Together Forever

Online Convention@TreasureChambers.com

September 25, 2017

Beauty and the Beast

30th Anniversary 2017

Together Forever

Featuring 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

Convention Chair:

Angie

~

Conzine Editorial Staff:

Allison Duggins

Barbara Handshy Anderson

Cindy Rae

Janet Rivenbark

Judith Nolan

Linda O’Leary

Contributing Authors:

Allison Duggins

Angie

Barbara Handshy Anderson

ChicagoTunnelKid

Cindy Rae

C.J. La Belle

Janet Rivenbark

Jodie Boyle

Judith Nolan

Katie A.

Lara Beilby

Mai Phan

Zara Wilder

Contributing Artists:

Angie

Belinda Wojcik

Jamie Murray

Judith Nolan

Kathy Fidge

Kevin Barnes

Lynn Wright

Lynnette Parker

Rosemarie Hauer

Renate Haller

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

Over a year ago I enthusiastically raised my hand and volunteered to be the editor of the Beauty and the Beast 30th Anniversary Conzine. Twenty-four hours later I was having a major panic attack and serious second thoughts.

What were you thinking?!?!?! I asked myself. You don’t know the first thing about editing a zine! Good Gravy! You don’t even have a firm grasp of basic grammar!

I could almost hear the ghost of my 11th grade English teacher laughing at the very idea of Barbara Handshy editing anything. Poor Mr. Taylor. I think I may have singlehandedly shaved years off the poor man’s life. Truth be told though, his hair was white before I ever walked into that classroom, so I couldn’t have been the first … but I might very well have been the worst…

Nevertheless, volunteer I did, and there was no backing out. After all, I was the only one who volunteered, and the idea of letting the 30th anniversary of our beloved show pass without a conzine was unthinkable. So, like the level-headed, dependable person that I am (NOT!), I promptly proceeded to have nervous breakdown.

Luckily, Cindy and Judith came to my rescue and peeled me off the ceiling.  Almost immediately, Cindy, Judith, Allison, Linda, Janet and Angie all volunteered to help in any way they could, and before I knew it, our conzine editorial team was born. How could I fail with this group of cheerleaders, writers, beta readers and editors behind me? And if I did fail, it was all good, because we would all go down in flames together. Somehow, even the idea of failing spectacularly was better, when I knew I wouldn’t be crashing and burning all alone.

And what an adventure of discovery this year has been! I personally have learned things that I never imagined I would ever be able to do. Instead of going down in flames, we have worked together to bring you a product that we are all very proud of. We have truly proven the truth of the old proverb that “many hands make light work.” Not to mention that the writers and artists who have contributed their work have truly made this zine a work of art.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to any, and all, who have so generously contributed to bringing this zine, as well as this amazing online convention, to fruition. It has truly been a labor of love.

Many thanks, and we hope you enjoy the product of our loving efforts,

-Barbara Handshy Anderson

Table of Contents

~ ~ ~

Acknowledgements

A Word From the Con Chair

Letter from the Editor

~ ~ ~

Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare

That Is All by Judith Nolan

The Four Seasons by Barbara Handshy Anderson

Invisible by Katie A

“I Think We Walked For Miles Together…” by Cindy Rae

The Beginning of My Aloneness by Mai Phan

A Bad Day by Angie

What I See by Cindy Rae

A Perfect Day by Judith Nolan

The Empty Crib by Cindy Rae *R-Adult Theme*

Beauty Among the Ruins by Allison Duggins *R Language/Violence*

The Diary of Kate the Chandler by C.J. La Belle *R-Adult Theme*

BATB Actor Memories Poem Ramble by Lara Beilby

The Meeting by ChicagoTunnelKid

Narcissa’s Vision During “Dark Spirit” by Zara Wilder

Cameo by Angie

Treasured Memories by Judith Nolan

My Dearest, My Heart by Barbara Anderson

Consent by Janet Rivenbark *R-Adult Theme

Mousecapade by Judith Nolan

All That Lights Upon Us by C.J. LaBelle *R-Adult Theme

Endearment by Jodie Boyle

Dedication by Judith Nolan

The Best of Times by Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

The Chamber of Remembrance

*The 2017 online convention conzine is an amateur publication and is not intended to infringe upon the copyrights of Ron Koslow, Witt/Thomas Productions, CBS or any other holder of “Beauty and the Beast” copyrights or licenses. All future rights to materials here are reserved to the individual authors and artists. Please contact them if you wish to use their work in any way.

Once Upon a Time …

in the

City of New York …

…Two worlds

became one.

~ ~ ~

SONNET 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

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.

~William Shakespeare~

The Four Seasons

By Barbara Handshy Anderson

~ ~ ~

The Four Seasons, 375 Park Avenue, in Manhattan. It was where celebrities, the up and comers, the movers and shakers, the high rollers, and anyone who was anyone came, not just to eat, but to see and be seen. It was where successful businessmen and power brokers made proposals over appetizers and sealed the deals before dessert. It was where the wives of successful businessmen, lawyers and politicians of New York came to eat with the other wives of successful businessmen, lawyers and politicians to show off their expensive jewelry and their designer everything, their latest cosmetic “augmentations”, and, of course, to complain about their aerobics instructors, rave about their tennis coaches, and talk about how difficult it is to get good help these days.

The atmosphere, the food, and the elite patrons, all combined to create a heady sense of wealth and success about the place that was palpable, as soon as one entered the doors.

It was an afternoon, not much different from many other afternoons, at the popular upscale, fine dining establishment. The large dining room buzzed with the sound of a hundred quiet conversations and the clinking sounds of fancy utensils on fine china. Some patrons discreetly looked around them to see if they recognized anyone from the New York social register, or hoping to catch a glimpse of some local, or not-so-local, celebrity.

Elliot Burch was dining with several business associates from the New York Architects Association. It was one of the things he hated about his business. Networking; it was an important skill he had been forced to develop. He’d had to. Especially in the early days of his career, when he’d had an abundance of talent and ideas and no money or connections to back it all up.

That had only been in the beginning, though.

Elliot didn’t need any of them now. The truth was, they needed him, and he reveled in it. But he chafed at having to act as if he actually cared what they were talking about.

He begrudgingly accepted the necessity of these business lunches, but they bored him to tears and he was anxious to get back to the office.

He was one of the wealthiest and most successful architects in the city… probably the country. But Elliot didn’t care about the rest of the country. New York was where he had chosen to make his mark. And as far as he was concerned, the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Elliot Burch was an artist, and New York City was his canvas. Long after my bones have turned to dust… he’d determined. New York City will bear witness that Elliot Burch, the self-made architect, entrepreneur, and multimillionaire, has been here.

As his mind, as well as his eyes, wandered, he caught sight of her across the dining room.

He had an eye for symmetry and aesthetically pleasing lines. That’s part of what made him so good at what he did for a living. She’s beautiful, he thought immediately.  And then, as he studied her, he realized, but not in that artificial, “Barbie doll” way, like most of the women I know.

The was something unique about her, something that struck him. She stands out, he thought, but in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on.  As he scrutinized her, it was clear by the way she was dressed, as well as the way she carried herself, that she was wealthy. Born to it, if my instincts are correct, and they usually are. But she doesn’t have that haughty air of a woman who believes that she’s better than everyone else.

He continued to observe her from his vantage point across the room.

She must be aware of how lovely she is, he concluded. But, she doesn’t have that conceited look that many women have when they know how beautiful they are, and want the world to acknowledge it. There was something understated about her that made Elliot believe she actually preferred not to be noticed.

Ironically, that was the very thing that was making her stand out all the more. Even from across the crowded room, he could see that there was something special about her. She almost seemed to glow, as if a light was shining from somewhere within.

As he watched her eating lunch with an older, gray haired gentleman, Elliot could see that there was a sadness about her too, as if she was haunted by something. She didn’t have that carefree, easy air like most of the coddled, wealthy young women he knew … there was also a quiet strength about her … something he’d seen before, in people who had passed through some deep sorrow or tragedy … he sometimes saw it in his own face when he caught his reflection in a mirror or window, in an unguarded moment.

She piqued his interest, which was a rare thing for Elliot Burch.

Who is she? he wondered. And how can I meet her?

~ ~ ~

It was September 22nd, 1987, the first day of autumn.  Charles Chandler and his daughter, Catherine, had had a standing lunch reservation at The Four Seasons on the first day of spring, the first day of summer, the first day of autumn, and the first day of winter for as long as she could remember. It was their way of celebrating, not only the change of the seasons, but the delectable seasonal change of the famous restaurant’s menu, as well.

It had fast become a tradition with Charles and his wife when the restaurant had first opened in 1959. Finally, when Cathy was eight, she was deemed old enough, and well behaved enough, to join them.

Keeping their little family traditions had always been important to Charles, especially after his wife, Caroline, had passed away. Even though they rarely spoke of her, Charles and Catherine both knew that it was their way of keeping a little bit of her alive in their hearts. Cathy had always looked forward to this quarterly lunch date, almost as much as other people might look forward to Christmas, or a birthday.

Sitting in The Four Seasons across from her father had always made her feel so grown up… children were seldom ever seen here. And even as a child, it hadn’t escaped Cathy’s attention that the clientele were the most important and successful people in New York. Her father always made a point of introducing her to them. It made her feel important too.

It wasn’t until she was much older that she realized what a singular and privileged childhood she’d had, and how blessed she was to have such a special relationship with her father.

Their relationship had been more distant of late. It weighed on her. But there were things she couldn’t admit to him, things she couldn’t share with anyone, even some things she had not yet admitted to herself.

It had created an invisible barrier between them.

Today was the first time she could ever remember dreading their quarterly lunch date.

It’s now or never, Cathy, she’d told herself as she had gotten ready for the meeting with her father. Catherine had made her decision weeks ago, but she hadn’t been able to muster the courage to tell him.

I can’t put this off any longer, she told herself.

They were both nearly finished with their main course, and to say their conversation had been strained was an understatement. For the most part, they had eaten their meal in mutually uncomfortable silence.

“I need to visit the ladies room, Daddy. I’ll be right back.” She tried to smile at him as she stood to leave the room.

As she made her way to the powder room, Charles looked after his only child with concern. She seemed so different since her horrible accident, several months earlier. His worst fears had been alleviated when she’d miraculously returned after being missing for ten days. But he couldn’t help noticing how drastically she’d changed since. Not so much physically, now that her face had healed, but in many other subtle, unseen ways.

Catherine had always been open with him. Conversation between them had always been easy. Even as a teenager, she’d always come to him to share the adventures of her day, with her questions about life, her triumphs, and even her deepest heartaches and innermost feelings … at least, he thought she had.

In the months since the accident, though, she seemed increasingly secretive and distant. She claimed to have no memory about where she’d been, but his gut told him that she was keeping something from him. He’d hoped that as her face and other injuries healed, and she got back into her old routine, she would eventually confide in him and get back to being her old self. But he was wrong. She had been healthy enough to return to work at Chandler and Coolidge for months now, but she kept putting it off.

One of these days, she’ll snap out of it, he kept telling himself, but he was beginning to worry that maybe she wouldn’t.

It wasn’t just work that she’d failed to return to. She didn’t seem to have any desire to return to any of the things that had filled her life before. She attended very few social functions, and then, only when he or Tom absolutely insisted.  She rarely confided anything in him anymore. If anything, they had only grown further apart.

Am I losing her? he wondered. Will the old Cathy ever come back?

“Will that be all, sir?”

Charles looked up, startled from his reverie. “Oh … uhm … no … actually … could you bring us two slices of your famous chocolate cake?”

The waiter nodded, as he said, “Right away, sir.”

Charles returned to his private thoughts as the lunch dishes were cleared from the table.

~ ~ ~

Catherine stood in front of the well-lit mirror in the ladies lounge, running a quick comb through her hair, and giving herself a mental pep talk. You can’t put this off any longer, she told herself. You have to tell him today, before he hears it from someone else.

To any casual onlooker, she was just another self-absorbed young woman, admiring her own reflected beauty. After all, with one exception, when she was wearing make-up, the faint pink lines that were all that remained of the scars from the attack were virtually invisible … to everyone but her, that is.

Cathy knew intellectually that most of her scars were undetectable. But standing there looking at the reflection of her seemingly perfect face, she knew exactly where each scar began and where each one ended. Some days, she hardly noticed them, and then others, she thought they seemed more pronounced.

Those were the days that were the most difficult for her to walk out of her apartment and meet the day. Thankfully, those days were becoming fewer, as time went on.

She lifted the hair on the left side of her face, exposing the one ugly scar that still remained. It ran down the side of her face, just in front of her ear, where her attacker’s knife had penetrated deep into the muscle tissue. Dr. Sanderle told her it was a miracle that there was no perceivable nerve damage. But a stubborn secondary staph infection had undermined her surgeon’s meticulous repair, making the scar even worse than the original injury had been.

After months of antibiotics and topical treatments, the infection had finally cleared up, but not before leaving a thick, unsightly, raised scar that was a constant reminder of what had happened to her.

Thankfully, she was able to hide it with her hair. Dr. Sanderle assured her that eventually he would be able to take care of it for her. Until then, she would just have to learn to live with it.

Whenever she felt herself sinking into self-pity, she would think of Vincent, and recall his soft reassuring voice and his encouraging words. “You survived, Catherine, and what you endured will make you stronger, better.”

He’d been right, of course. It had been difficult, but she was stronger, a little stronger every day, in fact. Stronger than she’d ever imagined she could be. And with that strength, she had finally mustered the courage to apply for a job at the District Attorney’s office.

But am I strong enough to stand up to my father? she wondered.

As the doubts in her mind began to loom larger, she thought she could hear Vincent’s soul soothing voice again, “You have the strength, Catherine. You do.”

She had known him for such a short time, and yet she had felt his influence and recalled his words of encouragement throughout the difficult months of her recovery. Sometimes it seemed almost as if he was right there by her side. His words had given her strength when she doubted her own. She longed to tell him about the profound impact he’d made on her, how grateful she was for what he had done for her, and how meeting him had changed the way she saw everything in her life, including herself. Knowing Vincent made her want to be a better person than she had ever been before.

She often wondered if she would ever see him again.

“Cathy? Is that you?”

Cathy turned to see who had spoken.

“Miranda? Mandy Wainwright? How long has it been?” Cathy asked, even though she knew. Catherine and Mandy had run in the same “society” circles since they were teenagers. They’d never been close friends, but they were friends, nonetheless.

That is until last spring, when everything in Catherine’s life had changed. Since then, most of Catherine’s so-called friends had been scarce. But she wasn’t sure if it was her friends that had changed or just her.

“Too long, Cathy! What are you doing here?” Miranda replied.

“I’m having lunch with my father. You?”

“Oh, I’m here with Chris Michaels. Do you remember him? We’ve been dating off and on and he invited me to tag along with him to one of his Architect Association lunches today. Now I know why… Good Grief! It’s a wonder they don’t all die of boredom! Thank Heaven it’s almost over!”

Catherine had the good manners to laugh, but she wasn’t sure exactly what to say.

“We have got to get together and catch up … soon,” Miranda insisted.

Smiling, Catherine nodded as they exited the lounge together. “I think I would like that, Mandy. Give me a call some time and we’ll have lunch or something.”

As they parted ways, Catherine was grateful that Miranda hadn’t mentioned her face or the attack, even once. Could it be possible that people are finally going to let it be forgotten? she wondered.  She surely hoped so.

~ ~ ~

Returning from “powdering her nose”, Elliot noticed his colleague’s lunch date was speaking with the young woman he’d noticed earlier.

“Do you know her?” Elliot asked nonchalantly as she sat back down at their table.

“Who?” Miranda asked, surprised that Elliot Burch was addressing her.

“The young woman you were speaking with as you came out of the ladies lounge?”

“Oh, yes. That’s Cathy… Cathy Chandler. We’ve known each other since high school. You don’t know who she is?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her.”

“She should look familiar. Her face was plastered all over the papers last April. Of course, she looked a lot different in those pictures than she does today.”

“How do you mean?”

“Are you kidding? Cathy Chandler … she’s the socialite that was missing for ten days and then turned up at her apartment building with her face slashed to ribbons. Her picture was in the paper. It was awful! They say she has no memory of what happened to her, or where she was all that time. Can you imagine? You didn’t know about that? She’s Charles Chandler’s daughter. Surely you know who he is?”

Elliot looked across the room in Catherine’s direction and squinted, in an attempt to get a better look. So … my instincts were right, he inwardly gloated. She is wealthy, and she has been through something terrible.

“Yes, I’ve heard of Charles Chandler,” he finally replied. “But I don’t know him personally. I was right in the thick of the Madison Avenue project back in April, I guess I missed that story in the paper.”

“That’s Charles Chandler, over there,” Mr. Michaels pointed out. “He’s sitting across the table from her. Really, Elliot, you should pull your head out of the sand once in a while.”

“Cut to ribbons, you say?” Elliot asked. “She looks like she’s healed up quite nicely, from what I can see,” he mused.

“I should say so,” Miranda agreed. “I heard her father got Dr. Sanderle, the best plastic surgeon in New York, to take her case. I don’t know what he had to pay, but whatever it was, she was bumped straight to the top of his waiting list, and that’s no small feat. She had surgery within a few days of being found. Then she left town for a few months to recuperate from the whole sordid ordeal. Had us all guessing where she’d gone to.”

“Is she single?” Elliot attempted to sound nonchalant.

“Why? Are you interested?” Chris Michaels asked.

“I suppose that depends on if she’s available,” Elliot hedged.

“I’m not sure,” Miranda said. “She’s been dating Tom Gunther for the last year or so. You do know who he is, don’t you?”

Elliot nodded. “Yes, I do cross paths with him from time to time.” He declined to elaborate on what he thought of the architect that was a professional rival.

Miranda was full of information, and seemed happy to share it all. “Before her accident, the gossip was that Tom and Cathy were all but engaged. Since then though … who knows? He’s been seen out on the town with a few different women, but he’s been seen with Cathy on his arm on a few occasions too. Do you want me to ask her?” she offered.

“No… no,” Elliot was quick to answer. “I prefer to be a little more discreet than that. I wouldn’t want to embarrass her.” Or myself, for that matter, he thought.

Then he had a better idea. “There’s an art gallery reception in my honor next month. I’m donating my private art collection to the museum… the bulk of it anyway. Why don’t you two innocently invite her to double date with you? If she comes with Tom Gunther, then I’ll have my answer. If she comes alone … well then … I guess I’ll just have to introduce myself,” he said with a mischievous smile.

They all laughed …

Networking might not be such a bad thing after all, Elliot thought.

~ ~ ~

As Cathy made her way through the dining room to their table, she could see that her father had taken it upon himself to order dessert. Though it had always been a part of their tradition, for the first time in her life, it bothered her that he had chosen for her. Why do people always think they need to make choices for me? she wondered. In spite of her irritation, she decided that now was not the time to get sidetracked by something so trivial.

“I ordered your favorite for dessert, Cathy.”

She smiled indulgently and nodded. “Yes… I can see that.

“Try it,” he said hopefully. “It’ll cure what ails you.”

“Thanks, Daddy, but I’m not a child anymore,” she said as she took her seat. “I think the days when chocolate cake could cure my troubles, are long over.”

“What troubles could you possibly have these days?” he gently prodded. “You’ve recovered wonderfully from your accident. You look terrific, Honey. Your sabbatical has clearly done wonders. When do you think you’ll be coming back to work?”

