids for a music box featuring a monkey playing the cymbals. That was finally sold to an old man in a wheelchair, who accepted it, addressing it quietly in song. Then the auctioneer recalled the audience’s attention to the next lot, that of a wrecked chandelier.

The auctioneer’s booming voice swelled with amusement as he remarked; “Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination… gentlemen?”

The auctioneer switched on the chandelier dramatically; there was an enormous flash of light and the chandelier began to rise from the stage, illuminating and changing as it began to rise towards the ceiling far above them. Vincent tracked its progress with wondering eyes as it floated up high over his seat.

At the same time an organ was playing a long series of musical chords that built and began to unfold into an incredible passage of orchestral sound as the stage before them was transformed into a grand old opera house. Vincent felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as the music began to pound through him, making him almost lift from his seat. The overture swept up and out, radiating through the audience on unseen wings, focussing all attention on the stage.

Throughout the beginning of the first act, Vincent watched, fascinated, as the various scenes unfolded before him. Catherine was intrigued with all the colours and beauty of their mutual bond flowing back and forth between them as the subsequent scenes continued the story of a young chorus girl who was pushed to the forefront of the stage to sing for them all, against her better instincts and the difficulties that ensued from her performance.

Beside them, Shannon turned her head to watch their varying reactions. She smiled at their intense expressions.

The music built again and swelled with the main female lead, Christine, moving on to her dressing room. Carried along with the music and the spectacle, Vincent and Catherine had almost forgotten Tony’s part in the whole drama until his spectral voice whispered to them from somewhere in the shadows…

“Bravi, bravi, bravissimi…”

“That was Tony…” Mary leaned forward to whisper.

“Shhh…” Father admonished her with a hand on her arm, his frowning expression intense.

The scene continued in Christine’s dressing room, focussing on the full-length mirror that seemed to possess a life of its own. After a brief encounter with her childhood sweetheart, who had just left the room, a commanding voice suddenly spoke from the mirror’s depths, though it only reflected Christine’s startled image.

“Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!”

“Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen…” Christine’s spellbound reaction was mirrored in the audience, as she continued to sing. “Enter at last, Master…”

All those watching were just as intrigued by the unseen presence. Even Vincent’s night-sensitive eyes couldn’t detect any existence within the mirror beyond the chilling menace of the powerful voice.

The Phantom’s tone changed as he replied to Christine’s plea to finally see him, becoming beguiling and persuading. “Flattering child, you shall know me, see why in shadow I hide! Look at your face in the mirror – I am there inside!”

Catherine clutched Vincent’s arm as the mirror slowly revealed its secret and the shape of the Phantom could be seen highlighted within the ornate frame.

Vincent frowned at the apparition. Tony seemed so different now, commanding and aloof.

Vincent glanced down at Catherine’s face, watching and loving the spell Tony was weaving around them all. This was far better than the Summerfest evening, and that had been powerful enough. There were so many other layers here, music and magic intertwined into a seamless whole, as the Phantom moved to persuade Christine that she could love him for himself alone.

Vincent could sympathise and understand the other man’s pain. Knowing how it felt to be locked away and alone within his own body, he could empathise with Erik’s pleas for understanding and love all too well. He had once been that man, so sure he was destined to be alone because he looked so different.

But, as the subsequent scenes unfolded, the Phantom was ultimately betrayed by Christine’s growing love for her childhood sweetheart. “He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing…Christine… Christine…” At the end of the first act, his words of pain and despair echoed from somewhere high above the audience.

“You will curse the day you did not do, all that the Phantom asked of you…” The music swelled and crashed with the Phantom’s mocking laughter, before a cry of agony and final command rang out far above their heads. “Go…!”

There were screams and shouts of consternation as the chandelier, powered by the Phantom’s despair and need for violent release, began to swing wildly towards the stage. Catherine gasped her shock, ducking her head against Vincent’s shoulder as the ornate piece came flying down over their heads.

With a crashing explosion, perilously close to where Christine was standing on stage, the first act came to an abrupt and climatic end.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that!” Father mopped his brow with a shaking hand. “I thought we were all for it then! Someone should have warned us!”

“That was amazing. I’m certainly impressed with Tony’s athletic skills.” Mary craned her head to look above them, but the shadowy figure had disappeared. “I do hope he’s all right. What if he had fallen…?”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t say anything about that bit because Tony asked me not to. And I didn’t want to spoil his grand exit.” Elliot laughed a little shakily. “Even though I’ve seen this musical three times now, it always makes me jump when he does that. I guess I’ll never get used to the experience.”

“I can understand his pain and frustration,” Vincent said quietly. “I would have done the same if I ever lost you, Catherine.” He leaned down to kiss her lips, with meaning.

Catherine’s hand flew to his cheek. “You could never lose me, Vincent. We both know that now. We will be together…always…”

After the intermission, the lights dimmed and the second act began. It flowed seamlessly from the masquerade assemble to Christine attending her father’s grave, searching for elusive peace. “Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near...Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here…Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would…”

Vincent enfolded Catherine’s gloved hand within his as he sensed her heart-rending memories of her own late father, and her long-held wish that the two most important men in her life could have known each other. How she wished her father could have met his grandson, and still be a much loved part of their lives, together.

“I’ll be all right.” Catherine nodded and smiled at Vincent; grateful he understood her pain and accepted it. She glanced around at the other audience members; seeing that many were as affected as her. There was hardly a dry eye in the theatre.

She sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes as the performance moved to the Phantom’s inevitable confrontation of his deepest fear, being rejected by the woman he loved beyond everything. But, he was prepared to gamble all he possessed on one last attempt to win her love.

He took his courage in his hands and offered himself to Christine, as she suddenly realised she was singing with him, and not her partner in the Phantom’s Don Juan opera. Sensing the truth, she pushed back his cowl, showing him to the audience.

Revealed and exposed, the Phantom moved away, then hesitated, before turning to cross the stage and stand before her, begging for her love. “We’ve passed the point of no return…” Could she not see how much he loved her…?

“Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime…Lead me, save me from my solitude…” He removed a ring from his finger and held it out. “Say you want me with you, here beside you…anywhere you go let me go too — Christine, that’s all I ask of —”

Not allowing him to finish, Christine calmly removed the Phantom’s mask and wig, finally exposing his hideous face for all to see. There were gasps of horror and shock in the audience.

Vincent’s heart contracted, as he frowned over the inevitable shame and disgrace of such a proud man being exposed in this way, to uninformed people who could not see the uniquely gifted, remarkable man who lived beneath the deformity over which he had no control.

The pathos and agony of the moment was beyond imagining…it made him want to leap from his seat and storm the stage. Catherine sensed the sudden tightening of his powerful muscles and the agony in his spirit. She returned the tight grip he still had on her hand.

“It will be all right, Vincent,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

“Yes…” Vincent nodded, on a long sigh. “I know it is only a story, but still…” he paused, shaking his head. “I understand his pain only too well.”

“I know…” Catherine leaned closer. Their fingers remained entwined as the agonising drama on stage continued to unfold, drawing out to its inevitable conclusion, and final moment of ultimate redemption.

Far beneath the opera house, in Erik’s underground lair, Christine approaches the unmasked Phantom, prepared to give her life and love to him, to save her young lover from certain doom. She is now dressed in a bridal gown.

“Pitiful creature of darkness…what kind of life have you known…? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…” As Christine kissed the Phantom without revulsion, Catherine carried Vincent’s hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to each one of his gloved fingers, while the musical’s finale moved onwards.

In the background, the men hunting this terrible creature of the night could be heard baying for blood - and the Phantom’s head. He crossed the stage, putting all thoughts of peace and a happy life with the woman he loved behind him, forever. He spoke quickly to her young lover.

“Take the boat — leave me here — go now, don’t wait…Just take her and go — before it’s too late…go…go now — go now and leave me!”

Uncertain, Christine and her lover slowly deserted the stage. The Phantom looked down at his discarded mask and then the monkey music box began to play. He turned to it, to softly sing the song it played. “Masquerade, paper faces on parade, masquerade; hide your face so the world will never find you…”

In the audience, Vincent puts his hand to his own face, tracing its unique shape and texture. He shook his head. For a bleak moment, it was too close to the truth, too real. He also hid his face so the world would never find him…

He watched, transfixed, hoping for a miracle, as Christine suddenly reappeared. But she had only come back to return the Phantom’s ring. Erik took it from her, to place it on his finger, his heart irretrievably broken as his love turned away, leaving him for the last time.

Finally he told her, “Christine, I love you…” His voice broke on the words, and his shoulders slumped in despair. He picked up the discarded bridal veil.

Vincent inhaled, vividly remembering Mouse’s comment from Summerfest. All Erik had to do was tell the girl he loved her…he smiled sadly, if only all life was that simple.

Another passage of subdued music began to build slowly as Christine and her lover stepped into the boat and pulled away into the shadows, singing together as they departed.

The Phantom looked after his lost love. “You alone can make my song take flight – it’s over now, the music of the night…”

He threw aside the bridal headdress he had been holding. Moving to his nearby throne, he sat on his cloak. As the mob suddenly appeared onstage the Phantom shrouded his body in the garment and disappeared. When uncovered, the throne contained only the white mask, lying on the seat, mocking and silent.

The music swelled and the spell was complete. The last strains floated away into the shadows, but no one moved, no one breathed for suspended seconds and then the audience showed their appreciation by cheering, shouting and stamping their feet for a full ten minutes, after the final curtain fell.

“That was just so wonderful…” Mary breathed, dabbing at her cheeks. “And it was so sad. I just want to hug him right now. Tony has made me very proud.”

“I never dreamed our boy could be that good…” Father wiped his eyes. “It was so powerful. I feel as if I have just been on a runaway roller-coaster.”

“And so poignant.” Catherine sighed, passing her free hand over her face. “To have gone through so much and to have lost everything, in the end.”

“Not everything,” Vincent replied, shaking his head on a sigh. “He gave up everything for the love of his life. There can be no greater sacrifice. In the end he regained his soul, because he paid the greatest price for his desire. He was redeemed by his unconditional love.”

“How did you get to be so wise?” Catherine wrapped both hands around his arm and hugged him, her head cradled against his shoulder.

“You taught me how to truly love. I can understand Erik’s pain all too well. I have lived with that pain for most of my life. Until the night I found you, Catherine.”

The stage began to fill with performers, all accepting their due and stepping back to allow others to take their place. Finally Christine appeared, to rapturous applause. She curtseyed and waved before relinquishing her place to Tony, masked once more as the Phantom. The whole theatre went mad. Mary jumped to her feet, waving at the stage. Father rose almost as she did.

Vincent stood and turned to Catherine, drawing her to her feet beside him as they both saluted the stage. Tony scanned the crowd closely, searching and finally finding their group among the other cheering and shouting audience members. He made a special bow and again flung his arms wide in that same sweeping theatrical gesture from Summerfest as he extracted his full due from the rapturous audience.

The actress playing Christine rushed up to grasp his arm and whispered something to him. He laughed, turning to the audience and bowing before he turned back to scoop up his partner into his arms, and they saluted the audience one last time before leaving the stage together, passing into the darkness beyond. The curtain fell once more and the audience didn’t stint in their appreciation for quite some time.

“He certainly is a showman.” Elliot laughed. “Only Tony would have the cheek to pull that last bit off.”

“All because I told him that night at Summerfest, it was what we all wanted to see.” Shannon wiped her eyes and smiled. “Just for once, Erik finally getting the girl. Mouse was right all the time; it was so easy, after all. Pure magic, I’m overjoyed.”

“It was certainly a magical show.” Catherine linked arms with Vincent. “Perhaps we should make this a new Wells family tradition.”

Father shook his head. “For you young ones maybe, I’m not sure I could take all this excitement more than once a year. That chandelier was nearly the death of me. But, it has been a wonderful night; I shall remember it forever.”

“Then perhaps you need to get out more.” Mary kissed his cheek. “But it has all been quite breath-taking. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”

As the audience began to file out of the theatre, Elliot said, “We still have the costume judging to go yet. I’ll keep an eye out for the result, and then Tony will be free to join us for the rest of the evening. We had better all adjourn again to our private room. We don’t want to get caught up in the crush in the foyer.”

As the excited and chattering group of tunnel folk re-entered the room, Catherine linked her fingers through Vincent’s, drawing him aside into a quiet corner, bringing him close to stand before her. “Was it everything you expected?”

“Everything and more. It was beyond anything I could have imagined or dreamed. And to able to share it with you, Catherine…was the greatest magic of the whole night.”

He drew her close against him, uncaring of who might be watching, and kissed her with searching tenderness that left her weak and clinging to him. Catherine threw her arms around his neck, drawing him closer still, threading her fingers through the black silk ribbons tying his hair behind his head.

Finally, she pulled back fractionally from the wanton temptation of his smiling mouth. “Better than better, better than great. Better even than William’s apple pie?” she finally managed to tease him gently, imitating Mouse’s speech patterns to perfection.

“Better than anything, except the love we have for each other and our son. That is a gift beyond all price.”

Catherine rose on her toes to whisper in his ear. “It is rather a shame we are not heading home right now, because I want you very badly.”

Vincent inhaled sharply as he shook his head. “I think we might be missed if we left now. But, I couldn’t agree more. We have the rest of the night together. We shall just have to make the best of it, until we can be alone once more…”

“Ah, Monsieur, I am not sure I can wait that long…”

“Tony does weave a powerful spell.” Shannon approached them, obviously reluctant to break into their whispered communion. “I am so glad you all got the chance to see it. I have loved it, every time I’ve seen it.”

“We cannot thank you and Elliot enough for your generosity and goodwill.”

“If you hadn’t given me sanctuary when I needed it, Vincent, I would not be here now and I wouldn’t have Elliot in my life. As we said before, we owe you more than we could ever repay.”

The door opened and Elliot reappeared. “Sorry, everyone.” He spread his hands wide in apology. “We lost the contest to someone who came dressed in a half-woman, half-man costume.”

“I saw that costume.” Mary nodded. “It was spectacular. They deserve to win.”

“Never mind, you all look wonderful.” Catherine turned to the gathering.

“Then we are free to continue on our evening’s adventure. I believe our carriages await, Mesdames and Messieurs.” Elliot stood aside, indicating they should all go before him. “Tony said he will join us at the restaurant.”

The line of limousines swept them through the night-shrouded streets to one of New York’s top restaurants. Elliot had booked a large private room and they were all ushered to seats at a long communal table, and were waited on in unobtrusive style.

As soon as they were all seated the lights were dimmed and large candelabras that had been placed above the middle of the table were lit. The whole atmosphere became very reminiscent of the recent Summerfest celebrations. Elliot was at the head of the table, Father at the other end, with Mary beside him. Elliot seated Shannon on his left and he placed Vincent at his right hand, grinning as he watched his good friend’s changing expressions of curiosity and interest.

Vincent turned his attention to the staff as they went about their duties, deeply deferential to Elliot, calm and courteous to the rest of the group.

Helping to select wines and discussing each course, the waiters worked the table quietly, making sure everyone was comfortable and at ease, and had everything they needed.

No one gave Vincent a second glance. He marvelled to himself how, even dressed like he was, as a man from another time, the illusion of normality made all the difference, making people feel safe, and blind to the truth.

Truly, no one looked twice. He looked to Catherine at his side and she smiled at him, fully aware of the trend of his thoughts. “I know, isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling. “Tonight is everything I hoped it would be.”

“Yes…” Vincent breathed. “I think the night’s only expression of disappointment will be from Mouse, when he finds out everything worked perfectly. He was so sure the boat would break down again and he would be needed to fix it.” They laughed softly together.

Tony suddenly appeared and everyone cheered, leaving their seats to gather around him, all expressing their collective approval and gratitude for his incredible performance.

“It was magical for me to be able to perform for you guys,” he said, as they all resumed their seats, and he took his place beside Catherine. “It meant so much to me to have you all there tonight.”

“It was simply gorgeous,” Catherine acknowledged. “But, surely, you must be exhausted.”

“No, I’m fine. There’s a legend in the theatre world about Dr. Footlights.” Tony shook his head. “Think of the audience as a living entity, all you have to do is put in your best performance each and every night, and their collective energy just flows through you, lifting you higher still. Get it right and it’s equally the most incredible and the scariest thing in the whole world.” He grinned cheekily. “And I love it! I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life, right now.”

“So, there is no young lady on the horizon, then?” Catherine questioned, as the first course was delivered.

“Well, there is Anna, she played Christine tonight. She and I have been seeing other for some weeks now. We’re taking it easy, just seeing where it might go.”

“Oh, she was delightful, especially at the curtain call,” Shannon observed. “I have always wanted to see Erik finally get the girl. We all loved it.”

“I’m glad we could please the true romantics among you tonight.” Tony inclined his head. “When you first suggested it, Shannon, we thought, why not? It certainly went down well with the audience.”

“One day, if things get truly serious between you, you must bring Anna down to meet us,” Vincent told him. “You deserve every happiness.”

“I did think to bring her tonight, but she understands, this is our special time. There will be other nights.” He looked around the room at all the happy faces. “Many other nights like this, I hope.”

At the head of the table, Elliot raised his glass. “To Summerfest,” he intoned formally. “To my beautiful, beloved Shannon, and to a truly wonderful night with the best of family and friends.”

“To my Elliot, for being so generous.” Shannon smiled as she raised her glass and then leaned over to kiss him. “I love you.”

“To life.” Father acknowledged the third toast from the other end of the table.

“To Tony.” Mary was not to be outdone. “And we are going to do this again soon. It has been such fun.”

“To Erik, the Phantom.” Tony raised his own glass. “To a wonderful and passionate character who has given me room to grow and allowed me to become more than I thought I could ever be. Merci, Monsieur.”

“To love…” Vincent looked around them all. “To being who we truly are and knowing we are accepted, no matter whatever happens or whatever comes.”

“To love.” Everyone nodded, raising their glasses to toast Vincent and Catherine.

“To Vincent.” Catherine raised her glass, clinking it with his. “For being all you can be…always…I love you so much.”

“Um, guys, I don’t know how to say this…” Tony sighed as they all finally sat down He looked suddenly thoughtful. “I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but, at the end of this year, unfortunately I’ll be leaving Phantom. I’ve accepted the role of Enjolras in Les Mis. But, I know you all would love to see that show, too.”

There were immediate cries of disappointment from around the table, as everyone had an opinion to express. Tony shook his head ruefully, allowing everyone to have their say.

Vincent raised his hand for quiet. “It is Tony’s decision. But, now that you mention it, Tony, it has always been an ambition of mine to see Les Miserables…” He looked back to Elliot. “After all, Victor Hugo is a particular favourite author of mine. I’m sure we would all enjoy the show as much as we did tonight. If it could be arranged…”

“Are you asking me if I can get you all tickets to that show now?” Elliot sighed ruefully.

“It was merely an observation.” Vincent shrugged. “I will understand if you must decline. But, you did say you felt you still had a large debt to pay…”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Elliot lips curved wryly, as he shook his head. “I guess I’ll have to see what I can do…” He raised his glass for a final time. “Of course, I would be happy to do my best to make it so. To Tony and Les Mis, then, and to a new Wells family tradition!”

He frowned and then laughed. “I don’t know how we’re going to tell Mouse…”

~FIN ~

“A Little Night Music…” is a work of fiction, and as such does not intend to infringe upon the copyrights of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart or THE REALLY USEFUL GROUP PLC.

~ ~ ~

A Little Night Music, by Judith Nolan was originally written in 2013 and first published in the 2014 Conzine The Possibility of Being. It has since found a permanent home online in the library of Treasure Chambers at http://www.treasurechambers.com/library.html where many of her other stories of hers can also be found.

Judith found fandom in 1988. In the early 1990’s, she wrote a six zine series as her rebuttal to the network’s Season Three. The zine series included, How Shall I Hold My Soul, To Dream a Dream, All Things Are Possible, Dancing Light, Dreams of the Heart, and A Time to Love. In 2014 they were finally posted online, and can now be found in the quiet Tunnels of Winterfest Online 2014 at  http://batbwfol.com/winterfest2014/nolan/nolanindex.html .

Judith is a true Renaissance woman. A woman of many talents, she has not limited her activities in fandom to just writing fan fiction. Although she has become one of a handful of prolific writers in this fandom, who have written over 100 stories, she has also written poetry, drabbles/tidbits, created beautiful digital art, and made about 50 music videos. I’m not sure many fans can boast such a variety of accomplishments.

Thank you, Judith for doing so much to keep the dream alive for all of us.

In A Heartbeat

by Amber James

*R- Adult Content*

CHAPTER ONE

Well, there was a limit to how many times a pipe could be patched up!

Vincent sighed, realising the struggle was in vain. There was nothing else he could do. Father would have to be told, and Mouse would have to go Above, to see if he could “find” the materials they needed.

Wearily, he made his way back to the upper levels of the community, and on to Father's chambers.

A lone candle greeted him, as he strode into the large study, a sure sign that the occupant was elsewhere.

Vincent thought it strange. Father rarely left the confines of his chamber, unless something was wrong! Yet there had been no word on the pipes, no summons to another part of their world. A mystery indeed!

There had been too many mysterious comings and goings surrounding Father of late. Vincent was worried.

Realising there was nothing to be done in an empty chamber, Vincent left to make his way down to the “Mousehole” where his friend might be found. The journey took some time, and, as his feet trod paths well known, his mind searched out into the world Above, and Catherine.

A wistful smile crossed his face as he picked up her feelings of excitement and anticipation. He had no idea what Catherine was planning to do, but whatever it was, she was happy, and he desired no more than just that: her happiness.

Almost without realising, Vincent arrived in the cluttered jumble that Mouse called home. Bent over his workbench, the young man chattered away to himself, engrossed in some project.

Suddenly, Mouse realised he was not alone. He looked round impatiently, his anxious face softening with a smile, as he saw his visitor.

"Vincent!"

"Good evening, Mouse. I did not wish to disturb you, but I may need your assistance."

"Help... yes... with what?” Mouse seemed pleased.

"The piping from the base of the falls to the kitchen is fast becoming impossible to repair. It needs replacing.” Vincent told him.

"So?"

Vincent smiled. "We need a new length. I was wondering if you could help?"

Without a word, the young man began gathering his things together: his heavy jacket and his bag, he always took them when he went Above. He reached out and laid his hand on Vincent's arm. "How big?" was all he asked.

"Two lengths, about this big.” His hands indicated the size he would need.

"Mouse size!" the young man exclaimed.

Vincent's smile became a wide grin as he nodded his agreement. "Yes, Mouse size.”

As Mouse moved to leave the chamber, Vincent caught his arm. "Mouse, be careful, and don't take any unnecessary risks. Father would never forgive me if you were caught on an errand for me."

"I know dark places too... good places to hide, won't get caught. Father won't know… gone Above, too."

"Father?" Vincent questioned.

"Father… gone Above. Three... no, four nights."

Now Vincent was worried. Father never went Above, and Mouse was making it quite clear that this had become a regular occurrence, of late. "Do you know where he has gone?"

"Above. That's all!" Mouse sounded annoyed. It was obvious he was eager to be off.

Vincent knew he could detain him no longer, so he bade him take care once more, then watched him scamper off, into the darkness.

Slowly retracing his steps, Vincent made his way back to Father's chamber to await the wanderer’s return.

~ ~ ~

It was almost eleven when Vincent heard the unmistakable sound of Father's walk, nearing the study. Closing the book he had been reading, Vincent rose from the chair.

Father limped in wearily, and stopped as he saw his son. "Er... I didn't expect to find you here, Vincent."

"But I did expect to find you here, Father?" he said, with a definite question in his tone.

"Er... I had something to attend to," came the hesitant answer.

"Above?"

"Yes, Above.” There was an edge to his voice that clearly told Vincent that his father didn't like his questioning.

Not wanting to anger his father, Vincent changed the subject, and told him of the problems he had experienced with the piping. He explained that Mouse had gone to see if he could locate what they needed.

Father was not pleased that Vincent had allowed, no, sent Mouse Above, on such a dangerous errand. They argued about it, and eventually, with little resolved, Vincent made his way back to his chamber.

But he could not settle.

Knowing Catherine had not yet settled for the night, Vincent made his way Above, and to her balcony.

Just as he was about to knock on the French windows, he saw her move across his line of vision. Although she was wearing her bathrobe, her make-up and hairdo made it clear she had been out, somewhere.

Vincent realised her night out had produced the feelings he had experienced earlier, and he was pleased that, at last, she was taking a little time for herself.

Catherine's face turned to the windows as she became aware of his presence. Within moments, she was through the doors and in his arms. "Vincent! I didn't expect to see you tonight. I thought you had something pressing to do?” she told him.

"I needed to talk, Catherine."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, the concern clear in her anxious voice.

"I do not know. Father has been Above, tonight. Mouse tells me this is not the first time, of late," the soft whisper informed her.

"Oh, I shouldn't worry Vincent. Father's quite capable of taking care of himself."

He was a little surprised at Catherine's dismissive attitude. When he tried to pursue the problem further, she merely changed the subject. Clearly, she was not concerned, and he began to wonder if he were overreacting.

Eventually, she suggested they have a drink. He agreed, and they went inside.

As Catherine busied herself in the kitchen, she marveled at the easy way Vincent settled himself into the deep cushions of her couch. She thought back to the days when he found it impossible to cross that threshold, into the privacy of her apartment.

It had taken her almost three years to convince him that he was welcome in her home, and now he was here, with the one problem she couldn't let him dwell on. The last thing she wanted him to know was why Father was spending so much time in the world Above.

Carrying the drinks into the lounge, she took her place by his side. Sharing a few moments of quiet contentment, they silently drank their tea. When they had finished, she took the cup from him, and returned them to the kitchen.

Then, putting the new Dvorak disc she had bought on to play, she resumed her place by his side, snuggling up to him. They listened in silence, caught up in the magic of the music, and each other. When, at almost one thirty, the music stopped, Vincent rose.

"You must rest now, Catherine. You have to be awake early in the morning. I have delayed you too long."

She was about to protest, but knew it would do no good, so she smiled at him. "Yes... I'm in court all day. When will I see you again?"

"Perhaps not for a few days, if Mouse finds the piping I need...? Saturday night I think, quite late. Will you come Below, or would it be better if I came to you?"

Catherine reached up and kissed his cheek. "I'll come Below if you're going to be working that late. So, shall we say about eleven?"

"Until Saturday at eleven, then," Vincent told her, as he turned and walked through the French windows, and out into the night.

~ ~ ~

The days came and went, as Catherine fought her case in court, and Vincent struggled to repair the outdated water system.

Saturday, lunchtime arrived, to find Vincent finished far earlier than he had expected. He washed and changed, growing restless with each passing hour.

Around six o' clock, he wandered into Father’s chamber to find his father dressed to go Above.

"Going Above again, Father?"

"Yes… I have an errand there... er... Have you finished already, Vincent?"

“The repairs are completed. I came to see if you had eaten, yet," Vincent said.

"Yes... some time ago... You go along to the kitchen and get something... I have to go now.” Father was through the doorway almost before he had finished speaking.

Vincent began to make his way to the kitchen, then thought better of it.

Father's behaviour was worrying. How could he settled to his dinner? He knew Catherine was in her apartment, and although she had not taken his concerns seriously before, he would talk this over with her.

Vincent was not expecting Catherine to make an appearance Below much before eleven, as she expected him to be working until then. But he could feel how excited she was.

It pleased him to know she was happy at the thoughts of spending time with him.

Soon, Vincent found himself on her balcony. He was just about to walk to the French windows, when he heard her talking to someone.

Shock registered within him as he realised the other voice was Father's. Silently, he moved to peer through the windows, and found himself hardly able to believe the scene before him.

Catherine was wearing an evening gown of burgundy velvet. Tight-bodiced, low-necked and full-skirted, it displayed the lean and elegant lines of her body. She looked so beautiful, he was mesmerised.

As he watched and listened, the scene played on. Father walked almost casually into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and took out a tuxedo and trousers, which he changed into. Then, he moved into the bathroom. It was obvious he knew his way around the apartment, that he was familiar with the layout.

When he returned to the lounge, Catherine beamed at him. "You look wonderful, Father," Catherine announced. "But I'll have to remember to call you Jacob tonight. We don't want any questions to be asked, do we?"

"No, we certainly don't. There are enough questions being asked Below. We will have to be very careful, Catherine. I think there is a chance we will be discovered, if not," Father told her.

"Do you think Vincent suspects anything?" she asked.

"No, not yet... but how long we will be able to keep this from him is another matter."

She sighed. "I hope he doesn't find out. That would spoil everything. He mustn't find out. This has got to remain a secret. It's got to!"

Father put his arm around her shoulders. "We will just have to try harder, my dear. I thought I had given him enough work to keep him out of the way, but..."

"It's been so hard, keeping my feelings from him, but I'm determined... He's not going to discover our secret."

Father made a point of looking at his watch. "We really should be going, my dear, or we will be late."

"Yes, come on, let's go. Do I look OK?"

"You look beautiful, as you have done each time. I shall be very proud to be seen with you Catherine, believe me. Very proud."

They left the apartment in darkness, not knowing a shocked and bewildered Vincent stood watching, as they hailed a taxi on the street, eighteen floors beneath him.

As the bright yellow cab pulled away from the curb, Vincent retreated from the balcony's edge until his back met the brickwork. Dragging in deep lungfuls of air, he slid slowly down the wall, to sit in a shaking heap on the floor.

His mind played the exchange he had witnessed over and over again, like some tape recorder looping the same ribbon, continually. Still, he could not take it in, did not want to acknowledge the possibilities he agonised over.

However, there were things he had seen and heard that would not be denied. It had become obvious that Father had been going Above to see Catherine, to spend time with her. He even had clothing in her apartment! And wherever they were going, it was not to drop in on some friend or helper, for a chat. They were definitely going out together, for the night.

Jacob Wells was taking Catherine out, and Vincent could only conclude it was somewhere he himself could not take her, and this had been going on, in secret, for some time.

Slowly, he made his way back Below, his feet taking him deeper into the labyrinth, of their own accord.

Finally, he found himself sitting on the old stone staircase, head in hands, agonising over his next move. Words and phrases haunted him. "He's not going to find out." "You look beautiful, as you have done each time."

Yet, she had hidden all this from him, deliberately hidden it, and now he began to understand why.

What a fool he had been, how he berated himself for having been so blind. This was all his own fault. This was the result of his inability to be to Catherine all she needed him to be.

There were so many times, of late, that Catherine had exchanged harsh words with Vincent. There had been anger, and bitterness, between them. Strong emotions fed by other feelings, which he had refused to acknowledge.

Catherine had made it quite clear that she could not accept his insistence that for them, a physical love was not possible. He had felt the urgent need of her body for his own, calling to him, demanding more from him than he was prepared to give.

As he thought back over recent events, many instances of quiet, knowing glances between Father and Catherine came into his mind. He even recalled the notes she had passed in a secretive manner, which he had not given a second thought to, at the time.

Now it all began to make sense. Catherine was a warm and passionate woman. She had found it impossible to live within the boundaries he had placed on their relationship, and he could not blame her.

His heart felt as lead within his body, and his soul mourned. Yet, even in his pain and anguish, he desired only her happiness, and resolved not to stand in her way.

He would never have considered a union between Catherine and Father as a possibility, but fate always seemed to have a way of turning up the strangest of bedfellows. If she could be happy and fulfilled, have the “happy life” she sought with Jacob Wells, he would not stand in her way.

Now his only thought was to make it easy for them both, without letting them know he had discovered the secret they guarded, so closely.

It was almost ten-thirty when Vincent returned to his chamber to await Catherine, and the future of heartrending emptiness she would bring with her.

~ ~ ~

Catherine almost ran along the tunnels. She was a little later than she had planned, and knew Vincent would be concerned. The last thing she wanted was for him to begin asking questions as to why she was late. As far as Vincent knew, she had been in her apartment all night. How could she begin to explain that she and Father had been caught in a traffic snarl-up, and it had delayed them?

Before she reached his chamber, the familiar shape came around the bend, ahead of her.

"Vincent! You didn't have to come and meet me. I know how you push yourself when there's manual work to be completed. You must be tired."

"I finished early and felt the need to walk, so here I am."

Looping her arm through his, she asked, "Well, what have you been doing?"

"Repairing pipes, as I explained. And you? What have you been doing, whilst my work has kept us apart?"

Vincent noticed how she looked away from him.

"Oh, nothing much. Apart from work, I've not done anything, really."

"You should go out more, Catherine," he told her as he gazed at her.

Unable to look him in the face and lie, she evaded the obvious question in his remarks. "Oh I get out when I want to. I'd rather be here with you, Vincent.” She seemed very interested in the floor of the passage, at least that was the direction she fixed her eyes.

Catherine had never found it easy to lie to Vincent. He had such an honest, trusting soul. How she hated this deception, yet how could she tell him the truth?

No, that confession would spoil everything she and Father had fought to protect.

Catherine was a little taken aback when Vincent led her away from the main living areas, and she gave him a questioning glance.

"There is something I have to tell you, and I would prefer to tell you in private," she was told. Not another word was exchanged, as they continued their walk.

Vincent's pain was making polite conversation impossible. Catherine's worries that perhaps he had discovered her secret kept her silent. Eventually, they arrived at the Whispering Gallery, and they stopped on the small ledge.

Vincent walked out into the centre of the old bridge, but Catherine stayed where she was.

This was one of the few fears she had, this bridge, or rather the vast gap beneath it. The chasm seemed to go down forever, and the bridge creaked and swayed, in the gentle movements of the air which flowed through the chamber. Soft slivers of sound filtered through the emptiness, to collide and merge, around them.

Vincent looked directly at her. "All the sounds of the city meet here, Catherine. All the joys and the sorrows of your world force themselves into mine, at this one point. Sometimes I stand here and wonder..."

"What Vincent? Tell me," she pleaded.

"I wonder if one of those voices I hear belongs to someone who could give you all I cannot."

Catherine smiled. "No, Vincent. The voice I want to listen to for the rest of my life is here, Below. Not Above."

"Yes," he murmured, almost to himself.

"What did you want to tell me?" she asked, changing the subject, unsure as to where the previous one was leading.

"I am going away for a while," he said, almost in a whisper.

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"

Sighing, he turned away from her, to look down into the depths beneath him. "The more I work on the water systems we have, the more convinced I become that we need to seek a new supply. I plan to travel to another part of our world to seek the source of a river we could divert, and use."

"When are you going?"

"Tonight."

Catherine was lost for words. Father had not told her anything about this, and she wondered why. It would certainly help their conspiracy, even if only for a few days. It would give them some breathing space. Yet... why hadn't he told her before?

"Oh, I see," was all she managed.

All the way back to the main living area, Vincent battled with the pain, inside. Lying to Catherine had not been easy, but he needed to get away and think things through.

He could not tell her that he knew of her relationship with the man he had called “Father” all his life. He could not tell her how much he loved her, and how his heart was breaking, with the impact of the night's revelations. So he lied, and felt guilty at his deceit.

It was past midnight when Vincent suggested they call and see if Father was still awake, before Catherine left for home.

As they entered the cluttered study, a single candle illuminated the darkness, and revealed the hunched shape, in the chair. Their entrance disturbed Father's dozing, and he woke with a start. "Ah, Catherine, Vincent, what are you doing here at this late hour?"

She smiled. "Vincent suggested I come and say “goodnight,” before I return Above."

"You're not staying Below?" Father questioned.

"No. Vincent has some 'adventure' planned. He's leaving tonight, so I'm returning Above."

The older man rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Why? Where are you going Vincent?”

"If you are still awake, I will return, once I have led Catherine back home."

A nod of agreement was the only answer Vincent received.

But as Catherine walked over to the chair and bent to place a kiss on his father's forehead, he clearly heard her whisper "Seven," and the sharp pain laced through him, once more.

As Vincent was eager to return to Father, to explain his sudden journey, the pace through the tunnels was not the leisurely stroll usually taken, and they arrived at the basement entrance within a short time.

"How long will you be away?" Catherine asked, as he turned to leave, after a brief hug.

"Four, five days. Perhaps a week. It is difficult to say."

"But you'll be back for your birthday? The children will be so disappointed if you're not. They've been planning and making things for weeks!"

"I know. I shall be back in time," he said sadly. "But I must go now. Father is waiting for me."

"Yes," she said simply.

Without another word, Vincent turned and was gone.

Catherine spent a restless night in her bed. She woke continually, with un-named worries fluttering away inside her. Had he found out? she wondered.

Even if he had, this was not the reaction she would have expected from him.

Catherine couldn't begin to guess how he would react if her secret was discovered, but she doubted he would walk away from her, as she knew he was doing now.

She had to talk to Father about it. Perhaps they would have to “come clean” and bring the whole thing out into the open.

She tried once again to push the nagging thoughts away, and hoped for some sleep, in what was left of the night.

CHAPTER TWO

The night could not come quickly enough, for Catherine. She awaited Father's arrival with impatience.

So many emotions flooded through her, it was difficult to sort them into some coherent pattern. Every time she looked at the clock, mere moments had passed, although she could have sworn it was hours.

At last, punctual as ever, the knock sounded on the door, telling her that her long-awaited guest had arrived. Hastily, she let him into the apartment and took his coat.

"Something is wrong with Vincent," she announced.

"I had guessed as much," Father said. "Do you think he has found out?"

"I don't know," she answered wearily. "But he wouldn't react like this, if he had."

Father sat down. "Then I have no idea what can be wrong. I had assumed the problem was between the two of you, so I didn't interfere... I know you've both been going through a difficult time."

"If only it were that simple," Catherine said, almost to herself. "No... this is serious. Whatever's wrong it's not anything I'm aware of."

"Then we have to engage in some deductive thinking," he told her.

"Some what?"

"Deductive thinking. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character Sherlock Holmes always said that if you rule out everything which is impossible, than whatever you're left with must be the answer, no matter how improbable it seems. Perhaps that is what we should do."

Catherine took a seat opposite. "OK, where do we start?"

Father took a deep breath. "Well, are we both agreed it's not the fact that he's found out the reason for all the secrecy?"

"It can't be. Vincent's hurt and upset. The fact that we're having a portrait of you and me done as a surprise birthday gift can't be causing him so much grief," she agreed.

Hesitant, he asked, "And the ... er ... personal problems? Could things have got worse without you knowing it?"

Suddenly, Catherine realised Father didn't know the cause of the recent tension between them. "Vincent hasn't talked to you about the problems we're working through?"

"No."

Catherine sighed. "Then perhaps it's time one of us did. This relationship Vincent and I share... is purely a ... well, a platonic one. And that situation is becoming far from satisfactory. One day, I hope he will be able to put his fears aside, and ask me to marry him.”

Father went to speak, but Catherine held up her hand, silencing him.

"I don't know if you approve of the fact that we both need more than friendship, or that my dearest wish is to spend the rest of my life here Below, with him... I don't want to know. The strain is beginning to take its toll on me and on Vincent. I don't know how long we can continue, when Vincent will not face and overcome his fears."

Shaking his head, Father replied, "Then perhaps that is the root of his present attitude. The expedition was an excuse, we both know that. Perhaps he needed time to think things through."

"And when he returns?"

"When he returns, he may have resolved his fears. There is no way to guess. Vincent doesn't tell me everything, Catherine. In fact, he doesn't tell me much at all. Vincent has always been a very private person. He keeps his worries and fears to himself, and I have wished, so many times in the past, he could find it easier to share the things he agonises over," Father said sadly.

"Catherine, he may just need time and patience. And I am not surprised to know you want to live Below, with my son... I've been expecting it, I suppose."

"Then I'm going to have to try a little harder to be patient," she told him.

"We both are, my dear. We both are."

With nothing else to say on the subject, the conversation turned to generalities. Father left around nine, to return Below.

Catherine felt the knot of impatience deep inside her, but she pushed it away, determined to give Vincent the time and space he needed. However, she was pleased that at last he was considering the future of their relationship, and not pushing the questions and the answers away, in the back of his mind.

Beneath her, underground, in the darkness, Vincent was indeed giving a great deal of thought to their future, but not in the way Catherine expected.

Alone in the inky blackness, Vincent sat, the small lantern merely a pinprick of illumination in the vast ebon waste. So empty inside, that even tears refused to flow, his mind tortured itself with the loss of everything he held dear.

Yet, there was no hesitation in his heart. Catherine's happiness was all that mattered.

Sleeping fitfully as exhaustion overtook him, the hours became days, time passing almost uncounted, without food or rest. Four or five days passed in this agony of spirit, when Vincent finally decided to seek out Narcissa.

~ ~ ~

Vincent heard Narcissa's call before he rounded the bend to take him to her chamber.

"Vincent! You're a long way from home."

"I need to speak to you," he said simply.

"Then speak child, what is it you seek?" Narcissa replied.

"I seek what all men seek, Narcissa... answers," the soft voice told her.

"Ah yes, Vincent... but are you sure you ask the right questions?"

"If only I knew," he sighed. "Father has been going Above to see Catherine. He is taking her out... I have seen them together... I cannot demand my happiness at the cost of hers. If Father can offer her the life I cannot, I should step aside. My reason tells me this, but my heart will not let her go."

Narcissa shook her head. "Catherine and the Father?"

"Yes... if I had not seen them together with my own eyes..." Vincent's voice broke with emotion, and a gloved hand wiped away a silent tear.

"You think their destiny is together?" she asked.

"Perhaps," he whispered.

"And where has this revelation come from? Your reason or your heart, Vincent?"

"Even my reasoning is filled with confusion, and agony. In my heart, there is only the pain of unanswered questions."

“Then perhaps your reason is not to be trusted. Perhaps you need to move through the clouds of pain in your heart, and seek the questions, before you attempt to find the answers."

"And when I have found the questions, where do I seek the answers?" he pleaded.

"In your heart, Vincent, and in Catherine's heart. It takes strength and courage to seek knowledge and understanding. You must lay aside your deepest fears, those you refuse to face. The paths you are to tread may be unknown and unexpected. Your destiny may lie in accepting the unacceptable," she said softly, as she turned and walked out of the chamber.

Vincent felt no clearer in his mind, but knew Narcissa would say no more; so with much yet unresolved, he made his way back to his family.

~ ~ ~

There were just three days left to Vincent's birthday, and the world Below was a hive of activity. As soon as the word went out along the pipes that Vincent had been seen in the upper levels, Father sent a message to Catherine.

By the time Vincent arrived in his chamber, she was there waiting, even though the hour was late. Vincent could sense Catherine, Below. He could also sense her unease, and wondered if this was a result of his return.

Soundlessly, he walked into the chamber to find her sitting in his chair, book in hand, pretending to read.

He knew her thoughts were far from the book she was reading, the peaceful calm which was always present when she read was missing. In its place was a confusion, and a concern as deep as his own.

Turning everything over in her mind made it impossible for her to sense his presence. He stood behind her in the doorway, gazing at her in wonder. She was so beautiful.

Reluctant to tear himself away from the sheer pleasure of just looking at her, he did not move.

Finally, Catherine became aware that she was not alone, and turned.

"Vincent!" Her eyes danced as she spoke his name. "You're home!"

"Yes."

"I have missed you, so much.” She rose and crossed the room, expecting him to take her into his arms, but he did not.

"I have missed you, Catherine," was all he said. Then, "I came to leave my cloak here, before I inform Father that I have returned. Will you come with me?"

Catherine only nodded, feeling bewildered, then almost hurt, as he led the way to Father's study without even touching her.

As they entered the study, Father could sense the strained atmosphere between them. He looked at Catherine. She gently shook her head, a gesture not missed by Vincent.

They were welcomed warmly, and Catherine took a seat in the chair she was offered, whilst Vincent stood behind her.

As he had said, Vincent informed Father that his journey had not proved fruitful, and he would need to make another foray into the unknown depths, at a later date.

Before any conversation could develop, Vincent suggested some refreshments for the three of them, and left for the kitchen.

"Well?" Father asked, when he was sure his son was out of earshot.

"Nothing seems to have been resolved. He is keeping a distance between us, more than before," she replied sadly.

"I'm sure he just needs time. Physically, he appears to be well, but...?"

"But emotionally?" she ventured.

"Emotionally... not so satisfactory. Vincent always finds it difficult to come to terms with deep emotional feelings. Believe me, Catherine, this is nothing new."

"You mean he's been like this before?"

Father lowered his head. "Not as severely withdrawn as this... but... yes, he has."

"When!?" she demanded.

"Oh... a few times... He was affected quite dramatically when you returned Above, after we had nursed you back to health. At first, it was barely discernible. But... as time passed... it became almost impossible to live with him.

“One day he disappeared... he was missing for over a week. When he came back, he announced he intended to seek you out, Above. It was a very worrying time for all of us, we feared the Vincent we knew would never return to us... in time, he did."

Catherine looked surprised. "I didn't know."

"He'll find his way back to you again, Catherine. I have no doubt of that."

Suddenly, Father changed the subject, and she clearly felt Vincent near. As he walked through the opening into the chamber, Father glanced up at him, mid-sentence, and she could not fail to notice the tears, misting the older man's eyes.

"Ah, Vincent... tea ... thank you."

Vincent placed the tray on the large desk, and the time was spent in discussing the day-to-day problems of the world Below. Father did most of the talking, as the young couple drifted in and out of the conversation, lost, at times, in their own concerns and worries.

Catherine had decided to step back a little, and give Vincent the space she mistakenly felt he needed. Vincent also made the decision to withdraw, but his reason was to give Father and Catherine the time and encouragement he believed would help their relationship.

Eventually, the time came for Catherine to leave. Vincent walked her back to the basement entrance. She lingered, hopeful that he would hold her, would give her some reassurance, but he stood well away from her, against the wall.

Catherine knew the next move had to be hers, or dawn would find them apart, but unable to say goodbye. Swiftly, she moved towards him.

Vincent tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she leaned into the width of his chest. The hesitancy in the arms which encircled her reminded her, so achingly, of the first time he had bid her “goodbye” on this spot. The night he had brought her home. The night she thought never to see him, again.

The sadness in this parting was just as then.

Catherine didn't want to go.

Vincent was loathe to let her. Yet he knew he could not offer her the happiness she sought, but there was another who could.

"Catherine... you should go, now," the agonised whisper came.

"Vincent... please..." she began.

He placed a finger on the soft, full lips, silencing any words she might say. But it did not silence the pounding of his heart, nor the unease of his spirit.

With a heavy heart, she did as he had asked. Vincent watched her go, angry that he had lost her through his own insecurity. Slowly, he trod the pathway home, his heart heavy, his resolve still as firm as ever.

Once he reached his chamber, he retired for the night. Sleep eluded him, as he thought back on all they had shared, until, at last, only the thoughts of what they could have become filled his mind.

Why had he not trusted in their love, as Catherine had? Why had he not been able to leave his fears behind in the past, where they truly belonged? Why had he refused to accept that he could be the lover Catherine needed?

So many questions! Questions without answers. Had Narcissa been right? She usually was. Had he been asking the wrong questions?

Suddenly, the revelation came to him. There was only one question to be asked:   the question of love.

Vincent understood at last, if he loved Catherine enough to let her go, then he loved her enough to risk everything. Why had he not seen this before? Catherine was not afraid, she had never been afraid of his love. Only he had doubted.

Now he would pay the price, for the rest of his life.

CHAPTER THREE

Vincent and Catherine didn't see each other until the night of his birthday. Father had sent him away on an errand, to give them the time to get the portrait Below, and hung in the Great Hall.

Father and Catherine stood looking up at the painting, as it hung next to the one Kristopher Gentian had left for Catherine. In each, she wore burgundy velvet, yet the two were remarkably different.

Kristopher's painting spoke clearly of possession, desire, and an intensity which was breathtaking.

The other was just as beautiful, full of warmth, and gentleness.

"I do hope Vincent likes it," she said.

"I'm sure he will," Father told her. "Now I think it's time we both got ready."

They left the Great Hall and made their way back to the main living area.

~ ~ ~

By seven o'clock everyone began to make their way to the Great Hall for the party.

Vincent had been asked to meet Father and Catherine in Father's chamber and, as he neared, he heard the conspiratorial whispers.

As he entered the study, a sudden hush descended. At was obvious he had interrupted some secret conversation. He decided to ignore it. Asking questions may have produced answers he didn't want to hear.

The three of them made their way along the dimly lit passages, and down the stone staircase to the Great Hall. The doors were shut, but not barred, and Vincent opened them with ease, to lead them into the darkness.

One by one, lights appeared around him, with everyone shouting “Happy Birthday!” He couldn't help but be pleased with this show of affection from his family. The large old chair waited for him, and he sat, ready for the ritual which always accompanied birthdays, to begin.

Each member of the community had a gift for him, gifts which had obviously taken thought and effort. The gifts from the adults were practical and useful, whereas the children's gifts were of such a variety that they were a wonder to all. Vincent found it difficult, at times, to guess to what purpose he was supposed to put them to. But they were all given and received in love.

"What has Catherine bought you?" Samantha asked.

Before Vincent could reply, Father cut in to the conversation. "Samantha, Vincent is far too busy admiring your wonderful presents to even notice the gift Catherine and I have for him."

A puzzled look crossed Vincent's face, as he looked up at Father and Catherine. He looked around, thinking that perhaps he had missed a parcel amongst so many. But no, there was none he could see, unopened.

Catherine leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, Vincent," she said, pointing up to the picture she and Father had hung that afternoon.

"Yes, Happy Birthday, Vincent," Father joined in.

Now it was Catherine's turn to look puzzled, as she watched the face of the man she loved. The blue eyes filled with tears. He turned to look first at Father, then fixed and held Catherine's eyes.

"I had no idea........” He could say no more.

Father patted him on the shoulder, but Vincent's gaze never left hers.

"Now you know why I've been sneaking up Above, why we didn't want you to find out what I was doing, up there."

Catherine whispered, "If you had discovered our secret, it would have ruined the surprise."

Vincent tore his eyes away from Catherine's, and lowered his gaze to the floor. Tears of joy, of relief, of heartache that he had been so wrong, came unbidden.

She knelt on the floor between his knees, and with a slender, loving hand, she lifted his face level with her own. The love she met in his gaze left her shaken and stunned.

For what seemed an eternity, neither moved, wordless emotions pouring from one to the other.

Whispered so softly Catherine almost missed it, Vincent told her, "I love you."

Catherine was startled by the declaration, after the past weeks of soul searching, but she recognised the truth in his words, as her own heart sent its silent reply.

The quiet moment of magic was interrupted by the music, as the celebrations commenced. Everyone stood waiting, their inaction demanding that Vincent and Catherine should be the couple to start the dancing.

He stood, towering above her. Then, reaching for her hand, he lifted her to her feet and led her into the centre of the room.

Settling into his arms, Catherine felt giddy and breathless. She began to sense a change in Vincent, in the way he held her. His hold was gentle as always, yet there was an intimacy she had not felt, before, and she revelled in the possession she sensed within it.

For almost three hours, they danced. Round and round they waltzed, her mind spinning with the music. She pressed her body closer, and his grip tightened.

Finally, all the pent up emotions Catherine had hidden burst from the boundaries she had made. They poured forth in a wild tidal wave, flowing through her and washing Vincent, in the force of her desire and passion.

As the full force hit him, Catherine watched, unable to believe what she saw. Vincent threw his head back, a look of triumph on his face, his acceptance clear and sure. Her mind refused to believe what her heart knew, that she had offered him her passion, and he had gloried in its force.

His head close to hers, Vincent whispered "Yes, Catherine."

Her legs suddenly refused to support her, but Vincent held her and then led her to a chair.

Father hurried over, concern written clearly on his face. "Catherine, are you all right?"

She beamed at him. "Yes, Father. I just felt a little faint, that's all. Don't worry," she told him. Then, with emphasis, "Everything's fine."

A smile of understanding passed between them.

"I'm glad to hear it is," Father replied.

"So am I, Father... so am I," she agreed.

Soon, the colour returned to her cheeks, and the intense joy of Vincent's acceptance filled her soul. His hand held hers, unwilling to break the contact between their bodies for even a moment. Catherine gave Vincent's hand a gentle squeeze, expecting him to return it.

He did not.

Slowly, in front of everyone, he lifted her hand to his mouth and tenderly kissed its palm.

Again, Catherine was shaken. This was unusual behaviour indeed, from Vincent, and she trembled, slightly.

No one saw her reaction, but Vincent felt it clearly, and marveled that the touch of his mouth could bring such a response, from Catherine.

"Would you care for some refreshment Catherine?" he offered.

"No... thank you... “she answered, gazing around the huge hall. She noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin, as people began to feel the pull of their beds.

Some, witnessing the intimate exchange, had left quietly. Others waited to bid Vincent goodnight.

They came to him now, family and friends, each with wishes for a year of peace and joy, each with their own special reasons for the place Vincent held in their hearts.

Eventually, few were left, and they were busy with the task of clearing the chamber of the remains of party trappings, supervised by William.

Vincent retrieved Catherine's coat from the corner of the room and offered it to her. "Time to go, Catherine," he stated.

Accepting it without a second thought, Catherine wrapped herself in its folds, an adequate protection from the chill of the tunnels they were to walk.

Bidding her farewells to William and those who had stayed to help him, she followed Vincent up the wooden staircase, and out into the passage.

Her hand reached for his, as they walked through the dim tunnels, together. This usually innocent meeting of their bodies took on very different overtones, as his thumb moved in a gentle caress across the back of her hand. They walked in silence, communicating within the depth of their souls, a place where language ceases to have meaning, where thought dies, and is no more.

Catherine felt such elation, such joy. The night had been one of the happiest she had known. His words of love came back to her, and she knew their relationship had begun the inevitable change.

All too soon, they arrived at the threshold which would return her to her own world. Vincent let her hand go, and stood leaning against the wall, gazing at her with eyes which shone and sparkled.

Moving to him, she reached up and kissed him gently, on the cheek. "I love you," she told him softly.

Almost before she realized, his arms encircled and held her, but not as before. Their strength held her against him so tightly, as if he wanted to draw her body into himself, to be a part of him, as she longed to be.

"Catherine..." he whispered.

Vincent's head bowed, and she waited for the touch of his lips on her forehead. As his mouth brushed against her soft skin, it lingered, then moved across and down, onto her cheek.

Catherine wound her fingers in his hair, expecting him to pull away at any moment, and she was unwilling to lose the magic of his lips on her skin.

Never breaking the contact, his mouth moved to her lips, and she held her breath.

As his mouth closed over hers, she could hold back no longer. He reeled at her reaction as, greedily, her lips demanded more, and he surrendered to the overwhelming need to respond.

They parted, breathless, their smiles of joy turning to laughter.

Yet, beneath the seemingly casual amusement, deeper desires ran, and each recognised the unmet needs in the other. They stood now, close together, but not touching.

Vincent reached out a hand to brush its soft, furred back against her cheek and down her neck.

Catherine shuddered. "Please Vincent...... don't! You must know what I'm feeling..."

"Oh, I do," came the soft reply. "I always know. But tonight I cannot deny those feelings, as I have done in the past."

"So, you have been thinking things through while you've been away?"

"More than you could ever know, Catherine.” He reached for her again, holding her as tightly as before. Then, his hands began to caress her back, as she leaned against his chest.

"Vincent?" she said. "You do realise where this is leading?"

"Yes."

"And your worries, your fears," she persisted. "What of them?"

He moved his head, his lips seeking hers, again. Between the hungry kisses they exchanged, he murmured, "Oh Catherine, I thought I had lost you!"

She pulled back. "Lost me! What an earth are you talking about? It was you who went away from me!"

"I needed to try and sort things out in my mind. I have made a dreadful mistake."

"About what?" she demanded.

He drew in a deep breath, then "One night, I came Above to see you. When I arrived on your balcony, I found you were not ... alone. Father was with you, both of you spoke of the secret you didn't want me to discover..."

"The portrait?"

"Yes, the portrait... But I knew nothing of that. I saw the two of you dressed to go out... I heard you discussing how dreadful it would be if I found out. Father had been so secretive, you had told me you had remained at home all evening... When I had seen you go off in a taxi together... my mind conjured up pictures which tore my soul in shreds..."

His meaning suddenly became clear. "You thought that Father and I were... were..."

"Yes, Catherine. I believed he could give you all the things I could not, would not give."

She couldn't resist laughing at the picture of her and Father, involved in some secret love affair.

Vincent looked hurt at her reaction. His pain took the laughter from her lips, and her eyes.

"Vincent... how could you? There can never be anyone else for me. Why do you think there has been all this tension between us, for so long? I can't accept anyone's love but yours, you must know that!

“If you can't overcome your fears and love me as I need you to, then I shall probably live and die a frustrated old maid!"

He looked shocked at her words, but said nothing.

"Oh, that surprises you does it? It may be blunt, Vincent, but it's the truth. Haven't you got the message yet? You tried to push me into Elliot's bed. That didn't work, so you start pairing Father and me off. Anything not to have to face up to the fact that it's you I want!” She was annoyed now.

"But I have faced it, Catherine... at last,” he said, with a deep sigh.

There was nothing she could say. Catherine had spent hours rehearsing what she would say when the moment of truth finally dawned on him, but now it was here, words eluded her.

When, in the silence, he kissed her again, there was no hesitant exploration, only a demanding exchange, and she joyously surrendered to him. As the long, textured tongue found its way over her small, white teeth, she gasped at the surety of his possession. Then she realised one of his hands had moved, and rested gently on her breast.

Catherine was fast losing control of the situation, and of her own body. So many times, she had lived this moment in her thoughts, her dreams. She had planned a gentle, soft seduction, in the warm comfort of her apartment, all for naught.

At last, he was going to make love to her, here in a cold, draughty tunnel, and it was heaven.

Tenderly, he lowered her to the floor, and it felt like the softest, most comfortable place on earth.

He lay by her side, gathering her to himself, his hands finding their way beneath her dress, to trail soft lines of fire along her thighs.

Hers moved over layers of clothing, to find their way to the fastenings of his trousers, removing the cloth which separated her from his hardening flesh.

As she touched him, intimately, lovingly, caressing and stimulating, he moaned. His breathing was heavy now as his fingers longed for the access her underwear denied him.

Catherine tugged with her free hand at the offending silk, removing the obstacle for him.

Rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, and she held her breath, waiting for the feel of him within her body. The demanding thrust took her breath away, then he moved forcefully within her.

The celibacy they had both endured had taken its toll, and within moments, their shared climax threw them hurtling into the void, holding them suspended there, before finally releasing them to slowly sink back to reality.

They lay unmoving, unthinking, glorying in the wonder of the moment and each other. When he moved at last, to lie by her side, there were tears in his eyes.

He stared at the ceiling, somewhere in the darkness above them, running his fingers lightly up and down her arm.

Catherine raised herself on her elbow, so much in her heart, so much to share, yet she knew no words could tell him how she felt.

He knew. He had shared every moment, every pleasure, every need, he had met.

Catherine rose to her feet and walked back the way they had come.

Vincent sat leaning against the wall, alone in the darkness, puzzled by Catherine's actions.

Then a smile spread across his face as he heard the clear message on the pipes.

‘Vincent is safe... with me... may not be back for some hours... Catherine.'

When she returned to him, she found him still on the floor, his back against the rock, his head lowered. Kneeling in front of him, she raised his head, to be greeted with a smile, the like of which she had never seen, not from Vincent.

"How soon can you get to my balcony?" she asked.

"In a heartbeat," he whispered.

"Make it two," he was told, as she turned and walked into the shaft of light which separated his world from her own.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rushing up to her apartment, Catherine prayed he hadn't changed his mind. As she opened the door, her eyes flew to the French windows, and the breath she had been unconsciously holding was released, as she saw him waiting.

Opening the doors, she threw herself into his arms, where he held her suspended above the floor. Vincent walked into the apartment and set her down on the floor, and turned to close out the chill night air.

Removing her coat, she walked into the bedroom to hang it in the closet. She switched on the bedside lamp, then disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, Catherine found Vincent sitting on the side of the bed, looking rather shy, and uncomfortable.

As he raised his eyes, he saw she was wearing only her bathrobe, her clothing having been left in a tangled heap on the bathroom floor.

"I didn't expect to find you in here." she said, then felt suddenly very foolish.

"Perhaps you wish to sit in the lounge?" he said, lowering his head again.

"You must be joking," she teased. "It's taken me too long to get you in here. Now I've got you just where I want you... there's no way you're going to escape."

"I have no wish to ... escape." he informed her.

"Good!" she said simply, as she slipped the robe from her body.

Vincent just stared at her, unwilling and unable to take his eyes from the naked body of the woman he loved. He could not believe that all this love, this beauty, was his for the taking. All he had to do was reach out, yet his arms seemed as lead, too heavy to lift, hesitant to claim the joy he longed for. Almost of its own accord, his body moved, and he stood before her.

When her hands came to rest against his chest, it felt as if iron bands wound themselves about him, making it almost impossible to breathe. Catherine began peeling layer after layer of clothing from his body, until he was left in only his trousers.

The soft, amber-hued covering on his chest drew her hands as a magnet. Slender fingers stroked, soft lips worshipped, teasing, making him want much more. Gradually, her hands unfastened, then slid his trousers down his legs.

His legs refused to hold him any longer, and he sat on the bed.

Bending to remove his boots, Catherine trailed kisses down his legs. The boots were stubborn, and Catherine felt all fingers and thumbs, so he bent to help her.

Within seconds, he was as naked as she.

How his heart sang as he felt the joy flowing from her heart at the sight of him! How he had dreaded this moment, for he had believed it would bring only rejection. How wrong he had been, about so many things!

Walking around the bed, Catherine climbed onto the other side. His eyes followed her every move.

She lay down and held her arms out to him, and they were filled, immediately. Vincent drew her body the length of his own.

He had dreamed of the feel of her naked body touching his, yet the reality was beyond even the wildest of dreams, and he wanted to feel the ecstatic joy he felt now, for the rest of his life. To know her desire was only for him was more than he could believe, more than he could have hoped for.

Catherine's insistent lips on his neck disturbed his thoughts in a most delightful way. He could sense the desire building within her, the need for him, as it demanded his response.

His hands moved over her, igniting fire wherever they strayed, driving them both onwards. Her breathing gradually became labored, as the need for their joining battled with the desire for the pleasure his touch brought.

Vincent's lips wove their tingling way around her neck, then downwards. Catherine moaned in sheer delight as they closed, gently, teasingly, around the hardening nipple he encountered.

The soft, sucking motion forced another moan from her lips and she felt him harden against her, in response. Then, the other breast called to him, demanding the same pleasuring, and he willingly obeyed.

Sensation followed breathless sensation, as his mouth moved down onto her stomach, then on to seek other joys. Her legs parted eagerly as the long, raspy tongue plunged into the soft folds of heated flesh.

Catherine's head swam, the room became hot, and airless. She could hardly breathe, as the ache within her focused to that one point where his tongue played erotic games.

"Please..." she begged, unable to bear the intensity of the pleasure he brought her.In silent answer to her plea, he moved to kneel between her legs. Bending, his hands encircled her waist, and he pulled her towards him, as he sat back on his heels.

The space between them seemed to take forever to close. Then suddenly, Catherine felt the hardened flesh hovering just outside her body, begging entrance.

The dark blue fire of his eyes held hers captive, as he sank deeply into the welcoming warmth. That hypnotic gaze refused to free her own, as he watched her response to his possession. He moved within her with a deliberate slowness, increasing the penetration with each burrowing thrust.

Catherine longed to touch him, to feel the power of his body. Her hand moved down her stomach towards the point of their joining. Spreading her fingers wide, they slid between his flesh and her own. She gasped at the sheer size of him, the hardness, as he moved between her fingers.

Releasing her waist, he too, reached down, and captured her fingers in his. Raising her hand, fingers still entwined, above her head, his great body leaned towards her, as he sought and found the other hand. Taking the bulk of his weight on his forearms, he rested his body on hers, the tantalising texture of his chest rubbing against her thrilled her, raised her to heights as yet unknown.

Catherine's legs wrapped tightly around him, encouraging a deeper penetration than either of them thought possible. On and on, the rhythm took them, in a wanton dance of passion and desire.

Catherine's mind seemed unfocused and confused, as the realisation came to her, with sudden clarity, that for the first time, she was actually feeling everything Vincent was. In this moment of fulfilment, the bond between them opened fully, and they were truly one.

She felt her body trembling, no not hers, his body. He was at the edges of control, plunging headlong into an earth-shattering climax, and he was taking her with him.

From somewhere distant, her name came to her. A shout of triumph of completion, as from her lips, the sound of his name winged its way to his heart.

Descending almost lazily from the impact of their shared release, Catherine curled into him, as he moved to lie by her side. Replete and content, he wound his arms about her, in a gesture of protection and possession.

They slept for a few hours. Vincent woke first, but his awakening roused Catherine from her rest.

She gazed at him in disbelief. "Vincent!" she whispered, "I felt you wake!"

"I know," he answered.

"Our Bond? It's changed!"

"I found it impossible to keep it closed," he confessed.

"You mean I have always been able to feel the things you do?" she demanded incredulously.

"I could never permit you to carry the burden of my innermost emotions Catherine. Believe me, it could have distracted you, placed you in danger," he explained, in a hushed whisper.

"So you have protected me from more than the dangers Above?" she challenged.

"Yes," he confessed.

She stroked his arm. "I do understand Vincent... I really do. But will you promise me one thing?"

"If it is a promise I can give."

"Promise me that you will never refuse me the joy of our connection when we make love?" she asked.

Vincent treated her to a rare grin. "That is a promise I shall be content to give, Catherine."

Within her now, there was a chafing of disquiet, and she instinctively raised her eyes to the window, to see the changing patterns which told her dawn was near.

Catherine looked at Vincent, and he nodded, in acknowledgement of this shared sense of dawn’s approach.

"That too?" she asked.

"Even that," he agreed. "In this moment, there is nothing we do not share."

"Then this sadness I feel, knowing you must return Below, is yours as well as mine."

"Yes... but so is the love we leave, each with the other."

Vincent kissed her briefly, then rose from the bed to dress himself, in the lamplight.

Fully dressed, wearing his cloak, he returned to her side.

Without a word, he lifted her, pulled the covers from beneath her, laid her gently down on the bed, covered her, and placed a very chaste kiss on her head.

She reached for him, he stayed her hands. "No Catherine... it is not wise. Dawn approaches fast ... I would need little persuading to abandon all reason and take you to me, once again," he explained.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

Vincent looked at the sky. "Later tonight, Catherine. Another day is already upon us."

"Will you come here, or do you want me to come Below?"

"Catherine, I will meet you wherever you desire... however we have little privacy Below.” He held his hands out, in a questioning gesture.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine ventured, "Then you had better come here. But I want to make love in your bed, Vincent. I want us to be together, Below."

Vincent looked shocked. Still closely connected, she could read the panic in his heart at her suggestion. Yet within that fear, she read clearly his hope that one day, they would be together, Below.

The confidence this knowledge gave her made her bold. "You're afraid of what Father might say!" she told him, accusingly.

"Below, there is a very different world, Catherine. There are many things you do not yet understand," he tried to explain.

"There's only one thing I want to understand, Vincent."

"And that is?" he questioned.

"What do I have to do to get into your bed?"

The unspoken possibilities running through his mind were no longer his alone. As the thought filtered through his consciousness, and was about to be dismissed, she interrupted his reverie.

"Yes," she announced.

"Er... yes... what?" he asked, not realising she knew that secret, hidden wish.

"Yes... I think it's a good idea. No one could disapprove of you making love to your wife in your own bed, now, could they?"

"Catherine!" he admonished, blushing. "I did not mention the possibility. Should you not wait until you are asked?" he teased.

"You did ask!" she insisted.

"When?"

"Oh, your mind may not have thought about it, and you didn't say anything... but... I clearly heard your heart ask the question. I merely answered it," she stated.

Vincent threw his head back and laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, unsure of the humour in the fact that she had just agreed to marry him.

"Catherine, when I went away to think... I saw Narcissa. She told me before seeking the answers, I should find the right questions. She also said I would find them in my heart, and in yours... I didn't understand her at the time..."

"And now?"

"Now I know both the questions and the answers. Catherine, will you marry me... will you come and live Below with me... will you stay with me and love me... for the rest of your life?"

"Only for such a short time?" she asked.

"How long will you love me, Catherine?"

She reached up and kissed him, tenderly.

"That long?" he replied.

"Oh, longer. Much longer," came her muffled reply, as his lips found hers, briefly.

Rising from the bed, he moved to the French windows. "I suppose I had better go and tell Father. He will be quite surprised.”

"Oh I don't think so Vincent... I don't think so."

He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Another secret, Catherine?"

"Perhaps," she admitted.

"I can see I shall have to keep an eye on you two," he teased, as he turned and disappeared into the grey light of morning.

~ ~ ~

In A Heartbeat, by Amber James was first published in 1994 in a zine titled Sensual Dreamers. This is the first time it has ever been online.

A few of Amber’s stories can be found through links on the Beauty and the Beast Fan Fiction Database, but she has written many more over the years that have only appeared in zines, such as Masquerades, Heartscapes. Sensual Dreamers, Crystal Cavern 4 and 5, Below the Belt, Carousel Tales 2, Petals of the Heart, Petals of Passion, Flame and Shadow 10 and 11, and To Dance to a Different Tune.  Some of those zines now reside in the Crystal Rose Lending Library http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/collection/ , and can be borrowed within the continental United States for the price of postage.

In the 1990’s Amber teamed up with Joy Faulkner to co-found the Beauty and the Beast British Fan club. They also co-edited the fan club’s newsletter during the late 1990’s and early 2000’s.

Outside of BATB fandom, Amber has won awards in England for her writing and short stories.

The Fourth Wish

by Barbara Handshy Anderson

It was Katie’s turn to pick the story after dinner. One of the most cherished of the Tunnel traditions was to have at least one story every evening. It settled the younger children before bedtime and it gave parents and other adults a little bit of spare time for themselves. If the stories were short enough and the children well enough behaved, they might even get two stories.

It had been ages since Katie had had a turn to pick the story … at least it seemed like that to the 4 year old girl. She had chosen Catherine to read the story of Snow White. Catherine felt honored.

As adults and children alike gathered around and found places to sit, Catherine handed little Jacob off to Mary in a nearby rocking chair. He settled quickly in his ‘grandmother’s’ arms.

“Ahhh, Snow White?” Geoffrey complained. “I hate fairy tales.”

Catherine smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “More of a swashbuckling, adventure man are you?”

He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve outgrown fairy stories and magic. I want to hear about stuff that could actually happen.”

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in magic?” Samantha asked.

“Are you telling me you do?” Geoffrey asked in a mocking tone. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“Yes, I do believe in magic, as a matter of fact,” she replied placing her hands on her hips. “And I happen to know you do too. I’ve seen you when you think no one’s looking. You cross your fingers and you even knock on wood.”

“So what?”

“So what do you call that? Huh?”

Samantha turned to Catherine for support. “What about you, Catherine? Do you still believe in magic?” Samantha asked.

“What do you mean, Samantha? Like the magic that Sebastian does?”

Samantha shook her head. “No, no. Sebastian just does magic tricks. That’s not the same thing. I mean real magic. You know like wishing on a star or … Fairy God Mothers … wishing wells … magic like that.”

“Ohhhh.” Catherine nodded and thought for a moment.

The room had become very quiet. All of the children wanted to hear what Catherine thought about magic. Catherine realized that whatever she said would be taken to heart. She did not want to be remembered as the one who crushed the dreams of every child in the Tunnels.

She looked to Vincent and pleaded with her eyes for his help, but he looked just as interested in hearing her thoughts on the subject as all of the children.

“Well, I suppose …” she began slowly, “… that I do believe in miracles, and guardian angels. I even believe that God is out there in the Universe somewhere watching us. Is that what you mean?”

“I guess it’s sort of the same,” Samantha surmised.

“But, Catherine, what about in fairy tales, like Snow White?” Geoffrey asked. “Do you believe wishing wells are actually real?” The skepticism in his voice was unmistakable.

“People all over the world believe in those, Geoffrey,” Catherine answered. “Young and old alike. Why even the fountains up in the park are filled with coins from people’s wishes. You can find magic wishing wells or fountains or pools or healing springs in just about every country of the world. There is even a story in the Bible about a healing pool that was disturbed from time to time by an angel[1] . That’s where the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park gets its name. I have thrown coins and wishes into quite a few fountains and wishing wells in my life.

“You have? Tell us, Catherine. Where?” Samantha asked.

Catherine smiled as she remembered, “Up Above in Central Park for starters. But it just so happens, that the very first wishing well I ever remember was Snow White’s wishing well when I was eight years old.”

All of the girls in the room became wide eyed and said, “Really?”

“Where, Catherine?” Katie wanted to know.

“I don’t think that one was actually a real wishing well. It was in Sleeping Beauty’s Castle at Disneyland. There was a waterfall and a pond next to it. There was a statue of Snow White and the seven dwarfs there. When I threw my coin into the well, Snow White began to sing and some fish began swimming around the pond.” She laughed at the memory. “I have been hooked on wishing wells and fountains ever since.”

“Did you ever see a real one?” several of the children asked at once.

“The most beautiful one I have ever seen was the Trevi Fountain in Rome. Millions of people go there every year. It’s believed that if you turn your back to the fountain and throw a coin over your shoulder with your right hand that you will be sure to find love and you will be sure to return to Rome one day.”

“What about here, Catherine? Have you ever heard of a wishing well or a fountain here in New York?” Samantha asked.

Catherine smiled as if she was remembering something she hadn’t thought about for a very long time. “When I was a child, sometimes I would stay with my friend Nancy. Her grandmother lived with them and she came from a family that has been in New York for several generations. Since before Central Park was even here.”

“Wow, that must have been a really long time ago,” Eric proclaimed.

“Yes, it was,” Catherine laughed. “Once when I was staying with them, Nancy’s grandmother told us a story about a wishing well right in Central Park. It seems that before the park was made, there was a poor shanty town there, where a lot of poor people lived in ramshackle houses. The houses were made of whatever materials people could find to build a shelter for themselves. In those days people didn’t have running water or flushing toilets in their houses.  They didn’t even have a sewer system, so people would just throw their dirty water into the street.”

“Eeeeeeew,” the children cried in unison as they all held their noses. Here in the Tunnels, where things were much more primitive than Above, even the children understood the importance of good sanitation.

“Now day’s clean water for Manhattan comes from the Croton Aqueduct[2] . Even poor people can get clean water now. But in those days most people, and especially poor people had to get water from cisterns and ponds and wells, whatever was available. Sometimes the water wasn’t clean and people got very sick with things like yellow fever and cholera. A lot of people died from those diseases back then, especially babies and little children.

“But in the shanty town Nancy’s grandmother told us about, the people had a well that was fed by a fresh water spring. The water was very clean and tasted sweeter than any in the city. It made the people want to live nearby. They built a church near the well. Little by little they began to build sturdy wood frame houses and their little village began to be more permanent. They were still poor, but their children grew healthy, rosy cheeked and strong. Very few people in this little village died of the terrible diseases that seemed to ravage the rest of the city. The people who lived in the little village believed that there must be something magical about the water that made them all so healthy. They tried to keep the well a secret, because they knew that if the wealthy people of the city found out about their special well, they would want it and would make them leave.”

“Kind of like how we keep the Tunnels a secret?” Eric asked.

“Yes Eric, kind of like that,” Catherine said.

“Did someone find out the secret, Catherine? Did someone make them leave?” Eric sounded worried.

“No … no one found out the secret, Eric, but they still had to leave. In the 1850’s the people of New York decided that the city needed a park and so they chose the land all around the reservoir, including the land that the little village and the well were on.

“The people didn’t want to leave, but the government paid them for the land and forced them to go. Then they tore down all the houses. But before they left the people planted trees around the well and the little cemetery there and blessed it that it could never be destroyed and that it would always be there for poor people who needed the sweet healing water. The foundation of that church is supposedly still somewhere up there in the park.

“By the time Nancy’s grandmother told us the story it was just an obscure, forgotten piece of the history of Central Park. She grew up in Manhattan and she didn’t know anyone who had ever actually found it. She told us that if we ever did find it we would get our heart’s deepest wish if we dropped in a coin and said the wish out loud.”

“Did you ever find it, Catherine? Do you know where it is?” the children asked.

Catherine laughed, “No, I never found it. Nancy and I spent all our spare time for several years looking through every inch of the park, but we never did find it. When I was a young girl I would even beg my Dad to take me to the park so I could climb the tallest trees. I thought that I might be able to spot it from up there, but I still didn’t have any luck.”

“Maybe it’s one of the fountains.” Jamie suggested. “There are a lot of lovely fountains in the park,”

“I once thought that too, but I have thrown coins into every fountain in the park… I don’t think it’s any of the fountains. I have come to believe that perhaps it isn’t like a normal well. That maybe you can only find it when you are in desperate need or if you have a pure heart. Maybe people who are greedy or people who are mean or even people who already have everything they could possible want can’t find it because they don’t really need it.”

“You’re not mean, Catherine, you’re nice,” Katie said.

“Thank you, Katie, but I have been very, very blessed in my life. Wouldn’t it be greedy of me to want more? Especially when there are people who might need those blessings more than me?”

Geoffrey turned to Vincent. “What do you think, Vincent? Do you think there is a magic fountain or wishing well up there in the park? Wouldn’t more people know about it if there was?”

Vincent was quiet for a few moments.

Catherine look up and saw him staring at her. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but she sensed that there was something important that he wanted to say to her.

Then he looked back at Geoffrey and said, “I do believe it, Geoffrey.”

“Do you really? Or are you just saying that because the little kids are here?”

“Look at me closely, Geoffrey. All of you come close and look at me.”

The children gathered around him and looked attentively into his face.

“Look at my face and look at my hands. Have you ever seen anyone else who looks even a little bit like me?”

Collectively that all shook their heads and said, “No.”

“I have,” Katie declared.

Everyone turned to Katie. Then Vincent asked, “Yes, Katie, you have haven’t you?”

Katie nodded shyly. She was a little bit frightened to suddenly find herself the center of attention.

Vincent pulled her onto his lap and asked gently. “And where have you seen someone who looks like me, Katie?”

Katie looked around the room and then pointed to Catherine.

“Yes, Katie, in the book that Catherine is holding. And what is that book, Children?”

Catherine held it up.

“Favorite Illustrated Fairy Tales,” Samantha read.

“I know that you children wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings by pointing out that one or two of the illustrations in that book look a little bit like me. But I read that book as a child too. The illustrations are very nicely done, aren’t they?

The children nodded.

Then Vincent asked, “Now tell me truthfully, children … tell me how you could think that someone who looks like me would NOT believe in magic?

Katie put her little hands on either side of Vincent’s face and turned him to face her. “Are you magic, Vincent?” Katie asked in wide eyed wonder.

Vincent laughed, “Not as far as I know, Katie, but I do believe that there are things in this world that cannot be explained any other way. Some people may call it ‘magic’ and others might call it ‘God’. Some people may call them wishes and others may call them prayers. Some people say Fairy God Mother and others say guardian angel. But when you really think about it … isn’t it all kind of the same?”

“But, Vincent,” Geoffrey protested. “you are the smartest person I have ever known. I thought only babies and dummies believed in that stupid stuff.”

Before Vincent could respond, Mouse stood up and declared, “Hey! Mouse believes! Mouse knows. Mouse isn’t a baby. And Mouse isn’t a dummy.”

“That’s true, Geoffrey. Mouse is very smart.” Eric pointed out, “He makes all kinds of neat gizmos and stuff.”

The children all nodded in agreement.

“Knowing is more than believing, Mouse. How can you possibly know?” Geoffrey asked.

All eyes were now on Mouse and he was beginning to feel the heat of embarrassment creeping from his toes up to his face. He looked to Vincent as if silently asking for help.

“It’s all right, Mouse, you can tell us.” Vincent assured him.

Mouse then put his chin up and proudly admitted, “Mouse found it. Mouse made a wish.”

Geoffrey looked skeptical. “Are you saying you actually found the magic wishing well? When?”

“Lots of times … but only wished once,” he quickly added.

The children rushed around him all at once. “Where is it, Mouse? Will you show us? Take us there, take us there,” they all pleaded at once.

Mouse looked completely panic stricken with all of the children begging and pulling at him all at once.

“Children, children!” Vincent shouted.

The children turned to face him. “This is no way to act. Now all of you please sit back down.”

They all sat down except for Mouse.

Catherine could see how nervous he was. “Come sit by me, Mouse.”

“If you found it, Mouse. Then where is it?” asked Geoffrey.

Mouse shrugged his shoulders and scrunched up his face. “Don’t know. Can’t find it. Mouse looked. Can’t find. But Mouse did find … long time ago …” He began to rub his chin and said “… or maybe ‘it’ found Mouse?”

As Mouse sat down next to Catherine, Samantha asked, “Can you at least tell us about it, Mouse?”

Mouse looked first to Catherine and then to Vincent. “It’s up to you, Mouse,” Catherine said. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

Vincent nodded his approval when Mouse looked his way.

Mouse nodded and said, “OK Good, OK Fine … Mouse will tell.” He looked around at all the children and said, “When Mouse was small, Mouse was alone. Mouse was lost. Sometimes Mouse was cold.” Mouse’s eyes clouded over with the painful memories. “Mouse was afraid. Mouse was hungry. Sometimes eats garbage. Sometimes steals.” He paused for a moment. “Some people are mean. Chase Mouse. Hurt Mouse.”

Catherine reached to squeeze his hand and he continued. “Sometimes night shadows scared Mouse. Rains sometimes. Sometimes Mouse sleeps in Tunnels. Sometimes Mouse sleeps in the park. Found a good hiding place though. Better than good. Big old trees … bushes on ground, no people. Mouse can see stars. Mouse sleeps there, under bushes. Near a well. Water tastes good too. Better than good. Better than park fountains … Mouse knows … Mouse tried.” Mouse made a face to show that the fountain waters tasted bad.

“Sometimes Mouse watches people in the park. Close their eyes … throw things … coins … into fountains.” He mimicked their actions. “Mouse thinks people are strange.”

“One night Mouse hears someone. A man … no … not a man …” He looked over at Vincent and continued, “… but not a boy … like a man, but not old … young. He kneels against the well. He cries... So sad … So lonely… Mouse knows. Sometimes Mouse is lonely… Sometimes Mouse cries too … like the man. Mouse hears the man … he makes a wish … cries some more … and then … throws something in well … a coin, Mouse thinks.”

Mouse looked to Vincent again and asked. “Is that right, Vincent? A coin?”

Everyone turned and looked with shock at Vincent.

Vincent nodded and softly said, “Yes, Mouse, that’s right. It was a coin: an 1847 Silver Half Dime.”

“Vincent?” Catherine and Father whispered in unison.

“Was it really you, Vincent?” Eric asked

“Yes,” Vincent nodded. “It was.”

“What did Vincent wish for, Mouse?” Samantha asked.

Mouse shook his head. “Can’t tell someone else’s wish, Samantha. Not Mouse’s wish anyway. Nope… can’t tell.”

“What happened next, Mouse?” Kipper asked.

“When Vincent cries, Mouse feels pain…” He rubbed his chest and winced. “… here. Mouse walks up quiet.” He got up and walked toward Vincent and put his hand on his shoulder.

“What happened when you touched him, Mouse?” Samantha asked.

Vincent laughed. Mouse laughed too. “Mouse scared, Vincent.” Then his eyes got big. “Vincent roared… scared Mouse. Never saw anyone … that big before. Never saw anyone that sad before … except Mouse.”

“It’s true, Mouse, you did frighten me that night. Father hated it when I went above, but I was always careful not to get caught.”

“No one ever sneaks up on Vincent,” declared Kipper.

“But Mouse did!” Eric exclaimed.

“Yes, Mouse, certainly did.” Vincent laughed again. “And I hate to admit it, but he has managed it many times since.”

“Is that why we call him Mouse? …Cuz he’s quiet like a mouse?”  Katie asked.

Everyone laughed at that, even Mouse.

“Yes it is, Katie. The name fits, don’t you think?”

Katie laughed and nodded.

“Then what happened?” Samantha pleaded. “I’m dying to know the end of the story.”

“Well you already know the end, Samantha,” Vincent said.

“I do?”

“Would you like to finish it, Mouse? You have done a wonderful job so far,” Vincent encouraged.

“OK good, OK fine.” Mouse sat up proudly. “Vincent ran. Mouse couldn’t run … too scared … No place to go anyway. Mouse started to cry. Didn’t want to be alone again. Vincent comes back. Talks to Mouse … real soft …” He smiled at the memory. “Gave Mouse a cookie...”

Everyone laughed.

“William’s chewy oatmeal,” Vincent recalled.

“Mmmmm … Mouse’s favorite! Asked if Mouse wanted to make a wish. Gave Mouse a coin. Right, Vincent?”

“Yes, that’s right. It was an 1843 Liberty Head penny.”

“Vincent, showed Mouse how to make a wish. But Mouse couldn’t talk. Mouse could only … feel. Maybe wish was no good. But Vincent said … was okay. Said, close eyes, think real hard and throw. So Mouse did.”

“Did your wish come true, Mouse?” Katie asked.

“Yeah, did the wish come true?” Kipper echoed.

“Yes, Mouse’s wish came true. Still coming true! Then Vincent brought Mouse home to live in Tunnels. THE END!” Mouse emphatically declared.

“What did you wish for, Mouse?” one of the children asked.

“Wished for Mouse not to be lonely anymore, not to be sad anymore, wished for a friend … same wish as Vincen-.” Mouse stopped short. He looked directly at Vincent and said, “Oops … sorry, Vincent. Mouse told.”

Vincent laughed and put his hand on Mouse’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mouse, it’s fine.”

Mouse breathed a big sigh of relief.

“Vincent … Is that all true? Did you really find that wishing well once?” Geoffrey asked.

“Yes, Geoffrey, I have actually found it several times.”

“Can you show us where it is?”

“I’m sorry, Geoffrey, I can’t. It’s been a while since I have seen it. But in my very worst moments, times when my heart was so broken that I didn’t know how to go on, somehow it has been there. Maybe Mouse is right… maybe ‘it’ found me.”

“Have you made more than one wish there, Vincent?” Samantha wondered.

“Yes. Over the years I have made four wishes.”

“Did they all come true, Vincent?” Jamie asked.

He looked over to Catherine.

There’s that look again, she thought. There is something he wants to tell me, I know it.

“Yes, Jaime, every single one,” he said, without taking his eyes off of his love.

Then turning to the children, he said, “But if any of you ever do find it … you must always remember to make your wishes very, very carefully,” He said in earnest. “Don’t ever make foolish wishes without considering what the consequences of your wish might be.”

“What do you mean, Vincent?” Geoffrey asked.

“The first wish I made there … was a foolish, unkind wish … made in anger … and I have regretted it every day since. I even tried to take it back … but apparently once the wish is made … it can’t ever be fully … unmade.” The sadness was evident in his voice as well as in his eyes.

“What did you wish for, Vincent?” Eric asked.

“It’s very late, Eric. All of you should be in bed,” Vincent said. “That will have to be a story for another time.”

“Tomorrow?” several of the children pleaded.

“Yes, perhaps tomorrow,” Vincent replied.

“But we didn’t read, Snow White,” Katie complained.

Vincent picked her up and said, “You are barely able to keep your eyes open now, Little Princess. Do you really think you could stay awake for Snow White?”

She thought about it for a minute and shook her sleepy head. “I guess not.”

“All right then, let’s see about getting you tucked in bed, and maybe tomorrow we can read your story.” Turning to Catherine, he said, “I’m going to deliver this little sleeping beauty to her mother and then I will come straight home.”

Catherine smiled and gave her little namesake a goodnight kiss. “Goodnight, sweet Katie. I promise we will read your story tomorrow, okay?” She stroked the little girls golden curls. She felt a nameless longing as she did so. Vincent felt it too.

Turning to kiss Vincent’s cheek, she said, “Tell Lena I said, hello.”

Katie rested her head on Vincent’s broad shoulder as he headed for the door.

Catherine couldn’t help but feel a tugging on her heart as she watched him with her. Vincent glanced back at her. He could feel it too.

“That is quite a picture isn’t it?’

Catherine turned to see Father standing behind her.

She smiled. “Yes it is. He is so gentle with the children. Watching him with Katie, it’s so clear that he was born to be a father.”

“There was a time that I never dared to dream such things for him,” Father whispered.

As Mary placed a very sleepy little Jacob into Catherine’s arms, Catherine gently stroked her son’s hair and said, “With love, Father … all things are possible.”

As Catherine left the chamber with her little boy, Father said, “They never stopped believing that, did they, Mary?”

“No, Jacob, they didn’t…” was her reply. “… and it’s a good thing too, I’d say.” Then turning to face him, she asked, “Have you ever heard that story before, Father? Did you ever know exactly how Vincent found Mouse?”

Father shook his head. “No … No, I have never heard that story before. I thought I knew everything there was to know about Vincent … You know it is a shock every now and then to be reminded that I don’t know everything.”

Father didn’t see the wry smile on Mary’s face as she returned to her own chamber.

~ ~ ~

As he entered their chamber, Vincent removed the vest he wore over his wool knit sweater. He followed the sound of Catherine’s voice as she softly sang a lullaby. Jacob’s sleepy head lay on his mother’s shoulder. Walking up behind her, he could see that Jacob’s eyes were nearly closed and he was losing his battle with the sandman. Even though he was nearly asleep Jacob reached one little arm out to his father. Vincent leaned down resting one arm around Catherine’s waist and whispered, “Goodnight, little Jacob. May you have only pleasant dreams, my son.” He kissed him and stroked his little cheek with the back of his beautiful hand.

Catherine never got tired of watching him with their son. He was so gentle and loving. She gently placed Jacob in his crib. She covered one small candle with a ceramic dome that had holes in it. It cast tiny stars all around the room. She then blew out the rest of the candles in the nursery chamber and pulled the curtain closed as she left.

Vincent was standing at his hutch with his back to her, perusing the many keepsakes he had accumulated over the years. The treasures that had once been scattered all about his chamber were now carefully stowed behind glass cupboards and on high shelves in a hutch that had been a gift from Catherine. It made it possible for Vincent to still enjoy looking at them, and yet keep them safe from curious little hands.

She walked up and slid her arms around his waist. “Are you looking for something, Vincent? Or just reminiscing?”

“I’m looking for an old tin. It’s about this big.” He motioned with his hands to demonstrate. “It doesn’t really look like much. I’m sure I saw it when we moved all of these things into this hutch.”

“What color is it? Does this tin have a label on it?” she asked, joining in the search.

“It’s silver … it’s old and very beat up. If it ever had a label, it is long gone now, but it has writing embossed into the lid … ‘Magic’ something.”

Catherine began helping him in the hunt and soon picked up a small, ancient looking tin container. “Is this it? Magic Baking Powder?” As she held it out to him she heard what sounded like coins inside.

Vincent reached for it and reverently held it in his grasp. He sat down on the bed and turned it slowly in his hand and listened to the sound of the coins clinking inside.

Catherine could tell - could feel that something was stirring deep within him. “Are you all right?”

Vincent reached for her. She moved to nestle herself against his chest in the crook of his arm. It was her place, the only place on earth where only she belonged. They reclined quietly in each other’s arms for a while as he continued to slowly turn the tin in his other hand. Catherine instinctively knew that Vincent would speak when and if he was ready.

The only sound in the room was the intermittent sounds of the pipes, the periodic sound of a subway train passing somewhere overhead, and the sound of the coins inside of the tin as he turned it in his hand.

“I have never told anyone that story before … not even Father,” he finally said. “Apparently Mouse hadn’t either.”

She tenderly rubbed her open hand over his chest. “It’s an amazing story, Vincent … You could have run away and left him there … but you went back … you gave him a wish … and then you brought him home.”

“Yes … he looked as alone and bereft as I felt at that moment. Even though he couldn’t talk … something in him called to me. I was astounded that you knew of the wishing well, Catherine. I never imagined … that you would … that you could.”

Catherine laughed a little. “When Nancy’s grandmother told us that story …” she began, “there was something in her voice… She sincerely believed that what she was telling us was true. She made me believe it was true.” She smiled. “I’m so happy that it was.” Then looking up at Vincent, she asked, “But there’s something I don’t understand…”

“What’s that?”

“The coins … they were very old … wherever did you get them? … and … how is it that you remembered exactly what coins they were … even the dates?”

Vincent rose, reluctantly letting go of her, and walked over to his vest. Taking something from the inside pocket, he returned to Catherine’s side and held out his fist to her. When she held out her open hand, he dropped the ‘something’ into it.

Catherine sat up and examined two coins in her palm. Turning one of them over, she said, “1847 … and 1843 … But, Vincent … how? If you and Mouse threw these into the well … then how is it that you …?” She looked confused. “There is more to the story … isn’t there?” she asked as she handed back the coins.

Vincent looked into her eyes and nodded.

“Do you want to tell me? Or is it too personal? … too sacred?”

Vincent tilted his head to one side as he pondered her choice of words. Then he nodded again and said, “It is … very personal … perhaps even sacred … but I want to tell you, Catherine… you should know. It’s time for you to know.”

“All right … I’m listening,” she said, never breaking eye contact with him.

“When I was a boy there was a man who lived here Below. His name was Isaiah. He was the oldest man I have ever known. I was fascinated by everything about him. He was so wrinkled … and so wise. He was like something out of a story book.” He laughed a little. “Devin used to call him Methuselah instead of Isaiah.”

“How old was he?”

Vincent shook his head. “I’m not sure if he even knew … exactly. He used to say, ‘I didn’t see no good reason to keep on countin’ after a hundred,’ so he stopped. He used to tell us stories about New York in the ‘old days’. One of the stories he told us was the story of the wishing well in Central Park.”

“He knew the story about the wishing well too?”

“He didn’t just know the story, Catherine. He was part of the story.”

Catherine’s eyes widened in amazement.

Vincent continued. “He told us where he came from. His family lived in a little village near here. He told us of a well, with water so pure and sweet that it made the people in the village healthy and strong. Many of the people who lived there believed it was magic. But it wasn’t a shanty town, like you said, Catherine. Yes, the people were poor, but they owned the land their houses were built on and they paid taxes. He told us how the city took their land to build a park for rich people to drive their carriages and show off their wealth. They went to court with the deeds to their land to try and save the village and their homes, but to no avail. When it became clear that they couldn’t save their village they gathered at the church one last time. The pastor blessed them all and then he blessed the church and the cemetery and the well that as sacred ground that they would be protected, that they could never be destroyed and that the well would always be there for people who desperately needed it. That anyone who was able to find it would get their hearts deepest wish. Isaiah was just a child when the Police came and drove them all out. Many of the people from the village took temporary shelter here in the Tunnels. Some of them, like Isaiah, never left.

“But they were destroyed, Vincent. I have never seen a church or a cemetery in Central Park.”

“No, I haven’t either. But Isaiah swore that the cemetery and the well were still up there. And I have seen remnants of the church. It was torn down with the rest of the village, but part of the foundation is still a visible witness to what was once there. I have also seen the well.”

“That doesn’t explain the coins, Vincent.”

“Oh yes, the coins.” He explained, “Devin didn’t believe Isaiah’s story.”

~ ~ ~

“Do you expect me to believe that story, Isaiah? I’m too old for fairy tales.” Devin insisted.

“You think I’m lyin’? At my age, son, I ain’t got no good reason to lie about somethin’ like that.”

“No … I … I don’t know … If the well was really magic, Isaiah, then why didn’t the people just wish that their land would be saved? Then they never would have lost it in the first place.”

“It ain’t that simple, Devin. That ain’t how wishes work.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got ta be careful with wishes. You got ta think ‘em through. Sometimes what you wish for … well … wishes don’t always come true in the way you think they will. In the beginning our little village was just farm land. Nobody wanted it. The city was at the south end of the island. We never imagined it would grow like some kind a monster and come as far north as we lived. But it did. It grew and grew ‘til eventually it just swallowed up everything in its path. And our little village was in its path. No amount a wishing was ever gonna stop that. Nope … there ain’t ‘nuff wishes in the whole wide world to stop somethin’ like that. They call it progress.

“We did wish … We shore ‘nuff did…wished that our land wouldn’t be swallowed up by that monster rollin’ towards us… Thing is, son, we got our wish, the land is still there … The city come up and then just swept right around it on every side. Only thing is … the wish didn’t turn out the way we thought. Wishes do come true … like I said … they just don’t always come true in the way we imagine. We lost our houses, our village … but the land is still there … it’s part of Central Park now... just as green and pretty as it ever was.

~ ~ ~

“Isaiah showed us this tin. He dumped out all of the old coins and said, ‘these are all the wishes that people have spoken into that wishing well.’ We couldn’t understand. If they were thrown into the well … then how did he get them? He took us down to the waterfall … you know … where the sweet fresh water spring is. He told us that was the same spring that fed the well. That whenever someone makes a wish at the wishing well Up Top, the coins get swept along by the spring and come out here Below. He discovered the coins when his family took refuge here in the tunnels. Over the years he would find them from time to time in the little stone bowl under the spring. When he did find them, he knew someone up there had made a wish.”

“They must have been very poor, Vincent. Why didn’t they use the money?”

“Aaaaah, because this isn’t just money, Catherine. People have breathed their heart’s deepest desires onto these coins. They saw it as more than just money. These coins have been touched by heartaches, by faith … and maybe even by magic. So Isaiah kept them safe. They are only good for wishing. When Isaiah died, he left this tin to me. He trusted me to keep it safe.”

“Open your hands,” he said.

Catherine sat up on the bed and opened her hands.

Vincent turned the lid on the tin and poured the coins into Catherine’s hand.