She could feel her face immediately flush and her heart was beating in her throat. Why does everyone always refer to it as “my accident”? she wondered. Why can’t they just call it what it was?

Pushing the cake aside, she looked him in the face.

He waited expectantly.

She took a deep breath and finally said, “Dad … I’m not coming back… I’ve decided to leave the firm.”

There! she thought with relief. I said it. I finally told him.

Charles couldn’t hide his shock. He’d been worried about her for months, but the thought that she might leave Chandler and Coolidge had never even occurred to him. “What are you talking about?”

Cathy knew he wouldn’t give up without a fight. That was why she had dreaded this moment. She mentally braced herself. In all her life, they had rarely disagreed on anything, and she had always, eventually, been willing to bend to his will, when they had.

But this time, she’d resolved, I’m going to take control of my own life. It’s time for me to begin making my own decisions.

“I was never very good at corporate law,” she began. “You know that, Daddy. In fact … I was a disaster.”

Always the father who saw the best in his child, he jumped to defend her assessment. “Nonsense, Cathy! You have the potential to be a great corporate lawyer. You always came through, at least when you put your mind to it.”

She smiled at his loyalty in her defense. He’ll never admit it, she thought. I’ll always be perfect in his eyes. I hate that I’m disappointing him.

“Dad, things have changed…” she said.

“How?? What’s changed…?” He protested. I’m not giving her up without a fight he thought. I just have to make her see reason.

“I’ve changed… What happened to me … it changed me. You’ve got to accept that…”

He won’t accept that, she knew. That’s the problem. He wants the old Cathy back and she’s not here anymore.

“How can I accept it?” he demanded. “I don’t even know what happened. You refuse to tell anybody what happened those days you were missing. Where were you?? Why won’t you tell me?”

I can’t tell you, Daddy, she thought. I wish I could, but I can’t.

She closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath to try and calm her pounding heart. “I’m not even sure myself,” she lied. “But that’s not the point.”

He waited for her to go on.

“Once you become a victim …” she tried to explain, “… it changes you. You see things differently. You see all the people who’ve been hurt and their lives destroyed. I want to help them, Dad. I’ve got the skills to help them. I want to be more involved – maybe work in the D.A.’s office…”

“Prosecuting criminals?” he asked, clearly upset. “That’s ridiculous!”

His quick dismissal of her suggestion, hit a nerve.

“Either help me or don’t, Dad – but don’t call me ridiculous…”

Trying to regain her composure, she took another breath.

“I’ve already submitted my resume,” she admitted. “I have an interview with the District Attorney this afternoon. I would like to go there with your blessing.”

Shaking his head, he responded as if he hadn’t heard her last request. “You’re having some kind of reaction to what happened to you. You just need more time to …” He was grasping.

“I know what I need, Daddy,” she insisted. “Trust me. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I know what I’m doing,” she said, standing her ground.

Charles shook his head. “I’m not so sure anymore…” he said doubtfully.

He isn’t making this easy, she thought.

She could see how worried he was. She had seen it for all these months.

He was angry that someone had hurt his little girl. He was frustrated that her attackers had never been caught. He was at a loss as to how to help his daughter. He was confused by her memory loss. And he wanted answers that Catherine couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give him.

I’m not the only one who’s been hurt in all of this, she realized. He’s suffered too… and now I’m hurting him even more.

She spoke from the heart, not wanting to cause him any more pain, but not willing to back down either. “Dad, please understand. I can’t go back … to the way it was… I need your encouragement … I need your blessing.”

Charles could see something in her eyes, hear something in her voice. A strength and resolve that had never been there before. It reminded him so much of … her mother.

Sadly musing, he said, “You were always going to work with me –you were always going to work at the firm. That wasn’t a fantasy, was it?”

“No Dad…” Cathy smiled sympathetically and shook her head. “It wasn’t a fantasy. That was the plan… but things are different now…”

Things are very different, she thought. He’s right. Working for the District Attorney’s office was never part of the plan … before … But being mercilessly brutalized and left for dead was never part of the plan either.

Charles wisely decided to back down, at least for the moment. Maybe she just needs to work this out of her system, he hoped desperately. And then she will come back on her own,

“I’m not sure I can go as far as giving you my blessing, Cathy,” he finally said. “It’s a lot for me to process out of the blue. But I do want you to be happy. I hope you know that.” He sighed heavily. “If this is what you really want … I won’t stand in your way.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

He smiled wanly. “I know you do. I love you too, Sweetheart.”

He pushed his untouched cake aside. Somehow it didn’t look as tempting as it had only a few minutes before.

~ ~ ~

Charles walked into his outer office and was greeted warmly by Marilyn, his receptionist of twenty-three years.

“How was your lunch with Cathy? Did she say when she plans to come back to work? I miss her smiling face around here.”

Charles looked up at her and then entered his office without responding.

Something’s definitely wrong, she thought. I’ll give him a minute and then I’ll go in. They had been friends even longer than she had been his secretary, and Marilyn knew when he had something he needed to get off his chest.

She entered his office quietly and softly shut the door behind her. He had his back to her as he looked out the window at the New York City skyline beyond. She stood at his desk waiting for him to say the first word.

Finally he spoke. “When Cathy was missing for those ten days, I was so afraid that I had lost her for good… I thought she was … that someone had … you know … But now …” He sighed, and shook his head. “Now I’m losing her anyway, Marilyn.”

She scoffed at the idea, in that uniquely “Marilyn” way she had. “Cathy? Oh, I don’t think you could lose her … not even if you tried, Charles. She worships the ground you walk on.”

Without turning, he shook his head. “She isn’t coming back…. She’s leaving the firm. She says she doesn’t want to be a corporate attorney. She’s going to work for the District Attorney’s office.”

“Well it’s about time!” Marilyn exclaimed.

Charles turned and looked at her with surprise. “What did you say?’

“You heard me, Charles. I said, it’s about time. You do realize that most children leave the nest much sooner than this, don’t you?”

He sighed heavily and leaned against the bookshelf behind his desk. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But so much has happened to her this year. I just want to keep her close to me, so I can keep her safe.”

He looked so dejected, much like a boy who’s lost his best friend. Her heart went out to him.

“I understand what you mean, Charles, but you can’t protect her from everything. Deep down, you know I’m right. She has to make her own way in the world, and you have to let her. It’s long overdue, and you know it.”

“That’s sounds like something Caroline would’ve said.”

Marilyn looked at the picture of his wife that still held a place of honor on his desk. She smiled at the memory of her good friend. “She always was the smart one of this outfit, wasn’t she?”

He smiled sadly, “You’ve got that right. What was she thinking, leaving me to raise Cathy alone?”

Marilyn chuckled softly. “Funny … I always thought it was Cathy she left to raise you,” she said, only half joking. “You should take it as a compliment, Charles. She finally thinks you’re old enough to make it on your own.”

Charles grinned and looked at Marilyn as if he was seeing her for the first time. “You know, Marilyn, I think I understand why you and Caroline were such good friends. You’re wise like she was.”

“She was wise.” Marilyn nodded. “After all, she did leave me to keep an eye on the both of you. You don’t need to worry about Cathy, Charles. You’ve done a wonderful job raising her. She’s an incredible woman. You should be proud.”

“I don’t know how much that has to do with me?” He turned to stare out the window again. “I’ve built my whole world around her, Marilyn. I always dreamed that she would take over the firm one day, when I was ready to retire. And now--”

“And now she doesn’t want it?” Marilyn finished the sentence for him. “She’s decided that corporate law isn’t … everything, after all.”

He nodded and sighed deeply.

Marilyn continued, “Are you sure it isn’t your pride that’s injured?”

Marilyn always did know how to get right to the root of things, and she wasn’t afraid to be brutally honest when the situation called for it.

Charles didn’t answer her. He knew Marilyn could see right through him and he didn’t want to admit that she was even a little bit right, besides, he was in too much pain to respond.

When he didn’t say anything, Marilyn continued, as if he had. “She’s quitting corporate law, Charles … She isn’t quitting you. There is a difference, you know. She’ll never stop loving you. You haven’t lost her, at all.”

Without turning to look at her, he replied, “I guess I just needed to hear that, Marilyn. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she said, as she turned and quietly left the office.[1]

~ ~ ~

It is a wise parent who gives his child roots and wings.