“Vincent these coins … they are so old. Look … this one is from 1825,” she whispered in awe. “It feels like I am touching a piece of history.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “But they aren’t just coins, Catherine. Each one represents someone’s deepest desire. Many of these wishes … they were whispered by desperate people with broken hearts. They were washed by their tears. There is something sacred about these coins … something … magical.”

“Yes, I can feel that. Is this where you got your coins?” Catherine asked.

Vincent nodded. “Yes. When Devin doubted Isaiah’s story, Isaiah showed us these coins. He let us each choose one. He told us to keep them with us … that they were only to be used for making a wish in the wishing well, that if we used them for anything else that it would only bring us bad luck. He told us that if we did use them that we should go to the spring by the waterfall to retrieve the coins. If our coin came through then we could use it again for another wish.”

“But, Vincent, you have two coins.”

“Yes.” He became quiet again.

Catherine waited. She could feel his pain, his regret. It hung in the room like a cloud waiting to burst. She knew that he would speak when he was ready.

At length he looked up. He drew strength from the love that he could see in her eyes.

“When Devin and I fought … I hurt him. I scarred him. You already know that… and what happened at the carousel a few nights later.”

“Yes … I know about that too.”

“A few nights later I was on my way to Father’s chamber, in search of a new book from his library… and I heard Devin and Father arguing.”

Catherine knew about the argument. Devin had told her.

“Oh, Vincent.”

Vincent closed his eyes. The memory of it still fresh even after all these years.

~ ~ ~

Walking towards Father’s library Vincent could hear Devin and Father arguing. That in itself was not unusual. Devin was often in trouble, it seemed. But as he neared the chamber Vincent heard his name.

“… Maybe you did it deliberately! I mean, was that it? You seem to take a perverse pleasure in defying me … and exposing Vincent to danger! Did you want him to get caught?[3] ”

No, Father, you’re wrong, Vincent thought, Devin is my brother. He loves me, he would never …

“…was that it?” Father demanded. “Was that your way of getting back at him for your fight?”

No, no! Father you’re WRONG! Vincent was just about to intervene. I have to make him understand how it was! Vincent thought. But before he could move, Devin lashed back at Father.

“YES! I wanted him to get caught!” Devin spat the words at Father. “I hate ‘im! HE”S A LITTLE FREAK AND I HATE ‘IM!

Suddenly everything went quiet. Vincent felt as if a hot knife had been thrust into his chest, pinning him to the tunnel wall. It seemed for a moment that everything was suspended, frozen. No one even breathed.

Suddenly Devin turned and ran for the chamber entrance. Just as he exited the room he stopped short when he saw Vincent with his back plastered against the tunnel wall. His eyes were open wide and shimmered with unshed tears.

Devin stood frozen as he realized that Vincent had heard his hateful words. “Vincent …” he stammered, “I … I’m …”

Vincent felt as if his chest was on fire … that Devin’s words were burning through him and would consume him if he didn’t get out… get away … from everything… from everyone. He ran … not knowing how far … not knowing where … he just knew that if he stopped running the pain would catch up to him and destroy him.

By the time he ran into the park, he was weeping openly. The cool evening air felt good on his hot tearstained cheeks. Eventually he ran into a clump of overgrowth and threw himself on the ground in the safety of the trees and wept. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. When his sobs finally ceased he sat up and looked around. That’s when he saw the well.

At first he looked at the well in disbelief. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wishing coin that Isaiah had given him. The tears ran again as Devin’s words still rang in his ears. “I hate ‘im! HE”S A LITTLE FREAK AND I HATE ‘IM! … I hate ‘im! HE”S A LITTLE FREAK AND I HATE ‘IM!”

He leaned over the well and held the coin in his upturned palm. “I wish … I wish …” He paused and then sobbed, “I wish I never had to look at Devin’s ugly face again. I wish he would disappear and I never had to see him or talk to him again as long as I live!” and he turned his hand and let the coin slip off into the well. When he heard the coin ‘plop’ into the water, he turned and ran all the way home. He didn’t stop running until he reached the chamber he shared with Devin.

~ ~ ~

“When I came back Below, I went to bed and turned my back to the entrance of the chamber. I didn’t want to see him or speak to him. The pain was too deep, too fresh. But even then a part of me was already beginning to regret my wish. It took hours for me to go to sleep. When I woke up the next morning and he wasn’t here, I was relieved. I still wasn’t ready to face him. Later that day I went to the falls to think … to sulk. Before I left I remembered to look and see if my coin was there.”

“What did you find?” Catherine asked.

“I found my coin … right where Isaiah said it would be. Devin’s coin was there as well.”

“So Devin found the well that night too?”

“I knew he must have … and I knew he must have made a wish. I took both coins and put them in my pocket. I hadn’t seen Devin all day. I was beginning to worry … that perhaps he had heard me make my wish … or that perhaps my wish had come true… that something terrible had happened to him. After a few days, Father began to become very worried. Everyone Below was looking for him. Father made himself sick over it. He thought perhaps Devin had gotten lost in the maze or … or worse.

“We searched for weeks. But I knew … I knew we wouldn’t find him. I knew my wish had come true. I felt so guilty for the hateful wish that I had made, but I couldn’t tell anyone…The guilt was eating me up inside. When I was alone I would take out the coins and just stare at them … as if … they held some answer. Instead they only convicted me. It felt as if they were burning a hole right through my hand … and right through my heart.”

Catherine was silent, but he could feel her compassion for his pain.

“Finally I took them to Isaiah and tried to give them back.”

~ ~ ~

“Why are you giving these back, son? You don’t want a wish?”

Vincent didn’t respond. He just hung his head.

Isaiah rubbed his chin. “I see .... You already made a wish?”

“How did you know?”

“I’m an old man, Vincent. I seen a lot o’ hangdog looks in my day, an that is one big ol’ hangdog look.”

Vincent didn’t reply.

“So your wish … it come true? Or it went wrong?” Isaiah asked.

“Both.”

Isaiah rubbed his chin some more. “And now what? You think if you give back the coin you can undo that wish?”

Vincent looked up hopefully. “Can a wish be undone, Isaiah?”

“Didn’t I tell you you got ta be careful with wishes? Didn’t I tell you ta think ‘em through?”

“Yes, Sir,” Vincent replied.

“And is that what you did, Vincent? Were you careful? Did you think it through?”

“No, Sir.”

“An how is it you come to have Devin’s coin?”

“I don’t know. I guess he made a wish too. I found his coin with mine at the spring.”

“What was your wish, son?”

Vincent was too ashamed to say it out loud.

“Hmmm. That bad, huh? What were you feelin, Vincent, when you made that wish?

Vincent looked up at Isaiah with tear filled eyes and said, “I was mad … I was really, really mad.”

“Uh-huh … I see … A wish made in anger … it’s a powerful thing. It usually ends up hurting the person who makes the wish more than the person they are angry at. Am I close to the truth, son?”

Vincent nodded with tears running down his face.

“I don’t rightly know if’n a wish can be undone, ‘specially a wish like that. I do know it can’t be undone if you give this back. There’s only one thing ta do.”

“What, Isaiah? I’ll do anything if I can just take it back.”

Handing back the coins, he said, “You take these back and you keep ‘em with you an you think it through this time. And when you’re done thinkin’ it through, you go an make another wish. But make sure it’s a good one this time. That’s all you can do, son. And you keep Devin’s safe ‘til he comes back for it.”

“But, Isaiah, I’ve looked for the well every night since. I can’t find it.”

“You will, son. You will. When you’ve thought it through an the time is right … don’t you worry none … that well will find you.”

~ ~ ~

“He was right, wasn’t he?” Catherine asked.

“Yes,” Vincent whispered.”

“How long did it take you to find it?” she asked.

“Seven months … seven long lonely months.”

“Did you talk to anyone about it? Father? Mary? Anyone?”

Vincent shook his head. “Just Isaiah. I was too ashamed of myself to tell anyone else. I spent those months thinking long and hard about what I had done… What was in my heart … what that said about the kind of person I was, what kind of person I wanted to be, and just how I would word my wish if I ever found it again. For seven long lonely months I snuck out of the tunnels every single night after everyone was asleep and searched the park… rain or snow. ”

“And when you did … find it?”

“When I finally found it the next Spring I had nearly given up. I sat next to it and wept. I was so thankful and so sorry.”

“And your wish?”

“Ah yes, the wish. I wished that I could undo my first wish, take it back, and that Devin would come home and know that I loved him. But if it wasn’t possible to undo the wish … I wished that Devin would be safe wherever he was … and that he would know that I loved him.”

Catherine stroked his chest in an effort to reach out and comfort the lonely boy that still lived in him. “But, Vincent, surely you know now that it wasn’t really your wish that made him go? You realize that he would have gone anyway, right?”

Vincent nodded. “Yes … a part of me does … but it wouldn’t have been the same, Catherine. The way it happened … with those last ugly things between us … that isn’t the way we should have parted.

“If we had parted as brothers … as friends, he would have written me letters, sent postcards of his adventures. We would have included each other in our lives, known of each other’s dreams and sorrows. Father wouldn’t have grown old before my eyes with worry and regret.”

Catherine nodded. “Yes, I think I understand, but surely you didn’t believe that you alone were responsible for it?”

“At first, I did. Isaiah was right; a wish made in anger does indeed do more harm to the person who makes the wish than to the person he is angry with. With that first wish … I did great harm to myself … more harm than Devin’s thoughtless words had done. But the second wish … it did much to help me heal … to help me understand that we all played a part in what happened.”

“… and it came true? Your wish?” she asked.

“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “It took twenty years … but yes … it did come true.”

“Did you ever talk to Devin about it? Did he ever tell you what wish he made that night?”

Vincent nodded. “He tried to follow me. He ran after me, but even at that age I could run faster than any of the other boys. And in that … state … I ran even faster. By the time he reached the park, he had no idea where I had gone. He searched the park desperately trying to find me … he finally heard me crying at the well. He found me just in time to hear my wish.”

“Oh, Vincent.” She wanted to pull him closer and ease his pain.

“He waited until I left and then he made a wish.”

“What was it? Did he ever tell you?”

Nodding, he said, “He wished that I would forgive him.”

“For what he said?”

He shook his head. “No. He knew I would forgive him for that. He wanted me to forgive him for leaving … without me … for leaving me behind. All those dreams he had dreamed that included me. He finally realized that he would never be able to do any of them … that that is all they would ever be … dreams … unless he left me behind. He wished that I would understand … and forgive him.”

It was late. The pipes and the trains had gone quiet. The silence in the chamber almost hummed. Vincent reached to wipe a tear that had slipped down Catherine’s cheek with his thumb. He could feel her heart breaking for the lonely boy he had been and it touched him deeply.

He pulled her close in a warm embrace. Sometimes he just needed to feel her close. To feel her heart beating next to his. To feel them breathing together, in and out as if they were one. To prove to himself that this angel beside him was real … and that she was his.

As they embraced he said, “It’s all right, Catherine. It was a long time ago … it’s over.”

She looked lovingly up at him. “I know, but it still hurts. I can hear it in your voice. I feel it. No child should ever be in that much pain.”

“No, I suppose not, but sometimes it can’t be helped, can it?” he gently asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Catherine. Where were you in 1968? You were only a child then too, but you already knew great pain … even worse than mine. Didn’t you?”

She looked at him in surprise. “I was twelve … yes … you’re right. That was a terrible, painful time for me. I missed my mother so much. Even two years after her death, I would still cry myself to sleep sometimes. I tried to hide it from my father, but I think he knew.”

“And it was during that time that you searched the park for the wishing well?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Tell me, Catherine, why did you search so long for it? … If you had found it … what would you have wished for? What was your heart’s deepest wish when you were twelve years old?” He thought he already knew the answer.

She had never spoken it out loud, not to Charles Chandler, not to Nancy Tucker, not to anyone.

“I wanted to wish her back.” She said wistfully. “Even then I knew that it was an impossible wish … that no amount of wishing could bring someone back from the dead. But I wished … I wished that she had never died … that she would come home and it would be like it had been before. That we could be a family again.”

The silence of the chamber hummed around them again as Vincent stared at her. There is that look again, she thought.

“Vincent,” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that? You had that same look on your face earlier, with the children. What is it? What do you want to tell me?”

“It’s my last wish, Catherine … I said that I had made four wishes.”

“Yes? You’ve told me about the first two … and the one Mouse told everyone about ... was that the third?”

“Yes, the one Mouse spoke of was the third.”

“And the fourth? What was your fourth wish, Vincent? Can you tell me?”

Vincent pulled away from her. He needed a little bit of distance for what he was about to say. He got up and paced back and forth and then he pulled up his chair and sat facing her as she sat on the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep cleansing breath.

“Vincent?” Catherine was concerned.

He reached for her hands. He stared at them and then looked into her eyes. “The night of your funeral, Catherine …”

He stopped when he heard her breathe in sharply and waited. Once she seemed to catch her breath, he continued never breaking eye contact.

“After your funeral … as soon as it was late enough … safe enough … I went there … to the cemetery.”

She hated any references to that time in their lives. She hated ever thinking about it let alone talking, but she could see that he had something he needed to tell her. She nodded for him to continue.

“I was in so much pain … I shouldn’t have been Above … not in that state, but I couldn’t stay away. I wanted to be near you … even if it was like … that. I don’t know how long I stayed, but when I was making my way back home through the park … I guess I was just wandering aimlessly … I was lost, Catherine. Without you … nothing mattered anymore … I didn’t care if anyone saw me. I didn’t care if anyone caught me. I thought I would die of the emptiness and the pain.”

“Vincent,” she whispered as she tightened her grip on his hands … his beautiful hands … her hands.

“At some point I looked around me and realized that I was standing … at the wishing well.”

~ ~ ~

He couldn’t believe it. After all this time, after all he had lost … there it was … the wishing well. He laughed bitterly as he stood there looking at it. It mocked him … it mocked his pain. It mocked everything that had ever mattered. It mocked everything he had lost. For Catherine truly was EVERYTHING … everything that had ever mattered anyway.

“You’re too late,” he whispered as if he was speaking to a person. “You’re too late,” he said a little louder. “YOU … ARE TOO …. LATE!” he screamed. “SHE’S GONE! GONE!” he roared wildly in his anguish.

He ran at the well and began kicking it and punching it until his knuckles were bleeding and he fell to his knees sobbing against it.

“You … are … everlastingly … too … late,” he said as the sobs wracked his body. Hot tears dripped from his face unheeded into the water below. “Why couldn’t you have been here six months ago? When I could have found her. When I could have saved her.”

And then in his despair he took a coin from his vest pocket and stared at it as it lay in his upturned palm. It mocked him too. He knew that the deepest wish of his heart would never come true, could never … come true. He knew it was an impossible wish and that no amount of wishing could bring someone back from the dead. Nevertheless, in spite of what he knew to be true he whispered it anyway through his anguish and his tears. He breathed it out into the well.

“I want her back … I wish she had never died … I wish I could find our child and she could come home with us and we could raise him together and be a family.”

And then almost as if he was watching someone else he saw his hand turn and the coin, the 1847 silver half dime, slipped from his palm and into the well. He heard it ‘plop’ as it hit the water below. Still leaning over the well, he took a deep sorrowful breath, and thought he heard a voice from deep below whisper, “With love … all things are possible.”

~ ~ ~

They sat in the silence looking at each other in wonder with tears streaming down both of their faces. She had been squeezing his hands so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

“I found my coin the next day … just where I always did.”

She was too shocked to respond so Vincent continued. “Imagine how astonished I was that day, when I was trying to escape from Gabriel’s basement with Jacob in my arms and I heard you whisper my name from the shadows. When I turned and saw you standing there I thought … I thought you were a ghost … an apparition of some kind. But when I reached out to touch you …”

Overwhelmed by emotion he stopped for a moment. “I refused to sleep for days after I brought the both of you home. I was so afraid to close my eyes … afraid that I would wake up and discover that I had imagined it. Sometimes I still wake up and reach out to you just to make sure.”

She was looking at him so strangely. He couldn’t quite discern what she was feeling.

“Catherine? What is it?”

She shook her head. “Vincent … I … I never whispered your name that day. I … I wasn’t going to come back to you … I … I blamed myself … I blamed myself for everything … everything that you had suffered. I believed that the only way you and Jacob could ever be safe would be if I … if I stayed dead. But when you discovered me there. When you saw me and took me in your arms … I didn’t have the strength to go through with it. Vincent … it wasn’t me that whispered your name.”

He looked at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. “If it wasn’t you, Catherine, then who could it …?”

Realizing he had nearly lost her forever, he gasped, “Oh, Catherine.” He pulled her into his arms and held her tight as he whispered her name over and over.

“I love you, Vincent … I love you.” she said, and he held her tighter.

~ ~ ~

They were both still quietly contemplating it all the next morning as he put the tin back in its place on the shelf. Catherine came up beside him and wrapped her arms around him. They both seemed more aware than usual what a precious gift they had been given. He kissed the top of her head.

“How do you think it works, Vincent? How do you think it could?” she asked.

“How does it matter, Catherine? I’m just thankful that it did.” He kissed her again.

“Are you going to tell the children that story tonight like you promised?”

He thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will tell them about my first two wishes. They have already heard the story of the third.”

“And the fourth?”

“No … not the fourth,” he softly replied. “I think story of the fourth wish is too …”

“Sacred?” she offered.

He pondered the word. He breathed it in. “Sacred?” And then he breathed it out. “Sacred” It sounded like a prayer. “Yes, Catherine, I think that is just what it is… sacred. I think we should keep the story of the fourth wish to ourselves. Maybe someday we will tell our children and our grandchildren about it.”

Children? She wondered if that was just a slip of the tongue or if he had said it deliberately.

“Open your hand, Catherine,” he said as he held up his fist.

When she opened her hand he dropped something into it. Looking closely she realized what it was. “Vincent, this is one of the wishing coins from Isaiah’s tin.”

“Yes. It’s the 1825 Liberty One Cent coin you picked out of the pile last night.”

“But … why?”

“Because … every now and then … I feel a longing in you. Like you are missing something … wanting something. It’s always fleeting … but I felt it last night with the children. I don’t know what it is for sure, but it is there. I want you to have this coin … in case you ever do stumble across the well, you will be ready … to make a wish.”

“Vincent, this is a lovely gift, but …”

“But what, Catherine?”

“But I don’t need the wishing well, Vincent … I have already been given so much … I already have everything … everything. I have you and I have Jacob. If I am ever given more, I will accept it gratefully, but it would be selfish of me to ask.”

He smiled. I should have known she would say something like that, he thought. He gently closed her fingers around the coin. “Keep it anyway, Catherine,” he insisted. “Just in case … in case you ever find yourself in need of a wish, you will be ready.”

She nodded. “Yes, just in case …” She smiled. “Thank you, Vincent.” Catherine reached up to pull his face down to hers. She intended to show him just how grateful she was…

~ ~ ~

…faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.[4]

~ ~ ~

…Never stop believing…

The Fourth Wish by Barbara Handshy Anderson was first published online in October of 2015. It was inspired by a challenge on batbland.com http://www.batbland.com/challenges/challenges.htm . The site gives one or more prompts each month to inspire and encourage writers. It’s a wonderful surprise each month to see what adventures fandom writers concoct for our favorite lovers and their friends.

Although fairly new to BATB fandom, Barbara has been an ardent fan of the show since it first aired in 1987. She was unaware that the fandom even existed until early 2015. She published her first story, Unbreakable, on Treasure Chambers at http://treasurechambers.com/ in April of 2015. Although a few of her stories have appeared in the annual conzines, all of her stories are available online and listed on the Beauty and the Beast Fan Fiction Database at http://batbtv.com/chan/bbfanfic/

Happy Birthday Vincent

by Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think…”

~ A.A. Milne

~ ~ ~

Catherine…

Catherine turned over in her warm, comfortable bed. She stretched lazily, before burrowing            deeper into the yielding softness. Just another two minutes or so more, and then…

It was a crying shame she would soon have to get up and face another action filled, exhausting day. Another day spent trying to avoid watching Joe consume chocolate covered cheese nuggets as he feigned enjoyment and smirked at her disgusted expression. The joke was getting way too old and tired.

Then there was the problem of trying to overcome the sporadic bouts of light-headedness due to the lack of decent food and from consuming cup after cup of the sludge that passed for coffee in the Justice Building, which were interspersed with hectic rounds of court dates, depositions and interviews with people who couldn’t talk, didn’t have time to talk or who’d already lawyered-up and decided not to talk…

Releasing a long, reluctant sigh, she rolled back to grope blindly for her bedside alarm clock and frowned, finally half-opening one sleepily reluctant eye to stare at it in consternation.

Did it ring? It must have…

She couldn’t afford to be late; it was such an unforgiveable sin in her boss’s eyes and…She peered closely at the illuminated numbers it displayed, and gasped in horror. It had already gone well beyond nine o’clock, and she was seriously late for work! Joe was going to flay her hide and nail it to his office wall as an example of what happened to those who came in late…again! And she couldn’t blame him — there was just so much to do and so little time and —

She shot upright into a sitting position, tossing the covers aside before scrambling frantically, feeling around the floor with her bare toes, hunting for her slippers, trying to calculate how long it would take her to fit in a shower, wash her hair, dry it, get dressed and manage her make-up one-handed while consuming something that approached any kind of sustenance before brushing her teeth and — Saturday!

Slipper-less still, she stopped abruptly in mid-flurry half-way across the bedroom, her arms flailing in a dozen different directions at once. Her braced shoulders slumped with relief. She shoved the tumbled hair out of her eyes before passing a tired hand over her face. Her whole body trembled as her heart hammered uncomfortably within the cage of her ribs, pumping with the sickening surge of adrenalin.

All the saints be praised, it’s actually the weekend…

“Oh, I don’t believe it…” She fell backwards onto the bed, spread-eagling her limbs and sighing with heartfelt relief. After a few moments of calm breathing she got up to scurry back under the covers, snuggling down and feeling like playing truant for the whole weekend. Maybe she wouldn’t even get out of her pyjamas.

Suddenly she felt as if she was floating. She stretched on a long, relaxing moan of contentment and wriggled deliciously.

Two days…two whole days in which I plan to thoroughly enjoy myself, as I —

She shot upright again. Oh, help! I’m supposed to be seeing my father this morning! She’d promised to meet with him before he went out of town for a much needed, long weekend break in the Hamptons with Kay! He’d telephoned her at work the day before, complaining he never saw her anymore and how about they meet for a catch-up. He’d already booked an eleven o’clock brunch for just the two of them at his favourite uptown Italian restaurant and his loving daughter was going to be late if I don’t move it!

Casting the covers aside again with renewed haste, she gave up the hunt for her slippers, hurrying barefoot into her bathroom to hustle through a shower, washing her hair and drying it, dressing and completing her make-up in record time.

At least I don’t have to worry about the food, she thought wryly as she checked the final result in the mirror and nodded with rueful approval — not bad, Radcliffe — before starting a frantic hunt for her purse and door keys. She knew she’d tossed them on the couch last night after coming in, dog-tired, from work…They have to be around here somewhere…She finally closed her hand on them gratefully, down the back of the cushions.

“Things are looking up,” she reasoned, as she shrugged into her woollen coat, and headed for the door.

That was when she saw the note, taped to the inside of the front door. The note she’d written to herself so she wouldn’t forget something very important in the hectic rush of her life…taped where she knew Vincent wouldn’t see it.

He still refused to enter her apartment unless it was too cold or raining outside. Only when she specifically asked him to come inside.  And even then he would often reply with a request of his own — that she meet him in the tunnel entrance below her apartment building rather than step inside her personal space where he was not yet entirely comfortable.

“Oh, Vincent…” She took down the note and smiled.

Suddenly all the rushing caused by her lateness, the adrenalin and the frantic pace rampaging within her, stilled. She held up the note, studied it for several heartbeats before closing her eyes and sighing as she pressed it to her lips then folded it carefully. She pushed it into the side pocket of her purse.

Pressing one hand to the slowing pace of her heart, she smiled a secret smile and shook her head, before wiping away the single tear that traced a path down her cheek. But it was a tear of happiness and heart-warming memories. It was going to be all right…

It was Saturday after all, and it was going to be a wonderful day. She would share and enjoy a long overdue meal with her beloved father, catch up on all the gossip and news. And then, after bidding him bon voyage, she would go shopping for something simply-gorgeous-must-have to wear. The note was a welcome reminder not to forget a very important date that was imminent. A very important date indeed…

~ ~ ~

Father…

Father held the slender volume of poetry up to the burnished light of his kerosene lamp, and blessed Sebastien for being such an excellent treasure hunter. He was an even more generous friend that he had not kept the gift for himself.

Jacob caressed the soft binding and admired the cover, so very old, but still in such great condition. He had not hoped to ever find such a rare prize, or to secure it for the unbelievable price of a complete second set of Shakespeare’s collected works which, thanks to Mouse’s excellent skills in unearthing discarded treasures Above, he already possessed in their entirety.

“If I were an avaricious man…” Father smiled, turning the book over. It fell open at a very familiar poem. He read it slowly once more, even though he already knew it by heart…

‘No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee…’

“John Donne certainly had the right of it…” Father nodded.

The world of the tunnels was all intertwined. Every person who dwelled there, every place they lived or worked was inextricably linked. And the great lynch-pin holding it all together and ensuring it all worked was Vincent. They would truly be the less without him…

Father thought of the note he’d first received from Catherine some months ago now. Geoffrey had hurried it to him in his chamber, looking determinedly furtive, as if he were about to explode with excitement at any moment. But then, at Catherine’s request, he was on a very secret mission and Vincent mustn’t know…

The note had been accompanied by the reward money they’d received for returning Cleopatra’s diamond-studded collar to its rightful owner. Catherine had generously doubled the money with a contribution of her own, so Father had not felt too guilty about diverting a portion to the birthday project she proposed in her note. Those who needed hard-to-source items they couldn’t acquire through gifting, bartering or exchange would be able to apply to Father for the funds.

He sighed now, closing the book and laying it down, running his gloved hand reverently over the cover. The gift was perfect, exactly what he had searched a long time to secure, and to have it fall into his lap through the kindness and grace of an old friend…Father chuckled…I might even let the old scoundrel beat me at chess for a change…

The gift was for a very important person in Jacob’s life and the date for giving was imminent. Very imminent indeed…

~ ~ ~

Mouse and Jamie…

“Last one…” Mouse held the polished piece of granite up to the light. “What do you think?” He looked at Jamie anxiously, holding the stone out for her to admire.

“I think they’re all very beautiful…” His companion nodded, carefully adding the rock to the rest of their collection. “You have done a wonderful thing here, Mouse.”

“Think so too.” Mouse sighed with contentment, wriggling with delight like an overgrown puppy. “Gonna be good, for everyone.”

He’d spent the best part of a year burrowing and digging, searching through rock-falls, delving into hidden caverns and tunnels. He had truly gone where no man — or woman — had gone before, in search of just the right stone. Jamie had helped where she could, but Mouse was a solitary creature, and he would often disappear for days at a time, losing track of the passing hours, sometimes even the need for food, in his quest for perfection.

“Okay good, okay fine…!” He clapped his hands now, dancing from foot to foot with excitement. “All done…”

Arranged on the table before them were two dozen fine examples of beautifully polished stones. There were quartz and xenotime crystals. Among the few Jamie could name was a magnificent specimen of artinite sitting beside a serpentine muscovite crystal, a find Mouse was especially proud of.

Next to a rare trapezohedral almandine crystal, a beautifully carved example of Manhattan schist looked somewhat drab, but Mouse couldn’t bring himself to discard it. He wanted all the minerals he’d been able to uncover represented in the collection. There was even a small lump of alluvial gold gleaming like warm butter in the lamplight. Mouse had dug around for more, but found none. He decided it must have been dropped long ago by a previous, careless owner, and it had been covered over by the rising detritus of the growing city.

“Now all we need is the box…” He rubbed his hands together anxiously. “Hope Cullen is doing it. Hope Winslow can make the hinges in time. Need to have the best glass for the top…” His anxious blue eyes flew to study Jamie’s sympathetic look. “Need to see through it good.”

“It’ll be all right, Mouse. You’ll see. It’ll be all right on the night.”

“Mouse hopes so…” The tinker’s face settled into a morose pattern. “But maybe I should go and check one more time?”

“No, Mouse.” Jamie put a firm hand on his arm, before he could dart away out of the Mousehole and go in search of his friend. “You’ve already checked half a dozen times now. Cullen told you the last time it would be done when it’s done, and don’t pester him again or else. Just trust for once. You can’t control everything…”

“Maybe not, maybe so…” Mouse ran an agitated hand around the back of his neck. “Maybe check again tomorrow…”

“All right…” Jamie laughed. “But only if I can come with you. To stop you driving poor Cullen out of his mind.”

“Okay great! I like you a lot. A lot!” Mouse seized her hand and squeezed, pumping it up and down, causing an unaccustomed flush of deep colour to flood the clear skin of his friend’s cheeks. “Thanks, Jamie.”

“You’re welcome…” Jamie managed to mutter, frowning at him direfully to cover her confusion. “Just don’t think you can go anywhere without me.”

She glanced back at the table, with its collection of polished stones. They were for a very important person in both their lives, and the date for giving them was drawing ever nearer. Very near indeed…

~ ~ ~

Devin and Charles…

“We gonna get there soon, Dev? Are we? Not long now…”

“Yes, Charles, we’re going to be getting there soon. It won’t be long now before we land at JFK.”

“Whhheeee, I like flying, Dev. Big plane, flying over the sea. Lots and lots of sea. Now lots and lots of land, mountains too. God bless America, right, Dev? Australia is long way from New York, eh? We gonna land soon, Dev?”

“Yes, Australia is a very long way from New York. But you enjoyed it all the way down there, didn’t you? Everyone accepted you and wished you well when we left.”

“Loved it, Dev. But you must’ve dug halfway to China in that mine. It was the best of times. And we made lots of money. We rich now, Dev, eh? Can’t wait to tell my friend Vincent all about it. Lots of sunshine, Dev. Gonna be cold in New York, maybe snow too.”

“Oh, I’m sure Vincent will be pleased to see you. But don’t go telling everyone we’re rich. We’re not that rich, just comfortable. But where we’re going there won’t be a lot of snow. It will be good to be home again. And maybe after this visit we’ll try our luck down in New Zealand. I hear it’s a great place for tourism…”

“Okay, Dev, whatever you want. And everyone’s gonna be happy to see you too. You’re Vincent’s big brother. Gotta get a visit from your big brother on that special day. He’ll like that.”

“Yes, I think he will. And the old man. It’s been too long since l last saw him. I haven’t been to Vincent’s birthday for years. I was always off somewhere else. I have a lot of ground to make up. But back then when we were kids, we used to go a bit mad, created a lot of havoc. Father used to give us hell afterwards, but Vincent always enjoyed the adventure. And that’s what mattered.”

“Ha, ha! We should put big red bow around your neck, eh, Dev? Good present, you be. Make Vincent laugh. Father, too. Maybe shove you in the box with all the rest of the stuff we bought! Make you jump out and go, boo!”

“Geeze, no thanks. I’ll keep it simple, if it’s all the same to you. But I guess my coming home is the perfect gift for the most important person in my life, next to you, Charles. But a few gifts won’t hurt, either. And this time we’re going to be there on the day and in time. And I’m going back as Devin Wells again. It feels real good. That’s the most important thing…”

~ ~ ~

Winslow and Cullen…

“I think that about does it…” Cullen carefully placed on Winslow’s work bench, the box he’d created from the heart of an ancient piece of buried oak. “Mind you, I almost ran into Vincent getting it here. I had to duck down a side tunnel, and I know he nearly caught me. He called after me, but I didn’t dare stop. A moment later and he would’ve seen what I was carrying. I prayed I wouldn’t break the glass from holding it so tight. We gotta be more careful. He’s not stupid, ya know.”

“As long as you got it here, that’s the important thing.” Winslow left tending his fire to admire the piece of woodwork with its framed glass lid through which he could see into every neatly-squared inner compartment lined with black velvet. “Say, this is just beautiful. You’ve excelled yourself, old man.”

“Who you calling old, Old Man?” Cullen grinned his appreciation. “It is some of my best work, I’ll admit. I think he’ll like it. Mouse says he’s finished with the stones. He’s been at me day and night to see the box. I think he’d sleep in my chamber if he could. I had to shush him up at dinner a couple of nights ago when he nearly spoiled the surprise. He was bouncing all around like some crazy-mad Mexican jumping bean. Like his pants were on fire. That boy just cannot keep a secret.”

“Well, I’ve had him in and out of here like some damn revolving door. I think he’s even been in here, poking around, while I’ve been asleep. You’d think the boy was giving birth or something.” Winslow chuckled. “I threatened to lose that stupid raccoon of his if he didn’t leave me alone. Haven’t seen him since. I’ve had five days of peace and quiet.”

“Great idea. Maybe I’ll try it.” Cullen nodded. “Okay, so what do you have for me?”

“I think these will do the trick nicely…” Winslow held up a pair of delicate wrought iron hinges he’d spent weeks crafting, each shaped as two stylised dragons, their wings spread flat on either side of their bodies to create the flanges. At the front their claws came together, interlocking neatly to take the hinge pins. He put them down on the bench beside a lock that was shaped as a dragon’s head with its fanged mouth wide open to take the old fashioned, long-shanked key hung with a black silk tassel.

“Oh, man…” Cullen stared in open-mouthed wonder. “Geeze, this is beyond your best work. These are just something special. He’s gonna love them. And Mouse will go into orbit.”

“Yeah, well, I always said that boy was a space cadet anyway.” Winslow laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder, his face flushed with more than the heat of his fire. “I think we’ve done good work here. Real good. I’m so proud of the both of us.”

“Good…?” Cullen shook his head. “Better than good, better than anything. In Mouse’s oddball words, we done real, okay fine.”

He shook hands with his good friend before pulling him close to hug him fiercely, slapping him on the back. Each thought about his own part in the gift that was his special way of saying thank you to a very important person in both their lives.

Cullen thanked the gods of woodworking he could get it done in time and that the antique glass lid he’d manufactured from an old subway car window had survived intact. Winslow turned away to stoke his blacksmith’s fire, nodding his appreciation that the flames allowed his large hands to craft such delicate pieces.

And the date for giving was drawing closer all the time. They both prayed and hoped that Mouse wouldn’t blow it for everyone in his breathless excitement. Maybe they should just kidnap the damn raccoon anyway — that would slow him down…

~ ~ ~

William…

William had gone through all his recipes, pulling in a lot of favours and plainly begging for some of the items he needed. But it was all slowly coming together.

He’d used as little of the reward money as humanly possible, but he’d made sure this would be a feast to end all feasts. He’d recycled a lot of stuff from Winterfest and Christmas, so he was well ahead of the game on the decorations front. He was going to ensure the tables groaned with delights and specialities he’d pulled from every corner of the Tunnels and Above.

But the most wonderful help and supplies had come from the inimitable Lady May. She had come to his rescue with the most hard-to-source items. He owed the old lady big-time and no doubt she would be along someday soon to collect. Lady May never forgot a debt or a promise.

But William was fine with that. It was all in the most excellent of causes and he was going to make sure everything came off perfectly. Or die in the attempt.

“It might yet come to that…” He grimaced, wiping the sweat from his flushed brow, as he turned to scowl down at Cleopatra, who sat at his feet with the look of a cat who was about to expire from the advanced stages of hunger.

“Aw, come on…” William groaned in honest disgust. “I fed you only an hour ago. Go catch a mouse or something…”

Cleopatra yowled plaintively, shuffling her furry body closer, reaching to place a pleading paw on William’s boot. Her penitent look would have done justice to the greatest martyr who ever lived.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake…All right, all right…You won’t let me rest until, right?” William threw up his hands in disgust. “Women!”

The planning for the feast could wait a minute or two. But the event was imminent. Very imminent. And he needed to get on with the extensive preparations…

~ ~ ~

Mary and the Children…

Mary looked around her crowded chamber and smiled happily. Nearly every child of the tunnels had been gathered in here, all coming and going about their appointed tasks. It had been hard sneaking them away from Vincent’s all-seeing over-view, but she’d managed it so far. The set of clothes was almost finished.

Each child had brought, in their turn, something special of their memories with their dealings with Vincent, their good friend and mentor. They were being crafted by Mary and her gathering of women into a vest and a new cloak for Vincent. Clutching some of the reward money Olivia had volunteered to go Above to buy a whole roll of the best black woollen cloth. On her return Mary and she had unrolled it and stroked the fabric with loving hands, marvelling at its quality.

Samantha had been trusted with the important task of cutting the cloth to shape under Olivia’s supervision. Eric and Ellie had been especially eager to contribute to the gift.

Unclamping her tongue from the concentrated grip of her teeth, Ellie had looked up from her stitching-work. “He and Catherine saved us, you know. It was a miracle. He was just like an angel, coming down from heaven. I’ll never forget it. Not as long as I live.”

“I think Vincent would like that, being called an angel.” Mary smiled. “He is a very special person and we’re very lucky to have him. He looks after us all. And we look after him.”

Ellie nodded vigorously. “I hope he and Catherine will get married one day. I’m gonna be a bridesmaid. She said I could be.”

“Well, I think we should leave that to the future and to them,” Mary said, in her soft voice. “For now, let’s concentrate on the work in hand. You are sewing that new piece very nicely, dear.”

Eric looked up from his task of cutting narrow strips for laces from a piece of buckskin. “I’m gonna be just like Vincent, when I grow up. I’m gonna be a guard, a sentry. I’m gonna look out for people and I get a staff and everything. He said so.” He pushed his over-large glasses back up over the bridge of his nose and grinned.

“I’m sure you will be.” Mary nodded. “But right now we need to get this finished. Time is running out and we don’t want Vincent to catch us in the act now, do we? We have to make sure he sees us around and doing things he expects. So, Eric, when you’ve finished that I think you need to go out and walk around, like you know where you’re going and what you’re doing. Make sure Vincent sees you. If he asks, you’re on a mission for Father. Okay?”

“Okay.” The boy nodded importantly. “I know what to do. Then it’ll be Ellie’s turn next. Then Samantha’s…”

Mary smiled at them all. They were such sweet children and her ladies were giving every bit of spare time they had. The clothes were for a very important person in all their lives, and the date for giving was drawing ever nearer. Very near indeed…

~ ~ ~

Pascal…

Pascal frowned over the notations he’d made. Every code he could think of was written down in the code book he was creating. He hoped Vincent would like it. He knew Vincent would already be aware of most of them, but he thought he would add some more complicated ones and he’d even managed to get in some of Vincent’s favourite poetry.

When the idea arose of everyone thinking up some special gift to give Vincent for his upcoming birthday, Pascal had scratched his balding head and kept silent within the secret gathering in Father’s chamber. He felt he had nothing to contribute right then.

Catherine had proposed the whole idea in a secret message to Father. She’d suggested the affair could be a big surprise. Father had delighted in the idea and had done his best to organise everything he could behind his son’s broad and, hopefully, still unsuspecting back. The reward money from the cat’s diamond collar had helped a lot. But Pascal didn’t need any of the precious money…

He shook his head now. How could anyone surprise a man who saw everything and knew everything, often before anyone else was aware or even thought of it?

Only Mouse came close to being as knowledgeable as Vincent. That was when he’d hit on the idea of the code book. It was a world he knew and a world he knew Vincent loved being a large part of.

He bent over his notebook by the light of a pair of guttering candles. Around him the Pipe Room clattered and muttered with the messages being asked and answered for the moment by Zach. Pascal felt happy with the gift he was crafting — a gift for a very important person in his life — and he was excited to be a small part of the greater whole, making his contribution to a wonderful event that would soon unfold…

~ ~ ~

Sebastien…

“And there you are. It was behind your ear all the time!” Sebastien produced the dollar coin from the back of the child’s ear with a flourish.

“How’d that get there?” The boy’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. He felt his ear.

“Ah, a good magician never tells his secrets. They wouldn’t be secrets then, now would they?”

“Is the coin magic? Can I keep it, please?”

“Well, I guess so, since you asked so nicely.” The magician dropped the coin into the boy’s open palm and stood, stretching out the cramp in his limbs. I must be getting old…

“Thanks, Mister…” The boy closed his hand with a wide, gap-toothed grin. But when he opened it to peek at his prize, the coin had disappeared. He stood in stunned silence, staring at his empty palm.

“Behind your ear…remember…?” Sebastien took pity on the boy whose his wide eyes began filling with tears.

Hesitantly the child put his hand to his ear and then a smile split his face. “How’d it get back there again?”

“I told you, a good magician never tells you his secrets.” Sebastien shook his head. “Now this time make sure you keep a good, tight hold on it.”

“I’m gonna be just like you when I get big,” the boy avowed breathlessly, before he darted away across the crowded subway platform, running to his mother’s side, clutching his coin as if he dared never let it go again.

Sebastien smiled, thinking of another young boy who had vowed the same oath some years before. A child with a unique face and such a loving, giving nature, despite the cruel hand nature had dealt him.

The gift Sebastien would bring to the gathering was his talents and the very best of his skills. He would dazzle and entertain and make it a night to remember. For that young boy with the unusual face he could not show to the outside world, for the man he had become.

A wonderful man whom the magician had loved like his own flesh and blood from the very first time he’d seen him, a tiny babe-in-arms who someone had not cared enough about to keep. Now that baby was a very important person in his life, and the date for giving the greatest performance of his life was imminent. Very imminent indeed…He couldn’t wait to begin…

~ ~ ~

Lou…

“But I don’t have any idea what to give.” Lou had spread his hands wide when Catherine first approached him. “As you can see the only thing I truly love is food.” He patted his ample girth. “I’m an old fashioned barber, pure and simple. But I doubt you’d want me to give Vincent a birthday present of a short back and sides.”

“Oh no, please don’t…” Catherine’s green eyes had flared wide with shock at the unwanted image his words invoked. “Don’t ever suggest it. That would be…that would be…Oh, Lord, no.”

“Exactly.” Lou chuckled. “See my problem? I’m good at what I do, but that’s all I do.”

“Chocolates…” Catherine breathed hopefully. She indicated the massive box of expensive imported Swiss confections tucked almost out of sight behind a neatly folded stack of white towels at Lou’s back. “You can bring everyone chocolates. I know Vincent has a sweet tooth.”

“Great!” Lou’s face took on a look of immeasurable relief. “That I can do. I’ll bring six big boxes of the best Swiss money can buy.”

“Thank you.” Catherine put an unsteady hand to her forehead. “Short back and sides…” She groaned, shaking her head in disbelief. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.” She sat down hard in a convenient chair.

“Hey, this week I can give you a great deal.” He looked her over, assessing her expensive hairstyle. “You get the second cut for half price…”

“Just the chocolates will be fine.” Catherine sighed. The gift would be appreciated, she knew that. And the date for giving was almost at hand…

~ ~ ~

Rebecca…

Rebecca slipped around the curtain closing off a back portion of her candle-making chamber. Hanging neatly in row upon row, and well out of sight of any casual glance cast over the rows of every day Tunnel candles hanging in front, were the ones for Vincent’s upcoming birthday party.

She had laboured long and hard to achieve the exact colour of Vincent’s blue eyes. Now she took the time to admire her work, feeling pleased with the final result. And also very pleased that she hadn’t yet been detected in her work.

Now all that remained was to shepherd the tunnel children through the delivery process for those attending the party. If only they could manage to slip in and out of the tunnels without being seen. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and smiled. “I’m sure we can do it…”

The party was for a very important person in all their lives, and the date for delivering the candles was drawing ever nearer. “This is going to be so much fun…” She rubbed her hands together before she turned to pick up the list of children’s names…

~ ~ ~

Peter…

The moment Peter saw the antique silver and ivory chess set he knew he would buy it. The board had been made with thinly sliced squares of black ebony and white marble on a wooden base bound in a silver frame. It was as if he were meant to find exactly the right gift for Vincent.

If he hadn’t been held up at the Justice Building and then missed the taxi he’d tried to hail, if he hadn’t decided to walk the five blocks back to his office, instead of taking the next cab, he wouldn’t have stumbled across the tiny antique store tucked away in a side street that was sadly going out of business due to the elderly owner being recently deceased.

But he wouldn’t have been looking at all if Catherine hadn’t met him quite by chance outside the Justice Building as she’d been rushing off in the other direction while Peter was arriving, having been phoned to attend an important patient who’d become unwell after being arrested for solicitation. It was all a huge mistake, of course…

A hurried conversation had ensued, before a request was made, and a crumpled note shoved into Peter’s hand as Catherine managed to juggle court papers, her handbag, and a precariously balanced cup of cold coffee.

And then she was gone in a swirl of perfume and a breathless smile, waving her thanks with the only two fingers she had free. Peter had stood looking after her, shaking his head in bemusement. He was so proud of her. If only her mother could see her now…

He knew Charles had a sneaking admiration he tried not to show. She was his beloved daughter after all and he didn’t like to see her so stressed and overworked. But she was making her own way in the world and that was what mattered.

Peter had unfolded the note and read it slowly. It was a request for a gift for a very important person in Catherine’s life and the date for giving was imminent. Very imminent indeed…

Peter looked up, staring into the middle distance. He would enjoy going Below again so soon. At the recent Winterfest celebrations, he and Jacob had raised a glass of William’s excellent beverage to absent friends and great times. Christmas had come and gone in a flurry of patients and their illnesses. But now they were going to have an extra special celebration, thanks to Catherine’s superb party planning skills, well-honed in the service of her father after Cathleen had died.

But a gift…? What could he possibly get…?

~ ~ ~

Elliot…

Elliot sat down to study the last of the maps. They were spread all around him on the huge mahogany desk in his office, spilling over the edge in a tumbled flood onto the carpet. He had spent months collecting or copying every map of Manhattan and its subterranean heart he could get his hands on. The collection now stretched to nearly two hundred, large and small.

He’d taken great pains to verify their accuracy. People had accused him of planning to rebuild the entire city, so intense was his interest in the underpinnings of the island. The city’s geologists now gave him a wide berth and the library workers groaned every time he set foot inside the building.

What he couldn’t get done himself he set Manning’s people to work on. Cleon had stared at him as if he’d finally lost it, but he didn’t question his boss’s latest tangent. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, but his curiosity burned brightly. This had to be one hell of a project, maybe even bigger than the aborted tower Elliot had planned all those long months ago — years maybe — Cleon wanted to know why that had been stopped too. There’s so much he wants to know…

But the media was having a field day with all of it — dubbing Elliot’s map search as The Great Burch Manhattan Project. They were all waiting impatiently outside on the pavement to see what he would do next. Of course, Cleon wasn’t going to tell them anything… Vultures…

Elliot thought now about the reporters still camped outside his office building. “If only they knew…” He shook his head. “Now that would be a headline.”

Sometimes all he wanted to do was submerge himself in Vincent’s secret world and forget his own. He vividly remembered the first night they had met. He’d been trailing Cathy for weeks, watching her every move, and she often went to the drainage tunnel in Central Park, sometimes re-emerging after a short time, sometimes not again until early the next morning.

Those nights had been the longest to endure, wasting precious time huddled against the cold in the shelter of some waving trees. Finally Elliot had taken his courage in his hands and followed her all the way in.

It was Catherine who had flown at him, seemingly wanting to do him actual bodily harm. It was Vincent who’d intervened, saying it was already too late and they could only make the best of the situation. Elliot had stood there with his mouth wide open for several seconds. He had not known what he would find down the tunnel…but a man with the face of a lion and an unforgettable voice, he had not expected. Had he somehow strayed into Alice’s Wonderland?

“How could you…?” Catherine had accused with a stabbing finger. “I trusted you. You have no business being here. There’s nothing here for you.”

“I needed to know…” Elliot had shrugged. “You wouldn’t talk to me, return my calls. And then after that crazy request of yours for plastic explosives and drill bits, I thought we had an understanding…”

He did have the good sense to feel and look somewhat ashamed, but he hadn’t been able to stand the not knowing what she was doing — or who she was meeting — any longer. He couldn’t sleep, eat, or even think, and it was affecting his ability to function. His work was beginning to suffer, and that he couldn’t allow any longer…

“Well, now you know…” Catherine had snapped at him. “So, what do you intend to do with the knowledge? I will not allow you to hurt Vincent or those he cares for and protects. Be very sure of that.”

“Vincent…so that’s your name.” Elliot traded acknowledging stares with him. “Okay, so now I know. Now I will keep your secrets. All of them…” He waved a hand at Vincent. “Just don’t try and shut me out — of any of this. I care for you, Cathy…I always have. I would never hurt you. You know that.”

“I know that.” Catherine nodded slowly. “Very well, if Vincent is prepared to trust you, then I will trust you. But I still don’t like it.”

“I think that choice has already been made for us.” Vincent folded his arms beneath his mantle and leaned back against the side of the tunnel. “But we still have a lot to be thankful for. Without Elliot’s generous help that day…I would not be here now.” He shook his head. “The proof of his words will be in what Elliot chooses to do next. With the new information he now possesses.”

“All I want now is to go home and get a good night’s sleep…” Elliot huffed a laugh as he ran a tired hand up around the back of his neck. “Keeping track of you two is wearing me out…” He approached Vincent, holding out his hand. “I will keep your secrets.” He frowned critically at Vincent’s face. “Though I’m not sure anyone would believe me anyway. You are truly amazing…”

Elliot smiled now. The two men had shaken hands, curiously falling into a conversation neither had expected to conduct. About the city they both loved. Like they were old friends meeting by chance in the park. It had been…an interesting evening. Catherine had looked on in bemusement, appearing none too pleased but powerless to act.

Elliot shook his head now. He’d finally gotten the answers he wanted and some semblance of peace. Of course Catherine still denied his phone calls. She’d refused to speak to him at all for nearly a month afterwards.

Elliot shrugged. “So be it. I can wait…”

But he thought about Vincent often…and Catherine. Of how they trusted him. Of how little they asked in return. Of how much he could have loved Catherine, if only she’d allowed him to show her. But her choice had been made, even before they’d first met on the night he’d gifted the art collection to the Met.

And he found he couldn’t begrudge her the love she’d found with Vincent. He was an unusual man and someone Elliot was proud to call his friend.

“God help me, I don’t have too many of those. Not genuine ones, anyway.” He shook his head on a grim laugh. “Am I getting old and maudlin, or is it just the whiskey talking?” He lifted the cut crystal tumbler at his elbow and drained it of the rich amber liquid in one long swallow.

The slowly spreading warmth drove the chill from around his heart. It had been a while since he’d ventured Below. The first time he’d tried it on his own, he’d gotten totally lost. He’d banged on the pipes, and finally they’d sent that strange Mouse character to find him, to help him stumble out again.

Now he knew to wait for instructions and a guide. And finally the invitation had been issued. Catherine finally trusted him enough to ask him to attend the party. It was well past time he ventured back and renewed some old acquaintances.

He began to gather the maps, rolling them carefully and returning each of them in turn to their stainless steel tubes bound in tooled navy leather. Each container had been marked with steel identity disks pressed into the leather and secured with tiny brass pins. The gift was for a very important person in his life and the woman the man loved beyond everything. Elliot longed to see Catherine again, if only to make sure she was well and happy…and the time was almost upon him. He could hardly wait…

~ ~ ~

Joe…

Joe frowned at the battery-powered tape deck. It was the best his money could buy. It had been Catherine’s idea for his secret gift for Vincent. She’d organised the whole shebang and everyone knew their part. He had to admit, even if she was a rich, up-town girl, she had considerable class and great skills as a lawyer, an organiser and a friend.

But there’s still something missing... His frowning gaze skipped to the stack of tapes beside the machine.

He leaned closer to read the spines of each in turn. Chopin, Mozart, Grieg and Shubert…He grimaced, praying he hadn’t been seen by anyone he knew when he was in the music store buying all these weird guys, half of whom he’d never even heard of.

So what’s wrong with a little Billy Joel or Bruce, the Boss, Springsteen, to lighten the mood…?

“Okay, Radcliffe, I get it, I don’t have a classical appreciation bone in my body and I’m proud of it. But, for Pete’s sake, there is life beyond the nineteenth century…” He shrugged and mumbled on. “Yeah, but orders are orders. And she’ll kill me if I change a single thing…”

And Vincent had saved his life, after all, that night in the park nearly two years ago now. Saved him from being neatly skewered and gutted like some damned fish.  “So I owe him, right?”

Radcliffe had grilled him like the great lawyer she was the moment she’d found out his secret. She’d cornered him in his office — that first Monday back after Christmas — shut and locked the door before demanding he tell her everything...right now!

God, she’d made him sweat! He thought he was going to have a heart attack when she said she knew everything about what he’d been doing and he couldn’t hide it from her any longer.

“Everything…what?”  He’d risen from behind his desk, mind working overtime, arms flailing in an attempt to divert her from her purpose. He’d given her his best disbelieving frown. Deny, deny, deny. “What gives, Radcliffe…?”

“I’ll tell you what gives, Joe…” Chandler had walked right up to his face then, staring deep into his eyes. That’s when he thought his heart would give out on him for a second time.

But right then — right when she had him squirming and hunting for the way out — she’d smiled wickedly, like a kid who’d just gotten the keys to the candy store and everything was for free. That’s when she told him it was her secret too. Joe had dropped back into his chair again with a heavy thump, stunned beyond words, his mouth hanging open like a fly trap. Finally he gasped, “Where did you ...how did you…?”

And so she told him…everything…

“That Van Gogh painting of the sunflowers signed Vincent 87 has a lot to answer for…” Joe grinned now.

Vincent had liked that, he’d loved the colours, just as Joe knew he would. So Joe Maxwell does have some taste, after all…see, Radcliffe…I’m not the total plebeian you think I am…And yes, I actually do know which knife and fork to use in polite company, thank you, very much…

Now he planned to enjoy himself hugely. He’d never been into the subterranean world beneath the streets of Manhattan before. He’d met Vincent a couple of times in the tunnel entrance in Central Park, but mainly they arranged meetings for the basement of his apartment building if Joe needed his help with something or Vincent needed information. He felt a rush of excitement that he finally got to go there, to see everything.

He reached to tap a forefinger on the tape deck. Without Vincent he wouldn’t be here at all. It was well past time to pay it forward…and the gift was a fair trade for his life and the date for giving was imminent…But maybe he’d still slip in a little of his favourite Billy Joel and maybe even some Elvis…liven things up a bit…

What could it hurt…right, Radcliffe?

~ ~ ~

Lady May…

Lady May turned the beautiful piece of Greek statuary over in her thin hands. She was old enough, but this piece of artwork could give her a good couple of thousand years and then some. It had been an acquisition of her late husband, one of many he’d bought to show off his buying power.

Of course he’d bought it only for its monetary value and guaranteed appreciation in worth. He didn’t care if it was as ugly as sin, or a thing of exquisite, breath-taking beauty. He never did have an eye for the item’s true quality, for its clean lines and pure symmetry of simplicity.

It was a small marble statuette of a young javelin thrower eternally balanced on the point of releasing his missile towards some long-vanished target. The boy’s free arm was stretched toward the heavens, forefinger pointing the way, the javelin hand clenched and firm, knuckles stark with tension around the shaft.

The workmanship was so good even the thin leather strap could be seen looped across the child’s fingers to balance the weapon for accurate flight. Every muscle, every straining line had been lovingly carved and the patina of age had imbued the statuette with a sense of life and movement.

The piece had been found, carefully wrapped in the crumbled remains of a linen shawl covered with a piece of disintegrated goat skin, buried in the rubble of a house on the outskirts of ruined Pompeii. Her husband had rushed to buy it the moment it had been unearthed.

It was exquisite and unbelievably intact, cocooned as it was in a special cavity that had been carved for it within the bedroom wall of the ruined Roman villa. Presumably the previous owner had looted the piece in the first place from some ancient Greek city, or maybe even Olympus itself.

Every time Lady May looked at it or thought about it she could almost see and hear the crowds at the ancient site of the Olympic Games, willing the young boy to succeed. For him to bring honour and wealth to his city state and allow him to stand proudly in the great temple, before the towering statue of the god, Zeus and be showered with praise. To succeed against all the odds…

A shiver passed through her at the thought of the long line of unknown hands that had guarded the statuette and miraculously ensured its survival. She brought her thoughts back to Vincent, a man who had succeeded against all the odds.

She didn’t care for the monetary value of the piece, and she was well aware he would not either. But the joy and pleasure it would give would be beyond price. She smiled as she reached for the box she intended to wrap the statuette in.

The gift was for a very important person in her life, someone she had known from almost the very point of his birth and whom she loved dearly, like the son she was destined never to have. And the date for giving was drawing near indeed…

~ ~ ~

Vincent…

Vincent had the deep suspicion that everyone in the tunnels was avoiding him for some unknown and puzzling reason. There had been unexplained desertions from projects half completed, and whenever he saw someone in the distance, they were usually moving away from him, not lingering to talk or exchange more than a hurried greeting and farewell almost in the same breath. Only yesterday Cullen had fled his presence muttering fiercely and hadn’t stopped, even when Vincent had called his name.

And the children kept appearing and disappearing like revolving ducks in a sideshow shooting gallery. Now you see them, now you don’t.

They came for their lessons, did their chores, did everything that was required of them, but there was also unexplained absences when the usual childish chatter and bustle of the tunnels was unaccountably stilled. The silence was becoming unnerving. He’d asked Eric where he was hurrying off to just yesterday…

“Father needs me.” The boy had nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of his good friend, his eyes big and wide behind his glasses. “Got to take a message...to Richard on the…on the 59th Street gate. That’s what Father said. It’s very important. Can’t stop. Gotta go, Vincent. Sorry.”

Vincent sat back in the chair before his writing desk, frowning. Cleopatra was curled up into a contented ball on the Persian rug beside him, one green eye lazily tracking his movements.

Vincent had intended to make a diary entry before retiring for the night, but the pen rested — forgotten — clasped in his left hand. If I were a naturally suspicious man, I would say something very mysterious is going on. Is there some new project I am not yet aware of?

He stared at the date at the top of the diary page. He’d forgotten tomorrow was his birthday. “January 12th…” He turned the page to stare at the blank space it offered. What will I write in it this year?

After the excitement of Winterfest and then the Christmas celebrations, his birthday usually passed in quiet contemplation with little fuss. He couldn’t say he preferred in that way, but he’d become content with spending a peaceful evening playing chess with Father and sharing time with some good friends. There were always small gifts and warm words of appreciation that he valued highly. It was enough.

Then a few months ago, Catherine had questioned him about his birthday celebrations and what gifts he was looking forward to receiving. He’d frowned — listening to his own quick reply that he preferred to keep it simple and mentally shrugging against a vague sense of discontent.

But he had gone on to say that when Devin had lived among them he’d made sure his little brother Vincent’s special day wasn’t forgotten in the rush of the other two larger celebrations. Back then, amid the party chaos and over-excited children who often ate too much — and were therefore violently sick afterwards — Father had expressed a fervent wish for some measure of blessed peace and quiet to reign…

Vincent smiled at the memories. It had been several years before Father had his wish granted, after Devin had left the tunnels. Two nights ago at the evening meal table Vincent had tried to ask Mouse about the work in progress on a particular project, but before the tinker could answer, Cullen had swooped in and pulled the boy away, saying they had an urgent consultation that just couldn’t wait.

“Sorry, Vincent…” Cullen had shrugged, dragging a protesting Mouse behind him.

Vincent had stared after them in consternation. There had been a strange nimbus of barely suppressed excitement glowing in Mouse’s guileless blue eyes, as if he were sitting on some enormous secret and he would explode in the very near future if he didn’t share it with someone. Vincent could only pray the boy was not bent on one of his solo efforts seeking to improve the lives of the tunnel folk, which could erupt into chaos and mayhem at any moment…

Vincent shook his head. Even Catherine seemed to be avoiding him, citing the pressure of work when they had last spoken on her balcony nearly a week ago. Something was going on.

Ever since Winterfest there had been all that furtive scurrying and a decided lack of progress in any direction. Vincent determined to approach Father and talk the issue out first thing in the morning.

Birthday or no birthday, he wanted to get to the bottom of it all. Find out exactly what is going on…

~ ~ ~

Happy Birthday, Vincent…

“Happy birthday, Vincent…” Catherine stood in the middle of Vincent’s chamber. She held out her hands towards him as he entered the room.

“I have no words to thank you…” Vincent whispered, as he came near to close his fingers around hers. “But I think I love you more in this moment than any other.”

“That’s a good start…I can work with that.” Catherine’s generous mouth curved with pleasure, as she dipped her head to glance up at him through her lashes. “It was my pleasure to arrange it all for you. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. But I wanted to do something special for your birthday...for you.”

She carried one of his hands to her lips, kissing the back softly. “I thought we could have our own, private celebration in here as my final gift to you. I’m sure Devin and Charles are quite capable of controlling the party down in the Great Hall. Lord knows when, or how, it will end. The last thing I saw was Joe challenging Elliot to a bout of arm wrestling. Lady May decided she should act as the referee to ensure fair play.”

Vincent laughed. “Yes, I heard them arguing about that. And Father has already commandeered my new chess set and demanded a rematch from Sebastien. He hasn’t forgiven him for the last drubbing he received, but I fear he will never learn. Peter counselled him most strongly not to do it…”

“So, since all the children are occupied, I thought we could make good our escape and have a quiet meal together. Just the two of us.”

“Have I told you recently how marvellous you are…?” Vincent spread their linked hands wide to admire the picture she made. “And you look wonderful.”

“It’s just something I slipped into at the last minute...” Catherine smiled as she glanced down at the draped velvet beauty of her peacock-blue evening gown she’d bought after her lovely Italian brunch with her father. “But thank you.” She brought him close to her, reaching to press a soft kiss against his lips. “I owe you everything…”

Behind them William cleared his throat in apology as he slipped quietly into the chamber carrying a covered tray. Behind him came Mouse and Jamie also carrying trays. Vincent’s table had already been set with a linen tablecloth and cutlery.

William produced a lighter to ignite the tall, blue candles of the candelabra in the middle of the table. He then moved to extinguish all other illumination in the room, bringing the focus down to the table in the centre of the room.

“Happy birthday, Vincent…” Jamie came forward to quickly kiss his cheek, before turning to her task of setting out the food and hurrying out of the chamber again.

“Thanks, Vincent, for finding me. For making me into Mouse. I’ll never forget…” The tinker ducked his head shyly before scurrying back to his task.

“It’s all here, Catherine…” William approached them. “Everything you asked for. The dessert’s on the sideboard. Help yourselves when you’re ready.” He turned to Vincent. “Happy birthday, and thanks for being my friend, Vincent. I owe you more than I can ever say. And Cleo will be sleeping with me tonight…”

He sniffed sternly as he shook Vincent’s outstretched hand before turning away to gruffly command Mouse to move himself and stop standing there gawping like a prize fool...

They both hurried out, William turning to close the privacy curtain over the doorway behind him, pausing to give Catherine a wink and a grin. She nodded her thanks, returning his smile before the leather fell neatly into place and they were alone once more.

“Milady…” Vincent drew out Catherine’s chair with a small bow.

“Thank you, Vincent.” Catherine seated herself, waiting for him to take his place.

The meal was simple yet delicious, as Catherine had expected it to be. She had come to know William’s skills as a chef very well. It was only later when she and Vincent had finally finished their sweet that Catherine remembered something Joe had told her earlier in the evening. She reached to take Vincent’s hand to draw him back into the middle of the room.

Standing in front of him she grasped the front of his shirt with both hands, bringing him closer still. Vincent placed his own on her waist, sliding them around to link his fingers in the small of her back bringing her against him from chest to thigh. “What is it?” he questioned softly. “What do you have for me now?”

“Just something a little extra…” Catherine went up on tiptoe to run a questing kiss across his lips, smiling against his mouth.

She lifted her hands to the glorious length of his mane — which Lou was never going to touch — tangling her fingers there briefly before pulling back fractionally to look up into his loving eyes. “Joe said he asked Mouse to lead him to your chamber earlier in the evening. He said he wanted to show me he wasn’t totally without class and he could appreciate fine music as well as the next guy. Meaning you, I suppose…” She shook her head. “He said he’s put something in the tape machine he gave you. He thought we might enjoy it.”

She turned to depress the play button and the cassette tape clicked then engaged. There was a pause before the chamber was suddenly filled with the voice of Billy Joel singing Uptown Girl…

“Oh, no…” Catherine groaned, dropping her head forward to rest against the broad strength of Vincent’s shoulder and feeling the quiet laughter rippling through his body in appreciation of a master-stroke of considerable genius. “I am seriously going to kill that man in the morning…”

Vincent pulled back to look down at her, tipping up her chin on the back of his fingers. “I could get used to this…” He smiled. “In small doses...” He leaned down to brush his lips softly across hers.

Catherine laughed against his teasing mouth. “Happy birthday, Vincent,” she whispered, moving deeper into his arms as she lengthened the kiss, and together they began to sway slowly to the music. And, for a long time, there was no need for words…

~ FIN ~

“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you…”

~ Joan Powers

~ ~ ~

Happy Birthday, Vincent by Judith Nolan was first published on Tunnel Tales in 2014.  It and many more stories by Judith can now be found in the library at http://www.treasurechambers.com/library.html

The Gift of the Tattered Rags

by Sharon Holtz

It was the 12th of January, Vincent’s Birthday, and Catherine was expecting him any moment now.

She anxiously looked about her apartment, mentally taking one last inventory of all her reparations for this special occasion. The tapered candles were lit on the mantle, and the numerous companion votive, and column candles, all were lit as well. His favorite tea steeping, along with some Horderves to serve.

The gifts were ready and wrapped, with pretty satiny ribbons n’ bows. And lastly, Vincent’s favorite concerto was playing on the stereo. Deciding that everything was just perfect, Catherine confidently decreed to herself, that she was officially ready for his arrival. "Now...if only he will agree to come inside my apartment tonight, then everything WILL be perfect!"

She wanted this little bit of normalcy in their relationship so badly. Was it so wrong of her, to at least want this one small ordinary thing, for him to feel comfortable enough with her, that he would cross her threshold?

She only knew, that she had to trust Vincent’s intuition, and that he would know when it was time. And she DID trust him, but she could not deny that her heart’s intense desirous wish, was growing stronger and stronger, steadily depleting, and challenging her patience. So tonight she decided to do her best, to convince him to come in from the cold.

Just then, she heard his tap on the frosted pane of her balcony doors. She draped her coat about her shoulders, as she gracefully walked out through the doorway, to join him at his side.

Sweetly she looked up at him, as they stood together at the snow covered balcony wall, and said, "Happy Birthday Vincent..."

Contentedly, he let go of a sigh as he looked toward her, and said, "Yes. Now...being here with you, my day is complete."

Embracing his arm, she replied, "I am so glad that you are here to spend the last part of your Birthday with me."

She then took in a shivering deep breath, and asked, “Are you cold?”

Looking forward, out over the city, he precisely answered, “No, Catherine…”

When suddenly a notion struck him, and he sensed that she was cold. He then slipped off his cloak, and said, "Allow me to help keep you warm."

Biting her lower lip, Catherine hesitantly said, "I was hoping that maybe tonight...you would come inside my apartment."

As they looked into each others eyes, Vincent could see her hopefulness, and he knew that his reserve concerning this matter, has been a disappointment to her.

He then looked into the window, and saw dozens of illuminated candles twinkling inside, and thought to himself, that it appeared Catherine had gone to some trouble, preparing her dwelling tonight for his birthday. After examining his feelings, he realized that he no longer hosted those hesitant feelings. Tonight...he would say yes. Nonchalantly, he asked, "Is that Vivaldi’s I quattro stagioni playing?"

With hope, she answered, "Yes...yes it is."

Questionably, he next suggested, "May I escort you inside, so that we may better enjoy Vivaldi’s gifted efforts?"

Stifling her joyful exuberance, she elegantly said, "Yes..."

She then let him guide her inside, and as he looked around her apartment, he was astounded! All the special touches, in HIS honor, caused him to remark, "Catherine...so many candles..."

In a meaningful tone, she told him, "I have a candle burning, to represent each year of your life Vincent."

Warmly, he looked at her, and said, "What a lovely gesture...thank you."

As she slipped off both his cloak and her coat, she said, "You are welcome."

Catherine watched him as she poured their tea, and she thought how perfect he looked inside her home. She imagined Vincent visiting like this, a million times over...and had even dreamt about it. But she wouldn’t have to rely on just dreams anymore, because he WAS here! Inside her home, on her turf, where there were none of Father’s influences, boundaries, or barriers. Now, with a newly found appreciation for Vincent’s wise enduring resolve, she thought the occurrence was paced just right in the timeline of their relationship. And she thought too, the timing was just so typical of Vincent’s generous heart! For him to choose tonight, of all nights, HIS Birthday...well, it was like his gift to her.

As he stood beside her sofa, waiting for her to be seated, she thought he seemed very much at ease, and uplifted. He no longer looked apologetic about this unique fate that was his to bare. She loved seeing this change in him, because it showed his complete trust in her love, demonstrating that she had moved back his aloneness for him, as he had done for her.

Handing him his tea, she settled in on the sofa, and as he sat down beside her, she asked, "Tell me about your day Vincent...how has your Birthday been so far?"

With a tilt of his head, he warmly said, "Very nice Catherine...William prepared a cake, and the whole community, sang to me. After everyone was served, it was then that I opened my gifts. Mary made a new quilt for my berth, Rebecca poured an exquisite candle as her gift to me, and the children performed a concert in my honor. Afterward, they each presented me with a gift they had made."

Smiling at the sweetness of the children, and of how they loved Vincent so, Catherine had to ask, "What kinds of gifts did the children make for you?"

With an amused manner, Vincent answered, "An assortment of baked clay pen holders, I might mention that I now have one in every color of the rainbow...I received several wooden candle pedestals, in a variety of shapes, and a gaggle of ceramic mugs in different sizes. Oh, and I dare not forget the box that Kipper constructed out of wood! He told me that I should put only my most important secret papers inside of it."

Feeling pleased that his tunnel family spoiled him on his Birthday, she listened as he thoughtfully added, "There were other gifts too, Mouse made a motion wave machine for me."

Shaking his head in wonderment, he shared, "Catherine, even though Mouse is simple in so many ways, he never ceases to amaze me with the things he is able to construct." With a smile in his eyes, Vincent inserted, "Of course the source of his supplies is a mystery..."

Catherine couldn’t help but smile as Vincent looked at her in that sweet beguiling style he has. Every time he tilts his head, just a little bit, as if he were a child pondering something, it steals her heart anew. However tonight, there was something new about the look in his eyes, something more. She felt this change so strongly, as if...there was a self justification present now, that wasn’t there before. Deciding to mention this difference, she carefully told him, "I sense such a calm about you tonight, I never felt before...the best way that I can explain it, is that you seem to have found an inner peace."

Thoughtfully, he asked, "Do I?"

He then offered, "I suppose I have, and it is because of Father’s gift to me."

Catherine had noticed earlier, that Vincent mentioned gifts from everyone except his Father, and wondered why. Politely she then asked, "If I may ask, what did he give you?"

In preparation for his answer, he cautioned, "It is not so much what the gift was, rather, it was what it represented. Catherine...this gift has changed my heart, and the rest of my life forever." Raising his brow, he then questioned her, "I brought it with me...would you like to see?"

Excitedly, she said, "Of course, I would love to see the gift that has the power to change your life."

He then reached into his loosely belted vest, and pulled out a bundle of rags. Looking at Catherine, he held her attention for a moment, before he said, "This was Father’s gift to me."

Confused, of how these strips of material could be construed as a gift, she knitted her brow as she said, "I don’t understand Vincent."

He then suggested, "Perhaps I should start at the beginning." Thoughtfully, Vincent explained, "This morning, in the early hours, I could not sleep, I kept thinking about my mother. So, I went to Father’s chamber to speak with him. I asked him what kind of a woman must she have been, to have discarded me so heartlessly. Father then brought out this bundle of rags from a musty old pine box. And he said, that until that moment, he wasn’t sure why, he saved them. However, because of the state I was in, he hoped they might mean something to me. When I examined the worn strips of material, I degraded them, causing Father to scold me. He then declared they were as valuable to him, as a pot of gold."

Vincent continued, "The significance of these rags still eluded me, and I wondered why Father wanted me to have them. Then he told me, if it were not for this meager small bundle of rags to protect me from the chilling winds, that cold night, I would have surely died..." Vincent incredulously added, "...Catherine, these are what I had been wrapped in, when Anna found me...my inheritance...the only thing I truly own."

Catherine gasped, as she now looked at this material through different eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, she reached over to touch this precious keepsake, and said, "Oh my...to think that you were wrapped only in this...in the middle of January...a tiny helpless baby..."

She then looked up at Vincent with tears brimming in her eyes, and said, "You told me that this gift changed your heart? How so? I still don’t understand."

Vincent further explained, "Catherine...I now have tangible proof my birth mother cared enough to wrap something around me...she cared whether I lived or died. Because of Father, I now know that I must have been of some worth to her."

Catherine cried a little bit, as she said, "I see...so now you know that she did love you as much as she could..."

In a soft husky whisper, Vincent said yes, and then speculated, "I wonder...if anyone but I, can truly understand the power of such an unlikely gift of these tattered old rags Father handed over to me?"

Catherine smiled as she wiped her tears away, and argued, "I do. I understand...after all...you are sitting here with me tonight aren’t you? This is something that hasn’t happened before...and I have wished for it, for such a very long time."

With a contemplative blinking of his eyes, Vincent said, "Perhaps you do understand Catherine ...perhaps you do."

He then closed his eyes, and as he brought Catherine closer to him, he said, "It has been a time..."

Sweetly she snuggled into his arms, and as she looked up at this sleepy birthday boy, who was more beautiful to her than any Greek God, she whispered, "Yes it has been...Happy Birthday Vincent."

~ ~ ~

Sharon Holtz has been a fan of Beauty and the Beast since 1999. Her story, The Gift of the Tattered Rags, was first published in 2005 as a part of WFOL. It can still be found in the now quiet Winterfest tunnels at http://www.batbwfol.com/winterfest2005/fansubmissions/stories/library2.html

Be careful as you explore down there. You could get happily lost for days. This tale can also be found with Sharon’s other stories and art on Sharon's Beauty and the Beast Chamber Ron Perlman and Linda Hamilton tv 1987 and is also an external link on CABB Tunnel Tales too under Vincent's Birthday Stories

http://pumpkinshasha.com/VincentsHappyBirthdayPageIndex.html . There are also links to her fanfiction on Tunnel Tales at and on the Beauty and the Beast Fan Fiction Database at  http://www.batbtv.com/bbfanfic/index.asp

The Beginning of Always

by C.J. La Belle

*R-Adult Content*

“I used to think that I was strong

I realise now I was wrong

‘Cause every time I see your face

My mind becomes an empty space

And with you lying next to me

Feels like I can hardly breathe

I close my eyes the moment I surrender to you…

Let love be blind, innocent and tenderly true…

So lead me through tonight

But please, please turn out the light…

‘Cause I’m lost every time I look at you…”

~ II Divo

~ ~ ~

It took Catherine several anxious moments of frantic searching to realise she had somehow misplaced the keys to her apartment. “Aw, come on, for Pete’s sake! You just gotta be in here somewhere…”

She cast a narrow-eyed glare at her wristwatch. I don’t have time for this!

It was well after dawn, and if she couldn’t get showered and changed, then she was going to be seriously late for a deposition that was set to begin at 9am on the dot. She simply couldn’t turn up to work in old sweat pants and a leather jacket.

But making the trip to her dad’s place, where she still kept a wardrobe of clothes, would take more time that she had. And if she missed another deposition, her boss, the no-nonsense Joe Maxwell, would have her head on a plate! He would make certain sure everyone in the bull-pen knew that the rich girl thought the rules about getting to work on time didn’t apply to her.

Cathy’s relationship with Joe was often good, but sometimes thorny, as well. He still wasn’t convinced that being told by John Moreno to hire her last year hadn’t been a complete waste of his time and the city’s over-stretched resources. For not the first time in her new career in the D.A.s office Catherine was aware she was pushing the famously non-existent limits of Joe Maxwell’s patience by coming in late again this week. All he needed was one final excuse, and here she was handing it to him, gift-wrapped!

“Give me a break!” Catherine complained as she blew the bangs from her eyes, willing her heart-rate to slow, and logic to help her out in her quest for the elusive keys. They simply had to be her bag somewhere, just not in the place she usually secured them as she hurried Below through the basement entrance beneath her apartment building.

“Think logically,” she admonished herself. Her breathing slowed as she mentally backtracked to the last time she’d handled her keys. She visualised the scene that had taken place hours before, just a few steps from her front door.

She had left her apartment quickly, hurrying towards the elevator, concentrating on shaking off the prolonged effects of lack of sleep and the hectic hours. There was so little time she and Vincent could be together, she was determined to wring every precious moment out of their secret meetings.

Given Isaac’s rigorous training she was more aware of her surroundings that she had been in the past. There was someone else on her floor with her. Now that she thought about it, she remembered the kid had been loitering further down the hallway, like he was waiting for someone…

Okay, he’d hurried along to get into the elevator immediately after her. Catherine frowned, nodding jerkily. He had crowded her a little too close, watching her out of the corner of his eye, like he was judging the distance between them. But surely he hadn’t taken the keys from her purse…Catherine grimaced, thinking she’d paid more attention to the descending numbers, willing them to hasten, than to the boy hovering just a shade too close to her elbow. Isaac would have chewed her out for not paying more attention to potential threats.

Mentally she pictured the young teenager. Yankee’s baseball cap askew, clean denim shirt and tidy grey chinos over white sneakers. Tall and thin, he hadn’t looked like much of a threat. He looked like what he probably was, someone who belonged in the building.

Just another rich, latch-key kid with too much time on his hands, riding the elevators out of sheer boredom, and looking for easy sport. Annoying but harmless. She couldn’t report him for that! His face had been open and honest as he’d cheerily wished her a good evening, saying this was his floor and he’d see her around, before he’d sauntered off on third, looking very pleased with himself.

What then? Catherine sighed, trying to remember. Deepening frustration and lack of sleep was making her more than a little paranoid.

“Okay, Chandler, pull yourself together. Joe is waiting for you.” Catherine dragged her attention from its morose introspection of her life to renew her quest in her purse. The keys just had to be in there somewhere…

“But where, dammit!” She upended her handbag in frustration, dumping the contents onto the side table in the hallway before her apartment door. All manner of things tumbled out, threatening to spill across the table’s highly polished surface and scatter onto the floor out of sight and beyond her easy reach.

To her relief the keys rattled out among the scattered contents. “Oh, thank goodness!” Of course she hadn’t lost them! They had been there all the time! Snatching them up, she inserted the key in the lock, opened the door and hurried inside. Maybe she would make it after all…They completely trust each other with their lives, their physical lives...must trust each other with their souls

~ ~ ~

Catherine turned slowly under the shower, sluicing the tiredness from her limbs. It felt so good, a guilty pleasure under which she must not linger. Moments later a hurried cup of black coffee did nothing to settle the rumblings of her stomach, so she munched through a slice of toast and jam as she sorted out her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Right now her world seemed to turn on last-minute decisions.

After donning fresh underwear and stepping into a pencil skirt, she dragged up the fastening too quickly, catching her finger in the zipper. Mumbling under her breath around the last of the toast held between her teeth, she managed to button and tuck in her blouse one-handed.

Flexing the offended finger to relieve the pain, she shrugged into her jacket. Back in the bathroom she cleaned her teeth and applied fresh make-up. Her internal clock told her she was already out of time. Misplacing her keys had cost her precious minutes.

“Okay, make this day count, Chandler.” She glanced at her watch as she headed for the door, and her eyes widened with surprise. Fifteen minutes, a new record.

She was painfully aware her beloved father no longer recognised, or even approved of the new Catherine. The old Cathy would have spent at least two hours in front of the mirror. It lifted her mood, making her smile as she snagged her handbag. Maybe it would be all right after all…

Of course it wasn’t Vincent’s fault she was now seriously late for work, it was her own tardiness. The growing habit of spending as much time with her love as she could, balancing the almost overwhelming desire be with him against the need to be in her apartment early enough the next morning.

She needed to change her clothes before hurrying out the door again to get to work in time, was fast becoming unworkable. Something would have to give, and soon. When she punched the elevator buttons, she was relieved when the doors slid open almost immediately. At least she’d lose no more time waiting to reach the basement.

Her underfed stomach growled in protest. Of course after showering, changing and applying her make-up in record time, a decent meal wouldn’t even register on her radar! Perhaps she should have accepted William’s offer of a very early breakfast. The cook had seemed surprised to find her still discussing poetry with Vincent in his chamber after sunrise, but William didn’t comment. He’d simply shrugged at her hurried refusal and stumbling apology when she realized how late it really was, and continued on his way to his own domain to begin the new day.

Car keys in hand, Catherine quickly settled herself into her sedan and braced for the drive into work. As she merged into traffic, Catherine remembered Vincent’s concern for her, along with the amazing evening they’d shared.

“You will be late for work again. Forgive me,” Vincent had stated the obvious as he’d hastily pulled on his cloak and took her arm, hurrying her towards the entrance to the tunnels beneath Catherine’s apartment building.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Catherine had told him, needing to jog to keep up with his much longer strides. “We both got lost in the moment.”

“And the magic of Oscar Wilde’s poetry,” Vincent had acknowledged with a reminiscent smile. “And over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful and impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, of things that are not and that should be...” He had paused to look down at her, his smile widening. “At least I am now privy to the knowledge that you do not snore.” He allowed the intimate comment to hang between them.

“I’m glad to know that I don’t.” Catherine’s cheeks had warmed as she’d ducked her head, hurrying beyond him, choosing not to look back to see if he followed. “But if I hadn’t fallen asleep to your reading of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, we would not be in this predicament now.” She glanced sideways at him as they continued their hurried progress. “Not that your reading wasn’t very beautiful and moving…”

“But you were tired.” Vincent had nodded. He seemed about to say something more, but changed his mind and Catherine didn’t push the issue.

She had been tired. And now the clogged traffic on Lexington wasn’t helping things any, other than to give her a chance to daydream about being with him.

They had continued upwards through the tunnels in silence until they finally arrived at the shadowed entrance to Catherine’s own world. She’d turned to him. “It’s all right Vincent, truly. I don’t mind.”

“A small white lie, but I will accept it.” Vincent lifted his shoulders in frustration. “Sometimes I wish…” He shook his head before continuing, “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful lying there against my arm.”

“I’ll admit to resting my eyes…just a little. And you were so close…” Catherine had gone into his arms gratefully, even though she knew any more time alone was seriously scarce. “I have been so tired lately. None of which is your fault, Vincent. It’s just this new job of mine is more difficult than I thought…” She rubbed her cheek in apology against his vest. “Sometimes, I wish…” she sighed long and low.

“I know…” Vincent breathed sadly, pulling her closer against him. “You work far too hard, and that work is dangerous. You must be careful. I cannot protect you up there in daylight.” His hold on her tightened until she could barely breathe, but she didn’t care or protest.

“I feel I’m making up for so much lost time, spending it with you and working for the D.A. I felt so useless before when I worked for my father’s firm.” Catherine had rested against his heartbeat for more moments that she had left. But it had felt so good to be able to hide there, be accepted and cherished for who she was, not what she represented to the cynical world Above.

As the heavy traffic started to move again and her final destination loomed, Catherine knew why she’d so often lingered in his embrace, rather than face the world she’d been born into. Things always seemed so much simpler when she was with him.

Other men’s close embraces had often made demands of her, imposing expectations she was often at a loss to know how to fill beyond the physical. They didn’t care for her, but for what she represented.

It was a singular game she had become very adept at playing. Without exception those other men thought wining and dining her gave them certain rights. They had expected and received access to her body, but her heart had often been left out of the equation. It remained lonely, uncharted territory that none of her previous male companions seemed interested in exploring. But then, did she expect anything less?

Catherine, like other women, was a product of her time, and her time was almost defined by the sexual revolution. Sex for its own sake, fulfilling a need to be close to someone in the long, lonely hours of the night, had become a habit Catherine had formed early in her college career.

The mundaneness of going through the motions of making it through foreplay and faking her own climax had soured her ideas of love-making to the point of almost making her physically nauseated when she looked back on her life.

These frustrating experiences advanced her nothing, except heartache and regrets that she’d been taken in once more by a good pick-up line and a handsome face. Only her father knew what she had gone through in her college years, the bad choices she had made, and the money it had cost him more than once, to rescue her from the consequences of her own thoughtless actions.

Finally seated behind her overflowing desk, Catherine stared into the middle distance, instead of dealing with the depositions Joe wanted immediately after she had finished them. Her poised pen remained unused in her slackened fingers.

“I feel so safe with you…” She had told Vincent that, moving her cheek once more regretfully against the grey ribbing of his thick vest. It was so different from anything she had known.

This was the dream she had dreamed once when she was so young and innocent of the life she was born to lead. That was before her mother had died, leaving Catherine bereft and alone, with only her father trying to make the best life for her.

Vincent expected nothing from her, beyond her simple acceptance of his existence. He had arrived on her balcony that first night only to satisfy himself she was well. It had been at her insistence that he had stayed beyond the time when he should have left her alone once more to get on with her new life and forget all about him, and his secret world.

“I miss you when you are not with me.” Catherine had sighed, shrugging against her love’s broad chest, her troubled thoughts and mood communicating themselves to him through their growing emotional connection.

But he refrained from commenting, from asking awkward questions to which she had no answers. He simply held her closer, pressing a comforting kiss into her hair.

Catherine had been grateful for his reticence. She was well aware of what she was to everyone in the world, except this man and his secret life. She was the daughter of a very rich and powerful man. A desirable human commodity who would eventually be auctioned off to the highest bidder, if only she would play the time-honoured game and accept the inevitable.

And only a few months ago she had reluctantly accepted that fate with the regrettable Tom Gunther. Signed, sealed and delivered, as the song said. Until one terrifying night of mistaken identity, marriage to Tom had been her predictable destiny.

Her father’s best client had been an excellent catch, young, ambitious and going places. What more could a girl want, right?

It tied up so many things very neatly. But nothing about him or his touch filled the aching void in her heart. Long ago Catherine had decided the fault must be with her. Perhaps she was truly unlovable in the deepest sense of the word. It was a frightening thought she kept neatly tucked away out of sight, well beyond any chance of discovery.

But in the loneliest places of her soul, she knew it to be an immutable fact. She felt nothing beyond the physical release of sex and how it gave her a fleeting sense of complete disconnection from her world and whoever she happened to be with that night.

Ultimately however, she was still alone…

Once Catherine had recovered from the surgery, she and Tom had picked up dating where they had left off as if nothing had happened, in an attempt to patch up the relationship. It had all come to a very unpleasant head when Catherine had refused to sleep with her fiancé as she had freely done before the attack. Confused and upset, Charles Chandler had reluctantly accepted Gunther’s swift exit from his daughter’s life, and his firm’s books.

Charles had refused to discuss her kidnapping with his daughter, deciding best left alone, soonest forgotten. He had arranged everything, eradicated even the smallest detail. Then Catherine’s father watched anxiously and waited for his beloved only child to return to being the young woman he had known, one who had always been pleased to accept his advice and sage reasoning.

Become again the submissive and softly-spoken debutante with a secure future as the bearer of the next generation of Fortune Five Hundred wheelers and dealers.

Catherine had tried to please her father. But her burgeoning relationship with Vincent was something she could not share with him, though she longed to tell him she was finally happy.

Her confused father had been pathetically overjoyed when Elliot Burch had suddenly set his sights on Catherine three months ago, when the self-made billionaire had contributed a priceless art collection to the museum. Her father was so sure her future would be secure if only Catherine would entertain the idea of marriage to Elliot, even if his family roots were decidedly shady and more than a little suspect. Possession of huge sums of money easily forgave any number of sins…

Sitting there behind her desk, with her eyes still unfocussed and contemplating nothing but her inner turmoil, it took Catherine several moments to realise her view of the bull-pen had been firmly blotted out by a white shirt-front, un-knotted tie, and the indignant sigh of her boss, standing with arms folded and dark eyes blazing.

“Late night again, Radcliffe?” Joe questioned sarcastically, his look saying he wouldn’t believe whatever she was about to say in her own defence. “I know you weren’t here on time, again…”

Catherine made to speak, but he forestalled her with an upraised hand. “Skip it, I don’t have time for a blow by blow account. I figure those depositions are ready for me, then…” An accusing finger stabbed at the piled folders, and his dark brows arched.

“I’m really sorry, Joe. Can you give me another thirty minutes?” Catherine grasped her pen firmly, ducking her head over the work. “I promise I’ll make it count.”

“My desk in thirty, or don’t bother coming in tomorrow!” Joe barked, shaking his head as he turned back towards his own office.

Breathing a cautious sigh of relief, Catherine began to work in earnest.

~ ~ ~

“You don’t need to count it, it’s all there.” Elliot Burch watched the boy standing before his desk calmly counting the two hundred dollars he’d just extorted for his dubious services.

“Can’t trust people these days.” The boy’s open, honest face settled into a disapproving frown. Reaching into his pocket he dropped onto Elliot’s desk a pick-pocket’s block of soft clay into which several key impressions had been neatly pressed. “You get what you paid for. Your bit of skirt didn’t even know I was in and out of her bag in under three floors on the elevator. New record. She was too busy watching the numbers and talking to herself. Nice legs, but all women are crazy. You sure you want to get mixed up with someone like this?”

“What I do with my time and money is none of your business!” Elliot flared angrily. The kid had only been in his office for five minutes and already Elliot wanted to throttle him. “And you will not go anywhere near her ever again. Is that clear?” He stabbed a warning finger at the boy’s thin chest. “We’re done here! For good!”

“Calm down…” The boy’s shoulders rolled dismissively. “Whatever, man. But if you ever need me again, you know where I hang.” He bid Elliot a cheery good morning, and sauntered arrogantly through the office door he’d left open when he entered.

Elliot surged to his feet and crossed the office to slam the door behind the boy’s disappearing figure. He leaned back against the wood, expelling his breath harshly. It had been a calculated risk, but one he was prepared to take. He wasn’t about to leave anything to chance.

He’d messed up over that thwarted development of the old people’s apartment building. He never made the same mistake twice. He’d pushed too hard to make her date him, and Chandler had shoved him right back with interest.

But after a stubborn silence she had suddenly come to him asking for an urgent loan of some mining equipment. She’d agreed to see him after that, but not for long. It had been a few precious weeks of hoping against hope she would stay with him, for good, this time…

“There’s something here I’m just not seeing…” Elliot’s grey eyes narrowed. “Or someone…I hate this!”

He’s had the distinct impression when they first met at the museum gala that however available and enticing she may have at first seemed, Catherine Chandler was already seeing someone else. And she was pretty cagey about it too.

She became evasive when he pushed her to confess, saying there was no one, but she didn’t meet his disbelieving eyes when she’d said it. Always a tell-tale sign any woman was hiding something. Elliot made his fortune by knowing how to read people, how to tell who was lying from who was telling the truth, and when. It had saved him the cost of both time and money.

He speculated if her father knew who the mysterious lover was, but somehow he doubted he knew anything at all. The old boy had been cautiously grateful to see Elliot paying court to his daughter, watching their interaction like a wary hawk. Calculating the likely odds of a marriage too, no doubt, even if Elliot was not the kind of husband he had hoped for. He was not old money and that mattered to some.

Elliot had faced down that kind of societal prejudice all during his meteoric climb. A relationship with Catherine Chandler would do much to quiet the critics who correctly charged him with being one of the nouveau riche. Old money was a wonderfully efficient tranquilizer…

Elliot had to admit they had done a stunning job on Catherine’s face. He’d seen the police files on her and the attached photo, made it his business to know what happened to her last year. Her father’s money had effectively erased the past.

But Elliot also liked Catherine’s spirit, and it didn’t hurt she was once more incredibly beautiful and street smart. He detested submissive women who couldn’t make decisions for themselves.

“Okay, let’s see who we can turn up.” Elliot grimaced, his eyes narrowing. He headed back around his desk, sitting down and reaching for the phone to dial Cleon Manning’s number.

“Tell Manning I need to see him, like yesterday,” he told Manning’s receptionist. Dropping the receiver back into its cradle without waiting for a reply, he sat back to frown at the work piling up on his desk. That could wait.

Elliot linked his fingers, tapping his thumbs together impatiently. Now he had Catherine’s keys he was going to stake out her apartment. Wait until she went to work tomorrow, and then a Manning operative would let himself into her place and snoop around, note down anyone who came and went, left messages or phoned her to make a date.

He’d tidy up and leave before Catherine came home, so she would never know she was being investigated. A week should do it, giving Elliot everything he needed to know.

He already knew she was deeply into the classics, music and the arts. Shakespeare in the park and some heavy-weight concerts by dead masters. He shook his head, knowing he could take or leave both himself, he was more of a Billy Joel fan. But if pretending he liked music, and art by dead white men, could get him what he most wanted right now, then he would become the classical world’s most ardent admirer.

He already had another project he’d been working on for months that would dwarf the art collection he’d contributed to the museum. An audacious plan to finally woo the city fathers and allow him some access to their exclusive, ivy-league halls of power.

He remembered telling the reporter back at the museum that night how he thought the true value of great art lay in its ability to influence and enhance the quality of humanity, and contrary to popular opinion, he believed New Yorkers still qualified.

He grimaced sourly. He hadn’t meant a word of it, of course. But that was not the point. He was going to make an even bigger splash and get noticed again, and he would know everything there was to know about Catherine and who she was seeing, like yesterday!

Elliot never played second fiddle to anyone, not in business or romance, and he wasn’t about to start now. Not over a woman, because they didn’t play by rules any man could hope to understand. They needed to be told what was good for them. They were a lot like the city fathers, that way.

He fully intended to discover who Catherine was seeing, size up the competition and find their weak points. Lean on them a little, make them squirm and think twice about having anything to do with the woman Elliot fully intended to marry. Sooner rather than later. He wasn’t getting any younger…

~ ~ ~

“Catherine sees herself as unlovable, Father.” Vincent sat with his forefinger resting on the head of the white queen. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

He studied the patterns of candlelight reflected in the chess piece’s gleaming ivory surface. Polished from constant use over the last thirty-plus years she had been loved and played with, the queen felt warm to his touch, as if it truly lived.

“Surely you exaggerate.” Father leaned forward to peer closely at his precarious position in the game between them. He sighed roughly, not matter the angle he tilted his head, it did not look good.

He glanced up at his son’s brooding expression. “Catherine is young, beautiful, and rich. Those qualities are very desirable in the world Above. She will never be short of admirers and rightly so. Men like Elliot Burch, who can give her everything. That is her world. I have recently read about their affair the newspapers. He is a ruthless man and will not hesitate to crush any opposition to his wishes.”

The old man sighed. “There are certain expectations for such a woman as Catherine. I’m very much afraid you would figure in none of them. Those high-powered lawyers and robber barons know how to protect their own.”

“It is not her admirers I am referring too, Father.” Vincent watched as his opponent reached to make a move, hesitate and frown, anxiously seeking an escape route where there was none. “I am talking about her soul, the very heart of her being, where she hides her true self, and thinks no one can see her pain. But I can, Father. I have seen the depth and breadth of her anguish, but I am helpless to know how to help her, how to diminish that pain. I try to reach her with words and gestures, but…” He raised his broad shoulders helplessly.

Father sighed as he peered at his son over the rim of his glasses. “Ah, then I’m afraid, you will need Narcissa’s help, not mine. I am only a doctor, I don’t have the skill-set to tamper with souls.”

He leaned back. “What you and Catherine share is truly remarkable. You saved her, took the dreadfully broken pieces of who she was and made her whole again, Vincent. You can be very proud of that. Her scars were not only physical. You have allowed her to live again in the world where she truly belongs.”

He shook his head. “But it can never be more than a fleeting aberration between you. You are from such different worlds. She has no place in yours, and you certainly can have no place in hers. It is a beautiful dream, but that’s all it can ever be, a dream. Perhaps you have finally come to a natural parting of the ways. Let it wash over you, Vincent and be content with what you have achieved. One day you will see that I am right. To go on, can only bring you the same pain you see in Catherine now.”

His son sighed. “Yet in that dream, within those stolen moments when we are together, she is content.” Vincent lifted the white queen into the light of the tiffany lamp beside him. “I can feel it in her. The self-doubts retreat and she can see a little of what I see within her, the true beauty she carries inside, her ability to love, her compassion for her fellow human being. But then she goes Above once more and those doubts return.”

He returned the queen to her place on the board. “Then her aloneness creeps in to whisper in the back of her mind, saying that nothing she does, nothing she thinks about herself, is ever going to be good enough. That she is truly alone and unloved in the midst of so much beauty, power and privilege.”

He frowned. “I can go to her only at night, stand with her on her balcony and hold her. She deserves better from me, Father. I am deeply aware she wishes me to enter her apartment, and yet I hesitate…”

“I did say once that you have the soul of a doctor.” Father stared at his son in wonder. “But to see all that in a woman I thought had everything she could ever want is truly remarkable. You are remarkable.”

He reached across the table to clasp Vincent’s free hand. “And you can understand, know all that after a few meetings, a few stolen moments of togetherness?”

He grimaced. “Sometimes I can only wonder at the boundaries and levels of your intuition, your ability to perceive such things in others that no one else can see. It is your gift, but also your curse where Catherine is concerned. You have become too close, as I feared you would. You cannot help her, Vincent. It is an impossible situation. You simply cannot be together. Surely you can see how impossible that is. She is destined to be with a man like Burch, a man who can give her everything, and not count the cost.”