–Chinese Proverb

Invisible

by Katie A.

~~~

Often he feels invisible

The man inside the beast

The soul behind the visage

Is human.

If any cared to look

A few loved ones know

They see him

They love the warrior/poet

In his soul.

But only She sees him

REALLY sees him-

The noble poet,

The ferocious warrior,

The sum total

Of his burnished

Beautiful soul-

Only She sees it ALL

And loves unconditionally.

“I Think We Walked For Miles Together…”

By Cindy Rae

~ ~ ~

“I think we walked for miles, together” - Catherine, A Distant Shore

~ ~ ~

Vincent retrieved his unexpected gift from its cardboard container.  He held the shell in his palm, knowing that if he pressed it to his ear, he would hear the tumbling sound of an ocean surf.

Glittering bits of sand fell back into the box, and he scooped them up with his palm and ran the sparkling bounty through his fingers, again … and again.

From a distant shore...

He could all but picture it.

Setting the shell aside, he reached into the battered box.  His broad palm flattened across the golden swatch of sand, knowing that Catherine had touched this, too.  Her letter was beside the package.  A letter he’d read more than once.  More than twice, now.

He swore he could still feel the warmth of a westering sun, trapped within the sand inside the brown package.  A package that had travelled very far, to reach him.

Over two thousand miles away.  Almost three thousand.  Can I still feel your heartbeat, my Catherine?  Can I?  Is there still sand beneath your feet?  Is the sun shining, for you?

It was early afternoon, in New York, and the airmail express package had arrived against the sun.  It was still morning, in Los Angeles.

Los Angeles.  The city of the angels.  Of course it is.  You are there, he thought.

She was, and it was morning, yet, for her.  Morning in the city of angels, on that very distant shore, three time zones away.

He gathered the sand, then made a fist, inside the box, and lifted it, just a little, feeling the grains of California sand bite into his sensitive palm.  It felt different than the earth in the park.  It just did.

Clenched inside his fist, the sugary sand sent him the impression of a long stretch of coastline, and an endless horizon.  It felt like something Catherine had touched, and in her love, sent to him.

He felt close to her, in his heart.  Very close.  He opened his palm and purposely let the sand trickle back into the box, one more time.

Then he closed his blue eyes, so that the only things he could see were internal, and he let his seeking mind go, just as the last grain of sand fell.

~ ~ ~

Words from her letter painted the scene, in his vision of her.

Vincent, it’s the strangest thing.  We’ve never been so far apart.  And yet, I can feel you with me, so deeply.  Sometimes, it’s as if I’m seeing things through your eyes.  The sun is coming up, now.  The sky is pink.  The ocean is deep purple, and I feel like a child…

In his mind’s eye, he saw her.  He couldn’t help but see her.  She was walking on a beach.  The water was a shimmering purple color, mixed with blue.  The soft sand was wet, between her bare toes.  Wet, cool, and loose, yet compact, at the same time.  Firm, yet giving, as if it would gladly bear her gentle weight for miles.

I think we walked for miles, together…

She was leaving footprints.

Some of those, the ocean swept clean, as if this was a secret passage.  But in other places, her trail veered inward, toward the land, and those prints, the lapping waves could not quite reach.

Not yet.  Not yet. Not yet has her purple ocean removed all trace of her, here, he thought.

There were dunes on her left, wind-formed and sun-bleached.  They rose in uneven deference to a breeze that was even now, teasing her honey-colored hair. Wild, grassy oats grew in hardy clumps, in defiance of the poor soil.  Outcroppings of black rock dotted the landscape, drenched from the surf, and slick with algae.

Salt tanged the air.  He could smell it.

Vincent let his mind reach further, until the scent became more pronounced, until he could all but taste it, on his tongue.

He swallowed, and reveled in the soft flavor of brine.

Thank you.  Thank you for this gift.

There were birds on her right, and they cried for breakfast, as the glimmer of a swift sunrise limned the top of every ripple on the water.

She was happy.

And for all his imaginings, Vincent knew that the last conclusion was the unshakably correct one.

She was happy.

He felt it.  He'd always felt that, felt what she was feeling.

She felt happy and at peace, as she strolled with no destination, and she watched one of the birds dive for an easy meal.  Vincent’s gaze followed hers.

A gull.  Was that a gull?  No.

No, too big for a gull.  Broader, with more powerful wings.  An Osprey.  A sea hawk.

The hunting bird’s sun-cast shadow sent a swift, scant warning to the inhabitants beneath him.  "Best watch out!  For I am here, and I own the blue sky!"

She smiled, as she watched the bird of prey.  The gulls flew off, wanting nothing to do with the raptor, or his wings-flung-wide shadow.

Catherine cast a shadow, too.

It moved as slowly as she did, in no great hurry, and seemingly with no pressing purpose.  She was beautiful, in a gauzy white dress.  A violet ribbon nearly the same color as the water gathered the dress in, beneath her breasts.  And except for her shadow, and the sea hawk, she was all alone.

And then, she wasn't.

Vincent slipped his hand into hers, gentle as the morning breeze.  There was nothing before them but an infinity of shoreline, nothing behind them but the same.

She squeezed his hand, and he felt the gentle pressure, and returned it.  Her smile was a sweet curve of acceptance, on her perfect face.

Her utterly perfect face.

The rivening mark of her assault was facing him, rather than away, and he knew that for him, it only added to her loveliness.  The scar was a mark of her bravery.  A mark of her survival, her will, her strength, her toughness, and her determination.  A mark that ultimately, had brought her to him.

A mark that she’d elected to keep, when she could have been rid of it.

A strand of her hair caressed the raised line of skin, as the wind played tag through her silky tresses.

He felt the wind's kiss as well, and the illuminating sun, as it warmed his cheek.  The sensation made him smile, just a little.  He wondered if he would get a sunburn.  He wondered if he could, and then realized he had no idea, whatsoever.  For obvious reasons, he’d never stood in the sun long enough to find out.

She must have thought that funny, even though he hadn’t said anything, because her smile grew broader, and she even laughed, just a little.

She was so happy.  So happy, with him.

She stooped for a shell, just a glimmer of brown and white, embedded in the wet sand.  She worked it free of its confinement.  A scallop.  Nothing so grand as the shell she’d sent him. Nothing so large, or so intricate.

Still, she held out her palm to show it to him, and it gleamed with a pretty kind of pattern.  The ridged edges rippled with their own kind of perfect beauty, and when he reached out to turn it over in her hand, he saw that the inside held bits of the damp, grey sand, and a touch of pink nacre.

She smiled at that, too.

Then, with a deft toss of her hand, she sent it home, giving the little shell back to the waiting ocean.  It sailed over the morning waves and landed with an ungainly “plop” into the cool, Pacific water.

The sea hawk seemed unimpressed with the two of them, and un-fooled by the little splash, as the shell broke the surface of the water, then sank down.  It was no fish.  Just a small woman, returning the great ocean its treasure.  He turned toward the horizon, and better hunting.

Both of them watched him go.  Then Vincent’s gaze dropped back to the Pacific.

Such a large ocean.  Such a huge, mysterious thing.  Such a deep thing.  So much above it.  And so much that is hidden, beneath, Vincent realized.  Or perhaps those were Catherine’s impressions, and he was just sensing them.  He had no idea, and only knew that her thoughts were entwined utterly, with his own.

Vincent blessed the wide water for being there, for both sending her its peace, and for stopping her progress away from him.

Over two thousand miles.  Such a great and distant shore.  Such a far-flung landscape.

So alien, to me.  So special, for us both.  Thank you for bringing me here, Catherine.  Thank you for carrying our light.

The ocean was pulling back a little, as the outgoing tide bid all this water to follow the pervasive dictates of a still-visible moon.  A Cheshire cat smile rode low, in the morning sky, all but lost in the light of the still-climbing sun.

She loved him.

He felt it wash through him, felt it flow over him, like the water at their feet, and the salt-tinged breeze, in both her hair and his.  Felt it surround him, and make him feel safe, make him feel whole, make him feel alive.

Were those his feelings?  Or hers, all caught up in their mutual entanglement?

Sometimes, he couldn't even tell that.

There were times when what she was feeling all but overtook him.  Its beauty coursed through him, and he felt it sweep through his body in feminine, undulating waves.  The sublime gift of it brought his great head low, and afforded him a certain sense of both wonder and humility.

He felt blessed.

Sometimes, all she felt was all he felt, and he couldn't sort his emotions from hers, for all their lover’s twining.  Sometimes, it seemed as if they were two people who shared but one heart between them, and Vincent adored those "sometime" moments, because he knew that the heart they shared was mighty, and that the bond they shared was unbreakable.

Either through intuition or experience, Vincent knew that their shared heart held both his strength and hers, and for all its mortal beauty, there seemed to be something just a touch eternal to it.

In twenty years, in thirty, I want to send you back to this place, he thought to her.  I want to send you back here, and walk with you, again.  I want there to be a sea hawk on your right, and a low-riding moon on your left.  I want you to feel the cool sand beneath your feet, as you feel a warming sun worship your hair golden.  I want you to think of me, and bring me with you, in your heart.

I want us to walk for miles.

She stopped and bent down, and for a moment, he thought she'd spotted another shell.  But she simply rinsed the sand from her fingers, in the surf.  She rose, and turned to him, placing her hand near his shoulder, stroking a long lock of morning-gilded hair that had fallen there.

He watched her eyes fix on the spot, and her fingers lifted a few coppery strands away, as she finger-combed them smooth.

She was toying with an idea, almost as much as she was toying with his hair.

"Go ahead," he told her, aware that he said it in two places.

Her grin was full of mischief, and delight.  She brought both hands up, and wove a tiny plait, a love lock, into his sun-kissed hair.

He stood patiently, feeling the deft tug of her fingers, seeing the end of her handiwork, as it dropped into his azure view.  She tucked it like a child's secret, back into the long fall of his hair, and he knew an unusual rush of vanity, that he wore his thick mane long, so that this liberty could be taken.

For you.  It's all for you, Catherine.  All of this is.  All of me is, he thought, loving that she slid her left hand back down his arm until she found his right one, again.

“No.  It’s for you,” she answered… or seemed to.

They resumed their stroll.

The quality of light became brighter, and the water changed from a near purple hue to the grey-green of the drowsy Pacific.

She looked up at him, and then turned her face back into the wind.  Her eyes looked out over the great, open water, and he knew that for an incredible, temporary moment, that the color of the water and the color of her eyes matched, exactly.

It was a thing that wouldn’t stay true for long, as the still-rising sun lightened both sea and sky.  But for now, it was so, and it was so … perfectly.

She has ocean eyes, while mine are sky, he held the fanciful thought for a moment, and watched her beloved face as she stared at the distant point where ocean and sky met, and blended, in an impossibly distant, straight seam.

His gaze followed hers.

Sky and ocean remained separate, yet touched endlessly, on a long, pure line of joining.

The sky has a bond with the water, he realized.  Just like ours.  And they differ, distinctly, yet are never truly apart from each other... ever.

An odd thought struck him.

The horizon is a bond line.  A bond line made visible, in the world.

The thought warmed his heart as the sun warmed his back, inside his cloak.

He realized that while she was delightfully barefoot, he was still wearing his heavy work boots.  Though a part of him wanted them gone so that he could feel the sand just as she felt it, he knew he didn't want to interrupt their walk so he could remove his shoes.

Perhaps next time, he thought, delighted at the thought that there would be one.  Though he’d despaired of their parting, originally, he now knew with certainty that this was one separation he would gladly endure, again.

Her love opened the world for me…

He remembered saying it, a long time ago.  Remembered thinking it, and feeling it, long before that.

Her love opened the world for me…

The heat on his shoulders reminded him that the climbing sun was becoming an issue.  His Catherine was fair, and she might burn.

He wished for her a hat, and suddenly, she had one, white to match her dress, and with a wide brim against the climbing star that signaled morning was ending.  He wasn't sure if he'd conjured it, or if it had somehow been there all along, but she was disinclined to wear it, even as she seemed pleased to have it in her hand.

She brushed a thanking kiss against the top of his arm, and he loved the closer contact, as her arm aligned more closely along his own.

They strolled a while longer, before some internal clock told him that it was time for her to stop.  Time for her to return to her work on that distant shore, time to finish what had gotten started there, so that she could return to him.

They turned as the shoreline became rockier, and he stood behind her, a moment.

He knew it was time for them to part, time for this marvelous joining to end, yet couldn’t resist one more glance at the lazy Pacific.

It was fabulously wide, and framed by the deep dunes and dark cliffs that ran along the shoreline.  It wasn’t the same as his deep, grey, riotous, Atlantic, and he marveled that there would be such an obvious difference.  Even the sand she’d sent him was different, though Mouse, when he’d brought her package, seemed to think it was much the same as their own.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t, because it couldn’t be.   Only home was home.

He knew it.  They both did.

“Come home soon.  Come home safe,” he said, again aware that he’d said it aloud, on two different sides of a continent.  In a way, it had been the one thing he’d constantly been thinking since the moment he’d told her “good-bye,” on her balcony.

Clasping her shoulders with his huge hands, he risked a farewell kiss to the top of her shining head.  She felt the familiar brush of his unusual mouth across the top of her sun-warmed hair.

Then, his hands released her.

His mind did, as well.

~ ~ ~

In New York, Vincent emerged from his soft reverie, wearing a gentle smile that would not dim.

And a love lock, tucked just behind his left shoulder.

He tugged it forward, and traced it with a long forefinger, knowing exactly where he’d find it.

His own fingers must have placed it there, while he’d sat daydreaming.

Nothing else made sense.  Quite.

~ ~ ~

In California, Catherine looked back the way she'd come, down a long, windswept, sometimes rocky beach that seemed to have no end.  The somnolent surf brushed her path smooth in places, taking away her footprints, and any evidence of her passing.

Though in some places, she swore a pair of booted footprints paced her own.

She glanced down at a hat she both knew she owned and didn’t quite remember bringing with her.

The sun was climbing higher, in the sky, the moon all but vanished, swallowed by the light.

She looked up and shaded her eyes with her hand, knowing that same sun shone on New York, but from a much higher angle.  Time was wasting.

She rushed back toward her hotel, knowing she needed to start her day in earnest.

If things went well, this might be her last day in Los Angeles.

She would be home, soon.

Home soon.  Home soon.  She felt the words, and since Vincent always seemed to know what she was feeling, she hoped he felt them, too.  Felt the mantra of them.  Felt the pleasure of them.

Home soon.  Was there a more comforting pair of words, anywhere?  It was more than just a description of a destination, and a time.  “Home soon” was an emotion all its own, like love, or longing, or peace.  It was a more nebulous one, to be sure, but no less valid, for that.  Home soon.

It made her feel good just to think it.  It made her feel warm, inside.  As warm as the sun was now making her, outside.  Home soon.  Wait for me.  I’ll be home, soon.  Such a unique feeling, all its own.

Catherine smiled with an understanding of this new truth, and she sent Vincent the impression of “home soon.”  She hoped he felt it, and understood.

Then, she quickened her pace, feeling nearer to home with every step she took.  She smiled, and hugged the feeling of “home soon” to herself, swearing it would be true as quickly as she could possibly make it happen.

And she did.

~ ~ ~

No matter where you are when the urge to go walking on a beach overtakes you, I wish you love.

~ Cindy

The Beginning of My Aloneness

by Mai Phan

~ ~ ~

(When the incident with Lisa in the Great Hall happened, Vincent did not write in his journal again for many months.  When he resumed his writings, this is what was found on the first page.)

~ ~ ~

I will carve your soul to ribbons,

I will bid your eyes to weep.

I will bring you to your knees

With wounds impossibly deep.

I will drive you and uplift you,

I will cause your heart to morn,

Semper fi you, and betray you,

From the day that you are born.

I will cradle you in splendor,

Send you forward with a shove.

You will seek me and not find me.

Don't you know me? I am love.

A Bad Day

by Angie

~ ~ ~

“Me – who am as a nerve o'er which do creep

The else unfelt oppressions of this earth.”

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

~ ~ ~

Vincent growled at his teapot, which was steaming. It seemed to mock his bad mood, which was irritating. At the same time, he was finding the experience novel for its sheer rarity. If some thought he was wallowing, well, wasn't that allowed? Other people were allowed to do so, why couldn't he?

He had spoken to no one since the previous morning and no one seemed inclined to break the silence. That gave him rueful satisfaction. Yes, he was finding the experience satisfying, he had to admit. The silence WAS golden. And no one had entered his chamber for just as long. He had forgotten what that was like. He felt now, like any other resident whose privacy in their chamber was regarded as sacrosanct. It was remarkable ... unique.

His bad mood had started a day ago, from the time he got up, triggered by a series of small incidents that had combined to irritate him beyond bearing. He had often sympathized with Catherine about her “bad days” but had never experienced them himself. Of course, he had known brief annoyances; interruptions to plans or routines, breakdowns of communication, intractable snarls in his hair, work projects which never seemed to be finished when they should, tools which had proven inadequate for a job, and even clothing which had inexplicably developed a stain he hadn’t noticed until he had taken it off. But he had survived all these without developing more than momentary annoyance. After all, there were solutions to all of these problems. But yesterday, a good many familiar minor annoyances had combined with many of the more unusual ones in the tunnel community. It had been too much for him.

There had been Father's pointed questions about the monthly rat patrol, which was overdue. Then, Mouse's long-winded and completely inexplicable description of his latest far-fetched project ... something to do with generating sunlight. Then, a cacophony of pipe messages asking for him to be immediately here or there. He had barely moved to respond to one, when another had interrupted him. He had been forced to decide which was more urgent. To make it worse, the requests were often petty, something that almost anyone could have handled, but they had been sent to him because it was assumed he knew everything. Why was he suddenly the tunnel encyclopaedia and general know-it-all?

He had finally gone to Pascal and told him in no uncertain terms that he did not want any more requests unless the tunnels were in imminent danger of self-destruction. His friend had obligingly sent this message on the main pipe so that virtually everyone would hear it. Tunnel chatter had experienced a hiatus. Vincent smiled grimly at the memory.

Was this what happened above when the temperatures dropped into the sub-zeros for a protracted period, as now? Even the children had expressed no desire to go above. They were busy trying to find ways of keeping warm in the often chilly draughts that were channeled into the tunnels down the spiral staircase, and then sneaked their way into chambers to blow out candles.

For the children had annoyed him also. Their constant racing down the tunnels had caused them to barrel into him several times as he answered the aforementioned supposedly urgent requests. The last time he had roared at the perpetrators. He had caustically suggested they play tag in the Chamber of the Winds, the largest space that the tunnel community boasted, which was generally warmer as well because of the mysterious winds which originated somewhere further below where it was much warmer. He supposed the children had followed his suggestion because he had seen little of them since.

He had made a point of doing absolutely nothing after lunch. In fact, he had taken a tray back to his chamber. He had done the same at supper time. Then last night, when almost everyone was asleep and even the sentry messages sounded sleepy, he had conducted the rat patrol. His sharp hearing and excellent night vision, to say nothing of his patience and quick action with his taloned hands, had ensured the rodents gave him little sport. He had dropped a dozen of the wretched corpses down into the Abyss.

However, even the chase had not improved his mood and he had not bothered to report to Father that this job was done. Let the patriarch find out for himself! William would no doubt thank the taskmaster for the sudden lack of rat presence, and particularly their droppings. The cook would never think to thank Vincent, who was the one they all knew did the eradication.

Vincent snarled as he remembered the frustrations that had brought him to this point, but that was short-lived. In fact, no one had entered his chamber for over 18 hours now. It was ... unprecedented. He found himself wondering what was going on. The pipe messages were very much to the point now. There was virtually no chatter. Had he accomplished this with just a few growls and harsh words? He couldn't believe it – he was not that important!

Vincent growled again and poured himself some tea, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium.

Of course, part of his problem was that Catherine was away and would not return home for at least another three days. He always found himself unhappy at prolonged absences from his love, not the least of all reasons was because he missed her sunny smile and her obvious delight in his company. No one could relax him as she could. Everyone else wanted something from him, some days more than others, but Catherine alone was content for him to simply be there with her, just as he was. He had finally admitted to himself that it was not flattery on her part, she really meant it. This had been a life-changing revelation that had gone a long way toward moving their relationship forward. The rest had followed much more quickly. They were both supremely happy now.

Catherine had often mused about how little privacy he had in his chamber, how he was expected to be the tunnel warrior, rat catcher and storyteller, with no consideration given to his possible desire for peace and privacy, much less whether the interruptions were convenient.

That had changed only minimally since Catherine and he had moved into the brownstone. It was assumed that whenever he graced the tunnels with his presence, he was available to do everyone’s bidding. It was no good telling Father, or anyone for that matter, that he had grown up in the tunnels and still felt most at home in them. He also returned because he still had duties to perform, but it seemed some tunnel residents wanted to dominate what few moments of free time he had, and clutter the others with inconsequential requests.

By breakfast though, Vincent had begun to feel a little less angry. He was also somewhat sleepy from his rat catching, which had taken a good part of the night. The tea had not revived him. He went into the dining hall for breakfast to find everyone giving him a wide berth. He was too tired to be angry at the response and merely walked towards the buffet table. Before he got there, William appeared in front of him with a tray loaded with a generous amount of his usual fare.