“Perhaps…” Vincent inclined his head, moving his shoulders helplessly. “But I can sense it every time I hold her. I can feel that her heart is untouched and deeply troubled. That there are things she wishes she could share with me, but she doesn’t know how to make me understand, thinking perhaps that I am innocent of the things that happen between a man and a woman. We both know that is not so, living as we do down here, so closely connected to each other.” His blue eyes meet Father’s squarely, and his parent wisely did not ask.

Vincent inclined his head in quiet acknowledgement as he continued, “I have no idea how to ask for such a confidence. Each time she is in my arms I am aware of the hurtful betrayals she has known in her life and those who have lied about loving her. No one has tried to take care of her as she deserves. Understand and see her for who she truly is inside.”

He raised one hand helplessly. “The love and the beauty that I see there, humbles me. Sometimes it is even more than I can bear, and I must leave her alone for fear of hurting her even more. I must leave her wondering what she has done that I must desert her when she needs me most. When she wants me to understand.”

Vincent leaned forward with both arms folded on the table’s edge. “But I am at an enormous loss how to comfort her, how to make her see that she is loved and cherished.” He shook his great head. “Once I thought I could reach her through poetry, through words of love and understanding.” His mouth quirked wryly. “But she fell asleep on me last night, right in the middle of some of Rilke’s most beautiful passages.”

“Then perhaps it’s not poetry she seeks,” Father said slowly, frowning over his belated move while chewing his bottom lip. “Perhaps you have done all you can in healing her, Vincent. Now it is finally time to let her go, and move on with both your lives. It can only bring you both heartache and despair.”

“I am well aware of your thoughts on our safety and the security of this world. Know that I would never do anything to endanger those I love.”

“And what about Catherine?” Father’s eyes rose challengingly, as he finally made his move with a fatalistic sigh. “You endanger her every time you go Above to see her. Surely you can both see it is an untenable position.”

“I know that. But I cannot abandon her, Father.” Vincent reached to counter the move with his queen. “I cannot leave her alone once more with her doubts and fears as I have done in the past. My heart contains only her, and my arms are for her alone. There will never be anyone else for me, Father, never.” He surveyed the board and smiled wryly. “I do believe that is check-mate.”

“Again?” Father questioned bleakly, without heat. He snorted as he studied the board before capitulating. “Very well, you win.”

He looked up. “But please know this, Vincent, Catherine deserves the very best of everything. She deserves a whole life, not one half-lived, hiding in the shadows and concealment for safety’s sake. She can never take you home to her parents, to meet her friends and co-workers. She can never show them an engagement ring and say she is yours in front of everyone. And you can offer her no more than a life full of half-truths and deceit. A life lived in the shadows, fearful always of discovery. You have lived it yourself, Vincent, is it any life for a woman such as her?”

“All I can offer her is myself, Father.” Vincent fell to toying with the white queen again, his expression tormented. “Everything that I am and all that I am to be.”

Father studied his son’s tawny, down-bent head for a long time before he replied gruffly, “Then you must ask yourself, Vincent, is that precious gift good enough to last you both for a lifetime?”

~ ~ ~

Elliot eased a weary hand up and around the back of his neck beneath the open collar of his shirt, relieving the tired muscles and the cramp dogging his hunched shoulders. He glanced sourly at the clock on the wall. Another midnight had passed un-noticed.

It was becoming a bad habit to work the day from both ends. But if he went home he found he couldn’t sleep. He would pace the floor until dawn, and feel no better for it. At least work distracted him from his inner turmoil.

Those nights had been the longest to endure, wasting his precious time staring out at the cityscape sprawled beneath his penthouse window. “Nothing but the best, right?” He lifted the crystal whisky tumbler mockingly, before downing the fiery liquid in one long swallow. It burned all the way to his empty stomach.

A few weeks ago there had been nights when he could easily tear himself away from work, but that was when ‘she’ was in his life.

“Catherine Chandler…” Elliot’s frowning gaze quartered Central Park, but he still had no answers. “What are you hiding from me?”

He had determined to know why she’d come to him seeking those explosives and detonators. He’d wryly joked about hard rock mining at the time, but it had been much more than that. She had been in deep emotional pain and serious trouble when she had demanded he instantly supply what she needed without any explanation.

Like it was a case of life or death…but for who? And where?

After that night, to Elliot’s bemused amazement, Catherine had kept her word. She had seen him on several occasions over the following three weeks. They had gone out to dinner, and she had allowed him to escort her to the opera. They’d been photographed and speculated about in the press. Elliot couldn’t help that, even though Catherine seemed deeply displeased to be exposed like that.

She had placed limits on anything more than that. Even her father’s cautiously delighted approval of her new beau did nothing to change her mind. Old man Chandler had met with Elliot behind his daughter’s back and made his views clear. He was not happy, but he was prepared to make the best of the only deal on the table. He badly wanted grandchildren to continue the Chandler legacy.

But Catherine had set her own limits. Stay the night with Elliot, make love with him, assuage the intense ache for her softness that burned deep within him, she steadfastly refused to do, no matter how many times he asked. Okay, demanded… It was like she had already made promises to someone else, and she wasn’t about to break them.

Elliot knew it wasn’t Tom Gunther. That relationship had ended some months before. The man had moved on, and not looked back, recently marrying a New York heiress who was rolling in seriously useful connections and old money.

It drove Elliot crazy that Catherine would not let him in, help him understand who or what she was seeing. Suddenly their enforced acquaintance had dropped away. She’d stopped taking his calls, she ignored his messages, and his occasional dropping in at her place of work, as if he was an annoying puppy that needed to be taught its true place in her life.

As if she had other places to be, other people to see, another man to share her life with... and her bed, no doubt.

Elliot didn’t operate like that. He ruthlessly chased down what he wanted, it was who he was, and it had been there right in front of him, all along. He was just too blind, too in love to see it. What she wouldn’t share with him, she was sharing with someone else. Elliot knew he had been used, he could see that.

So he went after her keys and found a different way to be into her private life. To delve into all her secrets and finally ferret out the truth. He would bring her back to him by threatening that which she was protecting and that secret had to be really big, because no one else had any idea.

“A means to an end.” He grimaced at the memories.

They left a bitter taste in his mouth along with the dregs of the whisky. He slammed the glass down on a nearby table, his shoulders hunched in physical pain.

All along Catherine had someone else waiting in the wings, waiting for her return to him, duty done. But where was he now, and why was he never around taking care of business?

~ ~ ~

Catherine turned the expensively embossed invitation over and over in her hands. Staring into the middle distance, she wasn’t even looking at it. After two weeks of silence Elliot Burch had reappeared to personally deliver his invitation to an exhibition he was hosting at the Met, along with a very glossy brochure as if he was touting his wares.

He stood on her doorstep, looking beyond her into the apartment, demanding she agree to attend the masked gala he was giving on Saturday night, three weeks hence.

“You are free, aren’t you?” His sharp grey eyes had hunted over what he could see of her living room, obviously looking for signs she was not alone. “Or you got company?”

“I do not think that is any of your business,” she’d told him, pointedly half-closing the door. “Goodbye, Elliot.”

“I say it is my business.” Elliot had inserted his foot in the aperture, forcing her to agree she would at least consider his invitation before he retreated slowly towards the elevators where three of his hulking bodyguards waited.

Elliot watched her as she pushed the door closed, before she locked and bolted it securely. But she could still feel his narrowed gaze assessing her reaction through the wooden panelling. He knew she was hiding something, or someone, and he didn’t like it. Catherine sighed gustily, knowing she was making a hash of things right now.

It had been a difficult week already, and it was only half-over. Making it to a Saturday night three weeks from now seemed an impossibility.

Giving in to Elliot’s demands made the blood thump unpleasantly in her temples. She had liked him, she could admit that, until she uncovered the truth about that unfortunate project of his that required a group of old people to be evicted from their rent-controlled building.

She’d been forced to ask him for the means to rescue Vincent and Father from their rocky prison after a terrible cave-in. Elliot had made the most of that awful situation, ensuring she kept to her breathless promise to see him again. Despite Catherine’s best efforts to dismiss his attentions, there was a growing sense of possessiveness she couldn’t tolerate. Like he knew things and was finally about to make his ultimate move to win her for himself.

The sound of soft footfalls on her balcony drew her attention from her troubled introspection. She sighed with welcome relief.

If only Vincent would consent to enter her world, through the privacy of her apartment, and they could have more time together. But he steadfastly refused, and Catherine didn’t want to overrule his stoic reluctance. But for now he was here again, and her heart lifted.

“Vincent…” she breathed, kicking off her high-heeled shoes before pushing open the doors to her balcony and stepping straight into his arms.

This is what she lived for, this was what got her through the trying uncertainties of her day. And rescued her from Elliot Burch’s too-close attentions. This was where she belonged… always…

“Catherine…” Vincent responded, his hands lifting to massage her shoulders and neck, his powerful thumbs bent carefully back at the first joint to prevent his claws from marking her soft skin.

“It is so good to see you again.” Catherine moved her head, giving him further access to the knots of tension in her neck and upper spine Elliot had so recently inflicted. She closed her eyes in blissful contentment, groaning softly as his thumbs worked their magic, turning within his embrace.

“You had a visitor,” Vincent replied quietly, continuing his ministrations smoothly. “He upset you. I can feel it.”

“Elliot Burch.” Catherine’s eyes flared open in surprise. She pulled away to look up. “How did you know?”

“Elliot…” Vincent tested the flavour of the name. “The Lord is my God.” He shook his shaggy mane in disbelief. “I have taken an added interest in his work around the city after that terrible incident with Mischa and his friends. Elliot tears down the old so he may create something bigger and better. To his way of thinking anyway. He thinks a lot of himself, but money is his only god. Such a man worships wealth before anything else. He made himself out of nothing.

“And yet he gave you the means to save us that night…” He looked back to Catherine, his hands sinking to clasp her shoulders. “Without question. But when I arrived tonight, I could feel his presence like a dark cloud in your mind, and he wants something from you, Catherine. Something you are not at all sure you’re prepared to give.”

“Of course he does, he’s the great Elliot Burch. He brought me this invitation.” She held it up, forgetting she still possessed it. “And he expects an answer. But I don’t know what to tell him.” The picture on the front of the brochure caught the moonlight. Vincent frowned, taking the glossy page from her grasp to study it closely.

“What is it?” Catherine rose to her toes, peering at the page over his powerful forearm.

“Rodin’s statue of The Kiss,” Vincent mused, turning the picture so she could see it better. “That I should like to see. It seems your Elliot Burch has gone to considerable expense with this exhibition.” He turned the pages of the brochure slowly. “He’s secured loans of the most remarkable items from some of the best museums around the world. He has a specific goal in mind, unless I am very much mistaken.” His blue eyes assessed her mutinous expression. “He intends to make quite an impression. A reprieve for past mistakes.”

“He’s not ‘my’ Elliot Burch,” Catherine disputed hotly. She sighed as she studied the photo of a naked couple embracing, freely and without inhibition. They seemed so equal in their embrace, the man’s hand resting lightly on the woman’s hip, appearing to ask for her love, rather than demanding her surrender. And the woman’s arm was flung around his neck, drawing him down to her as they kissed passionately, her unspoken permission given in every slender line of her body. It made her heart ache, for it was both so romantic and erotically compelling.

‘I was born to love only you. Love me truly and make me yours… forever…’ Catherine gasped as the words seemed to echo in her mind. It was her own voice, but the words confused her. She shook her head, even as the voice continued sadly, ‘Without you I am nothing, and if you abandon me I will never love another…Please do not leave me here, alone and cold in the dark, without your love…’

“What is it?” Vincent took her arm, turning her to face him. “Are you all right? Catherine, you’re shivering. Come here.” He put out both arms, opening them wide to enfold her inside the shelter of his cloak, pulling her close against him before resting his chin on the top of her head.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” Catherine sighed against his chest. “Just for a moment there, I thought…” The words in her mind puzzled her, were they even hers? For a moment she contemplated asking Vincent to stay with her.

Come inside, my love and keep me warm. Love me and be mine always... The idea heated her body, but she couldn’t voice the request. What if he refused? Withdrew hurriedly and left her there, wanting and alone. Then all the progress they had made as a couple could be damaged irrevocably. She couldn’t risk it, not yet. But she still wished…

Instead she grimaced. “I guess I’m just tired. But I agree, this must have cost Elliot a considerable fortune. He does have the reputation of being very single-minded. My father thinks he is suitable.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “He wants the best for me.”

“But you disagree,” Vincent replied quietly. “Catherine, this is your world, not mine. Only you know what is for the best. For you, for your father, for everyone who loves you.”

Catherine sighed roughly. She noticed Vincent was very careful not to include himself by name in that list. She was aware he cared for her, cherished her as no man had ever done, but he had never said he loved her, not once. It added to that aching hole in her heart. She wanted to say those words aloud, ‘Please do not leave me here, Vincent, alone and cold, in the dark without you…’ but she managed to bite back the plea before they escaped her control.

What remained always was that same profound sense of aloneness he had mentioned when he’d appeared on her balcony for the first time. He had said then he had only wished to see she was well and that he wanted to see her one last time. He had told her there was no place for him in her world.

She had hotly disputed that statement and begged him to stay, saying it was still dark, there was still time…and compelled by forces larger and more powerful that both of them, he had acquiesced, settling back to listen to her read the last chapter of Great Expectations…

Now here he was again, watching and waiting for her. He was her one and only safe place in either world. She felt so incomplete whenever she was without him being there to hold and comfort her. Sometimes, recently, he had withdrawn from her for days on end, not seeing her, or responding to her tapping out his name on the pipes. He left her feeling bereft and very much alone, as she had felt all her life. It was almost as if he was beginning to discover he could not love her as she wished he would.

And yet…she sighed deeply and long. And yet she didn’t know how to tell him that without him here beside her always, there would be truly nothing for her indeed. She couldn’t tell him for fear such a revealing confession of her innermost thoughts and feelings would finally scare him away for good. That he could not, or would not respond as she secretly wished to such a confession. And she could not allow him to desert her, no matter how much she wished for things to be different…

~ ~ ~

The operative staking out Catherine Chandler’s apartment had finally hit pay-dirt. Elliot had almost given up, figuring he’d been mistaken after all in his suspicions. He was not at all pleased with the discovery, but it finally gave him a target to aim at.

He frowned at the photographs in his right hand, and the piece of paper with the neat notation in the other. Both detailed the quotation that had been found on the folded-down flyleaf of a carefully hidden book of Shakespeare’s sonnets the operative had uncovered in Catherine’s bookcase. Like it was precious, and she didn’t want it to be easily found.

There was also a pressed red rose inside the book, marking the location of one of the sonnets. The sonnet’s last two lines caught Elliot’s frowning attention. He traced them with his well-manicured fingertip.

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings…

Cleon’s man had copied the quotation, then photographed everything before replacing the book exactly as he had discovered it. He’d been paid the fat bonus Elliot had promised. Elliot returned to read the flyleaf quotation again slowly, trying to pierce its ultimate truth.

With loves light wings did I o’er perch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out…

Vincent

“Vincent…” Elliot breathed roughly. He frowned. “The conqueror…”

So the guy had a name after all. And a powerful one at that. But he was also a hopeless romantic and a fool. Choosing love over money was not an option, not in Elliot’s book. Money was power, it gave you leverage over the competition and made your mark in the world. And this guy Catherine was seeing was competition, all right.

Elliot smiled tightly as he studied the flowing script with deep curiosity. It looked as if it had been written with a fountain pen, but there were no hesitation marks or ink blots where the pen had stuttered in its passage over the paper. And by the smooth slope of the lettering the guy appeared to be left-handed. That smacked of a broad imagination and a powerful drive.

In fact, everything about the dedication spoke of power and certainty. Of the confidence this unknown man had about his place in the world and his right to exist. To be able to send love notes to Catherine asking for her love in return. Vincent gave no quarter and expected none to be given.

“But then, nor do I.” Despite his chagrin over the discovery, Elliot found he had a lurking admiration for this guy Catherine had been seeing behind his back.

He was a truly worthy opponent. Now all Elliot needed to do was meet the man, and set him right about how things now stood with Catherine. She was private property and this unknown Vincent had better get used to that!

~ ~ ~

“I know it’s late and I’m really sorry to bother you, Miss Chandler. I know you’re a very busy young woman, but…” Catherine’s elderly neighbour from her floor put a restraining hand on her arm, as the younger woman hurried from the elevator towards her apartment door. “I thought you needed to know.”

“What is it, Mrs. Tigwall?” Catherine frowned at the interruption.

The old woman was the building’s resident busy-body, always with her nose in someone’s business. Catherine tried hard to keep it out of hers.

Mentally she frowned at her wristwatch, and hoped this wouldn’t take long. It was already after 7 o’clock in the evening, and Vincent would be waiting for her on her balcony. Their time together was so precious.

“Well…” The old lady drew Catherine to one side, her lined face becoming conspiratorial. “That boy, you know, the one who’s been riding the elevators for the last couple of weeks. This tall…” She held one hand above the level of her own age-bowed shoulder. “Yankee’s baseball cap, denim shirt and grey chinos. Harmless looking enough, I guess. They always are, dear…”

“Go on…” Catherine’s wandering attention snagged and held. “What of him?”

“Seems he wasn’t what he said he was.” The old lady’s faded grey eyes sparkled with intrigue. “I decided to follow him down, in the elevator, the other day, after I saw him hanging around your door once too often for my liking. He doesn’t live in the building at all. Said he lived on the third floor, when I asked him last week. But he went right past it and into the lobby. Knew he’d lied because he acted like he didn’t want the guard seeing him when he headed out for the street. I watched him down to the corner.”

“You followed him…” Catherine echoed, frowning. “Was that wise?”

“A kid didn’t scare me.” The old lady stiffened. “Thing is, it’s where he went that’s so odd.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear this, but please go on,” Catherine urged.

“Burch Towers…” The old lady leaned closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper pregnant with meaning. “The boy walked right in, as if he owned the place. Went all the way up to the top floor too, I watched the numbers on the elevator.”

Her eyes fixed on Catherine’s for any sign of reaction. “Elliot Burch is your boyfriend, isn’t he?” A knowing smile curved her lips, and she pounced at the troubled look in Catherine’s eyes. “I thought so, you want to know more, eh? Burch was here too, the other day. I saw you and him when I came back with my mail. You were talking with him, but you didn’t let him in. He had those three great brutes with him again.”

She grimaced, her eyes wide with intrigue. “Thing is, what’s the boy got to do with a rich man like Burch?”

“Thank you for the information about the boy, Mrs. Tigwall.” Catherine stepped away. “I will deal with that. But I am afraid you are very wrong. Elliot Burch and I are nothing to each other. Never have been, never will be.”

“Oh, but, I was so sure you two would be getting married. It’s been in all the papers, and you look so good together.” The old lady made a grab for her arm, but Catherine avoided the contact. “And I’ve already reported the boy, so if he comes back he’ll be arrested. Surely that deserves something…”

“Thank you,” Catherine replied sharply. “You have done well, but now I really must go…” She fished for her keys in her purse, finding and inserting the right one in the lock, before opening her door.

“Well, there’s gratitude for you…” her neighbour huffed as she flounced towards her own door, head held high, thin body stiff with indignation. “I was only trying to help…”

Catherine stepped inside, shutting her front door sharply, before leaning back against it. Mentally she recalled the boy, his open, cheeky face and broad smile. He looked like he knew more than he was telling and it gave him a kick to hoodwink her. But how could he be used as a stooge for Elliot? To what end?

The ongoing puzzle was distracting, the facts scarce, and none of them fit together. Catherine pushed away from the door and hurried to change out of her office suit into something more comfortable. But still the thought nagged at her. What could the boy and Elliot possibly have in common…?

~ ~ ~

Vincent was waiting for her on the balcony when she opened the doors, and pushed through the curtains. She walked slowly into his embrace and gloried in the feel of his powerful arms closing around here.

She sighed long and deeply, causing Vincent to rest his cheek against the top of her head and draw her closer still. They stood that way, leaning on each other for some minutes, before Catherine finally pulled back and looked up.

“Hello, Vincent…” Once more the thought of asking him inside her apartment with her rose unbidden, in her mind, and she opened her mouth to make that suggestion when her breath caught and she gasped. “Vincent…no…of course…Oh, I’m such a fool…”

“What is it? What has happened?” Vincent was instantly alert to the sharp change in her mood. “Tell me!”

“There was a boy…” Catherine took a quick turn around the small balcony, coming back to stand in front of him again. “A couple of weeks ago my keys went missing from my purse…or so I thought.”

She glanced into the dark apartment. “After you walked me up that morning…the morning after I fell asleep on you.” A slight flush warmed her cheeks momentarily, only to flee again just as quickly, leaving her chilled. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but he must have lifted my keys from my bag and somehow had them copied.” She looked into the apartment again, studying every clinging shadow and dark corner. “And he used them, I just know it.”

“Why would he do that?” Vincent’s frowned, putting a hand on her arm, to hold her still.

“Elliot…because he works for Elliot…” Catherine inhaled deeply, expelling her breath angrily. “That man…he will do anything, risk anything…it is unforgivable!”

“How is Elliot involved in any of this?” Vincent’s sharp gaze searched the shadows. “To what end?”

“Oh, Elliot doesn’t need an excuse,” Catherine flared angrily. “He sees what he wants and goes after it. But he has been in here. I just know it. Or someone who works for him!” She rounded to face her love, indignant fire sparking in her shadowed green eyes. “Someone to do his dirty work! He’s found something that has led him to you, or the belief he knows about you! It’s too dangerous, Vincent and I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me. We are no longer safe to meet here. We must go Below immediately!”

“No, Catherine…” Vincent shook his head slowly at her agitation. “Not even Elliot would be bold enough to come here at night. I will admit he is a dangerous man who wants you, and does not count the cost.”

His keen eyes lanced the surrounding shadows. “But to go to such lengths. Is it possible?”

Catherine’s laugh was short and wry. “With that man anything is possible and nothing is quite as it seems. Not him literally, of course. He would have sent in a Manning operative to do his dirty work.”

Her furious eyes widened. “I was right, of course. It was that kid, the one in the elevator. He did get too close. He stole my keys, copied them somehow and replaced them in my bag without my knowledge.”

“Elliot must want you very badly to go to that kind of trouble.” Vincent slowly turned full circle, still probing the shadows, and finding nothing. “There is no one here, Catherine.”

“No, whoever he was he’s been very careful. But still I know things were moved, and I’ve had a feeling of being somehow violated. Everything has been too neat, too ordered. I could have sworn my tablet of phone messages had been flipped closed one day, when I’d left it open. My bills were in a neater pile than I’d left them. Even my dirty dishes had been stacked in the sink, and who does that? Little things I just couldn’t shake it. I put it all down to lack of sleep and my job.”

She set her fists on her hips, glaring around the room. Her eyes settled on the bookcase, and its carefully hidden book of sonnets. If it been moved, she couldn’t say, but it chilled her even further to think it may have been. “I will get the super to replace all the locks first thing tomorrow, and put in a dead bolt. Oh, Elliot, you are such a fool. And more fool me for believing you could ever change.”

She looked back at Vincent. “I’m so sorry,” she confessed. “I asked you into my world, asked you to stay and thereby putting you and your whole existence at risk.”

“I disagree,” Vincent pulled her back into his embrace. “There is nothing to apologise for. There will always be the Elliots of this world. He has made his choices. He fought for you the only way he knew how, even if he lost you. I can admire him for that. I would fight with everything I have, to keep you by my side.”

“You’re being much too generous to that man,” Catherine snapped. “Elliot deserves a good ticking off and I am just the one to give it to him.” Her searching eyes fell on the Rodin exhibition flyer lying on the table inside the door.

She picked it up, showing it to Vincent. “I had made up my mind not to go, after all. Make a clean break of it. But I still need to know what he found and where. Defuse the situation and make him believe he’s found out nothing at all about you. A little smoke and mirrors will do nicely.”

She began to smile. “And I will tell you all about it the moment I get back.” As she spoke she leaned back into his embrace, and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

“And I will be waiting…” Vincent drew her deep into his arms, holding her tight against the possibility of his no longer being able to come to this place, because of one man’s ongoing obsession…

~ ~ ~

Sipping her champagne, Catherine stood before the Rodin statue, surveying it with clinical detachment. Or that is what she wished any casual observer to think. Inside she was a mess of nervous tension and seething annoyance.

She had yet to see Elliot, but she knew he was attending the gala, the cluster of reporters and television camera lights in the distance told her that. No doubt he would come to find her in his own good time.

She was not looking forward to seeing him again, but her resolve was unchanged. The strength of her resolve would carry her through their next encounter. But she wished Vincent could have been close at hand…

“But, he can’t be…” She inhaled, squaring her shoulders.

Tonight she was going to settle the situation between her and Elliot. She would not marry him, no matter how much pressure he applied to get his own way. He was too used to having everything exactly as he willed it to be. Her heart was already spoken for, she could not betray Vincent with another man, however many obstacles stood in the way of their ultimately being together.

Her father would get over his disappointment in time. It was her life after all, and she intended to start living it by some new rules.

Her eyes followed the sensual lines of the statue. “Vincent, it is beautiful…” she whispered, wishing again her love could be here to see it.

It made her heart ache. She half-raised a hand towards the statue, wanting to reach beyond the security ropes and caress the cool marble. She could almost feel the man’s hand caressing her own hip…

“There are signs everywhere saying you must not touch the exhibits,” a very familiar voice remarked quietly beside her. And the hand that now rested against her hip was indeed real! A very familiar hand too, her soft flesh yielding to the gentle, warning pressure of his gloved claws.

“Vincent…?” Catherine all but squeaked with dismay.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She turned to find him standing calmly beside her. “How did you…? I mean, what are you doing here? You must leave, before someone sees you! Go back to my balcony and wait for me there!” She made a tiny push at him, trying not to be obvious.

“See me, yes…” Vincent shrugged, letting his hand fall even as his eyes travelling over her elegantly formal costume of a fourteenth century English gentlewoman, complete with fan and beribboned reticule, before rising to study her frightened eyes behind her fantastical mask of black feathers and ribbons that covered her entire face, except for the generous curve of her mouth.

“But recognize me as an uninvited intruder, I very much doubt that would be possible since none here appears to be who they really are. Remember our Halloween adventure? Surely on such a night as this, in such a sea of masked strangers, I can truly be myself.”

As he spoke, he swept a hand down the front of his own costume, taking a step back from her, and Catherine could only stare in awed wonder. The full length of his black evening cloak billowed around him as he watched her reaction closely.

Attired as a seventeenth century French gentleman in formal style, his black thigh boots clung lovingly to his powerful legs over black leather breeches. Lace ruffles fell to his hands, neatly concealed beneath black leather gloves. A silk waistcoat of black and silver set off the deep ruffles of a cream linen shirt beneath the severe cut of his evening jacket.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble. Catherine wondered who would have such skills in the world Below.

For once Vincent’s hair was combed and tamed, tied back into a ponytail with a single silver ribbon. His black, wide brimmed hat complete with nodding ostrich feathers cast most of his face into concealing shadow.

His beautiful, beloved face, where his deep-set blue eyes gleamed, patiently watched and waited for her reaction. He looked as immovable as a granite rock, and just as stubbornly set in the earth. Her heart quailed.

“How did you get in here?” Catherine demanded furiously, in a low voice. “Why did you come? It’s so dangerous for you here. Father must be having several different kinds of fit right now! And for once I would agree with him!”

“I did not tell him where I was going Above, and I came to see this.” Vincent swept a hand at the statue. “As to how I attended the gala without an invitation…that was easy. When we were children, Devin and I always made use of the museum’s basements and hallways. It was often our night-time playground, until they installed the new security system and ruined our fun. We almost got caught that night. Of course Father never knew. There is still an old entrance hidden beneath the main building, if you know where to find it.”

“Just as well,” Catherine muttered, her eyes hunting the immediate foreground, praying they were not being observed. She indicated the statue. “Now you have seen this, you must go. You cannot be here! It’s far too dangerous. Elliot could appear at any moment.”

“If it will give you peace, then I will leave.” Vincent slanted his head regretfully at her, but the shadows of his hat could not conceal the determined gleam in his eyes. “However I would rather stay. It was not dangerous the night we walked the city on Halloween. We didn’t waste the opportunity to be together that evening.”

He glanced back at the statue. “It still amazes me that such beauty as this, and Father’s chess set, can be carved out of cold marble and made to seem as if alive. It is almost as if there truly is a spirit living within the stone simply waiting to be discovered.”

“This is not the time or the place to be talking about chess,” Catherine muttered worriedly. “And this isn’t Halloween. You need to go before it’s too late. Please…”

“So you decided to come to my little party, after all. You’re looking very lovely tonight. Who’s your friend, Cathy? Anyone I might know?”

The silken question from behind her made Catherine start badly. She swallowed tightly, before turning her head, schooling her face into one of studied surprise.

“Elliot…” She arched her brows. “I didn’t see you there.” For the moment they stood alone, the throngs of party-goers having moved away to where the buffet tables stood, groaning with free food and drink.

“Obviously.” Elliot’s eyes moved beyond her to Vincent, studying his tall, broad frame inch by inch with predatory thoroughness.

The ever-wary beast within Vincent bristled at the other man’s narrow-eyed inspection, and a barely suppressed growl hovered in his throat. Nor did his eyes miss the proprietary hand Elliot placed on Catherine’s arm, drawing her closer to him. His own gloved hands curled into fists at his side.

“Elliot Burch.” Elliot extended his free hand. “Under that great cat mask you could be anyone, a friend or a rival. But I’m sure I don’t know you. I think I would remember you. Yes, I would remember.”

He switched his attention to Catherine, his taut smile lethally urbane. “Where are you manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me, Cathy?”

“No, you do not know me, Elliot Burch,” Vincent growled softly, ignoring the other man’s still out-stretched hand. “We move in completely different worlds, you and I. My name would mean nothing to you and is of no importance.”

“I disagree, but I’ll let that pass, for now…” Unabashed by the other man’s warning tone, Elliot shrugged, dropping his hand to his side. “From over there, you two were looking quite close before. Like I was interrupting something important. How do you know my Cathy?”

“We were just looking at the statue.” Catherine pointedly removed her arm from his grasp. Attempting to distract his attention, she said quickly, “This whole thing must have cost you a fortune. You have been too generous, or cunning.” Her look was tight and challenging.

“Impressed?” Elliot cocked his head at her, but his grey eyes never left Vincent’s. “I did all this for you, Cathy. I know how much you love the classics. I’ve made a point of finding out all about you.”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “I can do so much more for you, if only you would let me.” He lowered his voice as he moved closer, coming between them, turning his back on Vincent.

“You are being rude, Elliot,” Catherine told him coldly. “I think this discussion is over. And I think I have seen enough. I have a heavy work schedule on Monday. Good night, Elliot.”

She turned to walk away, shoulders braced. Then she stopped, turning back to glare at him. “No, that should be goodbye, Elliot. For good. I know what you did, how you managed to find your way into my apartment. You used that boy, a child, against me. Any means to an end, I think you once said to me. That was unforgivable. I had the locks changed, so you can throw your worthless set away.”

“He might be young in years, but that ‘child’ has a world of experience, and none of it good. Do not underestimate him.” Elliot’s dark brows drew together with displeasure. “I am sorry I had to use him to get to you, but not sorry for what I have done for you, to keep you with me. I had to know what, or who, my competition is.”

He squared his shoulders defensively, his angry expression showing a flash of remorse. “But I will deal with that boy so he won’t bother you again. I’m not a bad man, and I do love you.” His eyes flicked briefly to an impassive Vincent who did not react. Elliot looked back. “All’s fair in love and war, Cathy. I thought you knew that.”

“Don’t call me that name!” Catherine flared. “I didn’t give you the right, and if this is your idea of what love means...” She turned away again, tossing him one final dismissive glare over her shoulder. “Then I pity you, Elliot. But I could never love you.”

“You’re angry and overwrought right now.”  Elliot raised a dismissive shoulder. “Very well, this round is yours. I concede on this occasion to the better player.”

Again he eyed Vincent. “So, tell me, Ms. Chandler, are you going home to Vincent tonight?”

Elliot’s silky question brought Catherine spinning around to face him again. Her dangling reticule banged heavily against her thigh. Horrified questions about how could he possibly know that name, and exactly where did he find it, flared through her mind like sparks, making her feel dizzy with concern. She dared not ask, of course, knowing he was waiting for her to react with horror. In her apartment though, that much was obvious. The name ‘Vincent’ appeared in precious few places, and it utterly offended her to think that anyone had touched either the book of sonnets, or some other keepsake she held as precious. But that had to be it.

She bit back the scattered thoughts, catching her bottom lip between her teeth to prevent their escape. Behind Elliot’s arrogant stance she could see Vincent bristling with anger. She needed to diffuse the situation and quickly, before someone got hurt.

“Are you talking about my old English Lit teacher?” Catherine shrugged and frowned, feigning confusion. “What on earth for? I don’t understand. What has he to do with anything?”

She shook her head slowly. “He’s eighty if he’s a day, and besides, he lives in Chicago now. I haven’t seen him in years. Oh, Elliot, is that all you have? I feel sorry for you, truly I do.” She managed a scathing laugh. “Give it up, you won’t win. It’s over.”

To say Elliot looked taken aback was an understatement. Behind him Vincent’s broad shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

Smiling triumphantly, Catherine held out her empty champagne glass to Elliot, and he took it automatically. “Good night, Elliot. I won’t be seeing you around any time soon. Believe that, if nothing else. There is nothing left between us, and I will never be your Cathy.”

Stepping around the other man, Vincent crooked his arm for Catherine to place her hand on his elbow. “May I have the pleasure of escorting the fair lady home?” he asked in a low, intimate tone that broadened Catherine’s smile.

She swept a slight curtsy, her skirts rustling softly. “Thank you, sir. I would like that.” They quickly left the room, hurrying towards the museum entrance, before Elliot could collect himself enough to prevent their exit by demanding answers, or sending someone to stop them.

“You refused to give Elliot your name. That was wise,” Catherine remarked softly as she collected the silk cloak that complimented her costume. “Let him go on thinking Vincent is an eighty-year-old man.”

Vincent’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Oscar Wilde would have approved. There is power in a name. Power in knowing the one that belongs to your rival.”

The last sentence was out before he could call it back. He settled the beige silk on her white shoulders. The white queen.  She’s smooth as the silk, infinitely more enjoyable to hold...and yet…

“You and Elliot are not rivals.” Catherine’s reply was both predictable and firm. She reached to strip off her mask, twining the ribbons around her fingers before pushing the whole thing into her reticule along with her fan. “How could you be?” Her brow furrowed. “But he is still a very dangerous man. You must never underestimate him. He goes after what he wants, no matter what the cost.”

“I won’t, I can assure you of that.” Vincent inclined his head as they wound their way through the myriad of costumed guests, Catherine being careful to keep them away from the all-seeing eyes of the cameras, and the nosy event reporters swirling around them. Everyone leaving was being photographed, and speculated about.

It was Elliot’s style to make a huge splash in all the papers, marking him as a force to be reckoned with in a city that did not tolerate losers and upstarts. They found the courtyard area and fountain were less crowded, but costumed guests still strolled everywhere, obviously reluctant to leave Elliot’s excessively fulsome largesse.

They had taken several steps down the block before Vincent continued softly, “You say we are not rivals. But is it because you do not care for him that you can so easily walk away tonight and not look back? Or because I cannot compete for you with a man like him...in that way, no matter what you feel for me?”

Catherine jerked to a halt in the middle of the crowded street. It forced Vincent to do the same, and the mass of night-time humanity flowed around them. “What I feel for you…” Catherine’s green eyes studied him helplessly. “I…” Her slim shoulders fell. “It is indefinable…”

Her lawyer’s mind balked at that complete lack of definition. She sighed and tried again. “I have the sense of it being as intimate as my own shadow, and yet as large as the universe itself, and a billion times more complicated. I don’t know.” Pain entered her expression. “Do you understand?”

“I understand almost too well. It is all right, Catherine. You don’t have to try and define your answer.” Vincent clasped her linked hands. He followed the stream of costumed pedestrians around them, with his eyes. “Please forget I asked such a foolish question. It’s a beautiful night. We shouldn’t miss it.” He offered her his arm again, the courtly gesture he so regularly used.

He was offering her a way out of the pressing comment, of the confusion engendered by her answer, if she wanted it. Vincent felt that he was dangerously close to spoiling the evening, and was trying to right their ship, keep the lightness of the night afloat, and the necessary distance between them that had always been there, unspoken and unacknowledged.

Vincent frowned, sensing the deepening of her confusion. No matter how many times he held her close, or allowed her to fall asleep leaning against his shoulder, he never felt he had truly reached her. Make her believe in what he saw.

All he could offer was to go on doggedly reading her poetry in the hope of reaching her innermost self and making her see what he saw. He meant what he had said to his father. Her beauty that shone from both from without and within…always…and Catherine herself was completely unaware of it on any deeper level, beyond what the mirror showed to her every day.

To his surprise Catherine ignored his arm. “I love you. You and Elliot aren’t rivals because you can’t be. You’re the only man I can even think about now. No one else can compare to what I have with you. All of it.”

“Ah, Catherine…” Vincent felt the words wash over him. But I’m not a man, Catherine. Or at least, not all of me is. And you’re the white queen, remote and unattainable. Her beautiful declaration warmed him, however, and it sparked an honest reply.

“You are the first thing I think about when I open my eyes in the morning.  And last I think of, upon closing them,” Vincent told her as Catherine’s shoulder was bumped by a rather portly pirate. The man stumbled back, apologising incoherently, before hurrying on, wine fumes floating back from him.

“But that isn’t enough?” Catherine asked. “Not any more…”

Vincent’s eyes followed the pirate, unable to hold his love’s gaze. “I don’t know what it is. I know it’s all I have, Catherine. That I would fight Elliot, fight anyone to hold it. But that...that it’s like the dawn that’s going to chase me Below again, in a few hours. It’s inevitable, and it’s beautiful, but it isn’t something I can be a part of, the way other men can be. The light will always be for them, as the dark is for me. I accept that fate, however unwillingly.”

He looked back to her fair face, and his gaze held hers. “Father once asked me if the precious gift of our love is good enough to last us both for a lifetime.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I couldn’t answer him, not then. And now…” His shoulders moved again. “It’s all right that I can’t share some things with you, and I understand. What we have now is worth everything to me.”

Catherine’s confusion deepened. He did? She wasn’t sure if she did. “Understand what?”

“That there are things other men can share with you. Things you can share with them. Which I can’t. Father also made that very plain to me some nights ago. He said this is your world, and I have no place in it. He only wants what is best for us…and yet…”

“I see…” Catherine’s brows knitted together. “Are we still talking about the dawn, here?”

“Yes. And…no.” Vincent shifted his stance, uneasily aware the course of this odd conversation had somehow veered off onto dangerous ground.

Silently he offered his arm again, crooked and ready to receive her clasp, signalling her usual acceptance of the inevitable separation to come. She always had before…

“Since it is a clear night…” To his surprise Catherine refused to take his outstretched arm and grabbed his hand, instead. “We’re going to watch the dawn arrive,” she declared, attempting to move him onwards. “It’s already Sunday, so I am not doing anything today, beyond lying in bed and reading a week’s worth of newspapers. And so, as of now, nor are you.”

She tugged him, trying to move him forward. The effect was one of dragging at an object that refused to move easily. “If you’re worried, we can send a message to Father…”

Her eyes pleaded for his understanding. “Sax will still be playing his instrument up the street somewhere, working the stragglers from the party. If we hurry, we can find him before dawn.”

More urgent tugging at his sleeved mantle seemed to activate Vincent’s curiosity. “Are we going to the area near the bridge, again?” He began lengthening his stride. “I enjoyed that night. It was so peaceful there.” His gaze slanted to hers. “Before we were interrupted, that is…”

“There will be no interruptions this time.” Sliding her arm though his, Catherine hugged him with both hands wrapped tight around his upper arm. “We’re going to my apartment.” The whole idea made her shiver, but she wasn’t cold.

“We are?” Vincent allowed himself to be shepherded by his determined love down the street to where they found the old man still playing his sax.

He took their message with a sidelong glance at them, but he forbade to comment, promising to make sure the note was delivered immediately. As he replaced the mouthpiece between his lips, his rheumy, dark eyes flicked sideways, indicating they were blocking the paying customers coming from the reception. They made for good pickings.

“Thank you,” Vincent acknowledged simply, as they stepped out of the way. It all seemed so easy to accomplish.

“Come on…” Taking his arm again, Catherine urged Vincent onwards until they arrived at the entrance to Catherine’s apartment building.

There he set his feet and refused to go further, saying softly, “It is better that I take the roof path to your balcony. We have given Elliot enough to think about this evening, and he will come looking for you soon enough. Also that boy may still be around.”

“That man…” Catherine fumed, but quickly acquiesced to his request. She shrugged her shoulders regretfully. “You are right, of course. I will see you up there. Don’t be long…”

Taking the steps up to the front door of her building, she paused, turning for one final glimpse of Vincent, but he had already vanished, set on whatever path it was that took him to her roof. Biting her lower lip in agitation she hurried to her front door.

Inside she turned, securely locking and rechecking all security, and the dead bolt, before casting her reticule onto the nearest chintz sofa and kicking off her shoes.

She hurried towards the French doors, unlocking and flinging them wide to the midnight air, and the broad shadow that lurked in the darkest corner. Vincent came forward to catch her in his arms and she ran barefoot into his embrace and the massive wings of his cloak closed around her once more. This was where she belonged, this is where she truly knew herself and it felt so good the lean on his solid strength once more.

“Catherine…” Vincent murmured against her ear, his arms tightening further.

Before she could reply he swung her up and off her feet, turning slowly, before setting her down again, breathlessly happy and blood racing. She leaned back to smile up at him, his eyes dark and mysterious in the darkness, but she could feel the love shining out of them through their intimate connection.

The new intensity of his mood gave her the courage to speak the words she had been holding back for the last few weeks. “There are things you need to know about me, Vincent, and some of them are not good.” She put her head down, burying her face in his chest. “I wish it could be otherwise.”

“I’m here…” Vincent sighed, gathering her closer still. His love was nervous. More nervous than he was, and that was just a tad ironic, considering.

“Are there things I should know? Are you sure you wish to tell me, Catherine?” He could sense the feelings shifting through her. The ones he’d been sensing for months, the ones he’d told Jacob about. She was afraid of this. Afraid it would not lead where she prayed it would. Afraid the act called ‘love making’ would not be part of ‘love’ for them, but part of something else. Something... lonelier. Something that was already known and expected. And understood.

Catherine drew back to look up at him. “I wanted to share the dawn with you. I want to watch your face, see how blue your eyes are when sunlight warms them, and the day is beginning. I want...so much more...”

She looked down at her beautiful gown as she said it. She knew she wanted that dream she had dreamed when she was young and so innocent of life and love. Before her mother had died and she became painfully aware of how her world worked…

“And you worry that I might not want the same things as you, Catherine,” Vincent asked softly.

Her generous lips curved wryly. “We aren’t playing to my long suit here, Vincent. I was once...very stupid and thoughtless, for a long time. I let this be something else, sometimes. And I can’t take that back, can’t fix it so that I’m--” Her voice faltered.

Vincent’s heartbeat gathered pace. Less used. Catherine was about to say ‘less used’, and I have to stop her.

“A heart does not always go where a hand guides it,” he interrupted her, drawing her closer again. “But some hearts go where hands have never been,” he whispered, barely touching the hair at her temple with a pointed nail. “Trying to find out who you are while giving yourself away...

“It’s an impossible thing, Catherine. A thing all of us face, all of us struggle with. I help raise girls into young women, and let them go Above, into your world. Do you think none have come back, in tears? There are lessons we all must learn.”

“And I have…” Catherine raised her eyes to his, then lowered them again, tears threatening. “They never tell you you’re going to leave a piece of yourself behind every time you fall for someone. That you’ll feel like less than you ever thought possible. You’re supposed to feel...” she moved one shoulder before continuing, “I don’t know…liberated, I guess.”

“Nothing costs more than that kind of freedom,” Vincent said, thoroughly understanding, simply because he did. “We must ask for what we want, not just accept what we have, simply because it is so.”

Catherine went still, her eyes suddenly wide and dark with trepidation. “Then I will ask you to come inside…please.” As she spoke she slid her hands down to enclose his, tugging at him gently. “Just for a little while. It’s cold out here, and we could be warm inside. We can wait, and watch for the dawn.”

“Catherine…I…” Vincent watched her for a long time, so long she felt as if her heart would beat out of her chest, so long did he divide his glance between her and the shadowed limits of her ‘inside’ world. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, and then to her stunned relief he inclined his head slowly, in the barest of acknowledgement of her request.

Pulse quickening even further, Catherine tugged more firmly at his hands, urging him on by walking slowly backwards, until first her bare feet, and then his booted ones crossed his self-imposed line, and they stepped down into the living room.

But he moved no further, and she didn’t try to force him. The immovable stone had returned. But she was encouraged when he folded his arms beneath his cloak, looking around with deep interest.

“Thank you, Vincent.” Catherine stared up at him, nodding slowly. She released one of his hands, maintaining her grip on the other, no doubt in the fear he may retreat if she let him go, turning to survey the room trying to decide what they should do next. She reached out to flick on a nearby lamp, shedding muted light into the room.

Still clutching Vincent’s hand, her eyes roamed their surroundings seeking inspiration while they waited for the dawn to arrive. They could play cards or listen to some music…She already knew his tastes.

Then her eyes darted across to the bookcase…or read the book of sonnets Vincent gave her after the first time she had been foolish enough to fall for Elliot’s considerable charms.

Sensing her inner turmoil, Vincent moved closer, looking down at her with compassion. “And I would not wish one change for you. Only that you understood it better, so that you could make peace with it. Only that your heart felt... how much is waiting for you. If you would only allow it in.”

“I’m almost afraid to want it,” she whispered, knowing in her heart she was. “I don’t deserve it…or you.” She slid both her hands back within his. “I have never felt this way before.”

Vincent lifted one slender hand to his lips. “Be more afraid of what the fear has cost you.” He brushed a kiss across the back of her delicate fingers. She’s trembling.

“More afraid of the toll the loneliness takes. But don’t be afraid of a yesterday you can barely remember, or a scattering of nights you wish you could forget. Don’t give those times the power to steal your joy, Catherine. You are worth so much more than those memories. I wish you could see what I see within you. The light that shines so brightly it hurts my eyes to look at you sometimes. We can only make the best of always…”

“You make it sound so easy.” Catherine blinked, and realized she had allowed her joy to be stolen. While she hadn’t become ‘jaded’, exactly, she had become heartsick, from time to time. Love had not come for her. Not the lasting kind.

And now it was here and she was sure she didn’t deserve it. She’d lived a life of privilege, with no consequence for her bad decisions but what they did to her, inside. It could never be there with Elliot, he was not astute enough to see what she really needed. The men she had dated and known concentrated on their own needs at the expense of hers.

She realized how heavy a toll “Fashion Law” Cathy had paid for her breezy lifestyle. How much “having done worse than Tom Gunther” had cost her, and for how long. She hadn’t become as hard-hearted as many of the people she knew. But her heart had taken a beating, from each failure. And there had been more than a couple of those.

How much it had cost her father in both time and money to rescue her from the folly of her own making. She was sometimes surprised he still loved her.

She’d posed nude in an art class as an act of defiance, and held onto Stephen Bass for too long as an act of desperation. A fear of being alone and unloved once more. Had felt fire that burned both hot and out, not understanding why that was. Dated people she had ‘no chemistry’ with and not understood why that was, either.

But loneliness beckoned from just beyond the fringes of her vision. Having nothing to do on a Friday night was almost a cardinal sin in her world, so she had often ‘made do’, rather spend the night alone with her father.

“I did not say it would be easy.” Vincent released her and stepped back.

For a heart-stopping moment Catherine thought he was going to leave her, but instead he began tugging the cushions off the back of the nearest couch, settling them onto the carpet in front of the open doors so they could watch the dawn arrive. He pushed the filmy balcony curtains wide to the night air.

“How long do we have?” she asked, hurrying to help.

“Forever, if you wish for it to be so,” he replied. “But until dawn, a couple of hours yet. It’s either very late…or early.” He smiled.

Catherine dimpled him a matching smile as she pulled a fluffy throw off the back of the couch and spread it on the floor, in front of the cushions. “How many times have you seen the dawn, Vincent?” she asked, bending over to straighten the corners.

“More than a few, but mostly from the entrance to the drainage tunnel, and none for very long,” he replied, looking searchingly into the night. “The evening we went walking was the first time I’d seen it rise over the water. It was incredible.”

His eyes tracked back to hers. “I wanted to kiss you that morning, with the sunshine on your face and love in your eyes.” He shook his great head with regret.

“I know, Vincent. And so did I wish for that, beyond anything.” Catherine moved close, taking one of hands between hers. “Will you read to me while we wait?” she asked. “I think there is a certain book of sonnets begging to be read tonight.”

“If that is your wish.” Vincent settled the cushions against the back of the couch as Catherine returned with the book, turning off the table lamp as she came.

She moved on to light some candles, drawing in the intimacy of the moment. The room was cast into shimmering darkness as the skyline twinkled, before them beyond the balcony wall. Whether she was intentionally doing so or not, she was making a very intimate space. Looking up she held out the book towards him wordlessly.

“Shakespeare knew everything…” Vincent took it and read the note he had left with the book that long ago night. The night he had been prepared to allow Catherine to love another. He moved to settle down onto the blanket, allowing her once more to make her own decisions.

“For thy sweet love remembered…” Catherine quoted the sonnet Vincent had marked with the pressed rose, as she moved closer.

She studied the long length of his legs thrust out before him. It was not a view of him she had seen before. He usually towered over her. Now his bent head was level with her abdomen, and she longed to move close enough to hug him against her lower body. Feel his arms enfolding her at thigh level…

She jumped, startled by the erotic image. “Would you like some wine?” she asked, as if she were just now remembering her manners.

I want only you. Vincent kept the words in check, but only barely.

He had sensed the intoxicating trend of her thoughts, but he would make no move to persuade Catherine the night could end so very differently if she so wished it. He watched her. “I want what it pleases you to have.”

She must find the courage to come to him, ask him for what she desired.

“Yes…” Catherine sighed. “Perhaps we better not. I had champagne earlier. I might fall asleep on you again. I’ve made some famously bad decisions on more than one glass of wine.” She raised helpless shoulders. Again that ghost of loneliness raised its unwelcome head.

Suddenly the sound of her telephone ringing was loud in the room. Catherine started badly, but she made no move to reach for it. She knew who is was and she was not going to answer. She would leave Elliot to talk to her answering service. But when her own voice cut smoothly in, asking for the caller to please leave a message, and she would return their call as soon as possible, there was nothing but a long silence before the sharp click of disconnection.

“That will not happen again.” Catherine crossed the room quickly and removed the receiver from its cradle, placing it on the table. “Now, where were we?”

“Enjoying the Bard…” Vincent kept his eyes down, focused on the slim book in his clawed hands.

He was unaccustomed to the noise of a ringing telephone, and he disliked the strident sound that had tried to shatter their mood. He also knew who had been on the other end of the line, but he didn’t comment.

He settled for turning the pages slowly, savouring the beauty of the written word. Elliot’s attempt to reach her had unsettled Catherine. Vincent could sense she was growing nervous again, being near him now. He could feel her uncertainty reaching out to him. With Elliot she knew the rules, how the game was played and what was ultimately expected of her.

This was something so very different. He prayed he would make her see that…given enough time.

Finally Vincent looked up when the silence became almost painful. “Catherine, nothing has to happen tonight that you don’t want. If all we do is allow me to see a painted sky, and speak the Bard’s words as time ticks past, I promise you I will not find the evening lacking.”

“I am not afraid.” She came to kneel beside him, gathering her feet up under the large skirt of her gown, the silk of her cape still lightly dusting her shoulders. “The first thing I ever remember about you is the sound of you reading to me,” she gave the non-answer for an answer. “I could have listened to you forever…Please, go on…”

“Very well…” Vincent began to read the sonnet he had marked with the dried rose, his voice low and haunting in the dimly-lit room.

Catherine closed her eyes and was instantly transported back to another room and another time. Again she could smell earth and dampness, candle wax and kerosene. Stone walls hemmed her in whenever she reached to touch anything familiar beyond the prison of her facial bandages, and she could hear the crackling of a fire somewhere close at hand.

Underscoring all was the fact that there was no background noise of cars, or televisions, no radio chatter...no awful shrill of an interfering telephone…and she had been aware with every fibre of her being that he was there too…somewhere close at hand, hidden as always within the shadows…Always…

Vincent concluded quietly “…like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings…”

“So beautiful…” Catherine breathed, as she opened her eyes and looked at him. “You bookmarked that sonnet the night I knew I could never be with Elliot. The night you welcomed me back, and didn’t demand I apologise, for the mistakes I could have made with him. Because of him. You are remarkable.”

Vincent lifted one powerful shoulder. “There was no apology to be made. The poem was about how I felt. I wanted you to know. That I was yours, no matter your choices. That I would always be yours. I have no choice in that.”

“Because you already knew how I felt? All of it?”

“You were feeling things deeply that night, Catherine. You often do.”

“I felt like I needed to ask your forgiveness,” she confessed, a shiver passing through her flesh. “I was foolish…”

Again those words spoke inside her mind, making her gasp. ‘Without you I am nothing, and if you abandon me I will never love another… Please do not leave me here, alone and cold in the dark, without your love…’

“Alone, in the dark…” Vincent whispered, looking up as vital awareness rippling through their bond, making him more aware of her than ever before. “But you are the light, Catherine. It is I who was alone, trapped in the dark, cold places.”

He shook his head slowly. “You feel you have to ask my forgiveness. For what? Being sure you wanted a life with a man who could give you everything and not count the cost? What would you have said? ‘Forgive me for being a beautiful woman with the world before her?’ I would have understood, you know. Painfully so, but I would have known everything. That is our gift and our burden. Wherever you go, wherever you are, I am with you, always. You live with me, in me…”

Her love endured much just to be with her. Catherine swallowed against the strong of tears. “There was more to it than that. I hurt you deeply.”

He didn’t deny it. “And then you returned to me. And we were never the same, after. I have felt your aloneness too, Catherine.”

“I know…” Catherine moved uncomfortably. “Elliot was like a holdover from my old life. He was the easy way out. The way I could take and not have to... not have to deal with the feelings I knew were coming. Feelings for you. Feeling even now I can’t define or explain. I wish I could.”

“Would that make them easier or more pleasant to contemplate?” Vincent looked out into the lightening dawn sky. “In Father’s study, there’s an old chess set. It’s been there ever since I can remember. He’s been gifted others over the years, but the one near his desk is the one he almost always plays with. The one he teaches the children on. He taught me and Devin with it. My brother detested the deep game, taking hours or days. He liked to show off by moving the pieces like quicksilver and winning every time, against all the odds.”

“Go on,” she encouraged, eager for more.

Vincent drew a long breath, expelling it slowly. “Of all the pieces, the queen is the one the years have worn most smooth. She’s beautiful, and strong. The strongest piece on the board, the one most apt to move, to conquer all before her.”

Catherine frowned. “But isn’t it the king you need to capture to win the game?”

“Yes. But everyone knows that if the queen is taken, the king will likely fall. It’s only a matter of time. He is lost without his consort. She is everything to him, his alpha and omega, his beginning and his ultimate end. He stands or falls with her, for her.”

Catherine blinked at his sudden vehemence while nodding her limited understanding of the game, even as she remembered the chess set in Jacob’s room. She had witnessed some epic battles and enjoyed the experience.

Vincent put the book aside. “In chess, white makes the first move. The white queen has had my hands on her, more than any other piece on the board. Her neck is smooth ivory. Like yours.”

“Like mine?” Catherine lifted an involuntary hand to her neck. Her eyes glimmered in the soft candlelight.

“Always…” Vincent watched her through hooded eyes. “Do you have any idea how…unattainable you are to me? How like that ivory queen? Remote, beautiful and serene. How at odds that makes us?”

“I’m not a queen. And I’m certainly not made of ivory. And I have made some terrible mistakes in my life…you truly don’t know how bad some of those were, Vincent. I need to tell you—”

“No, you do not…” Vincent reached to press a silencing finger over her lips. “Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved…”, he quoted another sonnet as he went up on his knees before her, turning her around so he could gently tug on the bow holding her cape together. It slithered off her shoulders, pooling at her knees. “Love alters not, Catherine. And it never will.

Believe that, if nothing else, tonight.”

“You seem so certain…” Catherine shivered at the erotic contact.

“Are you certain?” Vincent whispered in reply, brushing the luminous skin of her bare shoulder with his warm mouth. Just a touch. A barely-there touch. His warm breath made her skin shiver.

“N-no, I’m not at all certain.” She sighed it and he could feel her immediate response. The warning of her arousal arced between them.

“No?” he asked, dropping a soft kiss on the point of her shoulder, then another near her neck. He could feel her pulse jump. He could feel his own do the same. His softly furred fingertips traced the line his mouth travelled.

“I’m not certain of anything right now,” she said, feeling his hands settle at the top of her arms and lift, a little, carefully to be sure his claws didn’t mark her skin.

“Shall I tell you what I am certain of?” he asked it close to her ear, before he pressed his unusual mouth to just below her jawline.

“What?” Catherine breathed, eyes closing in ecstasy.

“That you are made of something far more rare than ivory. Something far lovelier, and infinitely more precious.” He settled his mouth at the curve of her neck and felt desire explode down her spine, to settle in her midsection.

She held her hands up, in surrender’s pose, and tilted her head back, allowing him greater access. “And I can barely believe that you could ever love me…”

He didn’t have to open his eyes to know there were twin tracks of tears on her cheeks. He’d felt them fall from inside his mind as he caressed her gorgeous throat. Words echoed to him, through her, spoken in her soft tones… ‘Without you I am nothing, and if you abandon me I will never love another… Please do not leave me here, alone and cold in the dark, without your love…’

The words made his heart weep with sorrow that his love could have been so hurt, so lost as to not see her own value. Know her own inner strength.

He had given that back to her, no one else, no man of this Above world. He alone had done that. He had mended her broken spirit and made her whole again. The thought flooded his soul with light. He could be everything to her, that the others could not…or ever be. It was an intoxicating revelation.

“Please…don’t stop. Not yet…” He wasn’t sure if Catherine thought it or said it, he only knew it was what she felt, as he sent his tongue out to taste her skin for the first time. It was what he heard from her, one way or the other. Her soft neck moved against his touch.

As he moved closer still he could see the setting moon painting her tears silver. Her back arched as she gasped and kept her hands up, the fingers loosely curled.

“Please…” This time he knew she’d said it.

“Queens don’t have to say ‘please,’ Catherine,” he murmured it, as she felt his hands slide to the long zipper that held the back of her dress closed.

“This one does.” She didn’t open her eyes as she heard the rasp of the zipper as it slid down, felt the fabric parting, down her    back. She did hear his indrawn breath, knew he was seeing the long length of her back, and the creamy band of her strapless bra. It had been a necessity for an off-the-shoulder gown.

“You have no idea how lovely you are, do you?” He caressed the line of her shoulder again, then she felt him turn his hands over so that the back of his fingers rested just above her shoulder blades. Slowly, he trailed them down over her skin. Skin that suddenly felt like it was too warm, too sensitive.

She lowered her arms and let the loose dress come down, knowing it would pool at her waist. His touch stuttered over the elastic of her bra, then resumed the slow course down her back. He stopped when the fabric would let him go no further, then traced his way back up. Down... up. It was a slow motion caress and she could feel his eyes on her.

He repeated the motion and then held her shoulders with his furred, clawed hands as he planted a kiss on the nape of her neck. She shivered, and bit back a whimper of delight.

“You’re trembling.” He planted his palms flat, feeling the warmth and the tremors that flowed through her.

“I know.” She was. It was a thing she couldn’t stop, and a thing she couldn’t control. And a thing that had never happened before. His hands strayed to the band of her bra. Is this how it always should have been? she asked silently.

‘Yes…’  Vincent replied, his beautiful voice honeyed and low inside her mind. ‘Always…’

“Will you undress for me? At least as much as I am? I won’t turn around,” Catherine asked, before his fingers could undo the hook and eye clasps.

“Of course,” he answered, liking the enveloping darkness, liking that her back was to him. It wouldn’t always be. But it was good, for now.

She heard the rustling of his clothing, heard the brocade vest drop as he shrugged clear of it and the linen shirt being pulled over his head. Then the understanding that he was half naked behind her was a temptation all its own.

She scooted her legs under and went up on her knees, as he returned to her, so he could embrace her from behind. His nude torso pressed against her back.

God... Muscle. And heat. Hair and a broad chest like a wall, behind her. The dress fell farther down and his arms came around her, embracing. He rubbed his front against her back, glorying in the sensation of being skin to skin. She could feel the warm tension in him, hear the low murmur of approval that was nearly a growl, as he clasped her to him.

“How can such beauty be mine?” She heard the catch in his voice at the question, a small stutter in the otherwise somnolent baritone of sound.

“I ask myself that same thing about you,” she said, clasping her arms over his. She kissed his flexing bicep. “I don’t think I’ve ever known the answer. I only know that this is what I have dreamed of…for so long now.”

Vincent enveloped her and his hands were everywhere. Her neck, her shoulders, her fabric clad breasts, her waist. He pushed the stiff fabric down as far as it would go, seeing the shimmering lace of her underwear and the creamy skin of her stocking clad thighs. What is this?

Stockings. Topped with a satin ribbon and held up by a wide band of lace. He let his fingers trail over them. They felt like a rich call to sin.

Palms full of skin, he trailed up her thighs, over her silk clad hips to the line of her bra, knowing this time she wouldn’t delay him. She was unbelievably smooth and her skin sheened like a luminous pearl, lit from within.

He tugged on the elastic, and it gave way, leaving a pink line on her skin where the bra had held fast. His seeking tongue laved the mark on instinct, still holding the halves of her bra in his hands.

She sighed her pleasure, long and low, as his mouth made to repair the abrasion to her back. Then his sensitive lips found something else. A mark no kiss could ever remove. A scar.

An indentation below her right scapula. A thin line of scar tissue... and it had been meant for him. Vincent lifted his head to study the mark, and Catherine sensed he’d found the scar left by Mitch Denton’s bullet. Her love’s voice was rough. “You were hurt because of me. Because of someone I knew.” She felt his ardour shift, and change into something more protective. “I am so sorry for that.”

“No…” She shook her head and reached for the combs that held her hair up. “I was hurt because I was trying to save people who needed saving. And then I was saved because you were there. You are always there.”

She felt him kiss the mark again, felt his mouth warm the skin, his tongue taste the scar.

“And I had a dream of you I wouldn’t trade for anything. Ever. We were walking down fifth avenue in the sunshine,” she retold it.

He lifted his head from the kiss. “And I bought you ice cream,” he remembered it. She’d been woozy from the drugs, and he’d stood in her hospital room, a sentinel against any further hurt coming to her. She’d told him the dream. He was surprised she remembered it.

“And no one looked twice.” She did remember. “Oh, Vincent, how I long for that to be so…”

“And this…?” He gently let the bra down, knowing that he would see the uninterrupted line of her back for the first time. Perfect. He wanted to kiss each knot of her spine, wanted to lay her down on the blanket and trace the line of her silky under-things where they hid her treasures from his pilgrim’s eyes. The nip of her waist was almost impossibly small, the curve of her hips a feminine violin of loveliness. She was so tiny before him, pushing her way clear of the ostentatious gown, and kicked it away as she toed her way clear of her slippers, and shoved them aside within the pile. She crossed herself, with her arms, shyly.

Vincent’s great heart took another devastating hit of pain. Someone had made his love feel inadequate, there. Some fool. Some bumbling idiot with a crass comment or a stray criticism. She would have been judged as too small, or too fine, too brittle seeming. Not enough of a prized possession, with her small breasts and slim legs, to make some other man’s stupid ego proud to have her on his arm.

Vincent wasn’t sure how he could be so certain. But he was. He could even feel her shimmer of trepidation, in their bond. And he knew she was none of these things she had been accused of. She was strong, like the finest silk thread, or that marble queen with her serene gaze and indestructible body.

But someone had measured her, and found her wanting. More than once, he’d guess. And she carried the scar of that, still. Just like the scar on her back. No, not like that one. That one she had no care for. This one, she did and it had hurt her immeasurably.

“My queen is a beautiful fantasy, made real. Made warm. Made for me,” he said, not sure how to take this hurt away, only knowing he had to try.

He knelt at her back, again, and let her both feel and hear it as he undid his belt and let it drop open. He undressed no further, but let her feel the warmth of him, and the willingness of him. An erection he wasn’t bothering to conceal pressed itself into her back, and he swept his arms around her torso, pulling her against him, revelling in the sensation. He closed his eyes, bowed over her, and let all that she was seep into his soul.

She undulated her back against him, the suggestion as old as Eve. Soon. Soon, lover. “Will you let me touch you?” she asked, not sure if she was supposed to stay in this position, facing away from him.

“I think I’ll die if you don’t,” he rumbled, giving the nape of her neck a parting kiss before he moved around her.

Cheeks, nose, forehead... he planted soft, undemanding kisses on her as she kept her eyes closed. His hair brushed her collar bone. He held her crossed arms steady as he softly kissed his way across her closed eyes. Her arms would come down when she willed it, and not a moment before. But now she was caught, and her desire to touch him required she drop her arms so she could use her hands. It wasn’t a hard choice for Catherine to make.

Her left palm settled at the centre of his solar plexus as the right one slid longingly up the side of his neck. She felt his pounding heart under his palm as she brought his head down for a kiss.

His massive chest crushed hers to it as the kiss went from one of exploration to dark fire. The unique cleft of his upper lip caressing her mouth sent shivers racing through her from head to toe.

“You are truly beautiful…” she managed to say, feeling the wealth of muscle beneath her palms. His hair was a softer silk than the rumpled cape that now lay bunched somewhere near her feet. His erection was warm steel as he cupped her backside with one palm, to keep her close.

“I am only ever what you’ll let me be. Especially here,” he said, caressing her backside through the silk, and knowing every word was true. “To unwish the past, is to remake yourself into someone neither of us would recognize, Catherine. It has made you who you are, here and now. If it would spare you pain, I would have it so. Yet…” His blue eyes looked wistful, and his bare chest, for all its glory, made him look vulnerable.

“And yet that wouldn’t be fair, would it?” Catherine asked.

“Denying who you are, or were, makes no more sense than me denying who I am,” Vincent said frankly. “I am what you see now.”

“Yes…” Catherine moved closer to him, letting him know she would change nothing of what he was. “And you are mine…”

“Elliot did what he did because he wanted to say what you would be to each other. Wanted to say it with no other voice present.”

“And I hear too many voices, sometimes,” Catherine confessed.  “People telling me what they expect. What I’m supposed to want. It’s gotten me in terrible trouble with myself, sometimes, Vincent. And again, I’m so sorry for that.”

He held her in a loose embrace, absorbing her regrets, letting her know with his strong, steady presence that he would always be what she needed, for as long as he could.  She rubbed her nose against the wealth of hair on his chest, loving the sensation.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” she confessed, smiling.

It was a simple smile, and a girlish one. Both out of place here, and exactly right. Something inside her was reaching back for the Catherine she had been. The Catherine she’d been before bad decisions had swallowed her light, and left her stumbling to find her way.

“We have to be more than just what I allow. We have to be,” she said with conviction, and he hid a soft smile against her neck. We will be.  Reach for us, Catherine. You know I’ll always be there for you. Always love you. Until the end of time and beyond…

“Do we?” he whispered the question as he brushed her ear. The simple question brought her ardour clamouring back. He felt her shift her weight, in her stocking clad feet. There was a fire building inside her, and he felt the heat.

“Ye-yes,” she whispered, trying to catch her breath. She held his neck to steady herself.  “We have to be what we both say.” She planted a line of kisses across his chest.

He blessed her for her lovely benediction. “Then I say I hold you high as heaven, my beautiful, beautiful Catherine. My love. My only love. For always.” His husky voice rasped over the last word.

“And I swear I will only love you. Forever. For always,” Catherine breathed, making a bargain, between them. “Beyond the end of time…”

“Then it’s the Beginning of Always...” He placed a gentle finger under her chin to raise her beloved face for a kiss. “And I am beyond blessed.”

She finished undressing him, delighting in unbuckling the soft leather of his boots, and drawing them down his legs. When she slid her fingers along his bare calf to remove his socks he tensed with want, and when she eased his dark trousers down and stopped to plant a kiss on his bare knee he groaned, arching his hips on instinct.

He was bare, and beautiful, covered with the long, soft down of body hair that marked him as forever different from other men. He was every shade of gold, from the tones in his skin to the lighter ones in his hair to the darker ones that covered his muscular body. She trailed kisses across torso until he caught his bottom lip with his upper teeth, his fangs gleaming in the greying dark as he tried to keep the growl in his throat from coming forth.

“Shhhhhhh…” She petted him. “I won’t tease. Not this time.” She stroked her sweet palms down his thighs and he sighed, knowing their joining was close. She’d forgotten to be self-conscious about her delicate breasts now, and he loved the view.

He longed to say something, anything, but the words got jammed in his throat and he could only growl, softly but with intent. The rumbling found a small echo in the room.

“I know, my love, I know…” When Catherine laid down beside him and trailed her stocking-clad foot up his leg, he needed no further urging.

Vincent leaned over to slip her underwear off her soft-skinned body and felt her subtle compliance as she pressed their bodies together then shifted so that she was laying on her back, her arms still keeping them close. She was making this first move easy for him, this dance she knew well. But this time it was so different in both rhythm and pace.

Her fingers were gorgeously subtle curves of want, dancing from the breadth of his shoulders and down to press into the small of his back. The slender length of her legs rose to curl around him, pinning and trapping his hardness against her lower abdomen. Her hips shifted once more, her knees widening to accept him into a world he had never known before. The hooded beauty of her green eyes looked into his and she smiled, his name a whisper and a benediction on her parted lips.

Vincent responded in the only way he could. Loving her to completion was the priceless gift he could give her now. Between sharpening breaths of rising anticipation there came the moment when Catherine rose against him and made them one. A subtle, easy thrust of his hips against her and it was done, so easily he wasn’t sure it was accomplished, until the star-shot explosion behind his eyelids assured him it was. All the colours and reflections of their bond was there, impossible to deny.

Catherine was warm velvet and the deep secrets of womanhood, while he was tension and build. Easy. Smooth. His queen was locked in stillness, for a moment, and then his queen became a dream of soft words and gentle petting of any place she was able to reach easily. She called his name, long and low, and it burned a path right through him.

His love’s utter satisfaction was a gorgeous thing, blinding in its beauty and simplicity, it held him speechless for a moment. Then he wondered if the flash of light inside his mind was his reaction or hers, within the bond, letting itself be known. She felt like she was falling. She felt like she was flying. Her heart-rate lifted and raced off before her.

I feel as if I’m soaring to a place where everything shimmers and floats…

Fly then, my love...I am with you, always…

The memory of the book of sonnets left on her balcony came unbidden, but not unwelcome. It had been Vincent’s gift and benediction. Catherine loved that book. And him…

Vincent reached down to draw one stocking clad leg up higher, loving the sensation it gave him when her angle shifted. He knew he was close to ending this, and he knew he never wanted it to end. Or, if it did, only to begin again…

“Please...end it now…” It was a hoarse whisper torn from the depths of his soul as the sky began to lighten, over his shoulder. He knew what he was asking for. They both did.

Catherine’s soft purr of sound was a tiny match for his own more intense growl as she drew the other leg up to match its twin, and twined both around his back, letting him feel the softness of her silk clad foot against his tense backside.

Her eyes were matching lambent witch-fires of intent, reflecting she was truly being well-loved. She pulled herself up so she could say the words into his ear. “Kings don’t say ‘please,’ Vincent.” Then she tightened her grip. Everywhere! Flexing everything internal and around his waist she brought a subtle pressure to bear on him such as he had never know.

The sentence exploded in his brain, the power of it, and the freedom inside it. If he thought her royalty, she thought no less of him. They were equals here. Beautifully matched mates. Like the sun chasing the moon.  Like the queen protecting the king. As if the being who wasn’t sure how much of him was a man loving the amazing woman who was sure he was an enough for this, man enough for her. For always…

A warrior’s scream filled the room as the greying sky turned lighter, as the beautiful woman held onto her matchless mate through his tremors.  His climax felt endless, and they both gloried in it, his labouring body revelling in hers, pressing deep, then deeper, as each fresh spasm shook him. His testes stayed tight, and tense, emptying into her in quaking tremors that had his weight levered up on his arms, his head down near her ear, panting hard, moaning pleasure into the soft skin of her neck and he tasted salt.

She is perspiring, he thought. Then he realised the truth. No, those splashes of moisture were tears. His. Ones he hadn’t been aware he’d shed, until some portion of sanity returned. He drew a long, shuddering breath, releasing is gustily.

The arch of his great back bowed him over her, and he lingered inside her, aware he was making her hot from the furnace that was his hair-covered body. His head was pressed to the throw, one hand cradling her head, the other, his own as he tried to find the will to move off of her. He moved his hips back, subtly, aware that his release meant he couldn’t stay inside her much longer, anyway.

“No…”  She tightened her legs around him, just wanting to hold him for as long as she could. Those internal muscles flexed again, subtly warning him against any withdrawal.

“Too heavy…” He had no idea where he’d found the capacity for speech. “I am too much for you…”

“Not by half,” she lied, laughing softly before urging him to press more of his weight down on her. He did, and she purred her approval into his softly tufted ear, loving him.

His entire body felt like tone-less muscle, lax and weak. He knew he’d crush her if he gave her his full weight, but needed to take the pressure off his forearms. He compromise by gently rolling to one side, taking her with him.

She drew her leg up higher on him, resting it on his hip as the lip of bright sunlight came dancing its way inside her balcony door. The terrace where they so often stood at night was now taking on morning colours.

The light and colours Vincent had previously seen behind his eyelids shot through the orange and blue sky, points of dazzling light reflecting off the windows of nearby buildings piercing his night-accustomed eyes. He had to duck his head to become used to the brightness. The rays painted such vivid colours behind his lids, he had rarely seen before.

“Are you all right?” Catherine rose beside him, concerned at his soft groan.

“I am…” Vincent shifted his body, trying not to crush her when he couldn’t quite see where she was within the brightness of the dawning light. He made a sound of regret when his body slipped out of hers. They both did. But it was time to move.

“Where are you going?” Catherine reacted with alarm.

“Not far at all.” Vincent rose to his knees, crouching as he turned his back to the light, so he could see her better. “Catherine, my love, if you say I have to wait a hundred years to have that again, I’ll only ask you when I have to start counting from.”

His mouth curved. “Now, or five minutes ago from now,” he continued, stroking her slightly damp bangs back from her forehead with his fingertip. Her eyes were luminously green and filled with tears. But he knew they were not the tears of regret that she had so often shed before in the aftermath of loving.

It was still some minutes before Catherine finally found her voice. She gloried in the feel of his tender touch exploring her face. “I think the Beginning of Always deserves better than that,” she said, loving the look of sated desire in his blue eyes. “How about we let dawn creep in the room, and decide before the sun clears the skyline?”

“I think I can wait that long…” Vincent tore his gaze away from her beloved face to look over his shoulder, checking the progress of the sunlight streaming into the room, half-shuttering his eyes against the glare.

He was aware of Catherine sitting up beside him, he could sense her gaze moving over the curve of his chest and the resting strength of his crouched thighs. And what lay nestled between, quiescent for now and once more enclosed in its surrounding of soft golden fur. That which had given them both pleasure, and he could sense her interest was more desirous than it was clinical.

He remained completely inert, allowing her to look her fill. They were both suspended in a space he had so often desired, but never thought could ever be. He was not ashamed of his nakedness. Could this precious gift be enough to last them both for a lifetime? There was truly only one way to find out…

He watched her watching him. He would make no apologies for his body, it was his and the only one he would ever possess. But he knew she was not judging him, far from it. The bond between them hummed with intent and expectation.

She almost appeared to be measuring his stamina. A soft laugh rumbled deep with his chest, a small smile curving his mouth as he remained crouched and waiting.

Little did Catherine know that with his great strength and endurance Vincent could outlast the most vigorous of men, and often had, in any serious crisis Below. This was a different kind of crisis, but required the same rapt, and undivided attention. She would not be disappointed if she chose to further their mutual exploration.

Catherine studied the picture Vincent made, crouched there in the dawning light, like some great, mythical warrior from another time long, long ago. Waiting expectantly for a call only he could hear. And he was all hers, now and forever.

The thought made her shiver with anticipation. They had made that pact, but she still wasn’t used to it. This would last them both for a lifetime, she would make sure of that, if nothing else.

She watched the hair on his legs turning golden, tipped with lambent fire. And the dawning awareness of that most vital part of his body, which reacted instantly to her gaze caressing it lovingly and with intent. Vincent’s returning erection rose, tight and hard against his lower body, and he did nothing to hide it. Not from her, never again.

Again, so soon…a voice inside Catherine whispered enticingly. She saw his reaction, and smiled. Yes!

Vincent moved and came back down to her, stretching out beside her like some great, glorious creature, barely tamed and here only because she willed it to be. He smiled at her knowingly, fangs bared and gleaming in the daylight, the hardness of him pressing against her inner thigh.

“Then I would say that is only a few minutes from now,” he said, laying his questing hand lightly on her hip as the man in Rodin statue had done for his love. Asking, not demanding. Requesting, not taking. A free exchange of mutual delight. “And my white queen holds my desire as a precious thing. You are so beautiful…”

He took her open palm, and kissed it lovingly, then leaned in to brush the damp stockings down her legs, rolling them off her toes as if he had done it a thousand times before. He only knew he now wanted her as bare as he was. Clothed only in sunshine and their love.

“I hold all of you as precious, Vincent,” she said earnestly. Dawn warmth was starting to kiss her toes. Her gaze drifted and she sighed. “All of you…”

“No more precious than I hold you. Always…I swear,” he answered, understanding the lambent pleasure of a slow burning passion rising in both of them. He was both utterly sated and wanting to start again, and marvelling at the sensation. It enamoured him further to know she felt the same.

“It was you who made me beautiful…Do you truly know how much I love you?” she asked, cupping his golden cheek. He was her lover, now. She could ask that question and know the answer would be honest. He would never be less than that, again.

“I do…” he said, pressing his hand over the top hers. Of course he did. The singing of the bond between them told him. As did everything about her, right now. “And I promise you I will always treat that like the incredible gift it is. That I will treasure it as no man ever could.” He kissed her palm again, then spared one for her forehead. “Or ever will…”

“Oh, Vincent…”

“I want to go to your bedroom as the sun rises more.” He shared his most immediate wish with her. One that would not wait another moment to be heard, to be shared. “Lay on my back with you close against me, and watch the light paint you with golden fire, while we love each other.”

“Are you sure?” Catherine asked softly. “I mean, I want that too. You have no idea for how long I have desired that.” She dimpled fetchingly, as a sudden thought assailed her. “You do know the weather forecasters promised us rain last night and this morning? I am so glad they were wrong...again.”

Vincent tilted his head at her. “If it had rained, then I would have lit all the candles in the room instead. Made our own sunlight to bathe you with. You are my one and only queen.”

Morning light was starting to brighten the room. The picture he painted brought tears to her eyes. Tears mixed with knowledge. This very different man, who was something more than a man, truly loved her. He would always love her. Through the good times, and the bad.

His always, made her feel beautiful and brave, strong and smart, and incredibly sexy. And he would love her with his dying breath.

“As long as what the king gets to have, the queen gets to have, too.” She made him the promise, smiling through her tears. “And a shower will do nicely, for both of us later…much later…”

“Then come with me, my love and we shall see where this new journey takes us once more…” He gathered her in her silken cloak and scooped her up in his strong arms.

His legs were delightfully unsteady as he made his way through the louvered doors to her bedroom, kneeling on the edge of the bed to lay his love on the covers like a gift waiting to unwrapped once more. He didn’t need her breathless urging to ease his weight down beside her and welcome Catherine into his arms once more. And at the Beginning of Always, they each got their wish once again as dawning light filled the room with magic…

~ ~ ~

Sitting in his limo, in the lightening dawn, Elliot frowned at the frontage of Catherine’s building. He knew she was in there, because he had called her before leaving the museum, and made an impersonal contact with her answer phone. He had not left a message.

When he rang again the busy signal mocked his frustration. He had given up on the third attempt knowing she was dismissing him.

His mouth turned down with distaste. The museum party had been a raging success, and he’d made a huge splash with the press, securing him, the undivided attention of the city fathers.

But still he felt hollow and incomplete inside. He sighed, knowing it had always been that way, even when he was a young and untried youth. Finding someone to love had not been easy…

In the beginning he hadn’t needed, or wanted, anyone to share the triumph with him. He grew accustomed to being alone by simple necessity. Now he was alone again, but not from choice. And the one he wanted was unattainable, for the foreseeable future. He had seen Catherine, and he knew his life would never be the same again…

Shafts of sunlight had already begun to paint the colours of the day by the time he’d arrived at her building. Elliot had sent his chauffeur to make discreet enquires and he was assured Ms. Chandler was at home, but no, she was not receiving any visitors. She had made that abundantly plain to the night guard. There were to be no exceptions, however powerful and ready with a significant cash persuasion.

Elliot’s man had ascertained Catherine had returned alone and there was no sign of the powerfully built, French-costumed gentleman of the previous night at the museum. The man who had walked away with his intended, right under Elliot’s disbelieving eyes.

His hands itched to tear that fantastical cat-mask from the guy’s face and uncover the real man, before he wrapped his fingers around his throat and squeezed the life from him.

Probably not an easy task, given the size of the guy, but the street fighter within Elliot longed for some course of action, anything rather than this inert inaction. Frustration seethed through him.

“I know he’s in there…” Elliot’s eyes narrowed, as he studied Catherine’s floor. “I can feel…and she wants him there with her.” He wouldn’t use the boy again, he had assured her of that and he would keep his word. “But there must be another way.” He had to know…

“Did you say something, sir?” The chauffeur’s gaze met his in the rear vision mirror, his bored expression giving way to faint hope.

“Nothing of importance.” Elliot sighed heavily, casting one last lingering glance at the building before rolling up the window. “Very well, you can take me home. There is nothing more to be seen here…for now.”

He remembered the whiskey bottle in his penthouse that was only half-full. He could do it some serious damage before returning to his office.

He hadn’t finished speaking before the car was put into motion and they drew smoothly away from the curb. Elliot’s hand clenched in his lap. There would be a next time. Catherine had said there would never be, but Elliot didn’t give up that easily. He was not cut from the cloth of a coward or someone who admitted defeat.

One day she would need him again, and he would be there for her. He had so much to offer her, if only she would allow him to show her. What could the other guy possibly have, that he didn’t?

“Vincent…” Elliot breathed. The name rolled off his tongue and the taste was bitter. “I know you’re in there. Where and how you got in, I don’t know. But we will meet again, I can assure you of that. The game is not over yet. And next time I will win, see if I don’t…”

~THE END~

~ ~ ~

“Wherever you go, wherever you are, you stand for us, for our dream. You carry our light…That too is your destiny…”

Wherever the journey takes you, may you go with love…

~ C.J. La Belle

~ ~ ~

The Beginning of Always, by C.J. La Belle, debuted in 2015 on Treasure Chambers. It was also C.J.’s debut as an author, which only goes to show that even after all these years, fans are still inspired by the show we all love. C.J. La Belle is a collaborative effort between two authors who discovered that by combining their talents, they could create something completely unique and different from what either of them could write on their own. C.J.’s specialty is romance with steam, a genre that is very popular among fan fiction readers. You can find more of C.J.’s stories in the library at http://treasurechambers.com/

Dear Catherine

I dreamed, I dreamed

that you had died.

I don’t remember

That I cried—

But then your father,

who was dead

(I knew that he’d

gone on ahead),

was somehow showing

me your rooms

that stood around us

still as tombs;

and we went through

your things for hours.

God--the place

was full of flowers.

Roses massed

in slanting light;

bouquets blood-red

and ivory-white

that stood unwilting

everywhere

to scent the stark

and silent air…

I dreamed, I dreamed it

while I slept;

yet waking, found it true,

and wept.

-by Lynette Combs

From Tunnels II 1990

Counterpoint

(revised)

by Linda S. Barth

Author’s Note:

“Counterpoint” was inspired by the “rain scene” in the Second Season episode “Chamber Music.” I wanted to explore some of the ways Vincent might finally face his powerful fears and doubts about his desire for Catherine, feelings that lingered even after they had become lovers, along with various factors continuing to hold them back from fulfilling their dream of building a life together. The episode presented a great opportunity to do so. I hope you enjoy the story.

“Counterpoint” was originally published in the September 1995 issue of Barbara Hill and Terrie Milliman’s CABB zine series “Soulmates – A Never-ending Dream.” The story won the Second Place award as “Fan Favorite Short Story” at the annual B&B convention in Norfolk, Virginia in July 1996. After that, I set it aside for a long time and then, following a great deal of revision, published it about ten years ago in “Remember Love,” a limited print collection of my short stories.

This is the latest and final revision of “Counterpoint”, and I am honored to be able to submit it for publication in the retrospective section of the conzine for the on-line 30th anniversary celebration of our beloved show. For their invaluable help in preparing the story for this publication, I would like to thank Barbara Anderson for her support and encouragement and Cindy Tidwell for her enthusiasm and editing skills.

Please note: “Counterpoint” is rated PG-13. It contains some adult content and themes, but it is not explicit.

Counterpoint

(revised)

by Linda S. Barth

(Inspired by the Rain Scene in “Chamber Music”)

*PG-13 Adult Content*

~ ~ ~

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength,

while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

Lao Tzu

~ ~ ~

Vincent raised a glass of water to the old man’s lips and waited patiently until he had taken several slow sips. Sam Denton winced as he swallowed the cool liquid, and Vincent grimaced in sympathy for his friend’s discomfort, hoping the small offering would help ease the hot, raspy pain in the elderly man’s throat.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered hoarsely, as he lowered himself back upon a mound of faded pillows. “That’s better.”

“You shouldn’t try to speak,” Vincent cautioned. “It will strain your throat. Your fever has broken, but you must try to rest now and let the medicine Father sent continue to help you.”

In the dimly lit bedroom, Sam managed a weak smile. “I’m ok. My throat doesn’t hurt much.”  But the furtive flickering of his gaze from Vincent’s face to the darkening sky outside his window spoke of deeper concerns. His friends had done so much for him, and he did not want to seem ungrateful, but a lingering fear haunted him.

“Sam, please try not to worry. We all understand that you want to stay Above in your own home, but you needn’t worry that you’ll be forgotten. I’ll stay with you now until you fall asleep, and in the morning Jamie will come and check on you. I’m sure she’ll be here early with a special breakfast from William – that honey and oatmeal that you like.”  Vincent smoothed the rumpled blanket around Sam’s chest and then took the old man’s gnarled hand in his large and gentle grasp.  “Remember, if you need us, you have only to call Mr. Long and he’ll get a message Below immediately.”

Seeing that his words had helped ease Sam’s fears, Vincent tilted his head in the direction of the bedside phone and, chuckling softly, released his friend’s hand with a final pat. “And besides, I think Mrs. O’Malley across the hall would be more than happy to keep you company. Unless she’s finally given up on you and found someone else.”

Sam shook his head. “That old busybody will never give up. She’s always calling me and running over here pestering me.”  He tried to frown, but his smile revealed the enjoyment he found in his neighbor’s attention.

“There, you see, you won’t be left alone, even if you decide that’s what you want.” Vincent’s smile matched the soothing tone of his voice. “Now try and get some sleep.”

“Ok, I know you’re right, but first I need to tell you I’m sorry for taking up all your time tonight.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Vincent said quickly. “You’re part of our family, Sam. I’m happy to be able to help you.”

Sam’s heart lightened at those words, but he needed to let his friend know he understood the depth of Vincent’s unselfishness.  “Yeah, but when you brought Catherine to visit me the other night, didn’t you two say you were going to the concert in the park tonight? Did you change your plans just to help me? Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad you’re here, but I feel real bad about making you two give up your time together.”

Touched by his friend’s concern, Vincent quickly reassured him. “No, it’s not your fault. Catherine must work tonight. It was unexpected, and it’s important that she do what’s right. Her job is very important to her, and she does much good for many people.”

“I know,” Sam agreed, “but you two don’t get much time together as it is. It’s a shame you have to miss the concert.”

Vincent nodded, keeping his tone even. “Yes, it is, but it can’t be helped, so please don’t worry about it. There will be other times.”

Sam heard the faint undercurrent of misgiving Vincent had tried to hide. “Maybe she’ll get out of work early, and you can still hear some of the music,” he added.

“That would be very nice, but I don’t think it’s going to be possible.” Vincent knew Sam would persist good-heartedly, and he needed the conversation to end, not only for Sam’s welfare but his own.  “Perhaps when I leave, I’ll go to the place Below where we enjoy the concerts, and I’ll be able to hear the final selections. There will be other concerts next summer. Catherine and I will be able to listen to some of them together then.”

Sam gestured toward the bedside table. “You know, Catherine gave me her card when she was here. Said to call her anytime if I needed something or just wanted someone to talk to. That was real nice of her. Your Catherine sure is a special lady.”

Vincent nodded, ducking his head slightly but not enough to conceal his smile. “Yes, Sam, she is very special.”

Sam sighed hoarsely. “I wish I could help you two out somehow.”

“I know you do, Sam, and I’m grateful for that. I’m sure Catherine is, too. But now you really need to try and get some rest.”

Vincent watched as Sam’s eyes closed slowly and the careworn lines of his face relaxed in the oblivion of sleep. He knew the medication would provide Sam several hours of restorative peace, and soon he would be able to leave safely. Yet he was reluctant to depart until he was completely certain his old friend’s rest would continue undisturbed.

As he settled back in the bedside chair, Vincent’s gaze turned toward the rapidly fading light faintly visible through the threadbare cotton curtains that covered the room’s single window. He had made his way to Sam’s sixth floor apartment by way of a shadowy staircase leading from the sub-basement of the crumbling tenement, and he knew that would be the safest route of return to the tunnels.

But as the darkness deepened outside, he almost thought he heard something… someone…calling to him, urging him to rise and journey out into the night, to reach a secret place between two disparate realms. The siren song was one he’d heard many times before, as difficult to ignore as it was desperately sought, and its music echoed ceaselessly within him.

As the minutes passed slowly in the quiet room, Vincent felt his entire concentration drawn ever inward, closer and closer to the one person who had become so much a part of him that he was aware of her always. She was a tangible presence, a whispered song in each breath he took, a tender promise in every beat of his heart.

“Catherine…”

He murmured her name, warm and low with longing, needing to hear the one word that defined his dreams.

“Catherine, Catherine…”

He was lost in memories and dreams of her. It was as if nothing else existed, nothing else mattered anymore.

Abruptly, Vincent shook his head, struggling to regain awareness of his responsibility to the old man whose troubles he had come there to ease. With a quick glance toward the bed, he was relieved to find his friend slept on undisturbed. Yet Vincent’s deepening frown and the tightening of his mouth spoke of a sense of guilt. It had never been like him to become so easily distracted from his duties, and he found that realization disquieting, but entirely understandable.

He had hoped to see Catherine that night, but it was not meant to be, and he was left with an intense longing, an unending need to be with her that swept through him with familiar force, leaving him uneasy in its ever-increasing strength. There was no shelter he could seek from its presence.

Catherine. He wanted her, he needed her in his arms, in his life, in the only world he’d ever know. Always, forever. Nothing else mattered now, nothing else made any sense. His life could never be complete without her.

During the weeks that has passed since they’d first become lovers, the bond they shared had grown ever stronger. His awareness of her every emotion had intensified, and he wondered if she felt his emotions just as deeply, a thought that only added to his growing concerns. Before they’d become lovers, it had been difficult enough to live with his ever-increasing desire for her. But now that he could no longer deny that she, too, felt a deep and compelling desire for him, his torment – and his rapture – had been magnified.

Where there should have existed only joy, there was an unrelenting stab of despair, for Vincent believed that to continue to surrender to their yearning would only bind her irrevocably to his world and to him. With each step forward, she would become more committed to him, and she would be forced to abandon everything she’d always known. And while building a life with his beloved was his most cherished dream, he loved her too much to buy its fulfillment at the cost of what he believed was her true destiny.

From the moment he’d first felt the wonder of love, offered to him from deep within Catherine’s heart, he had vowed never to interfere with the purpose of her life. He knew the love they shared was endless, yet he held to the specter of her parting and waited always for the inevitable day when her path would lead away from his world of shadows and secrets, taking her back into light. Burdened with this belief, Vincent had sworn he would never create obstacles that would bar her way and hold her to him, never realizing that the only barricade restraining her from the destiny she had fully embraced was his own misplaced nobility.

When Catherine had returned to him from Connecticut several weeks earlier, she had told him that what they had was all that mattered, that it was worth everything, underscoring her words with their first kiss, exquisitely tender and filled with promise. Yet while Vincent fully trusted in her love, he still believed she did not entirely understand what she would be forced to give up by joining her life to his, the tremendous sacrifices she would have to make just because she loved him. He knew that Catherine needed and wanted him as deeply as he needed and wanted her, but there was so much more she deserved, so much more he longed to give her that could never be.

“No,” he murmured aloud, his voice little more than an icy shade of its usual intensity and warmth. “I won’t let Catherine do this. What we want, what we need, so much of it can only be a dream. I cannot live in her world and I cannot force her to choose mine. She must fulfill the destiny that was meant for her…and I have to learn to accept my own.”

He shuddered, feeling a despondency fill him, where before there had been newborn hope. Dreams of a life of love and passion with someone like Catherine were not for one such as he, nor could they ever be, even when they were offered to him for the taking.

Vincent bowed his head as if to accept the weight of his pledge as it settled like heavy chains across his shoulders. Then he resolutely pushed himself to his feet and leaned forward to unnecessarily straightened the blankets over Sam’s chest. He almost wished the old man would awaken and ask something of him, anything to take his attention from the painful burden of his own thoughts. He frowned as he looked down upon the healing serenity that had at last come to Sam, and he felt ashamed of the selfishness of his wish and of the sudden yearning that he, too, might escape and find peace in dreamless sleep.

Dreams. He sighed heavily, knowing he would never give them up entirely, even though they would be filled with infinite measures of pleasure and pain, for all his dreams now and forever would be of Catherine.

Restless, Vincent paced the few steps to the window, then with inborn caution carefully pushed aside the limp curtains to stare out at the darkened city streets. Rain had begun to fall, and suddenly he felt an undeniable need to feel the coolness of the night on his face and hands. With forcibly controlled impatience, he eased the window upwards several inches, carefully positioning his body in front of it to prevent any damp breeze from reaching the ailing man across the room.

The drizzly late summer evening promised a touch of soothing comfort for Vincent’s ragged soul, and bracing his hands on the warped wooden sill, he leaned forward slightly, drawing in deep breaths of rain-laden night air. For many moments he felt a cool and calming sensation as his innate sense of self-control descended once again. Yet in the deepest part of himself, he mourned the absence of the wildly stirring sensations he’d felt earlier, and he knew any serenity he gained would be distorted with regret.

He straightened and glanced absently at the amber fur coating the backs of his hands, glazed with a glittering of raindrops that caught and reflected errant sparkles of light. He turned them back and forth, watching bemusedly as the moisture gleamed upon the dark gold surface. Then, a precious memory slowly began to swirl and take flight. A soul-deep groan was wrenched from him, and he sank down hard on his knees upon the rough wooden floor. Staring sightlessly into the night, Vincent gave in to remembered images that filled him with torment and temptation, a beautiful blending of memories and dreams too seductively sweet and too deeply desired to ignore.

~ ~ ~

It was as if they were in a world of their own imagining, enclosed by soft mist and hazy light swirling within the outer tunnel Below and the stirring, impassioned sounds of Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” filtering down from Above. Side by side they sat, cushioned on worn comforters and quilts, the cool night breezes sweeping gently between them. They leaned back against the tunnel wall, eyes closed, as they listened enraptured to the music. Yet for all its soaring beauty, Vincent knew his true attention was drawn only to Catherine, and he turned his body slightly toward her so that the moment he opened his eyes, he would see her there.

Her breathy murmured tones called to him. “Ahh, I love this part.”

He answered her immediately, “Yes, it’s beautiful,” savoring the awareness that the beauty which held him enthralled had nothing to do with the symphony soaring Above. She sighed softly, and unable to resist, he opened his eyes to look at her.

She wore a dark blue silk dress and fanciful earrings of pearls and gold, something he imagined she might wear to the theatre or a party Above, and it astonished him to realize that she had dressed as carefully for this special evening in his world as she would have done for a social event in her own. He felt a sense of pleasure in that realization and, he forced himself to admit, a sense of pride that she would make this effort just for him. The thought sent tendrils of warmth through him, and he sighed softly, knowing that in the past he would have denied such a notion, but now, somehow, it seemed right.

Yet before he would allow himself the greater freedom of contemplating, even for a few moments, the slender, feminine beauty of her body, he gazed at the loveliness of her upturned face. Tilting his head to one side, he studied the ivory lines and curves of her profile and her mouth, soft with the warmth of a smile. He could not look away, although he felt perhaps he should, and lost in the enchantment, he spoke without thinking. “What makes you smile?”