Vincent nodded his thanks and immediately turned and walked back to his chamber. It was a hint he had chosen not to ignore, as sitting down in the hall would have undoubtedly left him in the centre of a large empty space… alone.

It seemed no one wanted anything from him today, so after breakfast Vincent decided to read by the Great Falls. It was something he seldom had time to do during the day. He grabbed a book from a pile on his desk, not really caring what it was, and made his way to his favourite ledge overlooking the falls.

Settling himself down, he looked at the title and sighed deeply. It was the Panachantra, a Hindu book of moralistic tales using animals. He had been planning to read it to the children. He opened it at random and read the Story of the Blue Jackal, Story 8.

“The moral is,” Damanaka said, “he who abandons his own folk will perish.”

Vincent now regarded the falls with something akin to sorrow. Anger was fine, and it had cleansed his mind as it had burned through him, leaving him with more clarity of thought. That had been a worthwhile outcome, for he seldom had time to examine all he did during the average tunnel day, filled as it was with both minor and major crises.

He felt better about everything now, but was unsure how to rectify the distance he had imposed between himself and the tunnel community. Obviously, they were content to let him find his own peace in his own time. Of course, he could go to lunch and stand before his friends and apologize for his ... he had to be truthful and call it by its name ... surliness. But on the other hand, he had been justified in his anger. He had been imposed upon more than was usual, and the fact that no one had approached him confirmed that they knew it too. Pride would not allow him to simply ask for forgiveness, when the truth was that he was really not to blame. He had merely reacted to a situation largely caused by others.

Uncalled for, another quotation from the book in his hands came to his mind. “Pride comes before a fall.”

Vincent sighed and continued to argue with himself. If he merely apologized, everything would return to normal, with himself still the object of too many pipe messages. That was not acceptable. Somehow, he must impress upon this community that others needed to take some responsibility for their problems. He could not be on hand all the time, nor should that be expected.

Catherine was correct. She was also correct in her assessment of who to blame for the situation. “Blame” was perhaps a too harsh word, but certainly Father had the authority to more fairly apportion the daily tasks. Big jobs, like fixing leaks or carving chambers were always put on the work sheet at the front of the dining hall, along with the names of the work crew. But who bothered to list a lost book, or a misplaced pair of spectacles, a request to trade sentry shifts, or even a literary reference? That such things became pipe messages was unfortunate. Perhaps there was a solution…

Vincent thought about this for a few minutes then remembered something Catherine had told him about “bull sessions” in the DA's office. Yes, that should work much better.

Pascal would be pleased too, because the pipe master did not like the pipes to be used for gossip. There were always dangers threatening their world and he feared the consequences if a message got lost in the general 'noise'. He had complained about it fairly recently in fact, but although Father had made an admonition to the community at large, the chatter had not declined appreciably. Perhaps this was a service that would solve both problems.

Vincent rose, suddenly determined to have his plan organized by lunch time. He would have to check the storage rooms. On the way, he dropped the book off in his chamber, grabbing a lantern and his cloak.

Two hours later, he found what he sought, but had become covered in dust and cobwebs in the process. He shouldn't have been surprised. He recalled when he had rescued Dimitri from New York harbour he had carried him to a storage room, one no less dusty than those he had explored today.

He coughed as he tried to brush some dust off his clothing, then made his way back to his chamber with his find. He quickly undressed to use the bathing pool he shared with Father.

There was not much time before lunch now. Vincent wondered if he should tell Father his idea ahead of time…no... His idea would be accepted by everyone on its own merit, or it would not, either way, he would have made his peace. It would be understood that he was not apologizing so much as offering a viable alternative. Pascal would certainly support the idea.

He dressed in clean clothing and with his hair still damp made his way to the dining hall for lunch, waiting until he was sure most of the community was there. He walked to the front of the room and raised his hand. All talk gradually ceased and everyone looked at him expectantly.

“Friends,” he began, and had the satisfaction of seeing many people relax and smile at him. They thought they knew what he was going to say! That he would prove them wrong gave him grim satisfaction.

“I offer a solution to the situation which arose yesterday. We have many small problems, but I cannot know the answers to them all, nor should I be expected to.”

He raised the large slate blackboard he had found and leaned it against the wall.

“I propose that this blackboard be used to write nonurgent notes or requests to the community at large. I also suggest that anyone responding to one, do so by other means than pipe message.”

Pascal immediately stood up and raised his pipe rod in the air.

“Wonderful idea Vincent!” He looked around at the community and nodded solemnly.

“Vincent has been more than patient with people demanding his time. I've often said that the pipes shouldn't be used for just anything. Something important might get ... missed.” Pascal shuddered. Even thinking about that made him uncomfortable. “I move that we accept Vincent's proposal immediately.”

“Hear, hear!” came several voices.

Father took the cue and stood up. He tapped his cane on the floor until there was quiet.

“Thank you, Vincent,” he said, looking at his son. “Pascal is correct. This is too important to leave any longer. All in favour?”

A flurry of hands arose.

“Opposed?”

Silence reigned and no one raised their hand.

“Passed!” Father said. “Kanin, would you please put a spike into the wall to hold the blackboard? I'm sure we can find sufficient chalk and an eraser for it. And let's be clear. This board replaces frivolous pipe messages. Notes may be written here, but they must also be erased when they no longer apply. Everyone understand?”

There was a chorus of approval and everyone returned to their meal. Vincent sat down at his customary place near Father. William immediately put a bowl of soup and a plate of bread in front of him. He had been so relieved his idea had been accepted that he had forgotten to get himself some lunch! He thanked the big cook and set to it with gusto.

Father looked over at him as he finished and cleared his throat.

“How are you feeling Vincent?” he asked at last.

Vincent looked at the patriarch, puzzled. “Fine, Father and you?”

“Hmm… well, much as usual, Vincent. I've missed your company.”

Vincent had nothing to say to that, and merely poured himself some tea.

“Is there anything else on your mind Vincent?” the patriarch asked, after a silence that was apparently not going to be broken.

Vincent looked up and thought for a moment. Indeed, the blackboard would not solve all his problems. There was still the matter of his chamber, which was like Grand Central Station some days. The peace of the last 24 hours had been wonderful, despite the cause.

“I would like to be accorded the same respect and right to privacy as others,” he said softly, at last.

Father nodded as if he had expected this and stood up. He stamped his cane on the floor again, and waited until there was silence. He cleared his throat.

“Friends, there is one more matter that we need to address right now, while we are all in a receptive mood. Vincent has been more than patient with all of us wandering into his chamber at all hours, and with barely any advance notice. This must stop. We should not do this to Vincent, nor any other member of the community, not even myself.”

“So in future, after ... 9 pm in the evening, and before 6 am in the morning ...,” he paused to look at Vincent, who nodded his assent. “... Vincent is not to be disturbed if he is present. Anyone who needs him for an emergency may inform him in the normal way, by pipe message. At any other time, day or night, anyone wishing to visit Vincent should knock. A knocking device will be installed at the tunnel entrance leading to his chamber.”

“It so happens that I know we have many such devices in stock from old doors we use for other purposes. Cullen, will you see to that please, today? Anyone else who wishes to have this done may also approach Cullen. In fact, I would like a knocker at both entrances to my chamber, if you please. It's an elegant solution that will save candles and oil by eliminating the lanterns we generally use for this purpose.”

“Any comment? Do you understand this Mouse?”

There was some laughter as everyone looked at Mouse, undoubtedly the most intransigent of visitors, since he never knew nor cared what time it was. The pipes declared the time every hour, but Mouse seemed oblivious.

The scruffy engineer stood up now and gazed around.

“Mouse understands. No visiting anyone without knocking. No visiting Vincent at night. Means no one comes to visit Mouse without knocking either, right Father?”

“That's correct Mouse.”

Vincent tried not to grin at this exchange. Of them all, Mouse valued his solitude most, but at least he also recognized others’ need for it.

“Ok, good!” Mouse nodded, then left in his customary hurry, no doubt to install his own version of a door knocker. That might prove interesting later. Vincent looked around. This was working out better than he had hoped.

Lunch over, Vincent returned to his chamber and had barely sat in his chair before he heard Cullen shout “Knock, knock,” from outside.

Vincent restrained himself from replying 'who's there', knowing Cullen's penchant for jokes, and instead called back. “Come in!”

Cullen entered, grinning widely, a fact that Vincent immediately recognized as preparatory to a witticism. It seemed there would be no escape. Their carpenter carried a metal toolbox and a bag that seemed to be very heavy. Vincent waited for an explanation.

Cullen, realizing Vincent wasn't going to play a guessing game, sighed and reached into the bag. He pulled out an enormous brass knocker with a lion's head in its centre. Vincent regarded it, rendered incapable of speech.

“Do you think this will work?” Cullen asked, unnecessarily. “It's not like the usual ones I've seen. Most have the knocker ring hanging from the mouth, which means it has to hit the door. The ring on this one pivots from the top and hits the metal back plate around the head. I can keep it in place with three spikes.”

Vincent suddenly couldn't prevent himself from laughing. Far from being insulted, he found the allusion apt, especially considering his recent mood. Cullen was momentarily stunned speechless.

“Perfect for bearding the lion,” Cullen remarked, after Vincent had himself under control again.

“Yes,” Vincent agreed hoarsely, dropping his head and hiding inside his long hair. Cullen heard a strangled noise coming from his friend, but chose to ignore it.

“Well then, I'll install this. Won't take more than a few minutes.”

Cullen left and the appalling noise of something being pounded into solid rock soon followed. When silence reigned at last, Vincent's ears were ringing.

Vincent looked at the doorway and sighed. It had felt extremely good to laugh after the events of the past day. Yes, his mood had certainly reversed.

“They are the blessed who are visited by friends,” he thought, remembering yet another passage from the Panchatantra.

Shaking his head in amazement, he picked up the book. The children would enjoy a few selections. Perhaps there was a moral story about running around corners without looking.....

END

What I See

~ ~ ~

By Cindy Rae

~ ~ ~

Mountains of crystal,

Caverns of stone,

Wide, windy staircases

Make up my home.

A spiral, an archway,

The path to your door,

Your ladder,

My Chamber,

There is so much more.

A Gallery whispers,

A wide waterfall,

A path to forever,

I won't let you fall.

A Chamber for Music,

A Great Hall for Dancing,

Rooms built for reading,

Or for romancing.

A hole to the sky

Where the sunlight shines through.

But I can't see all that.

For I see only you.

~ ~ ~

Your eyes wrapped in bandages

Blind to the world,

Your scarred face; my safe place.

Our rose is unfurled.

You're safe now.  You're safe now.

I swear it's all true.

You can't see me, Catherine,

But I see only you.

A Perfect Day…

by Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

“How would I spend the perfect day?”

Vincent considered the question.

“I wondered.” Catherine shrugged. “It’s something from a life-work course I attended.”

Vincent smiled. “I would wake beside you, to sunshine. We would eat breakfast in bed, then go for a walk in the park. A picnic lunch beneath the trees.”

“You would buy me ice cream from the vendor,” Catherine added softly.

“Yes. Afterwards, we would go Below for a banquet feast, and invite everyone.”

“My dad could come…”

“And then…”

“Yes, then…” Catherine echoed breathlessly.

“I would make love with you, until nothing remained of our separateness…”

~ ~ ~

The Empty Crib

by Cindy Rae

*R- Adult Theme*

The cradle rocks above an abyss…

- Vladimir Nabokov

~ ~ ~

How could what I have not be enough? How? Vincent tortured himself with the same, repeating thought.

Jacob was a healthy, happy, four-year-old boy. Catherine was planning to go to work in Joe Maxwell's fledgling private practice, a thing they’d both agreed upon, and one he’d encouraged her to do. Kipper, Olivia, Mouse, Narcissa, everyone was well. There was food on the shelves in William’s pantry, and even some of the more onerous sections of pipe had decided to cooperate by not leaking as much, or as often, lately. Father’s hip pained him no more than usual (even if it pained him no less), and Mary swore the menthol-scented cream Peter had given her for her arthritis was a miracle drug.

His family was well, all his family.

He had every reason to feel blessed, utterly and completely so. And he well knew it. Rarely had things been going so smoothly, to be honest about it.

I have more than I ever thought I’d have, much more. I have an embarrassment of riches. I am fortunate beyond any dream I ever dared to have.

Yet with every fiber of his being, Vincent knew a vague sense of disquiet.

For at least the tenth time that day, Vincent tried to run the list of the tunnels' good fortunes. There was enough to eat. The medical supplies were holding steady. The younger children were thriving. Olivia’s toddler daughter was perfect and beautiful. So was Lena's feisty little Kate, a year older than his own son. So was Jake. They were wonderful, all of them, and they'd all grow up together in the tunnels.

Just as he and Devin had. Just as Kipper and Eric and Geoffrey had, and still were. Just as Samantha, Brooke, Jamie...

Damn. Damn it. Cursing was a vice Vincent knew better than to indulge in, even mentally. Yet, there it was. Vincent leaned his elbows on his knees and templed his fingers. He knew he wanted to swear ripely, and knew he couldn't.

"Daddy's sad?" Jacob looked up from his block tower, speculatively.

"No. Daddy isn't sad," Vincent hastened to reassure his four-year-old son. "That looks like quite the tower."

"Mommy’s new office. She says I can go there sometimes, just sometimes. To play. Maybe. Look out the big windows.” He settled the block he was holding on the very top. “Why sad?" he asked.

Even at four, young Jacob was canny, and not nearly as easily distractible as he'd once been.

Vincent sighed. "Mommy will do good things in her tower. She'll work with Uncle Joe. Help people. Maybe let you ride in the elevators. You can push the buttons and tell her what number. What number is Mommy on?" Vincent asked, knowing his son knew the answer.

"Four! Four, like Jacob!"

"Four" and Jacob were having a special relationship this year. Vincent knew the question would likely divert his son's keen mind, and he schooled his emotions so that the toddler's sense of empathy would not continue to be triggered.

"That's right. Four, like Jacob. And Mommy will help Uncle Joe with his practice, and good people who need her will get the help they deserve."

The words soothed both of them. Vincent did believe what he was saying, even as he guarded against the feeling of deep melancholy it sent him.

"Time for your bath, then bed. Do you want to get your pajamas and bathe in the big chamber with the other children? Or stay here, with Daddy?"

Jacob turned the question over in his mind with all the seriousness of a four-year-old with two good choices in front of him.

"Go to the big chamber. Play wif Emmie and Kate. Have cookies from William."

He went into the small chamber where he kept his nightclothes tucked under his pillow and tugged them out, dutifully. When he emerged from the room Vincent had carved out for him, the blue flannel pajamas were tucked under his arm.

"Come back later,” Jake said. “Make you feel better." He gave his father a kiss on Vincent’s blonde, furred cheek.

So much for distracting conversations.

Jake, for all his human appearance, was growing more empathic. There was no denying it.

At this point however, he seemed to require proximity to achieve it, much as Vincent had as a young child. Only his bond with Catherine was different and now, his bond with Jake.

"I'll walk you down," Vincent stood, holding out his hand, loving that his son reached up for it and held on. Not so big. Not too big, just yet.

"Wait! Toys!” Jacob declared. “Mommy says ‘got to pick up the toys first, before we leave the room!’" He went back to put his blocks in the basket he kept for their storage.

"It will make you late for bath time," Vincent reasoned. "How about I clean them up for you, and we keep it a secret between us?"

Catherine had been trying mightily to get Jacob to be better with picking up his toys. Their young son had an avid, lively mind which often leapt from one activity to the next, causing him to leave his playthings in his wake.

Jacob's smile was immediate. "You won't get in trouble?"

"I'll explain, if I do," Vincent reasoned steadily.

"Say 'sorry,'" Jake advised, with all the wisdom of a young child who felt he'd learned a magic word. "Mommy likes it when I say 'sorry.'"

"I will try to remember," Vincent said, shepherding the child he loved more than any other out of their chamber. This time, Jacob didn't reach for his hand. But he still stayed close.

Vincent watched his son walk, the soft pajamas remaining tucked under his arm. He was steady, as he ambled down the wide passageway, and though Vincent shortened his stride, he knew Jake was an able traveler inside his home. His young, blonde son was more coordinated than other children his age and already tall for it. Vincent knew he was more than ready for school and had a bright, curious mind. Jake's long-limbed pace kept them moving.

I swear he's taller than he was last week. Steadier on his feet than ever, Vincent thought, missing the awkward, unsure walk Jake had once had, the one where he'd clutched Vincent's hand strongly, to guard against falling.

Impatient to get there, Jacob Charles Chandler Wells ran ahead, then ran back, tugging on Vincent's outstretched hand. "Hurry, Daddy! Don't want to miss it!"

No. No, he didn't want to miss it. Of course he didn’t.

Communal bathing was the norm for the younger children, with Mary in charge of an assembly line process which involved soap, shampoo, and at least a little unavoidable horseplay. It was Lena's turn to help out, and Kate was already done with her bath and waiting in her pajamas and slippers, as friends joined her at a table stacked with a plate of cookies.

She waved at Jake as he entered, and he waved back. Some of the boys were already splashing in the rinse water, as Jake peeled out of his shirt.

"Bye Dad! You won't forget about my blocks?"

"I solemnly swear I'll take care of them, Jake."

Jake reached up for a hug, this one a gesture of "goodbye."

"Thank you very much," Jacob Wells’ namesake said, in his best "grown up" voice.

Vincent knew what was coming next.

"I ‘preshate it," Jake declared. It was what Catherine often said to him when Jake tried to be helpful.

"I know you do. Go and have fun. Play nicely. Mind Mary and Lena."

"Yes sir." He kissed Vincent's cheek again, dropped his pajamas where he stood, and scampered down to the edge of the shallow bathing pool.

Vincent took in the scene that would look like bedlam to Topside eyes, but was a nightly ritual here. The older children helped with the younger ones, adults supervised as a dollop of shampoo hit each new arrival's head, and “lather, rinse, repeat” was done over and over, on every child there.

A huge brazier kept the room warm and dried towels on a line, for re-use. The children who wanted to play with bath toys could do so and often did, until pruned fingers and toes forced them out of the water.

After they dried and dressed, a plate of William's cookies provided a treat, and they could either be escorted back to the children's dorm by the older kids (or an available adult), or stay and listen to someone read or tell stories, or just chat and play together, in something of a chaotic, happy mob. Lena kept a sharp eye on the youngest ones, while Mary made sure everything went smoothly.

Young, they're all so young, Vincent thought, loving every one of them. Jake had stripped out of his clothes, waded in and dunked, coming up for shampoo. He was happy and smiling, and Lena nodded to Vincent over the heads of roughly a dozen children.

He returned her gesture of greeting.

"Do you want one of us to bring him back when he's done?" She asked, over the raucous crowd of splashing children.

"He wants to play with Kate and Emmie for a while, if that is all right," Vincent answered.

Lena nodded again. "Sure. Kate says he's bugging her to teach him to read some more."

Learning to read "some more" was currently Jake's stated goal in life, and he often kept himself near the older children out of preference, so they could help him sound out larger words.

It reminded Vincent of himself and Devin so much, that the ache of nostalgia gripped Vincent's heart for a moment, along with the other ache he'd been carrying.

The next generation of tunnel dwellers was growing up before his eyes.

"As long as he's no trouble," Vincent demurred, knowing his son could sometimes be a raucous climber.

Lena nodded and corralled Luke for a shampoo.

Vincent left the bathing chamber as it was, and carried the sounds of happy, shouting children down the hallway with him.

He remembered the first time they'd brought Jacob there, he and Catherine. Vincent had told her stories of playing there as a child as they'd gently washed Jake's infant body together, then wrapped him warmly, and returned him to their chambers.

It wasn't that they didn't have a private bath. It was that most didn't, and Vincent hated the notion that Jacob would miss out on the joy of splashing in the water with his friends. The bathing pools were huge, much larger than a bathtub, and they were fun. There was no reason not to take advantage of them.

Walking down the hallway, Vincent encountered several more families heading for the pleasant ritual of bathing their children with the others, as their evenings settled into the “winding down” pattern common to all adults with small children. Dinner. Bath time. Story time and a snack. Bed.

Vincent returned to the chambers that seemed so much... emptier now without his small son in them. The blocks sat where they'd been left, the spindly tower making Vincent feel sadness anew.

She's waited for this month for a long time. He knew it was true. The only reason she wasn’t here right now, was because she was getting ready for the changes they were all about to make.

Vincent knew this time was important to Catherine. He'd even insisted, when she wasn't sure whether or not she should go back Above to work. After his calm encouragement, she'd embraced the notion happily. She had been initially reluctant, but he'd settled any misgivings she'd had.

“Jacob is very bright.” Vincent remembered saying. “There is no reason he can't start school a bit early. Brooke is excellent with the little ones. And he wants to join Kate at school”, Vincent had reasoned.

“All right,” she’d agreed. But I want this understood, I won't be going in to work every day, and I'm not pulling late hours. Joe's really just getting going and he doesn't have that much work. He wants my advice, as much as anything. I'm practically just a consultant.” But he has asked for your help and knows the kinds of cases you've told him you will take” Vincent had repeated her words back to her.

“I'd probably have to go in every Monday. Just to check in and see what's up, tell him where I am on whatever cases we've got… and maybe Wednesday. Wednesday is usually a court day...”

“Catherine, you have been an excellent mother. When Jacob was born unexpectedly, your entire life changed”

“Our life changed.” she'd reminded him.

"Our life changed." he'd agreed. "But we always said that you were a woman of two worlds. You've lived mostly Below since Jake was born and he has been a precious secret we kept, because of me."

“And I'd never trade that.” She'd been steadily reassuring.

"I know you wouldn't. But I also know that things would be different for you if it wasn't for me. You've made enough sacrifices to what I am. This is your chance to do what you said you would. Go into a private practice; take cases you feel passionately about, help those who need you. Share our light.”

What he'd had to talk her into at first, had become something she'd happily embraced, as the time drew closer. Joe Maxwell had come to her asking her to help him with some of the work at his fledgling law firm and even offered to put her name on the door.

She'd accepted the first offer and declined the second.

And even though she was a bit nervous about it, she was now eager to step back into the working world, eager to show Jake her office (after hours of course), and help him to understand that the world Above belonged to him too, even though his special father was something that must be kept secret.

The small, wooden blocks were a reminder of a wonderful, simpler time, and they were a favorite toy of Jacob's from early on. Vincent wondered how much longer his curious son would find them amusing, as he discovered the world of books, board games, and more.

Though having a child out of wedlock no longer held the stigma it once had for women, none of Catherine's friends had been aware of her first pregnancy, due to Vincent's unique physiology, and the fact that any child he sired might look like him.

Though Jake's features were predominately his mother’s, there were traces of Vincent, not only in his blue eyes, but in the soft downy line of hair that ran down his back. Though it was much less than Vincent's own mane, it was noticeable, especially when he swam or bathed, and the sunny blonde line darkened in the water.

Catherine loved to kiss the down that traced his ears, and they both wondered if his adult teeth would show differences. Raising him Below was a given, just as introducing him to the Topside world was.

They were making it work, though it took effort and subterfuge on Catherine's part, more than any other.

And now Vincent wanted to ask her to set back the clock on her life and become a mother again.

Could I be more unfair? Hasn't she waited for this time long enough?

It was five years since she'd held a job and done what her degree enabled her to do.

He was about to ask her to… what? Risk herself again bearing his child? Undo every plan she'd made for the last four months…longer?

Was that fair?

Vincent knew it wasn't. And at the same time, he could all but swear he could hear a distant child's laughter. A higher sound than Jake's, punctuated by a cooing acceptance. A daughter. Or perhaps even another son, just a different one.

But the word "daughter" kept whispering across his brain and Vincent couldn't shake the sensation that there was someone waiting for him, just out of his reach. That she was his and that she loved him, completely.

He put away the toys and left the empty chamber, not really wanting its sense of "home." It felt too empty for all it didn't contain. Catherine was Above. Jake was by now, either still playing in the water or having a cookie and sitting near Kate.

And the phantom child who whispered across his consciousness was... nowhere.

There are enough children Below who need me, need us, he thought. He still taught and loved it. Catherine helped with every new arrival and often procured things an infant might need for the new mothers.

Yet, she'd never expressed a desire to become one again.

Perhaps that was because she’d never expressed a desire to become one in the first place, Vincent thought, though he expected it to be a thing she wanted eventually. Or perhaps Jake’s conception and arrival had been so perilous, she’d never wanted to go through anything like that again…perhaps many things.

Vincent wandered through the dim, rounded passageways until he reached the area he sought. In a large room full of cast off furniture, Vincent found the piece from their chambers he most fondly remembered.

It was Jacob's crib.

They'd kept it a long time, neither one of them wanting to let it go. But as Jacob's length and ability to climb meant he was just as apt to go over the rails as under the thing entirely, they'd decided to relegate the crib to the community furniture room, and swap it for Jacob's low "big boy bed."

A little surprised to find it still here, Vincent pulled up a battered ottoman and sat near it, remembering the day he'd sanded it and stained it for their son. Jacob's name was spelled in blue letters and Catherine had added an awkward picture of a moon to the foot with several stars.

Vincent pictured it painted white and covered with images of roses.

"Rose? Is that your name?" Vincent asked the thin air, looking at the tan piece of furniture that had cradled their son.

He'd been colicky the first few months, and none of them had slept well. But he'd put on weight fast, and Catherine had loved it when they would all bundle into the huge bed under the stained glass window and take naps together.

Vincent had loved it too. The sight of Catherine and Jacob curled up beside him, sleeping, dreaming, had filled him with an almost indescribable sense of... everything. Peace. Pride. Protectiveness. Love. A kind of love he'd only guessed at, and never had for his own. No matter how much he knew he loved Catherine before, this was something else, something greater, something that rang in his soul like the deepest sounding bell.

He was a father. He had a son and a family, and they were dearer to him than anything ever would or could be.

How can it not be enough? He thought again, hating the question.

He reached out and held onto the corner post of the crib, knowing that the feeling of desolation that was about to wash through him would not be denied.

He rode the punishing wave as he clung to the crib.

No. It was unfair to want more. It was unfair to bring it up, and unfair to ask.

He knew that Catherine's life had been derailed by a mistake even two hot blooded teenagers in lust knew better than to make, and it had been done to save his life.

Her world had been turned upside down by Jacob's conception. They’d always used birth control after her delivery. They had explored their physical relationship as they'd explored becoming parents together, with a mix of both caution and joy.

And while Vincent utterly treasured their lovemaking, neither of them had equated it with childbearing again.

He didn't know if he was more responsible for that than Catherine was, or if it was simply a mutual thing between them. But he knew they'd both been waiting for this time in their lives, in some way. The time when Catherine could reclaim just a small piece of her old life, and once again be a woman of the world she was born to.

When they'd walked the floor with Jacob, when she'd been overwhelmed by the responsibilities of being a mother, when there had been days she hadn't managed to catch a shower and her formerly salon styled hair had grown clear of its highlights and had contained spit up, Vincent's constant comfort to her had been "This won't last forever."

Catherine had simply smiled, nodded her agreement that it wouldn't, and had soldiered on, week after week, month after month.

The ragged, early days of parenthood had consumed them both with demands, as they did every new set of parents, and Vincent knew there were days when he fared no better than she did physically. Hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, fighting fatigue as they’d watched the baby for each expected milestone, they'd held each other and confessed their fears in the dark, even as their son had turned out hale and healthy.

With unmatched dedication, Catherine had approached motherhood with all the love and devotion of which he'd known her more than capable. Both of them had spent many sleep deprived nights in Jacob's nursery, both simply because he'd been a fussy infant and because having Vincent as his father presented them both with an added layer of concern.

He'd walked early, but talked late. Did that mean something? They didn't know. He'd favored blocks over cars and paint over clay. And both of them had kept a sharp eye on his finger and toenails, for signs of the narrow, thickening cuticle that meant talons might be about to form. His first and second toe on each foot seemed to be leaning that way, and Catherine wasn't sure about the thumb on his left hand. So they'd kept his nails trimmed close and waited for each new revelation.

Though human in appearance, they'd both made the decision to raise him Below and keep him a secret for now, should any of Vincent's differences begin to present themselves. Once that decision was made, Catherine had no way to explain to anyone Above why she now frequently had an infant/toddler/young child in tow who called her "Mommy."

Though she'd taken him to the park and to the museums (he adored dinosaurs), she was always just a little paranoid about such trips, fearing that she'd run into someone she knew, or that their plan to say "she was watching him for a friend" would only bear so much scrutiny. In spite of Vincent's eye color, Jake had her hair and even a bit of her jawline. He looked like Catherine. He was clearly her son.

Everything from how Jake might react to childhood inoculations, to his love of climbing had been a challenge. He thrived on less sleep, more activity, and the unswerving support of a tunnel community which doted on him. He loved to play and interacted beautifully with the other children, showing a preference for older ones early on. He loved watching his grandfather play chess, even though he didn't yet understand the game. He loved Catherine's art books and had 'decorated' the granite walls of their home with everything from crayon, to the contents of Catherine's makeup case, to chicken bones, as he 'made a dinosaur in the walls.' He caught colds more often than Catherine liked, but got over them quickly. He spent the "terrible twos" with a pair of bruised knees.

He had been wonderful, but he hadn't been easy.

Catherine still kept her apartment, but went there increasingly less. As his infancy had turned into toddlerhood, she had given up much to mother him, more than most mothers did.

It was a thing of which Vincent was painfully aware.

Joe Maxwell, of course knew. He and Vincent had met when Catherine had been kidnapped and held briefly by a maniac. When Joe had left the DA's office amid the Moreno scandal, he'd told Cathy that one day they'd work together again and he'd meant it.

She was set to start, next week.

She was Above, getting what she called 'a proper manicure' and her hair done at a salon. She'd already brought several hanger’s worth of suits back from the dry cleaner’s and bought a new, combination lock briefcase. Joe had sent a selection of Topside menus down so she could pick where she would have lunch, now that she was stepping back into the "working world."

Vincent had felt her growing sense of anticipation at doing this again. She was nervous, but she was happy.

"Daddy..." It interrupted his reminiscences. The high, elfin voice always seemed to have a smile in it. "Daddy sad?" It was Jacob's question but with a sweet, feminine lilt. He could all but feel her tiny hand on his great cheek.

"Yes. Daddy is sad." Vincent said aloud to no one, as he gripped the bars of his son's crib, longing for the empty vessel to be full again, full of pink sheets and stuffed animals and a tiny cherub of a child. Perhaps one with his features this time, his features and Catherine's gorgeous eyes.

He didn't wish the limits of his life to be passed on to anyone. In truth, his sensitivity to it was perhaps why they'd never discussed being parents again. But now, he swore there was a little soul hovering near him, needing his permission to be born.

And he knew that in order for that to happen, he'd have to ask Catherine to set herself back to “square one” again. Back to a careful, secret pregnancy, during which she never went Above, especially once she started to show. Back to two a.m. feedings and this time, with an active, boisterous son in the mix. Back to worry and fear. Back to where she'd been five years ago, when the unplanned conception of Jacob had blown her life apart, even as it had cemented them together as a family.

He bowed his head, missing a child he'd never met, one he knew he likely never would.

The tears, when they came, were not unexpected. The heat they left on his face was, as he felt somehow that he'd failed his infant daughter or son. Something in him knew that the tiny voice in his mind would grow quieter, grow less there as time went on and as Catherine more fully embraced her return to her world.

Is that it? Am I jealous, insecure about her leaving?

But he knew he wasn't. He knew that a part of him had waited for this month to come just as Catherine had, vindicated in that, though their love had cost her much, it had given her much, and now she would begin to "restore" what parts of her life she could.

It had taken time, but the time had passed, just as time always does. This was her time… Catherine's.

He'd given up far less than she had when parenthood had come knocking. He knew it. They both did. They all did. Even Jake seemed to understand it, on some level.

"Daddy ... sa-ad," the high voice whispered sympathetically, and even though the words weren't utterly clear, the empathy behind them was. He and Jake had often “talked” to each other in feelings before his special son had grown capable of speech. The bond that had seemed to disappear when Catherine became pregnant, was now one shared between the three of them. It had changed just as they had, with Vincent always aware of what both his wife and son were feeling.

His wife.

Though they'd never had the ceremony, they'd never needed it. Her abduction and recovery and all the aftershocks that followed it had made getting through one day at a time the paramount challenge, for a while. They still celebrated April 12th as their anniversary and he knew he adored her.

And now, all he needed her to do was give up her life again… for him… for them.

He sobbed at the unfairness of it, hating the empty crib, fighting the urge to simply push it back into their chamber so he could be near it, could stay closer to the tiny being who seemed as if she was trying to reach through the bars to him, through the bond to him and hold him.

He mourned for a lost child, as he mourned for himself.

"It isn't fair." He shook his head in sorrow at the despair of it.

"What isn't?" came Catherine's voice from behind him.

Startled, Vincent kept his back to her and wiped his eyes. He had neither heard her approach nor sensed it, so coiled up was he, with his own misery.

"I saw Jacob in the bathing chamber,” she explained. “He told me you were sad about something." She laid a now manicured hand on his heavy shoulder. "Vincent?"

He kept his head dropped, furred hands hanging onto the slats of the crib. When he raised his head and turned his eyes to face her, she could see the sorrow in them.

"Vincent, what is it? Are you ill?" Alarm flickered across her eyes and he hated himself for it. Though he'd never again experienced that terrible loss of self that he had when Jacob was conceived, for them the word "ill" had frightening connotations when it came to him.

"No. No, I am not ill, Catherine. It's all right." He rose. "Jacob... overstates... as usual."

But she stood where she was and that meant he did as well.

"If anything, I'd say this is one of the few times he understated something. Tell me?"

Her green eyes were full of concern, but the rest of her...

It was like someone had turned back a clock.

Her hair was layered again. It was longer than it had been when they first met, but not as long as it was when she'd left for her hair appointment this morning. She'd told him she wasn't going to "get it cut," just "a bit of a trim," and though Vincent didn't understand the difference for the life of him, it was her hair and he left her to it.

The soft side sweep of bangs was back, rather than the longer fall she usually tucked behind her ears. She'd kept the length in the back (mostly) but the ends were now gently curled under, rather than straight, and a French manicure was back on her nails, instead of just clear polish or nothing at all.

Though she seldom wore tunnel clothing, having a wardrobe all her own, she was back in the outfit of the successful New York businesswoman: A charcoal grey tailored suit she'd picked up from the cleaners, paired with a high necked white blouse. There was a soft peach tint to her lips, and her eyebrows were free of any stray, out-of-place hairs, like the ones that had popped up during the year she was nursing Jake.

She looked... She looked like Catherine Chandler again, just a little older than when he'd first met her.

"Catherine. You look... lovely." Almost like your old self.

"And you look... terrible." She placed a loving hand on his cheek.

"Having second thoughts?" she asked.

Yes. Just not the way you think.

"Just... thinking back, missing the days when Jake was in this crib," he said, stroking the top bar. “Jake is right about that. I may have been a bit upset. Next week he’ll be in school.”

Catherine breathed a sigh of visible relief. She could easily relate to the bittersweet understanding that Jake was no longer a baby. "I know. He’s so big. But he still needs us, and I'm not gone yet. We still have some time,” Catherine encouraged. “I know you've gotten used to having me around, but we'll adjust. And Jake still needs his Daddy," she said, hugging him around the middle.

"I know he does," Vincent said, letting her assume his melancholy was a touch of separation anxiety, or empty nest, or whatever it was. "So… your day went well?" He purposely changed the subject.

She smiled and wiggled her manicure at him. "Ten matching fingers and ten toes, a hot oil treatment and they even threw in a massage."

He forced himself to smile then dropped his head so she wouldn't see how forced it was. "I'm glad. I'm glad your day was a good one."

Though he knew he had to force out the words, that didn't make them less true. She deserves this time. She more than deserves it. He gave her a fond squeeze.

Catherine returned the pressure. "I um... happen to know that Jacob is very involved in the bathing pools at the moment. Want me to show you my pedicure?" she invited, batting her eyelashes, the ones lightly coated with mascara, at him.

Vincent kissed her forehead chastely. "I told Lena to bring him back soon. Perhaps later," he said, putting her gently from him.

"Okay," Catherine replied, not fooled for a minute by his excuses. The walk back to their chambers was accomplished in near silence.

They were there only a few minutes when Jacob did indeed come bounding into the room, accompanied by Lena.

"Hi, Catherine. You look great. Big day next week, yeah?" Lena asked.

"Yep!" Catherine said cheerfully, sweeping her boy up into her waiting arms. She inhaled, deeply. He smelled like oatmeal soap and baby shampoo and a few cookie crumbs were on his shirt. "There's my big boy. Were you good?"

"M always good, Mommy. Daddy's sad. And Emmie gave me a new book!" He proudly brandished a tattered copy of Aesop's Fables, written for younger readers. Catherine gave Vincent a look, which he studiously avoided.

"Mommy's proud of you. Thank you for cleaning up your toys. I appreciate it."

Jacob smiled. "Daddy helped. I made you a tower, like your office. But we had to put it away."

Lena waggled her fingers at them in farewell and went about her business.

"It's very nice of you to be so responsible,” Catherine said. “Did you want to read Mommy your new book?" she asked, knowing she was in no way through with her husband just yet.

"Sure!" Jacob said, bounding into his room.

"Duty calls," Catherine said, as she followed Jake to the area designated as “his room.” A twin sized mattress lay on a low frame, full of pillows, a few stuffed animals Catherine had refused to part with more than Jake had, and his current favorite, a stuffed stegosaurus gifted by Uncle Peter.

Jake leapt into the center of the bed and then scooted over, making room for her. Catherine squeezed in and raised her arm, inviting him to nestle.

He's taking up so much more room. It's going to be a tough fit by this time next year, Catherine thought, aware that while there was still room on the mattress, there surely wasn't as much as there once had been.

"Let's see. The Grasshopper and the Ant or The Fox and the Grapes? Catherine asked, reading the titles of the first two stories.

"Foxes are better," Jacob voted.

They took turns reading to each other, Catherine letting him read all the simple words he knew, and listening patiently while he sounded out some of the others. They all agreed his reading was coming along.

"And so the fox stalked away saying, "those grapes are probably sour anyway," Catherine concluded, turning the page.

"Okay?" Catherine asked, handing him back the book.

"I want to read it again, by myself," Jake said, his independent streak showing.

"Okay. But no getting up to play with toys. Just reading," Catherine said, using her best "I am your mother" voice.

"'Kay. You fix why Daddy’s sad?" Jake asked, planning her evening for her.

Catherine looked toward the open doorway, knowing Vincent was probably listening to every word.

"I think Daddy's just a little sad because he knows his big boy is growing up. And because he knows Mommy is going to be somewhere else some days. Since Mommy and Daddy love each other…"

"People up Top need you. Daddy said. It's okay," Jake said, with characteristic maturity.

"Yes, yes, it is. You know this doesn't mean I'm leaving you, don't you Jake?" Catherine asked, knowing it was a question she'd asked before, but wanting to ask it again. Though she was good at putting on a brave front, she too wanted to make sure Jake understood as much as he could, about the huge transition they were going through.

"I know." He was studying the picture of the fox, as it jumped for the grapes.

"Do you like my hair?" she asked, fishing shamelessly for a compliment.

"Mommy's always pretty," he replied, flipping the story back to the beginning.

Catherine smiled. "Thank you. I love you too, buddy." She kissed his soft head and rose from the bedside, tucking him in.

She came out of the room to see Vincent, setting two bowls of stew on the table.

"He's all settled in. But that book is still too hard for him."

Vincent sent her a look, as he pulled out her chair.

"'But a man's reach should exceed his grasp, else what's a heaven for?'"  he quoted Robert Browning, indicating her supper was ready, with a gesture of his large hand.

Catherine sat down as he tucked the chair in beneath her.

"I could get used to this. It's usually me, waiting supper on you," she said, not forgetting for a moment how she'd found him today.

"I imagine there will be more than a few changes we'll all have to get used to," Vincent said, seating himself and picking up his spoon. Catherine followed suit.

"You were upset back in the furniture room. Even Jake picked up on it. Is there anything more you want to tell me about why?” Catherine asked, keeping her spoon poised over the bowl.

"I'm sure I was just ... missing the days when Jake was younger. He's growing up so fast."

He dropped his eyes and seemed to concentrate on his meal.

Catherine let him get away with this small subterfuge. He'd tell her when he was ready to, or not at all. It had always been that way with Vincent.

"Yes he is," Catherine agreed, knowing better than to push him.

They ate the rest of the meal in an uncharacteristic silence. Catherine purposely refusing to fill the void with small talk, in case he wanted to tell her if something else was troubling him.

Either he didn’t, or the cause was just as he’d said. She doubted the latter, but couldn’t discount it entirely. If anything, Vincent had been very… enthusiastic about Jake’s increasing maturity. Longing for the days he was little again to the point where he was deeply upset, didn’t quite sound right for Vincent.

Vincent glanced up from time to time as he ate. The pretty, sweeping line of her bangs softened the line of her forehead, and he couldn’t help but catch sight of her white, shining nails as she held her spoon. She’d never been one for heavy cosmetics, but long, dangling earrings were back in her ears and her wristwatch was back on her wrist. A faint hint of gloss touched her lips, though it was slowly disappearing as she ate.

No change was a major one, but taken in total, he knew what they meant. Their lives were about to change.

She’s about to get her chance. The chance I took from her years ago. The chance Jake and I both took away.

She glanced up to catch him looking and held his blue gaze a moment. He leaned back in his chair.

“Jake is correct. His mother is always beautiful,” Vincent said, complimenting her gallantly.

“Thank you. It costs a ridiculous amount of money to look this natural,” she said, setting down her spoon. The atmosphere in the room became less strained. “I take it Jake ate earlier?” She knew he would have.

“A full bowl and bread besides. Don’t worry, Catherine. He’s adjusting fine to the idea.”

She set down her napkin. “I don’t intend to miss dinner as a rule. It’s just I had to take the last appointment for my nails.”