Unhesitating, she turned towards him, and as her eyes flickered open in response, Vincent felt dazzled by the light sparkling in their green depths.

“This is a wonderful spot,” she began, and the words that followed, full of eager emotion, opened a floodgate within him. He shared with her moments of his life Below, small pieces of the long years he’d lived without her, something deep within him needing to reassure her, to let her know that his had been far more than just a bittersweet, stoically endured existence.

Catherine’s delight in supposing that for many years they’d probably listened to several of the same concerts, touched his heart even as some small part of him quietly mourned the lost hours when they’d been so close but still unaware of each other’s existence. Then he told her of the stillness that would fill the small, hidden chamber when each concert ended.

Her eyes clouded and her voice was full of tears. “The stillness. Didn’t it make you feel --”

Before she could finish the question, he replied, needing to soothe the sadness of her words with truth. “Alone? Sometimes…and sometimes I found a wonderful peace in that stillness.”

Her poignant smile, immediate and full of warmth, reassured him that she’d heard and understood everything, and he wondered if he’d ever felt so safe as he did in that moment.

Catherine leaned back once again, seemingly adrift in the music. Finding himself completely unable to turn away from her, he leaned infinitesimally closer, just as the sound and brilliance of a sudden summer storm tore apart the city sky. Its power, compelling and unexpected, seemed to vibrate within him, and, he sensed, within her.

Catherine’s eyes opened wide, but there was no trace of fear in her voice as she turned to him in startled amazement. “Lightning?”

He smiled at her, his voice husky with a rumbling undercurrent of amusement. “I think it was.”

Within seconds, the cloudburst from Above dissolved the orchestral sounds and swept concert-goers from their seats, sending them scurrying for shelter as its cool, silvery drops began to splash into the secret chamber Below.

“Vincent,” Catherine cried, “it’s raining!”

He immediately began to pull his cloak from his shoulders, intending to offer her shelter from the storm, but much to his surprise, she shook her head in refusal and pushed it away. Laughing, she rose to her knees and leaned back, letting the rain pour down over her upturned face and body.

At first, her impetuous actions left him confused, but the delight ringing in her laugher and shining in the wide, vibrant smile she shared with him, drew an answering chord and he smiled back at her, savoring her enjoyment as his own. For long moments, they shared an impulsive, childlike pleasure in the surprising turn of events, and Vincent was content to watch happily as Catherine played. But all too suddenly he felt a deep, insistent undercurrent begin to throb within him, a force devoid of any naive innocence, and although his first instinct was to deny it, he found to his growing concern that he could not.

With arms outstretched, Catherine gathered the rain to herself as its increasing torrent saturated her hair, turning its strands the color of dark honey, and soaked through her dress, transforming it to a length of cobalt silk that clung to her body like a lover’s stroking hands. Vincent wrenched his gaze away, trying to focus instead on the tumultuous storm Above, feeling his hands clench the woolen folds of his cloak, drawing the damp fabric into tight, painful fists so that he would not reach for her instead.

But even as the allure of that erotic vision before him was surrendered to his ferocious self-control, the seduction of sound overtook him, and he was lost once more, drawn back to her as if he’d never forced himself to look away. The music of Catherine’s laughter became a wild melody, undulating with the storm, filling him with delight and torment. The sound flooded through him, inundating his body with unrestrained emotion, flooding over the barriers he’d erected to hold back powerful feelings that unnerved him. His heart began to race, drumming a frenzied beat within the straining muscles of his chest, pulsating through the length and breadth of him, until it centered low in his body in an overwhelming rush of heat and hardness.

Vincent raised his eyes to Catherine and felt a surge of gratitude that she seemed unaware of his turmoil, so caught up was she in other pleasures of the storm-charged night. So many countless times in the past, he had known feelings of pure and uncompromising need and desire for her, but always, he believed, he’d hidden them from her, forcing himself to move away from her touch or to end an embrace. He’d been terrified that to act on his feelings would destroy her trust in the safety and sureness of his love. Now he took low, measured breaths as he summoned the power of his lifelong restraint in an attempt to smother the relentless force of his consuming desire for every part of her.

Slowly, thankfully, Vincent felt his self-control return, and in relief he offered Catherine a smile that reflected the constant and more tranquil joy he’d always found simply by having her near. But the moments of respite when he could cherish such sweetness were washed away, as with an elated cry, Catherine flung herself toward him and into his instinctively outstretched arms.

He looked down into her smiling, upturned face, sharing in the wonder and delight of this extraordinary night. At first, his shock at her impulsive action served to maintain his hard-won serenity. Then, as he became increasingly aware of the sensation of her lithe body moving upon the muscled length of his, he realized that any sense of peace and quiet pleasure could not be sustained for long. She cuddled against him, her arms clinging to his neck and shoulders, and he could not resist holding her closer, still struggling desperately to force back other, darker sensations which he believed would shatter this wondrous moment. Never had there been such intimacy in their embrace; never had he allowed it, even though the unspoken need had filled them both. And he vowed he would allow nothing, not even himself, to destroy this moment, believing it might never come again.

But even as he dared to revel, just for a moment, in the pleasure of such an unexpected gift, Vincent could not ignore his own words of warning, echoing relentlessly in his mind. You must not touch her like this – you must let her go – you must not – you cannot!

The words thundered through him, over and over, yet for once he found himself entirely unable to give in to their demands. He pulled her tighter into his embrace, savoring the sensations evoked by her murmuring sighs and the delicious pressure of her body as she nestled against him. Don’t let it end yet, he begged, his inner voice now offering a prayer of quiet desperation. Not yet, not yet.

He found his prayer answered in the slow return of his lifelong sense of restraint. With a relieved sigh, he drifted in waves of indescribable sensation which swirled through and around them, finding deep contentment in just being able to hold his beloved Catherine this way. How has this come to be? he wondered dazedly. The realization that he could be with her like this and yet not lose all control, that she wanted it to happen, that she herself had brought about such a wildly unexpected occurrence, was almost too much for him to comprehend. But he gave in to it at last with surprising ease, allowing himself, even if just this once, to be filled with nothing but pure contentment and pleasure.

Then, as Catherine raised her head and once again looked up into his eyes, everything changed. All soothing waves of blissful serenity were consumed in an instant by the relentless, driving heat that again swept over and through him. It was as if his body had been waiting only for the moment when he dared to let down his guard, and it took command of him once more, freeing everything he had tried to suppress within a gentler, more tender guise.

Every place their bodies touched seemed to spark with bursts of flame, as if the lightning that still jolted the night sky Above crackled and flared inside them. This image burned within his consciousness, sending shudders of trepidation through him, but they did nothing to stop the response of his willful body. He could feel every soft curve of Catherine’s supple form as she pressed closer to him, and in response, he could no longer resist deepening their embrace even further, spreading open his large hands to pull her more tightly to him. The wet silk of her dress was an irresistible enticement, and he rubbed his hands over the fragile fabric from shoulder to waist, imagining that its delicate texture replicated the still unknown sensation of her sleek, bare skin against his work-roughened palms.

Catherine gasped in delight as his hands caressed her, and the seductive sound drew his focus immediately to her mouth, her soft lips parted and moist, inviting his kiss. Rapidly reaching a point beyond thought, he lowered his mouth to hers, drawing in the sweet heat of her breath as he adored her with his lips and tongue. He was lost in the sensation of her mouth moving so eagerly with his and the sound of her soft moans of pleasure. The very taste of her defined passion, and he wanted to drown in it, taking her mouth again and again in flame-drenched kisses.

Finally, deliciously breathless, Vincent raised his head and leaned back slightly, gazing down into the smoky heat of Catherine’s half-closed eyes. He tilted his head back farther, inhaling deeply, to try and still his ragged breathing and regain a fragment of the self-control that he was no longer certain he truly wanted. Catherine snuggled closer with a deep, quivering sigh, pressing her body even tighter to his. Her tenderly seductive offering jolted him to complete awareness, every part of him responding to her. He felt it all in the pounding of his heart, the harshness of his labored breathing, the helpless hardening of his body.

And in one heartbreakingly sweet and sorrowful instant, he knew it must end. Again, that inner voice cried out to him – no more, no more – and this time he yielded to its commands.

Too soon, he forced his hands to take Catherine’s shoulders in a careful but firm grasp and ease her body away from his. Much later, he would remember how she had trembled and for a long, heartrending moment had clung fiercely to him, unwilling to surrender those wondrous possibilities, until with a small despairing sigh, she had let him push her away. Like rolling thunder, a deep groan echoed through the chamber, and Vincent shuddered at the sound, not realizing for several seconds that it had been torn from him.

He could not recall the words they’d spoken then, although he knew they had been inconsequential ones, needed only as an attempt to regain the easy contentment they’d known earlier, before the rainstorm. Then he rose to his feet and offered his hand to her, telling her without words that their storm-tossed evening had ended.

Never had they let themselves become so caught up in a physical expression of their love, and Vincent knew he needed time apart from her now, time to replay in his mind everything that had happened, without the fiery distraction of the passion that still burned in him.

Almost as much as he desired those sensations, he feared their consequences, still mistakenly believing that to release them fully would draw from her a commitment that he felt she must not keep. She must someday return to her own world and leave him behind. For him that truth was irrefutable, and to give in to their desire now would only make their inevitable parting more painful and more permanent.

That was unthinkable, a risk he could not take, for without her in his life, even if only in stolen moments, there could no longer be any life for him at all.

He ached with the need to perceive her emotions through their bond, to try to further understand her reaction to the time just passed. Improbable as he told himself it must be, he could not ignore the realization that the flames that still burned steadily within him, seemed, by some miracle, to have their counterpart in her. But he would not allow himself to tell her so.

As they walked hand in hand through the tunnels, sometimes in slow, easy silence and sometimes speaking soft, casual words, he almost managed to convince himself that it had been merely a fantasy, and now all was well, all was as it should be. By the time they reached the entrance to her building, the passionate storm they’d shared seemed more the substance of his heated dreams than any form of reality.

At the threshold to the world Above, they paused and faced each other, hands clasped tightly together, entirely unwilling to let the evening go, loath to see its magic end in only memories and promises. In an attempt to hold back the inevitable moment of their parting, Vincent used the power of his heartfelt words to tell her how much it meant to him that a part of his world had become a very special haven they could share.

“I wanted to share this place with you,” he offered, his husky voice deepening with his barely suppressed feelings, unable to conceal that there was so much more he wished he could share with her, knowing that she wished it, too. He looked down into her eyes, his expression partially concealed by the bronze, rain-darkened strands of his hair, as he awaited her reply.

Before she uttered even a single word, she told him everything. Her fingers tightened their grasp on his as if to anchor herself to him, and she swayed closer, like a tree bending to the wind. Even had he been able to blind himself to all else, he found in her luminous eyes the offering he had always chosen to refuse. This time he knew there was no choice, nor did he want one. The desire he’d always tried so hard to hide away, convincing himself it was his own shameful secret, he now realized had never been his alone, even from the start. Catherine had always reveled in his desire for her, welcoming the fire and fury of his feelings, for they matched an all-consuming need of her own, an equally deep and abiding desire for every part of him. Unbelievable as it still seemed to him, he finally understood without a doubt that this was a gift, powerful and beautiful and right, that they could give to each other.

Yet if he chose to reach for this wondrous gift, would he be opening doors to a world of joy and fulfillment for both of them, or to a prison of isolation and darkness for her?

He had no time for further contemplation.

Catherine gently pulled her hands from his grasp and reached up to stroke the unique beauty of his face. Then, as he felt her hands burrow into the damp, heavy richness of his hair, he immediately moved closer, unable to resist, despite his imagined consequences. Helplessly, eagerly he lowered his mouth toward hers, only to turn away and bury his face in her hair with a low, harsh moan, a sound wracked with suppressed longing and barely maintained control. So much had happened so quickly that at last it overwhelmed him, and he knew he could bear little more.

The wet strands of her hair caught against his lips as he drew his mouth forward, deliberately seeking the lingering sensuality, and then he gasped as he felt her warm, soft lips pressed to his throat. The brief but devastatingly erotic contact threatened to consume all vestiges of his self-control, and he knew that for now, this dream within a dream must end. Pulling away from her embrace, he looked down at her one last time, letting the dark sapphire of his eyes tell her all the things he could not yet say.

And at the threshold between their worlds, he let her walk away from him. They had parted with a promise to meet again in a week’s time to enjoy another concert in their secret music chamber, but their words, a question voiced within a hopeful comment, a response given with restrained eagerness, had said so much more, revealing their deep need for constancy, for the gift of time together.

As he’d wandered the tunnels afterward, he had paused more than once, deeply tempted to return to her. It was as if once the very real truth of their shared desire had been acknowledged, even with lingering restraint, it had taken on a power greater than he had ever guessed possible. Somehow it had changed everything, making him doubt all his long-held beliefs about worlds that could never intertwine, destinies that must be embraced, a future that could never be. Maybe he had been wrong all along, maybe there were possibilities for them, dreams that could somehow come true. Maybe…

Lost in thought, he returned to the music chamber, intending to gather up the sodden quilts and comforters for cleaning, when the force of Catherine’s emotions flared through the bond. She was Above, thinking only of him, still aching only for him, with a desperate longing she could not begin to control. He froze where he stood, his body half-turned in preparation to race to her, and it took all the strength he possessed to refuse her impassioned plea, for it was one he’d always secretly longed for, even as he pledged to deny it for what he felt was her own good.

It was all too soon. He needed time alone to come to terms with the miraculous possibilities that might await them, so unlike anything he’d ever dreamed possible. Sighing heavily, he forced himself to take a single step away from her, and then another and another until he moved with long, driven strides through the twisting passageways of the tunnel world, hoping desperately to outrun the heat of his blood and the compelling urging pulsating through their bond.

Full of equal measures of hope and uncertainty, Vincent had stayed apart from Catherine for several days after that night filled with rain and longing and possibilities. He’d felt her barely concealed yearning for him resonating through their bond, and had known that his own desire underscored every note of hers. He spent long hours examining reasons to convince himself that there was still validity in his long-held beliefs that to push Catherine away from him would give her the freedom she deserved. But in his heart, he continued to wonder if he’d always been wrong.

The waiting, while torturous, gave him strength, for it sustained him with the promises it held, making the often lonely hours of his life easier to bear. Then, on a night he would always remember with ecstatic wonder, Catherine had come Below once again, and at last, his doubts and misplaced beliefs had been banished forever.

~ ~ ~

In the quiet tenement apartment above the city streets, Vincent shook his head and rose to his feet, slowly emerging from a world of dreams and memories. He almost believed he could hear the familiar sounds of violins and cellos, their voices separate and yet inextricably connected. Tonight, the orchestra would play the third of the Brandenburg Concertos. It was his favorite, the haunting, vibrant music he’d anticipated sharing with Catherine. He’d always loved the intricate design of that piece, the interweaving and balance of sounds whose full beauty could only be realized when played and heard in harmony. Beyond all else, it was that counterpoint, the soaring passage of two melodies drawn together for a single purpose, that created unity and fulfillment. In his heart, Vincent knew that had they heard the music together tonight, spiraling down to them from the world Above, they would have heard the spirit of their souls in the orchestral sounds.

He sighed heavily and reached for a folded note he had placed carefully in the pocket of his chambray shirt. Although the words it contained had been painfully memorized two days earlier, he found he could not resist reading them again. In silence, he scanned the flowing lines of the familiar script, but within his heart he heard the sweet and sad voice of the writer.

~ ~ ~

Dear Vincent,

I wish I didn’t have to say this, but I won’t be able to meet you Thursday night for the concert as we’d planned. Joe was supposed to attend a reception for the mayor as a representative from our office, but now he can’t go and he asked me to be his replacement. It starts at 8:30 and if I can somehow manage to leave early, I’ll try to come Below. But that won’t be until at least 10:00, and by then the concert will be nearly over. This reception is just a minor event, but one of us should be there. I’ve tried to find someone else to go in Joe’s place, but no one else is willing to do it.

I’m so sorry to spoil our plans like this. If only there was another choice! Sometimes it does seem as if our worlds truly will do everything they can to keep us apart, and there’s little we can do about it. Do you think there will ever be a time when we can be together as we truly wish to be? I thought things might be different now, but I guess I was wrong.

All I’ve thought of for the past few days is that soon we would be together. I’ll be thinking of you tonight, as I always do, wishing I were with you.

With all my love, Catherine

~ ~ ~

As Vincent folded the note away, he found that certain phrases of it resonated within him. He recalled the words again and again, and their message of conflict and entreaty became clear and imperative, impossible now for him to overlook. For far too long they had allowed the demands of their worlds to tear them apart. Time after time, they had yielded to the needs and wishes of others, at the expense of their own dreams and desires. Often, their sacrifices had been admirable ones, given unselfishly to help someone truly in need, but there had been far too many times when the distractions provided by others had simply become easier to deal with than facing the truths, both bright and dark, within their love. And this, he admitted painfully, was just such a time, for this obstacle presented by Catherine’s job was in truth an inconsequential one that could have been easily overcome.

As he replayed the words of Catherine’s note in his mind, Vincent allowed himself to listen to their true message. She had wanted nothing more than to refuse Joe Maxwell’s request and be with him instead. He knew that at one time, she would have done just that, without even complicating the situation by telling him about it. Why had she acted differently now?

Vincent felt a rush of anger at himself and his own sense of failure. The answers had always been there, and now he ignored the pain he would feel as he finally faced them. He remembered how open and honest Catherine had always been about her feelings for him, even in the earliest months of their relationship, and how she had always been patient and understanding of his hesitancy and fears. Fragments of cherished memories arrayed themselves like a mosaic in his mind, and he could not ignore the truth in the picture they presented.

Catherine grasping his hand and begging him to stay with her on the terrace of her apartment until the morning light. Catherine helping to take him home, bloody and beaten, vowing she would never give up or abandon him. Catherine speaking of the warm and lovely dream she’d had of him and the simple shared pleasures of sunshine and ice cream. Catherine risking her life to save his and then telling him she had done so not through courage but for love.

And what had he always done in response? Nothing, other than to gather the miracle of her love to his heart while continuing to hold her apart and away from himself and from his world. Catherine was more than just the dream he had never thought to know. She was warm and real and only waiting for him to overcome his fears and truly welcome her not only into his arms but into his life. She had told him so in countless ways, but he had been unable - and so often unwilling - to listen even when her love was all he’d ever wanted. Even now, when miraculous as it still seemed, they had become lovers in every sense of the word, he continued to build walls, to give in to fears that no longer held any validity at all.

Vincent thought of the message he’d sent to Catherine in reply to her note, and flinched in disgust as he recalled his words of willing acquiescence. Without hesitation, he had written a response telling her that she must fulfill the responsibilities of her job, that he would take Cullen’s turn and tend to Old Sam that night, that they must be unselfish and continue to hope they might plan to be together on some other night, at some other time. He had told himself he meant the words to be supportive and understanding, but now he saw them for the weak excuses they were and wished with all his heart that he had done things differently.

Why, he asked himself in brutal honesty, was he still so quick to accept the restrictions their worlds placed upon them, to yield to those disruptions and distractions when so many were unnecessary and could be easily avoided. Were his fears still so great that he would sacrifice everything to them? And would he continue to do so even now, when everything his heart desired was within his reach?

Without noticing that he did so, Vincent began to pace the length of the narrow room. As the minutes passed, his analytic thoughts synthesized into a seamless and undeniable truth that made him halt his relentless motion. He knew it was time to face that truth with all the strength and courage he possessed.

There was no doubt left in him now, no dark places where he might hide, and at last he admitted that he could no longer escape to their false shelter. For many long months he had allowed his beliefs to control and shape the true destiny he shared with Catherine, purposely deflecting so many opportunities they’d had to explore their sweet and soaring feelings for one another, afraid to take what she offered him. He recalled some of the simplest, most tender moments that had been sacrificed to his fears, and he felt a wave of shame as he acknowledged how his doubts and diversions had impacted Catherine as well. So many times he had spoken to her of separate lives to be led, other destinies to be embraced, duties to be upheld, when he should have spoken the words of his heart. Words of dreams and desires, of commitment and conviction, all the words of faith and hope and love that sang through their bond but had been silenced by him time and again.

But worst of all, he admitted shamefully, was how he had imposed his beliefs repeatedly upon Catherine, tormenting her, and forcing her to yield to them when they had never been hers at all. She had only wanted to be free to love him and to help him unburden his heavy heart so that he would be free to love her in return, to fulfill the dreams they’d both cherished for such a long, long time. Instead, he had repeatedly turned her away, and even now he could not relinquish the habits of a lifetime and move forward into the life he knew they both wanted.

Perhaps at last she, too, had begun to find it all too easy to surrender instead of pursuing their dream. He knew she would always love him, there was no doubt of that, but how much longer could she go on when he continued to build walls around his heart?

The words of Catherine’s note haunted him, and he wondered how he’d been able to ignore its true message, a plea that should have been painfully obvious to him, but which he’d convinced himself to disregard. In every word, she had asked him to just this once agree that she should refuse the demands of the outside world and instead reach for something just for them. For months she had told him repeatedly, in myriad ways, that she wanted to be with him in his world, but he had never allowed it. With his response to this simple note, he could have taken that first step and asked her to turn to him, to come to him, but he had not.

She truly loved him, and now he could no longer deny that her feelings included a deep and abiding passion, a passion that was only for him. He thought of the way she so often looked at him now, her smoldering gaze wandering over his face and body as if she were caressing him, her smile offering endless possibilities. Her eyes, her voice, her every gesture spoke of her boundless desire for him, to be a part of him, body and soul, forever. She knew who he was, what he was, and had fully committed to a life with him. How had he doubted the rightness of their love? Why had he assumed he knew what was best for her when it went against all her wishes?

What’s wrong with me?  he asked himself with harsh honesty. Catherine said our love is all that matters, that it’s worth everything. And I believe that, too…our love is worth everything…it is everything…

A horrifying vision of a life without Catherine, long years of mere existence, dark and empty and cold, rose within him, and its bleak and hopeless image almost broke his heart. He had been willing to lose every dream they’d shared by continuing to hold onto his false beliefs. Now the only question that remained was how to change the path he’d forced them to take.

The answer came straight from his heart. It cannot continue. I will find a way. There is no longer any reason to hold back, to deny what might be – what will be.

Vincent sighed heavily as a remorseful half-smile formed on his unique lips. “We have sacrificed much, Catherine,” he whispered hoarsely, “in the name of love, when in truth it was not love – it was fear, my fear. But the time for that has passed, and now those fears must end.”

He closed his eyes as if to mark the passage of a season in his singular and remarkable life, and when he opened them again, they burned with fiery purpose. He yearned to tell Catherine all he’d finally come to understand, to know the happiness and relief she would feel, to prove to her that his doubts and fears and mistaken beliefs would be laid to rest forever. Perhaps the first steps would be small, but they would lead in the direction of their dreams.

Faint strains of music from someone’s radio drifted through the half-opened window and reminded Vincent of all they’d hoped the night would hold, and how their hopes had been damaged once again.

“No more,” he said aloud, his voice subdued, yet strong and steely. “It will not happen again. This time, things will be different for us.”

Unwilling and unable to wait another minute to take even the first small step toward fulfilling his vow, he feverishly sought a method to give substance to his promise. He noted the hour, not yet eight o’clock, on the battered clock that sat on a nearby shelf, and then his gaze rested on the bedside table. Vincent’s newfound determination had sparked an inspiring fire within him, and in seconds he knew he had found his answer. He smiled, amused that a mundane object from the world Above might prove to be the means to make amazing dreams begin to come true.

With quiet footsteps, he neared Sam’s side, and after quickly assuring himself that his friend remained deeply asleep, he sat once again in the worn, wooden chair. Then, he composed the message to Catherine that would, he hoped, deliver the direction of their shared destiny into their own hands.

~ ~ ~

While Vincent’s reverie gave rise to a determined plan of action, Catherine found herself driven not by her dreams and desires, but instead by the increasingly frequent and less than reasonable demands of others. She slammed the apartment door behind her and forcefully flung her jacket, keys, and briefcase onto the soft pastel cushions of a couch. But that did not in the least satisfy her need to vent her anger and frustration on the nearest inanimate objects. Ordinarily, she would have caught herself in such a pointless reaction and would have laughed at her childishness. But tonight she was beyond reason, and instead glanced about wildly for a final target. In mere seconds she found it, and advanced on the combination phone and answering machine that sat on a nearby table, its red light blaring out a demanding summons as unavoidable as any subpoena issued from the DA’s Office.

For a moment Catherine stood with one finger poised over the erase button, strongly tempted to simply eradicate the intrusive messages that clamored for her attention, but then she yielded to her own better judgment. With forced patience, she listened to a reminder from her dentist’s office and a request on behalf of the Metropolitan Opera’s latest fundraising drive, and then with a gradual return to a calmer state of mind, to a message from her father about next weekend’s brunch with Peter Alcott, and a call from Jenny with plans for a movie and dinner later in the week.

Then, all too soon, the tentative calm that Catherine had begun to feel was shattered by the overly cheerful voice of Joe Maxwell, and with each uttered syllable of his message, she felt her temper flare dangerously high.

Hi, Radcliffe – you in? No? Well, I’m just calling to remind you about that reception for the mayor tonight. Since I was tied up with the Ferrelli case in Brooklyn all day, I didn’t have a chance to call you at the office, so I figured I’d better do it now. You didn’t forget about going tonight, did you? I know it’s not that big a deal but someone has to show up. In all honesty, I got home earlier than expected – even picked up my tux at the cleaner’s – so I guess I could have gone myself after all. But I’m pretty beat and, hey, they’d rather see your face there anyway! It’s already – let’s see – ten after seven, so if you’re listening to this message instead of picking up, you’d better get moving. Don’t be late for this one, Cathy! I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning – and thanks – I owe you one!

Catherine heard the harsh sound of air forced through clenched teeth and was not at all surprised to realize it was her own ragged breathing. With deliberate force, she jabbed a finger down onto the erase button and smirked with satisfaction as Joe’s infuriating words were obliterated. That small gesture somehow dissipated some of her anger, leaving in its place an enervating resignation. For one brief second, when she’d heard Joe’s voice, she had hoped he was calling to tell her he was going to the reception and she was freed from the responsibility.  But it was no use, she told herself, no point at all to keep on hoping that somehow this evening could have gone as Vincent and she had planned.

With a deep sigh, she shook her head wearily, and as she glanced down at the small gold watch on her wrist, she felt hot tears fill her eyes. Not far away in the bandshell in Central Park, musicians would be readying themselves for the evening’s performance, the last of the season, just as she should be arriving at the threshold Below. Vincent would have waited for her there, sensing her eager anticipation blending with his to thrum deliciously through the bond, just as vibrantly as the first concerto’s opening notes would soar into the late summer night air.

A single tear trembled on her lashes, and she wiped a hand across her eyes, determined not to let herself dissolve in self-pity. This was just one more obstacle their worlds had thrown in their paths, and deep in her heart she was beginning to wonder if they’d ever overcome them all. She knew she would never give up, but it was becoming increasingly difficult when seemingly everywhere they turned, there was another challenge, if not stemming from the daily responsibilities of their lives, then from Vincent’s lingering doubts and fears.

She had tried time and again to prove to him that she had made her choice, that her destiny, her life belonged with him. She knew it was what he wanted to believe as well, there was no doubt they shared the same dreams, but she was running out of ways to help him accept what was meant to be. The turmoil haunted her, but there was nothing more to be done tonight, and once again she would have to look to future days and trust that there could be something more waiting for them. Somewhere, someday.

She took a deep, cleansing breath and looked again at her watch, forcing herself to concentrate on the here and now. “Oh, great,” she muttered. “It’s already seven-thirty and I have to leave in half an hour. I’ll never make it!”

Feeling her tension escalate again, Catherine turned toward the latticed doors of her bedroom, only to come to an abrupt stop as the phone pealed out a new command for her attention. In one swift, graceful movement, she pivoted toward the sound and turned off the volume switch before the caller’s intrusive voice could be heard. “Whoever you are, you’ll just have to wait,” she said aloud. Then, smiling a bit self-consciously at the satisfaction her decision brought, she headed for what she hoped would be a revitalizing shower, and immediately dismissed all thoughts of the unknown caller from her mind.

Catherine stood under the force of the heated spray, welcoming the stinging sensation on her scalp and skin, as if it could reach within and wear away the sadness in her heart. She felt her eyes burn again with tears, and this time she did nothing to stop them. Leaning against the wet tiles of the shower wall, she rested her head against her arms and gave in to the sobs that shuddered from her.

Now, just when everything seems to be coming together for us, she thought mournfully, we’re constantly torn apart. There are so many possibilities for us, but never the time to talk about them, to move past all the rest of his worries and fears. To try to discover what might be, what will be. I love him…and I know he loves me…

A ragged sigh was choked from her throat. Why can’t we be together like other people, other lovers?  I thought that once we’d finally made love, things would be different for us, but they’re not. I know he only wants what’s best for me. Why can’t he see that it’s him?

She raised her head and turned again toward the cascading water, feeling it mix with her tears. The sensation of the water flowing against her skin gave rise to memories of a night far different from this one, a night two weeks after the evening filled with storm-swept passion in their chamber beneath the concert stage…

She had run through the park, hoping to out-race another sudden summer storm that had prematurely darkened the early evening sky. But she had not been fast enough to escape the heavy, pelting drops of rain that quickly soaked through her light summer dress as she scrambled down the slippery grassy slope. Nearly out of breath, she had tumbled into Vincent’s arms at the threshold of the drainage tunnel just as the first low rumbles of thunder and jagged flashes of lightning violated the serenity of the summer night. Laughing, she’d looked up at him, only to find him offering her a heavy-lidded gaze of sheer sensuality that for several moments robbed her of the power of speech and replaced playful mirth with something far stronger.

Wordlessly, she had moved closer, leaning into him, touching him everywhere she could. Her need to know the reality of his hard-muscled strength, holding her with such a stirring combination of desire and devotion, had been far too strong to resist. So caught up in one another, the growing strength of a summer storm once again surprised them, and without warning, its rampant, unleashed power vibrated through their bond, releasing a completely sexual energy that jolted them, much like the lightning that flared and bolted across the night sky.

Caught up in her memories of that night, Catherine trembled, remembering the way Vincent had held and caressed her with far less than his usual restraint, knowing it was what he, too, had wanted for so long, grateful he had not let the moment end too soon. A deep, pulsing heat filled her entire body as she recalled the sensation of his hands stroking her back, as if the clothing she wore had vanished entirely. Even now she could hear the harsh, uneven sound of his breathing as he held her to his chest, unable and unwilling to let her go.

With a quavering sigh, she relived her awareness of his arms tightening their hold on her, and his body straining instinctively toward her. She had pressed even closer to that provocative heat, hoping it would not be the final irresistible action that would spur him to bring their sensual idyll to an end. And for once, there had been no regrets.

She turned under the shower’s spray and tilted her head back, a sensuous smile curving her lips as she remembered with intense clarity the hours that had followed, when at last they’d become lovers. Just as Vincent had lowered his eager mouth to hers, a furious roar of thunder startled them to awareness of their precarious place at the edge of the storm. Without a word, he’d grabbed her hand and pulled her to shelter, but did not pause at the tunnel’s threshold, instead drawing her at a rapid pace to the secret door that led to the world Below.

The erotic energy that had enthralled them Above did not diminish as Catherine willingly and eagerly followed Vincent through various tunnels, some familiar to her and others defining a path she’d never taken. Then, they came to a halt just past a sudden curve in the narrow, rocky passageway. She felt a cool breath of air coming from somewhere in the darkness before them, as it rippled across her damp, heated skin.

“Where are we?” she began, her voice quivering with the tumult of her emotions and their rapid flight through the tunnels.

He released her hand, murmuring, “Wait,” and then she heard the hiss of flames being lit nearby. Firelight from a single torch glimmered on the surface of a lake only a few yards ahead of them and glistened on the sparkling crystalline sand at their feet. She gasped in surprise and looked up at him as he returned to her side. “It’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like this Below.”

Vincent’s unique mouth curved in the slow smile she so loved. “I wanted to share this place with you,” he said, his words intentionally echoing those he’d uttered on that other rain-swept night. “Few people ever find their way here, so it has become a special sanctuary for me. I had begun to think of it as a place where dreams might come true…and I had hoped to someday share it with you.” His voice deepened to a raspy murmur that left her breathless. “To share everything with you…”

“We’ve dreamed the same dreams, Vincent,” she whispered.

Their bond pulsed with the fiery strength of the love and desire that had driven them forward to this magical place. They both knew there was no further need for words, no further need to wait or to deny themselves the long-sought fulfillment of their love.

Vincent removed his cloak in one quick, decisive motion and spread it on the glittering sand, then untied his cambric shirt, pulled it over his head, and threw it aside. He had averted his gaze from Catherine, but without hesitating, he took off his boots and then unbuttoned his worn jeans, roughly tugging them down over the taut muscles of his long legs, to shove them aside with his other garments. He sank to his knees on the outspread cloak and only then did he raise his eyes to hers and hold out his hands to her, their slight trembling betraying the intense control and conviction his actions had demanded despite the depth of his desire.

At first, Catherine found herself unable to move, so entranced was she by the image before her, one she had despaired of ever seeing beyond her imagination. She had dreamed of a moment like this for so long, but now found that its reality surpassed even her wildest imaginings. Until very recently, he had always shied away from most physical intimacy. Why now – what had changed his mind -- and why, she asked herself with a grin, was she wasting time with questions?

Sudden ripples of misgiving penetrated her reverie through her heightened awareness of their bond, and she realized that Vincent had begun to misinterpret her silence. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, she found her voice long enough to whisper, “Oh, Vincent, I love you,” as she quickly untied the straps of her sundress and let it puddle at her feet on the sandy ground.

In her fantasies, she had imagined a sweet, slow seduction, candlelight and roses, hands at once eager and shy reaching for her, then undressing her with growing abandon. She smiled a soft, secret smile as she kicked off her sandals and swiftly removed her lacy bra and panties. There would be other times for those dreams to come true. All she wanted and needed now was the reality of Vincent, waiting and ready for her, in this secret cavern where he’d so often dreamt of her.

Without further thought, she fell into his arms and gazed deep into his eyes, then tumbled onto her back, pulling him forward to cover her soft, eager body with the hard yet gentle strength of his. The long-awaited sensation was overwhelming in its intensity, and for just a moment they had laid motionless together save for the pounding of their hearts. Then, the depthless love and desire of one beloved soulmate for the other drove them forward to an ecstatic joining of heart and body that surpassed all their dreams.

Savoring each touch, each kiss, each breathless word of love, Vincent and Catherine found themselves exactly where they were meant to be, safe in each other’s arms, finally set free to express their love in every way. At last with a final caress, they’d reluctantly but contentedly fallen asleep, wrapped in an inseparable embrace. Later, they’d awakened to make love again and to float together in the warm, rippling waters of the secret underground lake, promising to return to their special place time and again.

Catherine sighed happily as the memories receded to a special place in her heart, feeling the heat and passion of their first night together continue to warm her from within. In those moments of loving and sensual commitment, there was born a promise of all that was still to be theirs. He had accepted at last the truth of their destiny; he had honored the commitment she’d long ago made to him, to his world, to a life truly lived together. It would come to be, she vowed, maybe not now, but someday.

Someday. That ominously powerful word blended with the cooling water of the shower and began to numb her again within and without. Shivering, she stepped from the shower and wrapped her dripping hair in a large, fluffy towel, before drying her trembling body with another, wishing the remembered, radiant warmth still lingering deep within her would never fade away.

From the living room she heard the soft chimes of the small anniversary clock on the mantel, and gasped as she realized it was now eight o’clock. She instantly became a rushing flurry of motion as she hurried to apply make-up and dry her hair before running into the bedroom to dress. Her movements were controlled but swift, and within minutes she was almost ready.

She glanced quickly at her reflection in the full-length mirror and could not help noticing the dispirited expression in her eyes and the downward turn of her mouth, imposing upon her an image of controlled despondency which the elegance of her black silk dress and gold jewelry could not offset. She shrugged her shoulders, knowing she had done the best she could, and steadfastly tried to ignore the insistent wish that she had spent this time carefully and lovingly dressing in a way that would bring pleasure to Vincent, rather than making an impressive appearance for people and purposes that no longer held much meaning in her life. She touched her fingers to her heart, the place where his crystal should have rested, and closed her eyes for the few seconds it took to turn away from her sad reflection.

A gust of wind rattled the French doors leading to the terrace, and the unexpected sound startled her from her depression. She remembered that a light rain had begun to fall as she’d left the office, and she reached into her closet for an umbrella and raincoat to keep away the damp chill of the night. As she did, her hand brushed against the pale green summer dress she’d worn a few weeks earlier, the first night they’d made love, and once more her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

Sighing, Catherine draped her coat over her shoulders, picked up her umbrella and purse, and hurried into the living room. It was only eight-fifteen. If the doorman was successful in hailing her a cab the minute she reached the sidewalk, she might still make it to the reception more or less on time. As she neared the door of her apartment, she remembered having hurled her keys at one of the couches, and she shook her head in annoyance as she burrowed her fingers beneath the cushions in search of them. Straightening, keys in hand, she noticed once again the omnipresent blinking of the phone’s message light. Yet its once maddening scarlet blaze commanding her attention seemed muted to a warm crimson glow that issued only a gentle request.

Amused at the whimsical direction her thoughts had taken, she set her things aside and walked toward the phone. Even though she was already late, she reached toward the message button, and then paused and tilted her head to one side in unconscious imitation of Vincent’s appealing gesture. For several disconcerting seconds she hesitated, inexplicably sensing that she would hear the faintest strains of a song meant just for her, if only she could listen closely enough. A billowing wave of warmth and love rushed through her, and although it lasted for mere seconds, it left in its wake an immutable sense of tranquility and strength, and she knew without a doubt that Vincent had reached out to her through their bond. Rarely had she felt those sensations with such intensity, and in a heartbeat, she knew that every trial and setback of the whole maddening, unhappy day was a small price to pay in exchange for this miraculous gift, given with his love.

Slightly breathless, she dropped onto a chair next to the table where the phone rested, its small, bright light still winking up at her. “This had better not be you again, Joe,” she warned with a wry smile as she pressed the button and waited to listen to the new message. But when it began to play, the voice she heard was one she had never expected.  Immediately, the low, husky sound filled every space around and within her, seeming to hold her close in the speaker’s warm embrace.

“Catherine, I was wrong to answer your note as I did. I’ve tried so hard not to force you to choose between your world and mine, but sometimes through my fears I’ve denied you – denied both of us – the right to make any choices at all. I’ve taken from you the very freedom I’ve tried to protect…and I’ve taken us further from our dreams. I know that it’s too late to change things for tonight, but if you were there in your home right now, I would talk with you about what has happened, and this time I would not pretend I don’t understand what you’re asking of me. I would not avoid the truth. And, Catherine, my answer would be different than the one I gave you. I promise that this time I would not be afraid to hear what’s in your heart…and to tell you what’s in mine.”

For several seconds Catherine sat frozen in disbelief. How, why… She felt the flaring demands of a thousand thoughts and questions. Is it true that he’s willing to talk about all the things we’ve always avoided? Is he finally ready to move forward toward everything we can be together? If only I’d been here when he called – how had he – when?

With a groan of pure regret, she realized, improbable as it seemed, that it had been his call she had ignored less than an hour earlier, and the anguish the realization brought was almost more than she could bear.

“I didn’t know it was you,” she whispered. “I didn’t know and now it’s happening all over again. It’s too late. It’s always too late.”

She leapt to her feet, desperate to do something, to find some way to make things right, but she could find no direction, and she stood desolately staring down at nothing at all. Once again, there were chances lost, opportunities missed, another link in the ominous chain of restrictions and regrets that still held them apart from one another. Now, just when he was finally willing to move forward, she was forced to remain beyond his reach.

Catherine pressed the message button on the phone, needing to hear again the promise of his words, when from the terrace there came a sudden scraping noise, as if the small wrought-iron bench had been pushed across the tiled floor. Her head snapped up at the sound, her entire body poised to react. And even as her mind told her that it could not be, that he had gone to tend to Sam Denton, that he expected her to be out, she rushed toward the sound, knowing in her heart what she would find when she threw open the doors.

“Vincent!” The very sound of his name was the most beautiful music she had ever heard, and she flew into his outstretched arms, trembling as they enfolded her in an embrace as powerful as it was tender. At first, they were content to simply hold one another close, and then she leaned back in his arms just far enough to be able to look up at his face. The look in his eyes told her that he knew she had listened to his heartfelt message, and now he awaited her reply.

But before she could even try to speak, words tumbled from him. “Catherine, I’m sorry. I thought you would be gone and that I’d wait for you to return, and we would talk then. But now you’re late and I’m keeping you from your appointment. You must go now. I –“

Not again, she vowed silently. Never again. Raising one hand from its resting place on his shoulder, she pressed her fingers to his lips and silenced his racing words. For just a moment she felt the stirring pressure of his mouth in a gentle, defenseless kiss upon her fingers and she paused, unwilling to ignore even this small pleasure. But when he stilled the softly seductive motion, she found the words they both needed, words that would help them continue to move toward a life together, toward love.

“No more excuses, Vincent. No more,” she began with a firm shake of her head. “You said in your message that you’re ready to talk about all the things we’ve never been able to face. Is it true? Are you ready?”

He could only nod his head in response, his gaze never leaving hers, as he waited for her to go on.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she continued. “I know now that I was wrong to send that note to you. I should have made my own decision about tonight. I should have followed my heart.”

Vincent’s mouth softened for a moment at the sound of those familiar words, but he shook his head in denial. “How could you, when I did everything I could to make it impossible? When I let my fears force me away from everything we both want? I know you were only doing what you thought I wanted, what I had convinced myself was best for both of us.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, a smile beginning to ease the tense lines of her face. “And it probably won’t be the last time.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head in wonder at the miracle he held in his arms “Catherine, I meant everything I said when I called you from Sam’s apartment, but for tonight it’s too late.”

“No.” The single syllable silenced his words.  He paused, unsure of what was to come, and then she repeated that undeniable edict.  “No, it’s not too late. It’s never too late for what’s meant to be.”

Taking a deep breath, she raised her hands to stroke along the angled planes of his face, reveling in the sensations of her smooth skin sliding caressingly over the soft golden stubble. She let her fingertips once again glide across his mouth, this time encouraging his response with words and touch.

“Say it, Vincent,” she urged him. “You promised that you would not be afraid to listen to my heart. You said you would face the truth and your answer would be different. I want nothing more than to be with you tonight, to let nothing in your world or in mine stand between us. To start to truly build our life together. But tell me -- what do you want?”

There was nothing left in him to resist her, and he wondered how he ever had. “What I want, Catherine, is to share this night with you. To ask you to change your plans and be with me instead. I want us to leave all our fears behind forever, and ignore everything that would force us apart.”

He paused and took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, there was no hint of hesitation or doubt in the smoky rasp of his voice. “I have been wrong to make decisions for both of us, when it was never what either of us truly wanted. We are meant to be together. What we have means more than anything else. The life we will share begins now.”

Her gasp was a breathy, joyous sound, almost smothered by the sweet ferocity of her embrace as she flung her arms around him, burying her face in the curve of his neck and pressing small, heated kisses against his flesh. Vincent’s arms closed tightly around her, allowing them both this moment they so needed. He raised one large hand to stroke the smoothness of her hair, entwining his fingers in the satiny strands. Then, he eased her head back to gaze into her eyes, before lowering his mouth to hers in a kiss full of tenderness and passion that would never again be diminished.

All too soon he released her, yet felt through their bond the overwhelming power of the eternal love they cherished. He knew how close they had come to losing everything, but at last he had truly listened to her heart and accepted everything she had offered him, all the wondrous possibilities their life together could be. And he knew he could never wish for anything more.

With a brilliant smile, Catherine reached for his hand. “I have a wonderful idea! If we leave right now, we’ll still be able to hear at least half of the concert.”

He wanted more than anything to simply agree, but hesitated just for a moment. “But the reception – your job – what will you –“

“I’ll take care of it,” she replied with no trace of doubt in her voice. “And then we’ll be free to go. It’s what we both want, isn’t it?”

This time, there was no hesitation at all. “Yes. And if we hurry, we can still hear the third concerto.”

“Your favorite.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “And then after the concert…”

“It will be quite late, Catherine.” With that seductive half-smile she so adored, he added,

“Perhaps you should stay Below tonight.”

On tiptoe she leaned closer and whispered her response in his ear, caressing him with the warmth of her words. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Then leaning away playfully, she added, “But first there’s something I have to do. I’ll only be a minute. Wait for me?”

He nodded as she released his hand and hurried back into the apartment. Pausing just at the threshold, he watched as she reached for the phone and quickly pressed a series of numbers on the keypad. As he listened to her words, he was filled with the joy of certainty and promise.

“Joe? Yes, it’s me and yes, I know how late it is. Something has come up and I won’t be able to – No, I’m not going to that reception tonight. Don’t start, Joe – you said you could go after all, so I’m not, and it’s not up for negotiation.” She fell silent, but looked over her shoulder at Vincent and grinned conspiratorially. “Yes, I know this is unexpected, but I’m not changing my mind. If you leave in the next few minutes, you’ll still make it in time for the mayor’s speech. And, you know, it’s a good thing you picked up that tux!” She stifled a giggle as she held the phone away from her ear. Then she added, “Have fun and I’ll see you in the morning, although I may be a little late.”

She dropped the phone onto the table with a satisfyingly decisive clatter and then turned back to Vincent. The smile he so loved brightened her face and he felt it warm his heart. The steps they were taking tonight might be small for most couples in love, but for them they were momentous, and they both knew it was only the beginning.

“And now it’s time for us to go Below, Vincent,” she said, her pleasure in those simple but portentous words glowing in her eyes and along the channel of their bond. “We don’t have to wait any longer.”

“I will be there for you,” he answered before turning to go, eager to meet her at the threshold of the world they would share. “Always.”

She paused only long enough to secure the terrace doors behind him. “Always, Vincent,” she murmured, knowing somehow that he would hear her. “Always.”

~ ~ ~

If you have read Counterpoint by Linda S. Barth, before, you shouldn’t miss this revision. Besides finetuning the story, Linda has added a lovely surprise. It’s definitely worth reading again.

Linda has been a participant in the BATB fandom for many years. In that time she has worn multiple hats. She has not only been an author, but a zine editor, a newsletter editor and a calligrapher. She is also distinguished as “a Founding Mother” of the Classic Alliance of Beauty and the Beast for teaming up with Terrie Milliman to co-found the website commonly known as CABB, one of the most well known websites in this fandom.

You can find some of her stories in the zines, Bond Stories, Beyond Beginnings I and II, Daybreak:From Shadows Into Light, Sanctuary, Letters of Love, Reflections in Candlelight, Soulmates - A Neverending Dream, and Remember Love, a number of which are available from the Crystal Rose Lending Library at: http://www.crystalroselendinglibrary.com/collection/

Salute

To the Dream Keepers

by Cindy Rae

~ ~ ~

“There’s a whole world of tunnels and chambers that most people don’t even know exists…There are no maps to where we are… It’s our city, down here.”

– Vincent, ‘Once Upon a Time in the City of New York.’

~ ~ ~

And so it is. Still.

There are those who dream. And for all the value those dreamers have (and they have much), there are also those who keep dreams alive. Nurturers, builders, makers, artists, writers, editors, sharers… They do more than just wish. They do more than just imagine. They do more than just dream.

For Dream Keepers, the wish (that the dream never ends) is the beginning, not the middle, or end. Imagination is but the start, and the dream of a creative idea is but a genesis, an inauguration into greater (and often unexpected) things.

Not every creation, once begun, ends up where a Dream Keeper think it will. Dream keeping sometimes takes us all to unexpected places, creator and audience alike. That’s part of its magic. Dream Keeper magic. How good that we have that. How good that we’ve all had… so much of that.

How much? Look at all the names below, and understand that each person there was a Dream Keeper.

Dream keeping is a special thing, and not everyone does it, even if they love the dream. There is a difference in wishing that a dream still lived, and making it be so.

People who keep dreams alive are vital, for so many reasons. They can spin a yarn of love and hope  (No pun intended. Well… maybe a little one.) when their own life is in turmoil. They can work for hours, and call it “fun.” They can give, and ask, and question, and concentrate, and do, and try, and fail, and try some more, and take all of that, and more besides, and make it into something everyone can share, something everyone can have, and be a part of. They are both “cause” and “effect,” as they grasp the germ of an idea, cause it to be developed, labor over it until it is a tale told in full, then release it out into the world, to be enjoyed. The effect of that action often causes it all to begin again. And again.

And each time they do that (or did it, in the case of those who have since moved on), the dream lives.

And in spite of that title, “Dream Keepers,” they do not “keep” what they make. They share it, joyously, with others. Even unto the point of simply giving it away. Dream Keepers are Dream Sharers. That’s just the way it is. That’s how the dream keeps going, as it is passed from hand to hand, and heart to heart.

The only thing they “keep,” is the dream itself, warm inside their hearts.

When we describe these Dream Keepers, and what they do for us, it is with words we say so often, they become trite: We say they “Keep The Dream Alive – for all of us.” And so they do.

Dream Keepers, when they had to leave us (for whatever reason), always feel like they left too soon. Yet, so many of them left splendor, in their wake. Splendor, wonder, things both fantastical and good. A peek into “What if…?” and a glance into “If/then.”

We read their words, and held them as treasure, whether we discovered them years ago, or only yesterday. We heard their voices, when they first sang their songs to us. We heard it even when they stopped singing, or had to move on to a different song.

We hear them, still.

Once upon a time (in a city that wasn’t New York, we’re told), Ron Koslow had a dream, and built it into something special, something amazing. An entire cast and crew brought that dream to life for us, and made it real. That dream touched us.

And when it was over, we discovered… well, it wasn’t, not really. When it was over, we discovered that the dream that had touched us could be touched by us, right back. (We could write for it. We could create for it. We could continue it.) We could keep it alive, vivid and vibrant. Vivid as a rose. Vibrant as a crystal, glistening in the candlelight.

Were there more Beauty and the Beast “dreams” to see, more stories to tell, for us, by us? Yes. Yes, there were, as it turned out. (Thousands of stories. Thousands upon thousands. And for ten times longer than the series itself ever ran.)

Ten times and counting. The dream is not done, yet.

The Dream Keepers made that be possible, and made it be so. Because that’s what Dream Keepers do.

I’m not sure if any of the people making those stories and that art knew they’d become Dream Keepers. But that’s what they did. That’s what the names you see here, did.

And some of them did it when there were no guideposts for dream keeping, no instructions, no maps, no lengthy history to look back on, and emulate, and admire. They did it without an internet, without knowing about each other, without support. They did it with snail mail and a roll of stamps, postcards, and a will to continue. They did it because it didn’t seem right to let this particular dream die.

And so it didn’t.

Some people from those distant days are Dream Keepers, still.

To all of you who took part in not just dreaming, but in Dream Keeping, who shared, who cared, who gave, who loved… thank you.

The Dreamers and Dream Keepers who come after you owe you a debt they can only repay by following your light.

Because as it turns out, it’s just as Vincent said to Catherine, thirty years ago:

“There are no maps to where we are… But it’s warm and it’s safe… and we have all the room we need. So we live here, and we try to live as well as we can, and we try to take care of each other.

“It’s our city, down here…”

~ ~ ~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love, ~ Cindy

~ ~ ~

Dream Keeper

Bring me all of your dreams,

You dreamer,

Bring me all your

Heart melodies

That I may wrap them

In a blue cloud-cloth

Away from the too-rough fingers

Of the world.

-Langston Hughs

Dream Keeper’s Index

The following is an index of authors, poets, songwriters and artists who have lovingly kept the Beauty and the Beast dream alive for the last thirty years. If we have forgotten anyone, please let us know, so that we can include them on future lists.

We would like to especially thank those (most of which are anonymous) who have carefully preserved and chronicled the vast collection from the dream keepers over the years, so that it wouldn’t be lost to those of us who came later.

Some people may appear on these lists more than once because they either used more than one version of their name or they may have also written under a pen name.

Some multi-talented people also appear on both the Author Index and the Artist Index.

-Barbara Anderson

~ ~ ~

The information in this index was gleaned from:

-The Beauty and the Beast Fan Fiction Database at  http://batbtv.com/chan/bbfanfic

-The Crystal Rose Lending Library at http://crystalroselendinglibrary.com/

-The Fanlore List of Beauty and the Beast Fanzines at   https://fanlore.org/wiki/List_of_Beauty_and_the_Beast_(TV)_Fanzines

-The Helpers' Network Quality Fanzine Review Online (AKA The Qfer) at http://jacalyns.u28.nozonenet.com/qfer/index.html

- Fanfiction.net at https://www.fanfiction.net/tv/Beauty-and-the-Beast/

-Deviant Art at http://www.deviantart.com/

-Tunnel Tales at http://www.classicalliance.net/tunneltales/tunneltales.html , and others.

Authors Index:

1note

A.D.J.A.

A.D.O.N.

A Leo

A.M. Lane

A.N.D.

A. Nanny Mouse

A ‘Nea Dodson

A. Nonymous

A Petal on the Rose

A.V. Wilde

Abby

Adelaide Love

Adele Turner

Adina Reeve

Adja

Adrianna MacNeely

Aerilon452

Afardistantshore

Al Stewart

Alan T. Bramhill

Alan W. Gammill

Alayne

Alayne Gelfand

Alice Simmons

AlinWong

Adelaide Love

Adele Turner

Alisa West

Aliset

Allahandria

Allegra

Alice Baltes

Alice Gary

Allison

Allison Duggins

Allysa G.

Alpha

Altanna

Alyssa

Amanda Clay

Amanda Edrington

Amanda Hawthorn

Amber

Amber James

Amber Newman

Amber O.

Amber Osborne

Amethyst Hart

Amilyn

amkhe

Amy Bechtel

Amy Wasp Wimberger

Ana Luiza Brown

Anabelle Lael

Ana Rita Elias-Terry

Andi88

Andrea

Andrea Dumasius

Andrea Garner

Andrea Winkler

Andrew Marvell

Angelinstead

Angela

Angela Carotto

Angela Higgins

Angela Matis

Angela McQuiston

Angela P.

Angela Palmer

AnGeLbAbS81

Angelic-Reader

angelinstead

Angelique van het Kaar

Angie

Angie Meuris

Anita Gazzard

Anita Hollis

Anita M. Hoosen

Ann Batterby

Ann Inkel

Ann Graff

Ann Hart

Ann Mrazik

Ann R Brown

Ann Wortham

Ann Rideout

Anna C.

Anna Deavers

Anna Deavers-Kelley

Anna Gerard

Anna Luiza Brown

Annabelle Lael

Anna-Karin Uhlén

Annalisa Castaldo

Annalisa Gastaldo

Anne Cognito

Anne Collins Smith

Anne Davenport

Anne Evans

Anne George

Anne McClelleland

Anne Medlock

Anne Simpson

Annette Lipp

Annette Wells White

Annie Medloc

Annike Perrot

Annik Perrst

Anonymous

April Twelve

Aragorn

Arianahrod

Arie Raymond

Arkane

Arlene

Arlene Grogan

ArSommers

Arantza

Arthur Symons

Arwen Bauer

Asanovski

Ashley Neilson

Atlanta

Avril Bowles

Ayiana

Ayiana2

B. Higgins

B.A. Thomas

B.J.S.

Babs Horne

Barb Coleing

Barb Hill

Barbara A. Corrigan

Barbara Gilmore

Barbara Gipson

Barbara Goulter

Barbara Handshy-

Anderson

Barbara Hambly

Barbara Hill

Barbara J.C. Stoddard

Barbara L.B. Storey

Barbara McIntyre

Barbara Staton

Barbara Storey

Barbara/Barb Trimble

Barbi Chism

Barbie Chism

Bat.balien

BATBLady

Bea Oberlein

beastfan

Becky Bain

Becky Board

Bdragond

Bee Drew

Bee Dru

BeElleGee

Belen

Belinda Keyes

Bellareyk

Ben Bock

Benjamin Russell

Beth

Beth Bowles

Beth Blighton

Beth Druhan

Beth Gray

Beth Gualda

Beth Wade

Betsy Fisher

Betsy Jacobs

Betty Mills

Betty Neiswender

Betty Reardon

Beverly Thomas

Bill Hupe

Bluebird

Bluespiritgal

Boadicea

Bob Theroux

Bobbi

Bobbi Ambrosino

Bonnie Chapman

Boudleaux Bryant

Brenda Boyd

Brenda Sullivan

Brenn Harper

Brian H. Longstaff

Brian May

Brittany Stem

Brooke Summerlin

Bruce Alen Klaiss

Bruce Braden

BuffyTheSlayr

Bunny Brown

Buonadies

C.

C_2H_6OFree

C.A.Chaplin

C.B.

C.B. McWhorter

C. Rusaw

C. J. LaBelle

C.H. Burnett

C. Hagel

C.L.

C.L. Rusaw

C. M. Henley

C.V. Lee

C.V. Waldow

Caera Rose

Caitlyn Jay

Calista Robyns

Camile Eatman

Candy Garrison

Captwulf

Cara E. Giaqunito

Carebearmaxi

Carine Cattelion

Carla McRorie

Carla Smith

Carol Burt

Carol Ciancutti

Carol Kyne

Carol Pierce

Carole Thompson

Carole Lowden

Carole Mayberry

Carole Whitehead

Carolyn

Carolyn G. Lynn

Carolyn Kleinsorge

Carrie Schneider

Carta Heffington

cartoonlove

Caryl Traugott

Cat

Cat/K.G. Miles

Cathi Brown

Catherine

Catherine Ainsley

Catherine Chandler

Catherinechandler2371

Catherine E.

Catherine Edwards

Catherine Maya

Catherine Maya Keister

Catherine O. Virtue

Catherine Riley

Catherine Scotton

Catherine Schlein

Catherine Scotton

Catherine Stanley

Catherine Victoria Lee

Cathleen Miller

Cathleen Smith

Cathi Brown

Cathy Atchinson

Cathy DuBois

Cathy Moran

Cathy Trotta

Catriona Harrison

Cecelia Louis

Cecilia Ragaini

Cecio(CP)

Chandra Lea Morgan

Charla T. Menke

Charles Hart

Charlotte Asonovski

Charlotte Hill

Charlotte Van Til

Cher Gray

“Cherokee” Hensley

Cheryl Duval

Cheryl Gray

Cheryl Patterson

Cheryl Pollack

ChicagoTunnelKid

Chick-pea Ragaini

Chris Dolan

Chriss Lucas

Chrissy Kempster

Christel H.

Christina B. McWhorter

Christine Cunningham

Christine Reynolds

Christine Woodford

Christopher Papps

Chuckie Burge

Cicatrice

Cicatrice du Veritas

Cindy Brink

Cindy Miller

Cindy Van Houten

Cindy Rae

Cindy Rancourt

Cindy Van Houten

Cirelli

Clair Avery

Claire Cosi

Clairisant

Clairisant2000

Clairyce Gaston

Clare Sieffert

Clarsah

Claudia Bert

Claudia Bertrand

Claudia Rose Bertrand

Claudia Mullen

Claudine McCraney

CloverKitten06

Clynnranson

Colleen Hillerup

Constantia

Corki

Cosi

Courtney Maxwell

Crowmama

Crystal Hart

Curlycurlz

Cybel Harper

Cyndi

Cyndi Day

Cynthia Coe

Cynthia Fuller

Cynthia Hatch

D.A. Martin

D.D. Cooper

D. Der Hovanessian

D.J.S.

D.K. Becker

D.V.S.

D. Yates

D.F. Ray

Daniela V.

D’Ann Watson

Dar

Daria Smith

Dark Dream Angel

Darlene

Darlene Little

Darlene Jones

Darrilyn Malone

David A. Crowther

David B. Hearne

David Tulley

David Walden

Davie Roewade

Dawn K. Archdeacon

Dawn Yzaguirre

Day Reverie

Daydreamer

deafheaven

Deb

Deb2

Deb Bichel

Deb Jedynak

Debbie

Debbie Arnett

Debbie Bluerose

Debbie Davies

Debbie Desantis/Tetrina

Debbie Hicks

Debbie Nockels

Debbie Ristick

Debbie Smith

Deborah A. Martin

Deborah C. Shanks

Deborah Jednyak

Deborah Martin

Deborah Maureen Eaton

Dee9

Dee Bronson

Dee Garcia

Deidre Lockyer

Demian

Demian33

Denie McComie

Denise

Dennis C Callin

Devra Langsam

Diana Garcia

Diana Lopez

Dianne Smith

Diana Smith

Diane Gibbons

Diane Kenney

Diane Schilichting

Diane Theriault

Dianne Mann

Dianne Russell

Dianne Smith

Dick Grayson aka

Gray(Robin)

Disneyqueen

Distracted

Dixie Power Casero

Dolly Beagle

Don Black

Don Davis

Don Johnson

Donna A. Klein

Donna A. Lordi

Donna Boyko

Donna Croft

Donna Howard

Donna Lynn Howard

Donna Straley

Donna Vasquez

Dori

Dorothy Cestaro

Dorothy McKnight

Dot Sconzo

Dove Hodge

Dovya Blacque

Dragonpearlz

Dreamer1985

E.L.A.

E. Wyllis

Edith

Edith Crowe

Edith L. Acker

Edmund Spenser

Edna Grice

Edna Wilson

Edward Gross

Edwina Harvey

Elaine

Elaine Batterby

Elaine Landman

Elaine Lazano

Elaine Mallaband

Elaine Mills

Elaine Scruggs

Elaine Smith

Eleanor Clark

Elisabeth Delaney

Eliza

Elizabeth Behnke

Elizabeth Bell

Elizabeth D. Hyslop

Elizabeth Helm

Elizabeth Hillman

Elizabeth Sherring

Elke

Elke Prietl

Ella Louise

Ellen M.

Ellen Peters

Ellen siders

Ellian

Elsie E. Kerr

Elsie Miller

Enchanted

Ephraim Lewis

Eric, Geoffrey & Samantha

Eric Blackburn

Eric Jonasson

Erica Aguilar

Erika Frensley

Erin Chalmers

Esme

Ethelbertina

Eugenia Clark

Ev4after

Eva J

Evelyn D. Walker

Eviefan

Evuchetich

F.E.Lin78

F.E. Wall

F. Mabel Johnson

Fabiola Kooy

Fair Maiden

Faith

Faye Brooks

Fenris House

Fern Smith Brown

fields of  lavender

Flamingo

Flint and Feather

Frances Lamberth

Frankie

Fraser Sherman

Frazer Sherman

G.M. Martin

G.S. Franklin

G. Walker

Gkkstitch

G.M. Turpin

G.S. Franklin

Gabrielle M.

Gaby Armstrong

Gaia Propylaea

Gale Varga

Gamin Davis

Gayle Cara Maxwell

Genn

George Gordon Brown

Georgina McCracken

Gerda Eeckelaert

Gerik’s Angel

Gianina D’Andrea

Gillian Aubrey

Gin Bendell

Gin Turpin

Gina Alkazian

Gina Johnson

Ginger Janssen

Ginger Schmeiser

Ginny

Ginny Shearin

Gitte Sternberg

Gkkstitch

Glenda Young

Glenn Gutshall

Glenys Walker

Gloria DeLeon

Gloria Handley

Gloria Jones

Glover-Sugar

GodlyJewel

Goldie

Goldie Jones

Gwen Lord

Gretchen A.K. Kopmanis

Gretchen Kuehnlein-

Kopmanis

Grey Feather

Grit Barnowsky

Guinn Berger

Gwen Berger

Gwen Neilson

Gumtuu

Gwen Lord

Gwenda Bosse

H.A. Taylor

H.A. Taylor-Nicholson

H.B. Adams

HarmonyLover

Heather Andrews

Heather Peters

Heather Taylor-Nicholson

Heidelore T. Davidson

Helen C.

Helen Charlotte Hill

Helen Chavez

Helen Commodore

Helen Peters

Helen Pattskyn

Helen Pettigrew

Helva Peters

Hobbeth

Ida Vega

IheartOakenshield193712

ILoveTheBlackDaggerBro-therhood

Ina Schaefer

Ines Costa

Inez Paskal

Innovation

Irene Felton

Irrelevant86

Iseyfarth

Isle G.

Ivanova

J.

J.A. Bartlam

J.A. Clarke

J.A. Cliffe

J.A. Keenan

J.A.M.

J.C. Stoddard

J.D. Evans

J.D. Famoly

J.D. Miner

J. Dugdale

J. Humphrey

J.L. Hardin

J. Ley

J. Michelle Kafafi

J. Paul Burroughs

J. Patterson

J.S. Bartlam

J. Smith

J. West

Jacalyn Newman

Jackie Kapke

Jacky Harrington

Jacquelyn S. Kapke

Jackie Keller

Jackie Maslanka

Jackie Newman

Jackie Paciello

Jackie Skalski

Jacky

Jacqui Armitage

Jacqui Clarke

Jad

Jade

James Nelson

James Wappel

Jan Fledman

Jan Grokett

Jan Gosnell

Jana Ondrechen

Jane Comb

Jane Lamb

Jane Leavell

Jane Madell

JanetGR

Janet Doctors

Janet Dunadee

Janet Ellicott

Janet Kilbourne

Janet Knights

Janet L. Rocco

Janet Lynn

Janet M. Aspinall

Janet P. Reedman

Janet Rivenbark

Janette Myles

Janice Keegan

Janice Keenan

Janis McCavity

Jason T. Newman

Jayna

Jean Ingelow

Jean Torrance

Jean Paul Bonhomme

Jeanie Humphrey

Jeanne Cloud

J’Ecris

Jeffrey Koehn

Jen Bennett

Jena Snyder

Jenn Thompson

Jennifer

Jennifer Cox

Jennifer Salazar

Jennifer Thompson

Jenny Bozovic

Jenny Bozovnic

Jenny Dubler

Jenx and Jojo

JesSickUh

Jess Davis

Jessica

Jessica Ford

Jessica Sher

Jessica K. Brown

Jessica Payne

Jessie Gurner

Jim Wible

Jkkstitch

Jo Fredericks

Jo Ann Sides

Joan Ahlstrom

Joan Ann Mrazik

Joan B. Shumsky

Joan Enright

Joan Kokolus

Joan Larkin

Joan Stephens

Joan W

Joani

JoAnn Baca

JoAnn Grant

JoAnn Sides

Joanna Mars

Joanna Paone

Joanne Batruch

Joanne Brickles

Joanne Gillmeister

Joanne Grier

Joanne Ratcliffe

Jodie

Jodie Boyle

John Duggan

John Gare

John Jones

John Langhorne

Josh Davis

Josi K.

Joy Faulkner

Joy Harrison

Joyce Clarke

Joyce Elliot

Joyce Faulkner

Joyce Fuller Kleikamp

Joyce M.

Joyce Mungia

Joyce Murray

Judi Mollard

Judith Eudaly

Judith Lazear

Judith Nolan

Judy Darnell

Judy Adams

Judy Keller

Judy Loyd

Judy McPherson

Judy Moisey

Julie A. Cornell

Julie A. Richards

Julie “Cherokee” Hensley

Julie Crutchley

Julie Munoz

Julie Pike

Julie Sutfin

Juliet Summers

June Smith

Jupiterauge

Justa Twitte

Justine Bogart

K.A. Booth

K.J. Morgia

K. Kimberly Prosser

Kad

Kad Kaly

Kae Kalwaic

Kaly

Kami Edrington

Kaja Pristo

Kana

Karen A. Bates

Karen Bates

Karen Bates-Crouch

Karen Edrington

Karen Emerson

Karen Enriquez

Karen Freiman

Karen Jean Dorrell

Karen Jones

Karen Kress

Karen Lewis

Karen L. Mitchell

Karen Mason-Richardson

Karen Morgia

Karen Mossman

Karen Philpot

Karen Q.

Karen Quattlebaum

Karen T. Bird

Karen Thomas

Karen Wiltkowski

Karyl Wakion

Karyl L. Weldon

Kassandra

Kate Andrews

Kate Sheridan

Kate Thomas

Kate Willis

Katelyn Dubois

Katherina M.

Katherine Garnett

Katheryne Lynnette

Kathi E

Kathi Edrington

Kathie Ono

Kathie Wilson Baker

Kathleen F. Hall

Kathleen Resch

Kathleen Ross

Kathleen Smith-Ramirez

Kathleen Wells

Kathy

Kathy Babcock

Kathy Battershell

Kathy Bayne

Kathy Cox

Kathy De

Kathy Fidge

Kathy H.

Kathy Hall

Kathy Jacobson

Kathy Mills

Katie A. Armistead

Katie Ono

Katja Schwandtke

Katrina Relf

Katrina Rett

Kattydesade

Kay Brinkley

Kay Dotrice

Kay Kalwaic

Kay Simon

Kay Starwell

Kay Weaver

Kayelle Allen

Kayla Rigney

Kedzie

Kellie Smith

Kellie Sharp

Kellie Todd

Kelly Deavers

Kelly Hawthorn

Kelly Hill

Kelly Shlemon

Kelley/Kellie Sharp

Kerin Rose Houseburg

Kerri Anderson

Kevin Houseberg

KgF

Kg “Cat” Freeman

KifKathleen

Keith Ahlstrom

Kiki Cavanaugh

KiltedLass

Kim Harriman

Kim Hartman

Kim Prosser

Kim Raymond

Kimber

Kimberly Dolan

Kimberly Hartman

Kimberly Jo Raymond

Kindra King

Kirsten Kohler

Kitty Woldow

Kraig Sollenberger

Kris Anne Fagin

Krista Chafin

Krista Rainey

KristinS

Kristy Effinger

Krys E. Britton

Krystin Wilhelm

Kuli und Heft

Kuliundheft

Kytheira

L.A. Caskey

L. Beasley

L. Brooks

L. Denale

L.C. Wells

L. Hunten

L. Mouse

L.J. Graves

LaBelle.et.LaBete

Lady Catrin

Lady Elara

Lady Shadow92

Lara Claire

Lara Hoyle

LaRhonda Romero

Laura Ather

Laura Beilby

Laura Davis

Laura G

Laura Graves

Laura Michaels

Laura Selinsky

Laurel Cain Hawes

Lauren Dumasius

Laurie Burger

Laurie Haldeman

Laurie Whittenberg

Layne Devaney

Lea

Leah Rosenthal

Leatha A. Belts

Lee Holdridge

Lee Kirkland

Leigh Dalen

Lena Wood

Leora Effinger

Leslie Bricusse

Leslie Hunten

Lesley Burton

Leva Mevis

Lil Grrl Bleu

Limony Picket

Linda Ann Mallory

Linda S. Barth

Linda Blumel

Linda C. Moore

Linda Davis

Linda Fisher

Linda Fister

Linda Funk

Linda Husejinovic

Linda Jordan

Linda Lakin

Linda Lawson

Linda Liberski

Linda Melnick

Linda Miatt

Linda “mini” Robin

Linda Mooney

Linda O’Leary

Linda Parker

Linda S. Barth

Linda Smith

Linda Stork

Linda Taghon

Linda Virginia Shelley

Linda Wells

Linda White

Linda Willan

Lindariel

Lindsay Thompson

Lindsey

Lindsey Aubel

Lisa Dormon

Lisa Hyslop

Lisa M. Schroeder

Lisa Swope

Lisa Stubblefield

Lisa Whiting

Lisa  K.Wildman

Lita Kimball

Liza Mills

Lizabeth Allen

Llara Schultz

Lloyd Frankenberg

LoA2012

Loreen Van der Kraats

Loretta J. Bryce

Lori A. Meyers

Lori Brown

Lori Ely

Lori Hicks

Lori J. Prins

Lori Lum

Lorie Freeman

Loris Dyer

Lorraine Bartlett

Lorraine Beasely

Lorraine Cirelli

Lorraine Parrish

Lorretta J. Bryce

Louann Qualls

Louanne Standen

Louisa Standed

Louisa Taylor

Louise Hyde

Louise Milner

lovelorn45

lovethefandom

Lowrey

Luacaz

Lucy Carr

Lucy Donovan

Lucy Green

Lucy Johnson

Lucy Wells

Lydia Bower

Lyn Musacchio

Lyn Roewade

Lynda Jones

Lynette Combs

Lynette5168

Lynn

Lynn Arthur

Lynn Aoki

Lynn Faulkner

Lynn Faustian

Lynn Faustine

Lynn Mark aka Tweetie

Lynn Murphy

Lynn Reinhardt

Lynn Roewade

Lynne Seyfarth

Lynn Simpson

Lynn Turley

Lynn Wexler

Lynn Westmoreland

Lynn Wright

Lynne Arthur

Lynne Gutshall

Lynne Levine

Lynne Roberts

Lynne Seafarth

Lysa McRorie

M. Kafafi

M. Louis

M.J. Lowrey

M.K. Burns

M.S.K.

M. Sue Waugh

Mabel Blackburn

Mackenzie

Magellan’s Wife

Mahrey

Mai Phan

Macky

Madalena Mumford

Mahrey

Maire C

Malinda Splivalo

Mandy Hawthorn

Manuel Liermann

Manuela K.

Manuela Lierman

Marcia Brin

Marcia Lee Patterson

Marcia Lefebvre

Marcia Patterson

Marcia Wickes

Marcus Holt

Marens

Margaret A. Basta

Margaret Chase

Margaret Davis

Margaret Kane

Margaret Mansfield

Margaret Noel

Margaret Zink

Margie Marcotte

Margo Ann Quigley

Margo L. Coburn

Marguerite Bray

Marguerite Hebert

Mari Lynn

Mariann Howarth

Marianne Mercenary

Marie Bidlack

Marie Celeste

Marie Sexton

Marie Tillot

Marie Tummon

MariLyn

Marilyn Mastin

Marilyn Oakavik

Marilyn Prather

Marilyn Preston

Marilynn

Marina Bailey

Marina Broers

Marion Gallo

Marion S.

Marit Rasmussen

Maritta Acker

Mariya

Marlene Irezise

Martha Carothers

Martha

Martia West

Marty Hausner

Mary A. Fall

Mary Ann Drach

Mary Burk

Mary Ellen Nicosia

Mary Moulden

Mary Page

Mary Rose M-D

Mary Tummon

Marye Lynn Wexford

Maureen T. Mahon

Maureen U.I. Wall

Mathew Bailey

Mathewbaileyo81

Maxine Mayer

Maxine Meyer

McMemony

Meg Fine

Meghan Found

Melanie Strong

Melanie T.

Melinda B. Knapp

Melinda Madison

Melissa Bartell

Melissa Cook

Melissa Mastoris

Melissa Meyer

Melissa Prideaux

Melissa Wilson

Melody Rondeau

Merfilly

Merlin Dane

Mia C.

Michael Beacom

Michael Cole

Michael Vincent Small

Michelle

Michelle Hawley

Michelle Hupe

Michelle K

Michele Kafafi

Michelle Perry

Mickey Sayles

Midnight Rose

Mike Deodato, Jr.

Mindy Hawthorn

Miracle2002

Misunderstoodmon

Mitana

Mitzi Lewis

Mitzi Schmeiser

Mohamed Alkhoudairy

Moira Keely

Molly George

Mona Batir

Monica Cross

Monica Langdon

Monika

Monika Wallroth

Moose

Morag Gordon

Mycroft Holmes

Nada Abdelwahab

Nan Dibble

Nanci Folsom Casad

Nancy

Nancy Curles

Nancy Dell

Nancy Gervais

Nancy Lynn Knauff

Nancy Mastandrea

Nancy Merckle

Nanny Mouse

Natalie Smithe

Nea Dodson

Nefereu

Nena Rey

Nere Sago

Nerissa Nicholas

Nicholas

Nicky Shepherd

Nightowl

NightOwl360

Nightwalker87

Niki

Nikki

Nina Thomas

Nom de Guerre

Nomdenette

Nonnie Shaver

Nonnihil Scelestus

Norrie Shauer

NorthofShangrila

NYC Utopia

Odile Seng

OhMahChildhood

Olivia K. Good

OnceUponaTimeinNewYork

OOWhiz

Opal McMenomy

Ophelia

Oracle

Orianna

Orianna-2000

Oz Fontecchio

p.a.k.

P.E. Leslie

P.L. Heyes

P.K. Sollonburger

P.S. Nim

P.S. Nimpho

Pamela D. Davis

Pamela Garrett

Pam Garrett

Pam Hewett

Pam Rideout

Pam Smith

Pat

Pat Almna

Pat Dhillon

Pat Dunn

Pat Farrar

Pat Hailey

Pat Jackson

Pat K.Kathy H

Pat King

Pat/Patricia Leslie

Pat Paone

Pat Reed

Pat Ryan

Pat Wahab

Pat Wittenbrink

Patricia Almedina

Patricia Ann Kehoe

Patricia L. Ryan

Patricia Leslie

Patricia Macdonnell

Patricia Mydonell

Patricia Poole

Patricia Rogers

Patricia Ryan

Patricia Thomas

Patricia Wittenbrink

Patricia Wyver

Partick C. Twain

Patrick Dolan

Patsy

Patsy Fagin

Patti Astore

Paul Russell

Paul Wood

Paula Bundy

Paulette Edwards

Pauline Marshall

PEAhopeless

Pearl Anderson

Pearl Ann Snow

Pearl George

Pearl Harris

Peg Kennedy

Peg McNabb

Pegasus

Peggy Ann Garvin

Peggy Spalding

Penny Rockwood

Petal on the Rose

Peter Balusong

Peter J. Formaini

Peter Kappessar

Peter McWilliams

Peter Wall

Phoebe Cary

Phyllis Amason

Phyllis Ayesse

Pixie

Podlasianka1

Poison Droplets

Pooja Prasad

Poore

Potterfan2006

Praetorian Productions

Praps

preachersgal

Prevailing Joy

purplefern

Queen Johnson

Quietally

R A H

R.C. Prince

R. Chaz T.

R.H. deBurgh

R.L. Belyea

R. Dean Becker

R.Goodfellow

Rachel Collier

Rachel Eliane aka          Rachel Kuchar

Radcliffe

Rags

Rainbowscape

Raissa Devereux

Ramanda

Randie Pressman

Randy Pressman

Rainbowscape

Ranier Maria Rilke

Raven-Ki-Lin

Ray Horton

Raye Dene Horton

Rbnhood

Rebba Story

Rebecca Board

Rebecca Cairns

Rebecca Eschliman

Rebecca Hamilton

Rebecca Marcus

Rebecca Reeves

Rebecca Story

reckiewriter

RedNightBird

Reggie E. Beck

Regina F.

Renate Haller

Rene Schneider

Rhoda Strobel

Rhonda

Rhonda Collins

Rhonda G. Lee

Rhonda Stephens Palmer

Rich Brinkley

Rikki Danvers

Rita Davies

Rita Hazlette

Rita Klemp

Rita Terrell

Riviera

Robbie Sturm

Robert Mirnik

Robert G. Warring

Roberta Rogow

Roberta Stanco

Roberta Stanco-Decaprio

Roberta Swinson

Robin

Robin Hinsdale

Robin Hood

Robin Pixie Pass

Ron Alex Howard

Roni Brown

Ron’s Sweetie

Rosa N. Todao

Rosaura Wells

Rose

Rose Badgett

Rose Chamberlain

Rose Elaine Landman

Rose M.

Rose Parker

Roseann Buonadies

RoseAnn C. Lopez

Roseann Solnica

Rosemarie Hauer

Rosemarie Salvatore

Rosemary Rollins

Rosie Badge

Rowena Warner

Rowena Werner

Roxanne Shearer Koogler

Rue Emerson

Ruby

Russell Allen

Rusty

Rusty Hough Bader

Rusty “Red Night Bird”

S.C. Shelton

S. Jackson

S. Randant

S. Wells

S.E. Seliger

S.K. Dapoz

S.M. Evans

S.M. Maher

Sally-Ann Inkel

Sally Stanton

Sally Wright

Sam Brookes

Sam Green

Samandjack2371

Samanthacarter2371

Sandi Hawke

Sandra Ayers

Sandra Burrows

Sandra H. Necchi

Sandra M. Deville

Sandra Jones

Sandra Lee

Sandra Orr

Sandra Patrick

Sandra Platt

Sandra Saidak

Sandy C. Shelton

Sandy Dapoz

Sandy Hawke

Sandy P. Shelton

Sandy Whited

SandyX

Sapienlover

Sara Boots

Sara Conklin

Sara Teasdale

Sarah Boots

Sarah Conner

Sarah-Grace Thomas

Sarah Hanrahan

Sarah Harvie

Sarick

Scarlet Warner

Saskia Grunberger

Scrappy LaMonte

Scott Wesley

ScytheWoman

Serina

Seriously Crazed Out

Frootloop

Shadowdancer

ShadowTeengirl

Shannon Little

Shannon O’Connor

Sharon

Sharon Dickerson

Sharon Holtz

Sharon Lowry

Sharon Monroe

Sharon Palmer

Sharon Reynolds

Sharon Wells

Sheila Golledge

Sheila Kaminsky

Sheila Paulson

Sheila Waters

Shelby Patterson

Shenandoah West

Sheri Green

Sheryl Tribble

Sherri Hawke

Sherry A. Bass

Sherry Sanfilippo

Shiela Waters

Shirley Black

Shirley Johns

Siever

Sigyn

Silvia S.

Simon Logan

Simon Wells

Simone R.

Sin Kennedy

Skippy Flink

Smenzer

Snow Dancer

someone.else.before

Sonia MaCorral

Sophia Riazzo

Southofoz

Sromg

Stace

Stace Burroughs

Star Cook

Star Urioste

Starchild

Starfirehawk

Steffenie

Steffennie Smith

Stephani K. Kana

Stephanie Bowens

Stephanie Bruford

Stephanie Davis

Stephanie White

Stetsonfan

Steve Bratmann

Steve Eldred

Steve Nottingham

Steve Oyervidez

Steven Ronald Brattman

Steven Thurlow

Stevet123

Sue Abbott

Sue Ann Sarick

Sue-Anne Hartwick

Sue Collins

Sue D. Nim

Sue Daw

Sue De Villiers

Sue Evans

Sue Glasgow

Sue Haley

Sue Hernandez

Sue Isle

Sue K

Sue Krinard

Sue Proter

Sue Regan

Sue Wilson

Susan

Susan Abbott

Susan B. Johnson

Susan Crites

Susan Garrett

Susan Gavula

Susan Johnson

Susan M

Susan M. Garrett

Susan MacDonald

Susan M.M.

Susie Goldberg

Suze Howe

Suzie Dean

Suzie Prince

Sybil Cameron

Sybille S.

Sygin

Sylvia Witt Fisher

Sylvia Sutton

Sylvie Beatrice

T.J. Wildman

T.M. Cason

TARA

TXMedic

Taerie L Bryant

Tara

Taura Scott

Ten

Teresa Evans

Teresa Panizo

Teresa Salas

Teri

Teri Janka

Teri P.

Teri Sarick

Teri Zenobia

Terilynn

Terravin

Terri Blough

Terri Librande

Terri Milliman

Terri Pepe

Terrie Le Brande

Terry Pepe

Tess Freeman

tetleytuna

The Beastress

The Muse

The Tunnels1987

Thelma J. Wildman

Thomas A. Cameron

Thomas Mc

TimeFlies

Timothy Little

Tina

Tina Cramer

TiredGreenEyes

T’Mara

Tod Cass

Tom Skalski

Toni Lichtenstein Bogolub

Tony Anderson

Torri Thomas

Tory Schmeiser

Tracey Wooten

Tricia Field

Trainee Hero

Trinette L. Kern

Trish Ryan

Trisha Kehoe

Tulusu

Tunnel Baby

Tunnel Dweller 1

Tunnel Residents

Tunnelmom

Tweetie

Tweetie Lynn

Two Tunnel Dwellers

TXMedic

Tyler Lindsay

Uastis

Uschi

Ulrike

Unbowed Unbent Unbroken

Unicorn

Unknown

Ursula Boyle

Ursula M. Cooper

V

V. Burke

V. Matthews

Valdenray

Valeria

Valerie

Valerie Lynn Meachum

Valerie Wells

Valina Cutler

Valjean

Vanessa Mills

VC87

vcsharabond

Vee Horning

Verity

Verity Mathews

Verity Norris

Veronica Engel

Vetivera

Vickey Brickle-Macky

Vickey Kime-Macky

Vickey McIntosh-Brickle

Vicki Burke

Vickie Meadows

Victoria Clark

Victoria Monteleone

Victoria Snow

Vicky

Vincent Marticek

Vivi Dahlin

W.C.D-V

Wanderlustlover

Wayne

Wayne R. Kelley

Weeble40

Wendy Darling

Wendy de-Veryard

Wendy Pini

Wendy Rathbone

Wendy Tunnard

Wendy Tunnard de-Veryard

Wendy Letrelle

Wendy Pini

Wendy Tunnard

WickedBluerose

WildHeart

WildPixieChild

William J. Hunt

William Morris

Willow9

Winifred McBeth

WinterRose

Witchlight

wolfwisdom

Xedra

Yuri Ibanob

Yva J

Yvaine24

Yvonne Barry

Yvonne Berridge

Yvonne Vernon

Zanna

Zapf

Zara Wilder

Artist Index:

A.N.D.

A.V. Whilde

Alan Youngman

Alana Dumasius

Alayne

Alexandra Fossinger

Alexandre Tuis

Alice

Alice Baltes

Aliehs

Alison Whelan

Amanda Edrington

Amanda Upson-Palmer

Amber

Amber Shelton

Amy Bechtel

Amy Gray

Amy Haugland

Amy Smith

Ana C.

Ana Rita Elias-Terry

Anna Deavers

Anna Stinson

Andrea Barber

Andrea Dumasius

Andrew Aink

Andrew Meit

AngelBabs81

Angelique van het Kaat

Angie

Ann C.

Ann Graff

Anna Deavers

Anna Deavers-Kelley

Anna Kelley

Annabelle Lee

Anne Larimer

Anne Sansky

Annie Claudine

Annie-Claudine Tremblay

Applebunny

Alexandra Fossinger

Aragorn

Arlene Geller

Armando Norte

Art Arteno

ArtistAlan

Ashley Neilson

B. Fister-Liltz

Barb Schwulst

Barbara Fister-Liltz

Barbara Gipson

Barbara Gudlauski

Barbara Powell

Barnes

bat.balien

Becky Mock

BeElleGee

Belen

Belinda Wojcik

Ben Rossell

Bernadette Elander

Beth Adams

Beth Blighton

Bev Ingle

Bev/Beverly Chick

Beverly Parker

Billy Jack

Bluespiritgal

Brenda Boyd

Brenda Sullivan

Brighnasa

Brooks Goodwin

Bruce Holroyd

C2H6OFree

C.H. Barnett

C. Meidinger-Carter

Candy Atchinson

Caro Hedge

Carol A. Pierce

Carole Anne Gordon

Carole Stevenson

Carolyn Edwards

Carolyn Gonzales

Casey Dumasius

Cat

Catherine DeMasque

Catherine Dupont

Catherine Ticehurst

Cecilia Ragaini

Chan

Chandler

Charlie Grosvenor

Charlotte Howey

Charlotte Van Til

Chelsea Beadles

Cherokee Rose

Cheryl Duval

Cheryl Gray

Cheryl Serr

Chris

Chris Schacter

Chuckie Burge

Clair Seiffert

Claire “Cosi”

Clare/Clair Thornton

Clairyce Gaston

Claudine McCraney

Colby Pfeil

Connie Asch

Connie Moler

Constantia

Corby Vinson

Corby Vincent

Cordi

Corinne

Cosi

Cyanne

Cyndi Day

Cynthia Hatch

D.A. Hebebrand

D. Hense

Daniela V.

Danny Grigsby

Dariene Little

David Campiti

David Dorman

David R Eingholz

David Seamon

Dawn K.

Dawn Waddall

Deb Bse-Smith

Deb Hense

Debbie Joseph

Debbie L. Harland

Deborah Martin

Deborah Maureen Eaton

Dee Bee

Depplosion

Derek Marrero

Diane Leva

Donna Eason

Donna G. Leva

Donna Vasquez

Doranna Shirer

Dorothy

Dragon

Drog

Duke Cullen

Ed Pierce

Edith Acker

El the Unknown Artist

Elaine Landman

Elaine Scruggs

Ellen Siders

Elizabeth Helm

Elke Prietl

Emily Penfield

Erica Danes

ertacaltinoz

Esther M. Smith

Eva

Evan T. Wyf

Faye Brooks

Felicia Coffee

Formatt

Foxy Sonia

Frances Quinn

Frank Rolapp

Frank Solomon

Frank V. Liltz

Franziska B.

Gabriele M.

Gaile Messina

Gail Streigle

Gamin Davis

Gary Cutler

Gayhart

Gayle F

GEM

Georgina Gould

Gerda Eecklaert

Gin Turpin

Ginger

Gordy Coates

Greg Levin

Greta

Grey Feather

Guinn Berger

H. Smith

H.G.

Hatcher

Hazelton

Heather Grover

Heather Jones

Heidi

Heidi S.

Heidi Schlereth

Helen C. Hill

Helen Charlotte Hill

Helen Jones

Helen Maiden

Henry Jr. Smith

Henry Parrilli

Holly Reidel

I. Paskal

Inez Brown

Ingrid Roehirst

Irene Felton

J. Jung

J. Ley

J.A. Clarke

J.C. Soto

Jackie/Jaquelyn Kapke

Jackie Skalski

Jacquelyn Zoost

Jamie Murray

Jamie Simpson Edrington

Jan Durr

Jan Eastwood

Jana K.

Jane Curtis

Jane Freeman

Jane Largent

Jane Madell

Janet Meehan

Janette Myles

Janine

Janine Wills

Jason Protraz

Jean Kluge

Jeanne McClure

Jeannie Graham

J’ecris

Jeff Davis

Jen Tucker

Jennifer

Jeremy Pickrell

Jerrie Librande

Jesse McClain

Jessica Balusong

Jim Garrison

Jim Wappel

Joan Ahlstrom

Joan W.

John Clinkscale

John Forier

John Goodwin

John Jones

John Jordan

Jolinda Mattison

Jonathon Charlnley

Joseph Phillips

Joy Barton

Joy Faulkner

Joy Riddle

Joyce Lee Turner

Joni Logan

Judith Lazear

Judith Nolan

Judy Ley

Judy Ley Page

Julia Passamonti-

Colamartino

Julie Edwards

Justne Bogart

K.G. Miles

K. Jacobson

K. Jackson

K. Jacobson

K.River

K. Wooding

kaileighblue

Karen Hughey

Karen Jones

Karen Maurenn

Karen River

Karen Serassio

Karin

Karracaz

Karyl Weldon

Kat/Katarina

Kat B

Kat Bjorky

Kate Maynard

Kathy Costello

Kathy Fidge

Kathy Jacobson

Kathy Palumbo

Kathy Wooding

Kay Leonard

Kay Simon

Kay Weldon

Kay Wells

Kelly

Kerin

Kerin Rose Houseburg

Kerri Anderson

Kevin

Kevin Barnes

Kevin Hopkins

Kevin Houseburg

Kevin McCraney

Kim Tserkezie

Kimber

Kindra

Ki Wicke

KOZ

Kriss Farrier

Kriss Farver

Kristy Effinger

Kyle Sariff

Kytheira

L. Felton

Lana Lanham

LauraG

Laura Goist

Lauren Dumasius

Lawrence Walker

Lawrence Williams

Leah Rosenthal

Leanne McClure

Lee

Lena Wood

Leora Effinger

Leslie Brown

Lesley Burton

Linda Barth

Linda Fairbanks

Linda Fister

Linda Lakin

Linda Wells

Lindsay

Linn

Lisa Conner

Lisa Gould

Lisa K. Wildman

Lisa Stubblefield

Lizzie

Lucy Johnson

Lukas/Lucas Effinger

Lyle Tucker

Lyndsay

Lynette Combs

Lynn Henricks

Lynn Simpson

Lynn

Lynn W

Lynn Wright

Lynne Gutshall

Lynette

Lynette5168

M.A. Smith

M. Broers

M.J. Bray

M.K. Burns

M. Mumford

M. Prince

M. Young

macgyvershe

Maggie Wade

Malcom Thorley

Map Martin

MariaMarlean

Maria Hickhailey

Marie Tillott

Marilyn Cole

Marina Brauer

Marina Broers

Mark Cobbold

Marlo Dianne

Marsha Young

Marty Giles

Mary Deborah Stacy

Mary Ellen Nicosia

Mary Nguyen

Mary Page

Mary Prince

Mary Stacy-Macdonald

Marty Giles

Matt Haley

Matt Smith

Matthew Camp

Matthew Hunt

Maureen B

melihturer

Melody Rondeau

Michael Maloney

Michele Hawley

Michele Scott

Michelle Sayles

Aka Mickey Sayles

Michelle West

Mike Deodato, Jr.

Mike "Locoduck" Duron

Mike Packer

Mini

Mistycreations

MOHAEK

Molly George

Monica

N.A. Stasulis

Nan Dibble

Nana

Nana Ames

Nancy Mastandrea

Nancy Stasulis

Natalie Smith

Nate Dryden

Neal Farris

New York City Utopia

Nick Salas

Nora Leverson

Norte

P.S. Nim

Pablo Giovine

Pam M.

Pam/Pamela Martin

Pam Tuck Martin

Pam Tuck

Pat Devoe

Pat Farrar

Pat Horowitz

Pat Leslie

Pat Paone

Pat Rogers

Pat Wahab

Pat Wallerius

Patricia Davis

Patricia Devoe

Patricia L. Ryan

Paul Watters

Paul Wunder

Paula Ollie

Paulette V

Peggy Spalding

Peggy Wells

Penny Sutton

Pete Siekierski

Phantom

Phred

Phyllis Amason

Phyllis Berwick

Phyllis Elliot

Pico9702

Pilgum

Pip Pirrup

RPH Jr.

R. Dean Becker

R. Ferguson

R. McLauren

Rachael Field

Ralph Suny

Randi Perez

Randy Pender

Reboe Parker

Red

RedNightBird

Renate Haller

Renee Sampson

Richard Blair

RIKK

Rita Terrell

Rhoda Strobel

Rhonda Collins

Rhonda Reece

Robin

RobinG

Roisin

Rosalie Kirby

Rose Parker

Rosemarie Hauer

Rosemary Castello

Rosie Marie Badgett

Running Wolf 40

Russell Hicks

Rusty Red Night Bird

S.H.

S. Meidinger-Carter

S. Parker

Sally A. Inkel

Sally Ann Inkel

Sally Perkins

Samantha Zaza

Sandra Elliot

Sandra Parker

Sandra Tew

Sandy2

Sandy Chandler Shelton

Sandy Dapoz

Sandy Hollowaty

Sandy Tew

SandyX

Sara B. Leonard

Sarah Kucerova

Sarah Roberts

Saskia Grunberger

Shannon O’Connor

Sharon Dinsdale

Sharon Holtz

Sharon Reynolds

Sharon Wells

Sharon Young

Shellie Whild

Sheri Pruehs

Sherry/Sherri/Sheri White

Shirley Hatcher

Shirley Leonard

Skalski

Smelly Stephen

Sonia M Corral

Sharon

Sharon Dinsdale

Sharon Holtz

Sharon Reynolds

Sharon Wells

Shellie Whild

Sheri Pruehs

Sherri White

Sherry Hildebrand

Shirley Leonard

Simon Huggins

Simon Logan

Simone R.

Solar Winds

Sonia

Sonia R. Hillios

Sophia Kelly-Shultz

Star

Star Cook

Stefanie Hawks

Stephen Carlton

Stephen King

Stephanie Bowens

Stephanie Davis

Stephanie R.

Stephanie Stoddard

Su Abbott

Sue D. Nim

Sue Daw

Sue Glasgow

Sue Green

Sue K

Sue Leonard

Susan Abbott

Susan Perry Lewis

Susan Thielmann

Suzan Lovett

Suze Howe

Sylvia Palumbiny

T.J. Burside

T.J. Glenn

TACS

Tasmyn Moth

Teresa Buffaloe

Theresa M.

Teri Sarick

Terri Librande

Terrie Milliman

Terrie Smith

Terrie Smith-Wooten

TheBigGunns

The Contemplative Monk

Tim Hammell

Time dancer

Tina

Todd

Tunnlebrat

Tunnelmom

Tyler Lindsay

underthepark

Venus Greaves

Verocruzes

Vickey Kime-Mackey

W. Kraus

W.P. Arteno

Wanda Rickets

Wendy Pini

Wendy Smith

Wendy Rae Smith

Whisper

WickedBluerose

William Wooten

Winter Owlstone

Winterose

Wolf Forrest

Uastis

Verity Norris

Veronica Cruz

Vickey Kime-Macky

Y.S. Hinz

Yasmin

Zapf

Zirofax

Thank  you  to  all  of  the  authors  and  artists  who  have  so  lovingly  and  selflessly  shared  their  talents  to make  this  zine  so  special.  And  to  those  who  cheered  us  on  and  encouraged  us  to  keep going.

Notes

[←1 ]

Holy Bible, King James Version, John Chapter 5.

[←2 ]

Croton Aqueduct  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Croton_Aqueduct

[←3 ]

Beauty and the Beast Season 1 Episode 16, “Promises of Someday”

[←4 ]

Holy Bible, New Testament, Hebrews 11:1