They’d discussed this. Discussed it, planned it, and talked about it, both in private, in front of Jake, and with him.

“I know. They look lovely.”

He stood and reached to clear her bowl. Her hand stayed his. “You served. I’ll clean up. Why don’t you go check on Jake? See if he’s getting sleepy yet?” She rose.

With a subtle incline of his head, Vincent nodded and headed toward the area that divided Jake’s bedroom from theirs. Lady Justice stood guard by his doorway.

His son was sitting up, his back propped by pillows, the book still open on his lap. He was sounding out a word. “Dis-con…discon…t...e…n…t.”

“Discontent,” Vincent provided, looking at the illustration that had captured his son’s imagination.

“What’s ‘discontent’ mean?” Jake asked.

“Unhappy. It means to be not pleased with what you have. The fox is…”

“Oh. Like you.”

Vincent was startled that his young son would make the connection so quickly. Though Jacob had clearly picked up on his sense of disquiet, the word “sad” had covered that, in his young vocabulary.

Yet, like most children, the more his vocabulary increased, the more he intrinsically understood.

“Jacob, I am not unhappy with what I have. I am… one of the most blessed people in the world, with you and your mother. Never doubt that.”

Jake knew that whenever his father referred to him as “Jacob,” the discussion was serious. But he also knew his father’s words didn’t align very well with how he’d been feeling lately.

“Mommy can make you happy. Will you go for a walk in the park?” He asked.

“Perhaps,” Vincent sat down on the side of the bed. “Do you think I should?” he asked, loving how bright his son was. When Vincent was troubled, a long walk in the park often burned off his excess energy and the night air allowed him to think clearly. Jake was no fool. He knew his father’s habits well.

“Maybe,” was all Jake said, studying his father’s leonine features. They were so different from his own. Most of the other children envied him his father. Jake knew they were right to do so.

“If we go together, I’ll tell Brooke or Jamie. Perhaps one of them will sit and read with you. Would you like that?”

Jake shrugged. He was of the firm opinion that he did not require a baby sitter. Vincent knew better.

“Getting sleepy. Maybe for a while,” Jake said, yawning. The vagaries of adults and their moods was a thing for them to work out. He knew that much.

“I love you,” Vincent said, brushing a kiss on the crown of his young son’s head, as Jake flipped the next page in his book.

“Love you too,” Jake said automatically, looking up to plant a quick kiss on his father’s stubbled cheek. The hair was soft. Not like Grandpa’s.

Jake scooted back down on his pillow and Vincent recognized the signs. His eyelids were subtly drooping as he studied the page. In a few minutes, he’d give up trying to read the words and just look at the pictures. A few minutes after that, he’d be dreaming.

“Good night, pleasant dreams, my son.”

“’Night Daddy. Love you. Love Mommy.”

“And we love you, very much. Sweet dreams,” he wished his son again.

Vincent turned the battery operated lantern low, leaving enough light to see, but not so much that it would keep the boy awake. Easing quietly from the room, he closed the heavy curtain and nodded to Catherine, who was settling the now clean bowls on a small rack to dry.

“He’s asleep?” she asked, her voice automatically dropping to a whisper.

“He will be, soon.”

She watched him walk over to where his cape lay, draped across his writing table’s chair. He shook it out and donned it.

“You’re going out?” she asked, aware he’d been cooped up all evening with Jake.

“I thought I might,” he replied.

“Would you like some company?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

I really wouldn’t. Please understand.

“I don’t think I’d be very good company this evening. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she replied, picking up a dishtowel rather than letting the bowls set to air dry. “I’ll check on Jake in a few minutes. Enjoy your walk.”

She turned her back to him and started the chore. He sensed no disquiet from her.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d quieted the bond between them. Vincent knew he was better at discerning her emotions than he was at translating her thoughts.

She dried the soup bowls with a circular motion, keeping her back to him. Her hair now fell perhaps an inch higher than it had this morning, perfectly even with the ends curled under, just a little. She’d taken off the tailored blazer she’d worn to go Above and now covered her elegant blouse and fine skirt with the apron she normally wore when she did kitchen chores.

He still knew the designer clothing was there and what it portended.

“I just… want to breathe some… take in the night air.”

Catherine nodded. Though she didn’t turn, her voice sounded steady.

“I’ll finish up here, maybe get some work done.”

He nodded, aware she couldn’t see it, and left their chambers.

Their chambers…They were his once. Just his, when loneliness was eating him alive. Just his still the night he’d found her, though by glacial degrees that was about to change.

He’d shared the space with her for ten days.

Then a few more, when her father had passed.

But it had taken the miracle that was Jacob Chandler Wells to cement her inside his life and inside his home.

She’d been kidnapped. Taken and held by a lunatic, while Vincent had searched frantically. It had taken months to find her and free her.

When he’d taken her Below, her pregnancy was already showing. He’d barely had time to absorb the notion that he was about to become a father when she went into labor and made him one.

And then they were three.

She’d been terrified to return Above at first, and he’d been terrified to lose her.

So she had stayed.

She revealed to Joe Maxwell that she was still alive and she had contacted some of those close to her. But for the most part, she’d simply stepped off the map.

So easy to do in a city of millions.

After a few weeks of living Below with the baby, she knew she couldn’t separate Vincent from his child by returning them both to the world Above. It would be beyond cruel. He and Jake had adored each other from the first.

So they’d settled into domestic life, with Catherine wanting nothing more to do with the District Attorney’s Office, and Vincent secretly glad of her decision. They were unexpected parents, with an exceptional child. Just how exceptional they were all still learning.

It might be a lifelong lesson. Vincent secretly dreaded Jake’s puberty and the changes that might bring.

But on the other hand…

Jacob was bright and beautiful as a child, smart, curious, and giving. He only whined when he was tired or grew impatient when questions became too vexing. He was kind and he was athletic. His young mouth (the image of Catherine’s), could set in a stubborn line when he was determined. And he had quite the independent streak.

Vincent came to understand how much he adored being a father.

The round door loomed ahead and then the culvert and the park beyond. Vincent made his way out and breathed in the damp, cool air, blessing it for being different than the brazier-warmed air of the tunnels.

An early evening rain had washed through and the park smelled clean and heavy with moisture.

He walked through the wet grass, allowing his thoughts to take him where they would. For a time, the deep green and black canvas of the night swept park seemed to do its customary magic. Vincent stopped beneath a wide beech tree and leaned against it, simply enjoying the solid feeling of the bark under his shoulder.

For a reason he couldn’t name, he removed his glove and settled it against the rough “skin” of the tree, remembering Catherine’s story of being a young girl, longing to climb, and doing so while Charles Chandler waited patiently (and worriedly) below.

He had to smile. Even then, his love had been one to push the limits, and she’d been blessed with a father who had allowed her to do that.

“I won’t fall, Daddy.”

The words were Catherine’s, but they were not said in her voice and even though they were part of his memories of her, they were not said in memory. The sound was the same as it had been in the room full of castoff furniture. Though the open air gave it a wispier sound, it was still the high, familiar voice that had spoken to him earlier.

Vincent knew he all but “heard” the sound near his ear. He snatched his hand back from the bark of the tree as if scalded, and the soft phrase came again, whispered on a sigh of rustling leaves.

“Won’t fall…”

It was almost a ghostly sound. And the ghost was very young.

“Where are you?” Vincent said aloud, as he turned. But he knew it would do no good to call for the little elf who’d been girlishly riding just outside the reach of his thoughts.

Where are you? He thought it this time, rather than asked it aloud.

Am I conjuring you? Am I going mad?

But no answer came back, and Vincent thought he knew why. She wasn’t “anywhere.” Because she wasn’t born yet. She was a little phantom, a tiny sprite, living inside his beating heart, nestled just inside his rib cage.

She wasn’t injured. She wasn’t in pain. But she also wasn’t “here.” And he fought past a hard lump in his throat as he swallowed, knowing he wanted her to be.

I’m trying. But it isn’t fair. There are reasons why. You have to wait. I don’t know how long.

Vincent admitted that the answer to that might just be forever.

Catherine hadn’t been a “young” woman when she’d conceived Jake. Now well into her thirties, and he a couple of years older, he had no idea how long he and Catherine had to make this decision; or even if it was a choice she wanted to entertain.

She was just now getting a small piece of her old life back. If she worked with Joe for a few years and then they started talking about this, she might be damn near forty by the time they got around to it. Or he would be.

And somehow Vincent knew that if they took that long, the result would be someone… different than the soft little pixie who was now whispering in his ear. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

Daddy’s sad?

This time it was Jake’s voice mixed with hers and Vincent knew that this was a memory. Vincent closed his eyes over it.

Yes. Yes, your father is sad.

He tugged his glove back on, and moved away from the area, wondering if he’d accidentally managed to find “Catherine’s tree” when he’d stood there, and doubting he had. It was a huge park. There was no reason to think that particular beech had been “her tree.”

He kicked at fallen acorns, sending them scattering down the path. Around a sharp bend, he had needed to shelter behind a huge oak, as a pair of teenagers had strolled by, raucous and full of nighttime energy.

He kept repeating to himself that even mentioning the current track of his thoughts to Catherine was unfair. She’d either feel obligated to try and alleviate his sorrow (and there was really only one way to do that), or she’d feel justifiably resentful and put on the spot, pressured into something she’d never wanted to begin with. They’d never “discussed” having Jake. He’d simply happened. But for the unexpected result of his unexpected illness, they might still be living apart for all he knew, though Vincent didn’t doubt they’d be closer than they had been.

His original thought of gratitude came back to him, stridently.

You have a family. A beautiful son. A magnificent wife who right now looks almost the same as the day you went to see her on her balcony. How can that not be enough? Fool.

Thoughts of being with Catherine on her balcony made him long for its height and its peace. He changed direction and headed for her apartment, suddenly seized with a longing to stand on her rain washed terrace.

Peace. Just a little peace, he prayed silently, lengthening his stride.

He was near her building as a slow rising moon crested the tallest trees.

Though Catherine had never given up her apartment, it was a place that they had visited infrequently after the birth of their son. Vincent had brought him here once, on his name day, and a few times after, and he and Catherine religiously stood on its stones each anniversary.

But parenthood had brought unexpected changes for both of them, and in order to keep Catherine a woman of both worlds, Vincent had often tended his son alone. They found themselves in the traditional situation of “trading parenting duties” as Council meetings or tunnel work often pulled him in one direction, and administering the trust left by both Margaret Chase and Charles Chandler at least sometimes kept her in the world Above.

She still received her friends in her apartment, though that, like everything else, happened increasingly rarely. She’d taken Jake there during the day, a time when Vincent could not follow. They’d spent some few nights there together as a family, as Catherine introduced Jake to a TV set he had no interest in and a stereo he found inferior to the Music Chamber.

Jake clearly preferred the comforts of the place he called “home.” And though he loved the Museum of Natural History and playing in the park, it was clear that he loved the tunnels and its various friends and family more.

Vincent dropped to the shadowy stones of the balcony, feeling the “emptiness” of the place. Even though Catherine had been there less than a day ago to pick out clothes for her new job, the outdoor space had an unused, empty feel.

He had not stood here in months. With a start, he realized that meant several of those.

Too busy. Busy with council meetings and teaching lessons and keeping the water filtration system working for more people. Busy playing with Jake and teaching him how to read, and finding books he likes. Busy with helping Catherine arrange their quarters, and widening the antechamber where Jake now slept. Busy with Father and what he needed, and trying to find an hour of privacy with his wife, while a curious child lived underfoot. Busy with helping Kanin reestablish himself as a trustworthy member of the community. Helping both he and Olivia welcome their second child. Busy with Mouse, or Jamie, or Cullen or Samantha. Just plain… busy.

He knew that Catherine had been here far more often than he had, but that even for her, sometimes weeks went by. She’d stopped buying perishables for the refrigerator, having had to throw those out more than once. The bed stayed made and the rooms often stayed untouched, other than the stack of mail Catherine brought in from a PO box she’d purchased after she’d begun living Below. The notion that she’d somehow divide her life equally between the two worlds had been a specious one. There simply had been no clear way to do that, not with Jake in the picture.

Vincent traced a hand along the stone railing, feeling the wide capstones as they ran beneath his gloved palm. They were damp, and the wind was picking up a little.

He glanced toward the area where they used to sit reading together, and near to that, where she’d first read him the last chapter of Great Expectations.

Seven years… seven years and almost a lifetime ago.

‘No sense of another parting from you,’ he thought. Then again, how could it not be enough?

He was a little startled when light spilled out from inside the living room, then realized he shouldn’t have been.

Catherine. She’d just entered through the front door. He should have sensed her approach, but for the second time that evening, he’d been too caught up in his own concerns to do that.

He stood on her terrace, the place of both sharing and division between them, the place between her world and his. The place where they’d often said both “hello,” and “goodbye” before Jake had become part of their lives.

She pocketed her keys and crossed to the small table near her telephone, picked up a day planner and leafed through it.

She’d clearly been no more inclined to relax this evening than he was.

The gauze of the curtains softened her lovely features and had the interesting effect of turning back time, visually. The barely perceptible lines near her eyes were gone now, and she looked much as she did the night he’d first seen her here. Young. Chic. Beautiful.

And so she was.

He raised his hand to tap on the glass, on reflex. His gloved fist lightly rapped on the pane.

The soft, still familiar noise was a welcome one, and she smiled immediately when she heard it. He felt her “catch” herself mentally as she crossed to open the doors since she knew something was troubling him.

“Hi,” she greeted. “I… didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t realize you’d be here. I came up to get some phone numbers I’ll need. Since I’m so used to staying Below, I’m not used to thinking in terms of needing to have somebody’s phone number or work schedule.”

Vincent nodded, as she pushed the doors open wide.

“It’s all right,” he said, making no move to come in.

“The air is so nice out here, let me open things up a little,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I didn’t know you’d be coming here.”

No. No, she didn’t. And there was a time between them when they both knew he would wish to be nowhere else.

“You can hardly be interrupting, considering that it’s your apartment, Catherine.”

And so it was. The apartment was “her” place, had always been hers, though his chambers Below were now “theirs,” rather than just his. It was all right. The park was still “his,” in the same way it had always been, and he didn’t feel the lack for the loss of what had once been his space.

“I thought you’d be in the park,” she explained unnecessarily.

“So did I, for a time.” He didn’t explain further.

He looked out across the park, no more able to pierce the verdant canopy than anyone else would have been. The space immediately before him looked both welcoming and sheltering, as the wall of lights from the building beyond looked like the traditional barrier to his progress they had always been. They both created and blocked his view of the city. He knew it and accepted it.

He liked the height of this place, and liked the comfort of it, though by “comfort” he did not mean the amenities inside her apartment.

As long as he stood here, he was “one of them” in a way, one of the millions of beings who inhabited New York, rather than being something else... another story, happening behind another light... another person, if the word could be used on him, living a life.

After he didn’t say anything for several long moments, Catherine realized that she might indeed have interrupted something, but that it was something he still wasn’t ready to discuss. After over four years of living with him, Catherine knew the futility of demanding he tell her what was troubling him. He’d tell her when he was ready. He always had.

“I need to search for my address book,” she said. “It has a list of phone numbers in it I’m going to need.”

She inclined her head, indicating that she was about to leave him to his contemplations, but that she would be close by. He blessed her for it.

She returned to the living room, pulling the doors to a bit, but not closing them. She rifled through a drawer until she found what she wanted, and set it on the end table. He heard her move into her bedroom to retrieve something from one of the drawers.

While there, she saw the crystal dish on top of her vanity. The one she previously used to hold her necklace.

For no reason she could name, she picked it up and cradled it, the pretty, deeply cut pattern giving her comfort. How could I leave you behind? She wondered. It was the one thing she’d always stored his gift to her in, to make sure it didn’t go astray.

But that honor belonged to a little wooden box now. One Cullen had carved for her as a Winterfest gift. So the dish had remained here, as so much of her other things had, left behind, as she’d traded one life for another.

Still holding it in her hands, she opened the doors to the balcony from her bedroom and stepped out onto the terrace.

He was still there, looking out at the lights, at the park and at the few stars that had managed to punch a little light through. The moon that had accompanied him across the park was rising higher, though part of it still dragged itself across the tops of the distant skyscrapers.

She set the dish down near his hand, not sure if he was aware of its significance.

“You can tell me, you know,” she invited, deciding to take the gamble.

He looked at the perfectly cut dish. It was smooth and elegant. Polished to catch the light and reflect it back. Much like she was.

“What shall I tell you?” he asked. “That I want you to give up every plan, every expectation? Is that what you would have me say?” His voice was soft, his look… unfathomable.

Catherine knit her soft, freshly shaped eyebrows in confusion.

“I don’t understand. You wanted this for me. You’ve been insisting on it even.” The brow furrowed further. “I know I didn’t misunderstand that. Jacob will be with Brooke and the other young children, and you’ll be able to resume many of the things you used to do.” This was the laundry list of changes they’d been discussing for weeks on end. “And I’ll come back up and…”

“I want to have another child, Catherine. I can barely eat or sleep for thinking of it.”

She was rocked. She actually was. She took a step backward as if he’d struck her with the unexpected words. She was off balance for a moment. She visibly staggered and bumped the table that held the dish. Only his swift hand rescued it from a shattering fall.

Her denial was immediate. Of all the things she’d thought this might be about, this wasn’t one of them. “You can’t… but… but we’ve never…“

“I know we’ve never,” he replied, cursing himself again internally, for how badly he was handling this. “And I didn’t expect it. I’m trying to stop wanting it, but she’s there, in my mind, and I’m terrified that if I don’t reach for her, we’ll lose her. I’ll lose her.” He rubbed a worried hand over his confused brow.

“There,” he said, both feeling lighter and heavier at the same time. “I’ve said it, bluntly, and badly. Now, you know.”

“How… how long?” she asked, still recovering. “How long have you been struggling with this?”

She tried to remember the exact day she’d noticed he seemed “off”, seemed quieter. It was difficult to peg.

“A week or two, no more. At first, I thought it was my imagination. That I’d wandered too far near the Whispering Bridge or too close to the Music Chamber when there were passersby.”

Catherine’s mind scrambled, as she tried to remember the past, and as she also tried to pick her way through to the future and what his words implied. The act was a good bit like trying to throw a car into reverse, while still leaving a foot on the gas.

She turned and went inside and escaped to the small kitchen, desperately needing the distance for a moment, so she could regain her equilibrium.

Carefully, he followed, but remained in the doorway of the kitchen while she was doing something at the tap. Water. She turned the faucet on and grabbed the kettle off the stove, for something to do with her hands, as much as anything else.

She wasn’t crying. But Vincent wasn’t sure if part of her didn’t want to.

“Catherine? Tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked sensing the incredible turmoil within her.

“You’ve had a couple of weeks to think about this. Do you mind if I take five minutes?” she asked, running water from the tap into the kettle.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m … surprised. And as long as we’ve been together, I don’t like it when you use our bond to ‘read’ me when I don’t want to be read.” Her voice was a bit sharp. “I consider it intrusive.”

She set the kettle down with more force than was necessary and he could see her fighting for control.

“I don’t need the bond to see that you’re angry and I don’t even blame you. I said it because…”

“Damn it, Vincent, I’m not angry!” she whirled as she said it, aware of how incongruous it sounded.

“I just… it’s just that I keep thinking we’re past this…” Now it was her turn to rub her forehead.

“We have a son together,” she stated the obvious. “It’s a little late to continue to protect me from what you think you might want, or what you’re afraid you can’t have.”

Again, it came out with more force than she intended, and she struggled to ameliorate her tone.

“Like I said, you had time for this, time to get used to the idea. I’m just… I need a minute, okay?”

No. No, I have not… gotten used to the idea, he thought, but didn’t say it. He wasn’t sure he needed to.

Her body language indicated she very much meant what she said. She needed a moment, and preferred one without him taking up the nearest space. Vincent backed out of the kitchen doorway, craving the open air of the balcony again, since she clearly wanted to be alone. He didn’t want to be far from her. But the air in the apartment felt all but gone, the stale, pent-up aromas giving off the dusty smell of a rarely used place, while the hot stove now made that aroma worse. She’d been right. The place did need an airing out.

He emerged onto her terrace, breathing in the New York night again.

Standing on the cool stones, he resisted the urge to use their bond to try and discern her.

Through the wide open doors behind him, he heard the kettle whistle, heard her snatch it off the stove. Then, she was a good while in the kitchen before he heard her come out onto the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as she settled a cup for both of them on the table.

He didn’t want tea. He wanted the last hour back, wishing he’d never said anything. It was unlike him to share such things until they were more… settled in his mind. But this was a thing that had refused to settle, and in their years together, there had been nothing quite like this.

“I have no right to this. I swear I haven’t told you because I know how much…”

“You can hear her? And you think it’s a ‘her’? Catherine interrupted, moving over to stand at the wall.

Vincent took a deep breath and let it out. Don’t do this. Don’t make it as real for her as it is for you. It’s not right. It’s not… fair.

“You said ‘she,’” Catherine clarified, her voice steady. She’d regained her composure, at least most of it.

Vincent dropped his head a little and turned his gaze out to the lights.

“In my head… It seems like a girl. Yes.” There was no way to lie about that. Not now. Not after he’d already confessed as much.

“She… speaks to you?” Catherine asked.

God, this hurts. Vincent felt torn between his wife and his daughter. And one of those wasn’t even alive, and the other one was standing near him, struggling with her confusion.

“She tells me not to be sad. Not to… miss her,” He confessed, as he shut his eyes over the words. “And of course it makes me long for her all the more.”

Catherine took him in, feeling his misery. No wonder he’s been quiet lately.

“I know it sounds … insane,” he admitted. “I promise you, I am not ill. I would take myself far away from Jacob and from you, if I thought that was happening again.”

It was a testament to his disquiet that he’d even considered such a thing, or feared they both might deem it necessary.

Catherine chose her next words carefully. “Vincent, I know you have an incredible sense of empathy. Our bond is proof of that.”

“I swear I’m not conjuring this,” he said, knowing where she was leading. “But my link is with people who are alive, Catherine. I don’t pretend to understand what is happening. This makes no sense to me.”

Catherine was perhaps more sanguine about what was happening than he was. Life with him had always had more than a little magic in it, even though magic itself was a thing she was only “so” comfortable with.

“I’d say our bond is as much a spiritual thing as it is a physical one. And like everything else, we don’t know what the limits are,” she replied.

Though he was grateful for her acceptance as always, his mind refused her comfort.

“I can’t communicate with my unborn daughter.” He refused to believe something so far-fetched.

Catherine gave an almost negligible shrug. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she… or he, can’t communicate with you.” She shrugged again. “Maybe it’s just your body telling you you’re ready for the next one. You’re not the only one who ever felt this way, you know.”

Vincent was fairly sure she was wrong about that one. But even he had to concede he had no way to know. “Perhaps,” he allowed, still unwilling to be mollified. “But I am not like other men, and this decision isn’t the same for us as it is for everyone else. It’s a truth we live with. It colors… everything.”

He pushed his mane back, at the temples, and held it with his hands, wanting the weight of the hair off his face for five seconds.

“I’m not using this to manipulate you into staying Below. I swear it,” he vowed, dropping his arms.

It was the first time Catherine realized how wide was the gulf between them. Her voice had an edge again.

“The fact that you feel like you need to say that is more upsetting than anything else that’s been  said this evening,” she replied, going back inside her apartment.

Vincent followed her and saw her cross to the dining room table.

So much was there. So much that had to do with all the plans she’d been making the last few months. Some of her old law books were stacked to one side, along with an address book that lay open to Luz Corrales’ name. “Call Rita Escobar!” was written in blue ink and circled at the top a yellow legal pad, and there was a small calendar with some few dates circled in red; Today’s date for her salon appointment, next week, for a new driver’s license photo and lunch with Jenny Aaronson. Then… work.

“I have no right to take this from you. No right to even suggest it.”

Catherine flipped the address book closed.

“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t get to talk about having Jacob then,” she said simply, letting that sink in.

He was standing in her living room, looking separate and apart. Looking like the Vincent she remembered when they were fairly new. Looking like he didn’t belong. Feeling like it.

Catherine knew how dangerous that feeling of isolation, of being “a man apart” was for him. She didn’t like it, either for him or for them. She reached her arms out for him and crossed back to his large body.

In a few short steps she was pressed against his form and the embrace was as meaningful to him now as it had been the first time he’d ever felt it, back on the day he’d returned her to her world from his.

There you are. There is my love, Vincent thought, enfolding her. He closed his eyes over the incredibly welcome sensation of having her in his arms.

“I love you. And I know you love Jacob,” Vincent said softly. “There is no finer mother than you, anywhere. As impossible as I’d have ever thought it, I loved you even more once I realized that,” he sighed.

He cherished the feeling of having her in his arms. It was a thing he never took for granted, or even quite got used to. Too many years spent in aloneness forbade it.

She felt him settle and draw strength from their embrace. They were talking about this, finally.

“But he wasn’t a plan we had, Catherine. We both know he was… an accident.”

“I know,” she replied. “And you utterly adore him, just as much as I do, if not more,” she allowed, confirming all their feelings. “But, you’re right. He was an accident. One that allowed you to realize you could make love to me, without fearing the worst.”

Yes, he had been, and even though Vincent still couldn’t recall certain details of that night, he knew she was correct. That night had changed them, changed both of them, forever.

And then they’d had Jacob.

And for a while, they had dwelled in an odd place, between where they had been, and where they were going.

Consumed with worry for Catherine’s health, adjusting to not just having her Below, but being part of a very unexpected family, they had taken things day by day, as weeks slid into each other and became months.

They’d become Jacob’s parents, without being quite sure what they now were to each other. The change had been too sudden and too unexpected. Even Catherine, having had months to understand she was pregnant, had had no time to plan, not really, caught up as she was in a web made by evil men, her thoughts had been about the baby’s survival, not her own circumstances.

Then, she had barely been rescued before she’d found she was a new mother.

Vincent had made no assumptions, about anything. Catherine had been an anxious new parent, and both of them had been trying to pierce the veil of Jacob’s infancy, trying to discern how much like his parents he would grow to become, even as they faced the “normal” challenges of two a.m. feedings and the wailing cries of an infant who seemed to vacillate between wanting to be held, rocked, sung to, burped, changed, cuddled in silence, cuddled by first one parent, then the other, wanting a favorite crib toy, a preferred teething ring, or who had developed a sudden desire for rice cereal over oatmeal.

Though all of that might have been “normal,” for any set of parents, knowing Jake wasn’t “normal” had fed into every fear they both had, not to mention being terrified of what might have been done to Catherine during her captivity.

It had been exhausting, all of it. And to a certain extent, Vincent knew they all still carried scars from it.

“You saved us,” Vincent recalled, brushing a kiss across the top of her head. “You held on until we could find you, and you had Jake. You made… everything,” he said.

“I’d say we both did that,” Catherine recalled, keeping a steady pressure around his middle, keeping him to her.

Perhaps.

But it had been Catherine who had pushed things forward between them, changed them from being “just parents” together, to being a “married couple.”

Vincent nodded and remembered vividly the night she’d laid a sleeping Jacob down in his crib, then simply crossed to him while he was at his writing desk, tugged on his hand, and bid him come to bed. Jake had been close to five months old, and though they’d both slept in Vincent’s huge bed, they’d rarely done so together. Or when they had, it was to grab a few minutes of sleep between bouts of exhaustion. Jacob had been a colicky, fussy infant, who often wanted Catherine to the exclusion of all others.

But that night, for a reason Vincent could never name, she’d bid him come to her.

He’d done as she asked, and that had begun their life as lovers.

They had had to be quiet, lest they wake the baby, and Vincent shuddered to remember the incredible feel of her small hands on what his faulty memory still insisted was virgin skin, despite evidence to the contrary sleeping in the next room.

She’d slipped the protective sleeve over his manhood, the act more erotic than any Vincent could remember having. This was sex for pleasure’s sake, for the sake of uniting them as a couple, without the added stress of possibly making her pregnant again.

It had been indescribably sweet and slightly furtive, as if physical love was still a thing Vincent wasn’t sure he could have… wasn’t sure it was a thing they could have, until that moment. He wasn’t even sure what prompted her to tug on his hand. He’d felt no urge for sex from her, no sweetly aching desire. They’d both been too exhausted for that.

Yet somehow, she’d known exactly what they’d both needed.

He’d spent the next four hours utterly worshipping Catherine’s body until Jake’s keening cries told them both that more than one male wanted a taste of her sweet breast. It had been two a.m. Jake was right on time.

With an apologetic smile at infant interruptus, Vincent had padded into the alcove that served as their nursery and brought his wailing son to the bed where his mother lay, both replete and half-aroused, thanks to where Vincent’s hands had been.

Jacob had nursed, the mood in the room had changed, and Vincent let it go, knowing that Catherine was now utterly exhausted and that there would be other times between them. They’d both put Jake back to bed an hour later, then fallen asleep in each other’s arms, sated and too tired to pick up where they’d left off.

They’d managed to get through the next year in much the same fashion when it came to their physical life together. Though they celebrated each April 12th on her balcony, a night Jacob stayed with a baby sitter, allowing his parents some well-deserved private time alone in her apartment, much of their loving had been accomplished the same way most parents with an infant accomplish it, with varying degrees of frequency and a certain amount of restraint, given the close living conditions.

Vincent adored the nights Catherine reached for him and had once memorably made love to her while she was seated on the edge of his writing table.

Once, he’d set a lantern outside of the bathing chamber, knowing she was inside, and they’d not emerged for hours. He came to understand that sex was a thing he could ask for, as well as receive.

They’d discussed birth control, and the onus for that had fallen to barrier protection, since Catherine’s mother’s medical history indicated that the hormones in birth control pills were an unwise choice for her.

And now… here they were.

“Vincent…” she began tentatively. “This issue you’re raising. It’s very important. It’s been known to break couples.” Her eyes were larger than he would have liked, her pupils just a touch too wide. Was that…fear inside them? Fear she was about to make a choice that could cost them… everything?

“I will not lose you. And I will be damned if I’ll use you to get what I want.” He disentangled them and stalked away from her, again thinking this would have been a sleeping dog best to let lie.

But now, it was too late for that.

Catherine watched him pace to the doorway of her balcony.

Our balcony, her mind corrected, though she knew it wasn’t quite true. Though he’d come here, and even treasured the sure privacy of making love to her in her bedroom, she knew that mentally Vincent still considered this “her apartment,” even though he now referred to his rooms Below as “our” chambers.

“You didn’t want to tell me about this. You’ve been fighting it.”

He turned his head a bit in her direction. “Perhaps because there is no way to compromise on it. I can’t carry the baby for you so that you don’t have to explain to the world Above. I can’t nurse it, and Jake hated the bottle. We can’t have half a child so I can be pleased and you can be free.”

He turned his body so that he was outlined by the New York skyline. “To do this… we start all over again. With perhaps even more restrictions, if she is like me.”

It was a possibility he keenly felt and was aware of. And though it didn’t terrify him as much as it had once, neither was he utterly sanguine with the idea, thanks to the impact it would have, not only upon the child, but upon Catherine.

“Yet, you did tell me,” she said. “Thank you, Vincent. Thank you for that much, at least.”

He shook his head. Would he ever stop being amazed by her? He’d just upended their lives, and she was thanking him?

He wanted to tell her why he’d done it. Wanted to make sure she understood.

“I swear I can hear this… little voice, Catherine. It’s not my imagination or the sound the wind makes in the gallery. It’s not something I was wishing for. It’s just… there.” He was struggling with the words. “She’s so small. She needs me. She needs…” He bit down on the word before he could say “us.”

She glanced over at the scattered pile of flotsam on her dining room table. The trappings of her old life (which was about to become her new life) beckoned. The new briefcase gleamed smartly, to one side. Her old Day Runner looked like a familiar companion, lying open, inserted with fresh pages. Her Cross pen shone silver in the pen loop. Her brown leather address book sat to one side, embossed with its purpose. Her old life sat there, waiting for her.

And it had not been a bad one, it had done much good for many. She’d pulled Father out of jail with those skills she’d honed, and had used them to save Charles the Dragon Man. Eric and Ellie had both come down below thanks to her maneuverings, and Lena and Kate owed her much. It was not lost on either of them that she had done much good as a woman of Above. It never had been.

Catherine fetched their tea things off the balcony and Vincent noticed her hand shook, as the cups rattled in their saucers. Clearly, she’d needed a breath of the fresh air too, or perhaps just a bit of the space. She took them over to the dining room table as he followed her inside. She set them down on the coffee table, clearly not trusting herself to walk them all the way to the kitchen without spilling something.

Are you feeling penned in, Catherine? Feeling the trap close in around you? he wondered.

“Can you tell if she takes after you?” Catherine asked, picking up and taking a sip from her now cool teacup, as if it was a casual question.

He shook his leonine head. “I have no idea what she looks like. I can’t even be certain it’s a girl, though part of me feels that it is,” he replied, uncomfortable with the conversation.

She set the cup down. “I was asking if you can tell if she has your curiosity and your intelligence. You know, the way Jake does.”

She slid her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest, sending him love as she took comfort in the familiarity of the embrace. And he knew this was no light question between them.

To speak about his unborn child was to make her seem more real, and to make a baby seem more real was to obligate Catherine into agreeing to have her, for there was no other way.

“I prefer to think that Jake has his mother’s intelligence. For which I am utterly grateful,” Vincent replied, trying to tell her that if their son was the only blessing God ever saw fit to give them, that Vincent would swear it was bounty enough.

“I’m trying not to seem ungrateful,” he seemed compelled to explain. “There are times I never thought to have such… abundance in my life,” Vincent all but whispered, keeping his head down over hers.

They stood for several long moments, as the moon finally cleared the buildings and added it’s far away light to their tableau. The curtains stirred, and he wished the electric lamp on her desk was off and traded for candlelight. Incandescent bulbs bothered his sensitive eyes after a while.

The fresh air of the park had finally replaced the pent up, stuffy smells of her apartment. He kept them close and simply held her, while he felt… everything. He tried not to read her since she’d asked him not to. But it wasn’t the bond that told him of his wife’s mood, it was having her in his arms that did that.

She stepped away from him, and he could feel her gathering some sense of resolve. She clicked off the lamp without needing to be asked but didn’t light a candle. She let the light from the kitchen serve to illuminate the room, dimly.

He turned to her, knowing she was about to ask about their phantom child again.

“Catherine, please don’t hate me for this. I’ll die if you do. I don’t mean it to sound as if my life is incomplete when I have more than I ever thought to have. I don’t mean the onus for everything to keep falling to you.” He turned away from her and faced the open doorway to her terrace. “I think… perhaps we should just stop speaking about it,” he said, aware it was a poor solution, but having no other.

Catherine moved quietly closer and laid her head against his broad back. The pressure was as welcome as it was familiar.

“My love.” Her voice was a sweet, husky balm. “I’m afraid the onus for bearing a child has been on the woman since the days of Adam and Eve. I don’t think that’s going to change because any of us find that inconvenient.”

“But your life is just about to start again,” he said, turning his head.

She planted a kiss on his spine, through his cape.

“No, my life is just about to change again. Whether I become a mother again, or work in an office, or somehow manage to do both of those in turn, that’s what it’s about to do. My life started the day I met you. Then it started again, the day Jake was born. If I had to live my life over again with but two constants remaining, I’m afraid I’d have to insist on those.”

He was humbled by her love, by both its depth and its strength. He was always humbled by that.

“We’ve never spoken of this.”

“It sounds odd to say that in four years, we’ve never managed to find the time. Mostly… it wasn’t a thing I thought you wanted,” she replied, coming around him to look out at the same, moon swept night. “Jake came so… unexpectedly, it wasn’t a thing either of us ever had time to discuss.”

“And now … you think we could discuss it?” he asked. “How fair is that, for…“

“I think as long as we keep the word ‘fair’ out of it, we’ll do well enough,” she said, banishing the adjective that had been utterly plaguing him.

“I could work for Joe for a few months, until it’s not possible to hide my condition. It might take me a while to get pregnant. If I tell him I need to take off, I need to take off. It won’t be the first time I’ve dropped out of sight,” she said wryly. “We’ll have the baby and see what happens, after that.”

She was arranging her life, and she was doing it to suit him... again.

“Catherine…”

“I know Joe needs me,” she stated. “His door will always be open for me. If we can get her to bottle feed, I can maybe stick to the plan of going in a few days a week, here and there,” she continued.

“But I have to tell you that I may not want to go back right away. I adored being with Jake, as tiring as that was. I barely wanted to leave him to take a shower, much less spend an afternoon without him, when he was new. It’s like that when they’re so tiny.” She felt like she had to explain what she never had.

“I could feel how much he needed me near,” she elaborated.

“Stop it,” he said. “Stop this,” he ordered, turning. She was doing it again. Giving him every fantasy and keeping nothing for herself.

“Why?” she asked. “I’m just thinking it through, trying to catch up.” She gave him a slight, moon touched smile.

“Catherine, we can’t just…”

“You mean you don’t want to make love with me? The thought of making me pregnant with our daughter… displeases you?”

The thought of making her pregnant with their daughter was all but about to drop him to his knees. And he had to stop her, somehow, before she gave so much of herself away to him, to their children, that there was nothing left.

He realized he’d just used the word “children” rather than “child.” He was already starting to think in terms of the plural.

“Catherine… you can’t,” he said, the last word coming out on a strangled note. He stepped away from her.

Her eyes grew powerful, and just a tad sultry.

“Oh, I’d say we both know better than to think that by now.” She sauntered over to him, just a hint of the old Catherine’s provocative sway to her hips. Hips that were framed in a sharply tailored skirt again, like they often had been when they were new, hips that were gently curved after her pregnancy. Hips that had never quite regained their former shape, even though the scale said she weighed the same. She was fit and toned, thanks to tunnel life. Walking everywhere, rather than riding in a car, lifting boxes of supplies, rather than making the occasional trip for takeout food.

And she was looking at him in a way that made him want to rip off his clothes, just for the pleasure of rubbing his skin against hers.

Vincent struggled in what he strongly suspected was now a losing battle. “But Jake… we both adore him. But he… ended the life you had. You can reclaim a piece of that now. You waited long enough.”

It was his last effort at resistance, as her hands slid firmly up his chest. In a moment, she would begin undoing the ties on his vest. It was a pattern between them.

“Vincent, I don’t know what the future is going to bring.” She whispered with quiet solemnity. “But I know two of the greatest things that ever happened to me, the two things I’d never trade, were all but complete accidents. I had no plan, I had no point to make. I was just there, in a moment, and the moment happened to me.”

The lacings were coming undone and her eyes were focused on the task.

“If you send me back to work for five years, I’ll be forty by the time we get around to having this conversation again. I don’t want that for us. If it’s the best we can do, I’ll accept it, but it isn’t what I want.”

“Two hours ago, you hadn’t even considered having another child,” he said, willing himself not to rouse, unsuccessfully.

“Two hours ago, I also wasn’t thinking about how incredibly beautiful my husband looks when he’s undressed. Can you forgive me?” She batted her eyelashes at him for the second time that evening, just a little bit.

“But I’m not your husband. We never had the ceremony. You were taken. And then… and then there was Jake,” he said, staggering his words as she began tugging his shirt free of his dark pants.

Her fingertips made contact with the wall of his abdomen and he felt the muscles there pull in, with an indrawn breath.

“We became parents. That’s far more important,” Catherine replied, running her hands up under his shirt. He loved the sensation of her hands on his bare back, where the body hair was thinnest. She knew as much.

We became parents. It was a thing they’d said to each other, both before and after they’d found their way to becoming lovers again. And he knew that, though he thought of her as his wife and his world did the same, they hadn’t truly done it, hadn’t said the words in front of Father, in the Great Hall.

With her pregnant to bursting by the time he’d rescued her, and Jacob’s birth imminent, a wedding seemed like a trivial concern. Afterward, the responsibility of parenthood had all but consumed both of them.

Now he wasn’t sure if they hadn’t let something important go missing.

“I know you want me to claim part of my old life back.” She stroked his sides. “I could have stayed a woman of Above to begin with, taken Jake back to my apartment, made up a story… but for the whole world, I couldn’t take him away from you, Vincent, nor you from him.”

She shook her head and pressed it to his chest. “I couldn’t have you able to see him only at night, and that would probably be when he was sleeping.” She stopped undressing him and reached for his hands, giving them a squeeze

“Don’t you see? This had to be the way. It had to be me who gave.”

It will cost you, again. But other truths were there to be told as well.

“I’d die without you. I’d die without him. I swear it, Catherine.”

He kissed her deeply. They both sensed the passion rising between them.

“Marry me.” The words feathered over her soft skin, a whispered breeze of sound.

Oh, love. Why do you want this? You don’t need to be “fair” to me, Catherine thought.

It will mean nothing in your world. But it will mean something in mine, Vincent realized.

She didn’t say yes. She also didn’t say no.

“Would that help, with this? Make you feel more secure?” she asked, from beneath where he stood, resuming undressing him. His cape hit the floor.

“Damn what makes me feel secure. You are my wife. I want you to marry me,” he declared, as she pushed his vest down his arms. “Before you’re pregnant this time. I want it done in front of everyone. In the Great Hall. Jake can bear our rings.”

He shouldered out of his shirt and threw it aside, tossing his gloves after it. He pulled her into the embrace he knew she wanted. His arms felt like iron. And the look in his eyes gave her pause. This was not the time to argue. Perhaps no time was.

“Anything else?” she asked, letting him know she was capitulating. After all, he could hardly continue to argue, when he was winning.

“I want you to wear white,” he realized. “And damn anyone who says you shouldn’t be able to.”

He felt he’d cheated her out of a wedding, on top of everything else. It was time to make amends, for that.

“White dress, Great Hall…” she unbuckled his belt. “Got it. Long dress or short one?” she asked, as if planning the rest of their life was a casual question, as she unbuttoned her own blouse.

“Long,” he insisted, helping her push the cloth down her arms. He wanted her skin bare. And he wanted her belly next to his, or at least as close to that as he could get, while she was standing up. Fortunately, her chic look had required heels.

“Veil, or no veil? Just some flowers in my hair?” she asked, watching his clawed fingers as they deftly flipped open the front clasp of her bra.

“I don’t give a damn,” he growled, a light coming into his eyes which she barely recognized, except she did. He never swore at her unless his dark persona was very near the surface.

He pulled the bra back and bared her right breast, and began feasting on it. Feasting where his son had taken in his first nourishment, and where his daughter would. Perhaps by this time next year. Maybe before that, considering the mood they were both in.

He drew harder on the tender flesh and Catherine cried out, in pleasure/pain. He softened immediately, and then nuzzled the tender skin, in apology.

“I mean it, Catherine,” he said, while he could still command his vocal chords. “I want you to be a wife, before I make you a mother again.”

She traced her way up the chord of his neck, tugging his head down so she could whisper in his ear. “And I want you inside me bare, and with no protection. So I guess it’s a good thing I’m not in that part of my cycle right now.”

The image she painted shattered his restraint. His snarl of approval belonged to a jungle cat, more than a man, and Vincent knew the gift of speech was about to come and go, as they divested themselves of the rest of their clothes.

She guided him to the bed, not that he needed urging, and he registered her open closet and one drawer, as she’d rifled through her things, looking for whatever it had pleased her to have.

Back when she’d been planning to resume her old life. Back before… now.

He growled again, a low sound of male dominance as she laid down for him, naked and willing. He’d not been inside her, skin to skin, since the night they’d conceived Jake. She lifted her arm, but he was too far away to reach. She dropped the arm and trailed her longest finger, drawing a random pattern on her shoulder, with it.

She was the most sensual thing he’d ever seen.

Her breasts had gained half a cup size after her pregnancy, and though not large, they were no longer as small as they once had been. They matched the gentle swell of her hips perfectly, and the soft curve of her woman’s belly. He wanted to taste her, where the scent of her was driving him insane, and he wanted desperately to be inside her, and he knew he couldn’t have both things at once.

Why not? Hasn’t she given me everything else I’ve ever wanted?

The thought came unbidden as his penis surged, and the skin there hardened even further than it already was, in anticipation of her.

Reflexively, he stepped over near her night stand, the place where they kept the condoms he used. “Now” would be the time he normally donned one of those. Muscles had memory, and his hand almost moved toward the drawer. He even glanced toward the night stand.

She caught the gesture, and shook her head “no,” and sat up so she could reach his hand. With a gentle tug, she had him on the mattress with her.

He stretched his long length out on top of her, letting her feel his command as she felt the proof of his desire.

Her warm smile grew just a little wicked, and she reached up for his hands.

“There are some who’d say you’re getting the milk for free,” she brushed her nose along his unusual one.

“We’ll have Father perform the ceremony. Soon,” he stated.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. We’ve gone along well enough without…“

His voice sounded strange, even to him.

“Don’t toy with me, Woman.” It was said with a growl, and the first time he’d ever called her “Woman,” as a name. He tried to anchor her hands over her head, but she simply slid hers in, willingly clasped to his. She maintained her prisoner’s position, beneath him, and the sultry look grew just a bit more challenging.

“Oh, I don’t think you remember who you’re talking to. I don’t like to be dictated to. I left a man who tried that, the night I blundered into you, remember? Don’t push your lu…“

His kiss was blistering, and he caught her tongue on the “l.” He devoured her lush mouth, and chased her tongue with his own, stroking and beguiling it. When he knew he had her panting, he let her up from the kiss.

“Luck?” he asked, finishing the sentence for her. “Oh, I don’t need luck,” his voice was impossibly deep, and gravel ridden. “I have something much better,” he said, surprised he could still speak, as he nestled against her curls, bare.

Perhaps this moment was too important to lose the ability to communicate with her… any way he could.

He moved into position and disentangled her hands from his, then held both her wrists with one large hand, as he reached between them.

“What’s that?” she asked coyly, knowing full well what he meant. Or thought she did.

“Knowledge,” he replied, surprising her.

He pressed in, slowly, glacially slowly, making her gasp.

His blue eyes were utterly piercing, even in the low light. “Mother of my child, I’ve had four years in your bed. Do you think I don’t know what pleases you?”

He rotated his hips, subtly, and then withdrew, almost completely, making her whimper in protest. The return was so fast, it robbed her of breath, and she shuddered, already very close to completion. It will be the first of several of those tonight, he vowed.

Her legs came up and wrapped around his waist. If he was determined to use sex as a means to an end, she was going to show him how to fight fire with fire.

“You think I don’t know the same?” she replied, bearing down inside, so that she gave him an enveloping squeeze. He groaned, and pulled slightly away from her, unable to resist the sensation of being massaged right where he was the most sensitive.

“There. Ohhhh.” His hips began to flex. “God, what you do to me.”

The sensation was exquisite and, for all its familiarity, wholly new.

He knew there was but one other time he’d been inside her unsheathed. He also knew he barely remembered it. She was impossibly soft inside, yet also firm. She fit herself to him and met each bare thrust with one of her own.

“Catherine…” his voice was a low rumble of passion and sublime need. Her muscular, rhythmic tremors were obliterating his sense of reason. How had he let a day go by without begging her for this?

She disentangled one hand easily, his concentration now directed far more at matters below his waist than above them. He felt her touch his cheek.

“I don’t want you to wear a condom again,” she said, loving the feeling almost as much as he did. “No matter what happens, this is how we’re meant to be, Vincent.”

It was as much a realization for her as it was for him, and what had begun in contrition, then changed to dominance, was now sheer passion between them.

“Catherine…” he tried to shake his head, tried to tell her they should wait, at least before they tried to conceive.

“Mind me.” She sounded like she was talking to her son. “If this is my fate… I accept it, gladly. Remember?”

He did, and he could have wept for it. He lost the rhythm as he buried his face in her neck, wanting to sob for the incredible sensation of being inside her, flesh to flesh.

He’d not known how much sensation the condoms they’d used had stolen from him, or even from her. That, as amazing as their lovemaking had ever been, Vincent realized now that it had been like touching her through a wall. A pliable wall, but a wall, nonetheless.

Her hips rose, in answer to his passion, and his reply was to remain locked inside her, feeling the soft undulations of her pleasure.

Mate. My mate. Please.

“Marry me. Please.” The words were a muffled plea, near her ear.

Her other hand came down and she wrapped her arms around his back. Now was not the time to tease.

“Of course I will. But Jake will always be our special one, our first.”

The words had their desired effect. He rocked back, then stayed buried, deep, pushing inward, trying to create another impossible centimeter of union between them.

She heard him cry out, into the pillow. An unintelligible sound, neither word nor growl. It was hard to accept that he had to let her do more than half of the giving, at least about some things. But it would have to be done if they were to continue without needless conflict and misunderstanding.

“Love me?” she asked it as a simple question, squeezing him with her arms, legs, and inside, just to show him how much she loved him.

His head came up, but he kept it close to hers. She wasn’t surprised to see the glimmer of tears in his eyes. He framed her face with his lion’s hands.

“Always,” he replied hoarsely, feeling his throat close around the word. He knew he could no longer speak. He kept his eyes pinned to hers as he started to move again.

The sensation was too sweet, and after a moment, he closed his eyes and lifted his head, affording her access to his strong, gorgeous throat.

Catherine fastened her mouth there, adoring him. The tightening of her hands on his back told him she was close, and he gloried in the knowledge, keeping himself steady, for her. He knew that to change tempo now meant that she’d have to start all over, internally, and he didn’t want to make her wait, owing to the fact that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could.

He growled low, in his throat, encouraging her. They both knew he could no longer form words.

When she exploded around him, it was with a soft, wet rush of heat and a groan from her. He kept his back arched, kept himself buried, knowing she was chasing a sensation, even as it was driving her.

She felt warmer than she ever had to him, and Vincent realized how much sensation the barrier of latex had taken from him, even as it had assured contraception.

Letting the silent tears flow, Vincent latently realized he’d never made love to his heart’s wife before, not really.

He felt her come up off the mattress, just a little, but grasping and gasping. Two spasms… three… there she was. There was his love. He kept his weight up, and levered off her, letting her chase her own pleasure.

I’m here. I’m here, Catherine. Take what you need. Take it all.

“I know you are,” she answered, straining one last time before she settled.

He stopped and looked down at her flushed face, and passion-dazed eyes. Something important had just happened. He controlled his breathing and reigned his beast back in, just a little.

“You know I’m what?” he asked, his voice a soft rumble, as she collected her wits.

“Here. I know you’re here,” she answered, shifting her leg. Now he would…

He remained still. “Catherine… I didn’t say… anything.”

She smiled slightly, and shook her head in negation.

“You said…  ‘I’m here. Take what you need. Take it all.’” She blushed as she quoted his thought.

“I thought it,” he clarified, still buried inside her. “I didn’t say it.”

He came back down, and she reached up to push his heavy hair back, just for the pleasure of touching his face.

“Didn’t you?” her brow knit in confusion, as she realized he was right.

He shook his head.

“Our bond?” she asked, feeling him grow more still inside her, even as he brought his stomach back down, so it aligned with hers. The feeling was utterly sumptuous.

He turned his head to one side and sensed her, through the mystical force that united them.

“I believe so.”

The sensation of total empathy fluttered away and Catherine felt it go, as her climax eddied.

The feeling of her, not just skin to skin, but sated, and trailing their bond, was his complete undoing. The barest thrust and he was there, explosively.

He all but snarled his completion, a thing they could rarely do inside their own chambers, thanks to their proximity to the nursery. His climax burst forth and chased hers through their bond, fading away like a soft echo.

“Oh… Vincent,” she sighed, adoring him. If only they’d known they could have had this, she’d never have had them use barrier protection.

“I want to hold you in our bond the moment we conceive our daughter. Promise me?” she said, locking her hands behind his neck.

“I vow it,” he replied, feeling his own desire fade to a soft hum, as he adored his woman. He stayed inside her, lax and replete.

“I love you so much, Catherine.”

“Enough to make a baby with me again?” she cooed. “You’re such an incredible father. Now that I think about it, it would be all but a crime if we had only one.”

The smile was a small one, but it was definitely there.

“A crime? Well. We can’t have that then, considering what you do for a living.” He brushed a tender kiss across her forehead. “What will you do? I… I need you to have at least some piece of that back. I want you to have… part of that life too, Catherine, somehow. I truly do.”

“Then we’ll have it,” she affirmed. “Or we’ll make it happen.” She nuzzled his blonde cheek with her smooth one. “And one day, maybe Jake will decide he wants that too. And we’ll go into practice together, the same way I did with my Dad.”

She shifted beneath him, letting him know his presence inside her was having certain effects.

“If he leaves to chase his own dreams… you have to promise to let him,” Vincent said, beginning to move… another virtue of having no barrier between them. He was beginning to harden again. He smiled near her ear.

“After all, that worked out quite well for his mother.”

~ ~ ~

“Finish your breakfast, Jacob. When you’re done, you can go visit your grandfather. Remind him that your uncle Peter is coming down for a visit today,” Mary said, keeping an eye on the happy child. Morning sounds were happening all around them, but Vincent and Catherine hadn’t returned home yet. Mary smiled to herself. An evening spent just with themselves for company was probably what the doctor ordered for those two, even if that doctor was Jacob, who originally had had his misgivings.

“I’m sure your parents will be along,” Mary added, watching him add another spoonful of brown sugar to his oatmeal. Jacob had a sweet tooth. Not unlike his father.

The blue eyes looked up, and a little to the left.

“Not right now. Sleeping. Daddy’s happy,” Jacob said, unaware of the particulars, but positive that he was right on all counts.

“Oh, is he now?” Mary asked, feeling that her favorite four-year-old might be teasing her, just a bit. Vincent seemed to need proximity to “read” people, with the obvious exception being Catherine. So far, Jake had been much the same.

“Mmm. Mommy too,” Jake said. “Can you keep a secret, Aunt Mary?” Jacob asked, stirring in the sugar, so it was well mixed. Jake didn’t like to bite into lumps of sugar.

“You know I can,” Mary replied, wiping down the small table with a cloth as she set his orange juice a safer distance from the edge.

There. That was better.

“I think I’m going to have a baby sister.”

Mary stopped her motions. “Oh? Jake dear, whatever makes you say that? Is your mother… expecting? Did you hear your parents talking?” She was immediately curious.

Jake shook his blonde head. “Not Mommy. Sissy. She’s been whispering to Daddy. Not here yet. But … maybe soon. We’ll see.”

He took a last bite of the sticky sweet mixture, wiped his mouth with his napkin, swallowed the last of his juice and hopped down.

“Uncle Peter’s coming. Yay!” Jake said, grabbing his stuffed dinosaur off his bed. “I’m going to wait at Grandpa’s.”

“Yes, Um…er… he said he’d be here at eleven… eleven o’ clock,” Mary answered, staring hard at the child, trying to discern him.

Surely he couldn’t…

“Kay. Bye, Aunt Mary. Thank you for breakfast.” He came around the table to her. “I ‘preshate it.”

He kissed her cheek and scampered off.

Mary put the lid back on the sugar bowl.

He’s only teasing. It couldn’t be…

~ ~ ~

“…and Mommy is pretty. And she likes it when you say ‘sorry.’ But you’ll be good. I’ll help you,” Jacob said, standing in the room full of cast off furniture. His old crib sat in front of him. He wasn’t big enough to carry it all the way back to his chamber by himself, so he’d decided to do the next best thing.

“Here. This is my favorite stuffed dinosaur,” he said, settling it inside the wooden frame. “It’s Stegosaurus. I’ll teach you how to read about him, when it’s time. And… I guess it’s okay if you like girl stuff. Mommy likes girl stuff. And like I told you, she’s pretty.”

He set the colorful toy inside the sleeping place. There. It didn’t look so empty now.

Thank you, Jacob, a small voice whispered. Big brother. I’m so excited! Do you think it will be soon?

Jacob shrugged his slender shoulders. “Don’t know. Think so. Springtime’s coming. Mommy and Daddy have an an’vers’ry. They get all mushy.”

A feminine giggle sounded near his ear. He’d been able to  hear her since Vincent had, before, truth to tell, though neither of them knew it. Jacob, born of two parents who carried a very special bond, felt its influence keenly. He knew his sister would do the same.

He smiled at the sound of her laughter.

“You laugh nice. Like Aunt Jenny. I like Jenny. Maybe that’s your name?”

Maybe, the voice came back, on a breathless sigh. Daddy says “Rose.” I don’t know. You’ll tell me, when they tell you? she asked.

Jacob smiled. She was small and happy, this tiny pixie, who had yet to officially come into the world.

“It will be the first thing I say to you when you’re born. ‘Hello, Jenny. Jennifer. Jennifer Rose,’” he corrected. “’I’m your big brother, Jacob. But that’s Grandpa’s name, so everybody calls me Jake.’”

He felt her smile, felt her joy.

I might not remember meeting you. We start fresh every time we happen. Like you did.

“Yeah. But I think we’re always a brother and a sister. I’ll take care of you, Jenny Rose. I promise. Hafta be patient. You’ll be here for Winterfest, maybe.”

Winterfest! The word in his mind conjured the image of dancing candlelight, and a very happy couple. Dancing not only with each other but with a tiny bundle wrapped in a pink blanket. Jacob saw himself looking down from atop Vincent’s shoulders. But the blanket was drawn over her tiny face, keeping her warm. He couldn’t tell what she looked like.

“I want to see! Do you look like Daddy? Or like Mommy?” he asked.

“No fair peeking,” came a cheerful voice from near an old rocker. “I haven’t even seen that yet. And I’m the one who’s going to paint it.”

“H’llo, Kristopher. You are?” Jake asked.

“Sure!” the jovial man-spirit replied, tugging down on his baseball cap.

Jake sent him a smile. Vincent and Catherine’s firstborn child was more than just “empathic.” Like his good friend Auntie Narcissa, he had a certain affection for all manner of friendly souls, both those of people who were still alive and, well…

“Mommy will like a picture. Where do you want me to find it?” Jake asked.

Kristopher shrugged. “I haven’t painted it yet. I figure I can’t even start it for say… a couple more weeks?”

A “couple more weeks” would be April 12th. A fairly famous anniversary and the one Jake had just been thinking about. It had been marked on the family calendar since the beginning of the year.

“That should be good,” Jake replied. April 12th had always been a rather magical day for his family. Kristopher smiled.

“You’ll stay with Jenny? So she won’t get lonely while she’s waiting?” Jake asked. Jake knew that Jenny could talk to him anytime she wanted. But just in case.

“Jenny. So, that’s her name?” Kristopher beamed. “I like it. ‘Jenny kiss’d me when we met, jumping from the chair she sat in.’ Leigh Hunt.”

“She’s not gonna kiss you. She’s gonna kiss me. I’m her brother,” Jake said, with great self-importance.

“That she is, little man, that she is,” Kristopher agreed, ruffling his blonde hair, fondly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t steal one now and then though, does it?” he asked.

Jake smiled, giving the stuffed dinosaur a pat. He wasn’t necessarily as fond of poetry as his father was, or of kissing, as his mother was. But he knew the sound of a good verse when he heard it.

Jenny was pleased too. He could feel her warm presence as she settled near the toy. At the foot of the now not-so-empty crib, Kristopher beamed.

“Daddy will come down and get the cradle soon. You’re gonna like living here,” Jacob said to her, with a happy smile.

~ ~ ~

And by the time Winterfest came around, she did.

Beauty Among the Ruins

by Allison Duggins

*R- Strong Language and Violence*

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

Edmund Burke

~ ~ ~

The wall of the brownstone’s basement appeared to have been broken through from the outside, as if by a battering ram. Catherine didn’t question why… she knew.

Looking back, before taking her hand, Vincent led her through the ragged hole in the wall, into a passageway...and they disappeared into the mystery of the world Below...

~ ~ ~

Detective Hermann walked down the stairs and stood with several of his patrolmen, surveying the devastation in the townhouse entryway.

"So you got any ideas?" one of the patrolmen asked.

The detective shook his head. "No...looks like they were mauled...by a lion."

As they searched the townhouse, Hermann and his men moved through the splintered basement door, down the stairs leading into the basement.

"Some pretty strange things going on in this city..." His voice trailed off as he discovered the hole in the basement wall and the passageway beyond. "...And I hear there are even stranger things going on underneath it..." He and the others examined the area in greater detail. "I don't know what happened here, but I'm going to find out."

~ ~ ~

Hermann leaned back in his office chair and closed his eyes. He sighed, recalling the puzzling incident at the townhouse.

Martin Belmont and his henchmen were all dead. That was a given fact. And it had been nasty. Hermann had seen a lot of crime scenes in his time, but nothing this mysterious, or baffling.

The bad guys’ battered bodies were sprawled throughout the entryway. They appeared to have been ripped to shreds.

But, by what? Or, was that a who? Hermann shook his head.

Gathering his thoughts, he looked at the small stack of files on the corner of his desk. Each file showing men killed in a similar fashion. When he went to speak to his captain about it, he was told...

"Look, Lou. We have real cases going on out there. When lowlifes kill lowlifes, take it as a favor and go look out for the people who actually obey the law, okay?"

“Okay…” Hermann had nodded, to keep the peace. But he didn’t agree. Not a bit!

So he put the word out to send him anything that sounded similar and that’s where the twelve files on his desk had come from. Each file was a man's biography and how he had met his untimely end. All the files were somewhat still active, just no one was taking any interest in them.

"I must be crazy," he mumbled, as he brought his mind back to the present and the case file in front of him. "I'll take these home with me and go through them again. Maybe something will jump out this time." He recalled the conversation he’d had with one of the coroners over lunch recently.

"All the victims in each of these killings have the same particular slash pattern on the abdomen and upper torso and sometimes show other signs of being attacked with great force. Most died with a look of abject terror on their faces. I'm surprised no one ever figured out the slash pattern looked similar in each of these cases."

"So am I, Doc. So am I. Maybe no one's as interested as I am."

"Why are you so interested in this, Detective?"

“I guess I don't like leaving a case unsolved, for any reason."

"I can understand that," the coroner said. "If any others happen to show up, I will call you."

"Thanks Mike. I appreciate it."

~ ~ ~

"You're crazy! They'll never let you get away with it."

The man at the window turned, the afternoon sun glinted off the golden mask he always wore on the left side of his face.

"What better way to get Vincent out of the way permanently, Mr. Denton? So we will create the situation exactly as Father has always feared. Expose Vincent for the entire world to see. Without Vincent to protect them, it'll be child’s play to remove Jacob from his throne. It has always been mine."

Mitch looked around the Sutton Place apartment. He couldn’t get used to it. Too rich and overdone for his taste. It made him feel uneasy. Like an insignificant fly caught in the web of a very large, and evil spider. He didn’t like to think he wasn’t in charge.

He looked back to his host. "What about Vincent's lady friend? I could probably take her out. It's the ‘how’ I'm not so sure of. Her going missing permanently would stir up a whole hornet’s nest."

"Never fear. I have plans for her as well. By the time I'm finished, her reputation will be ruined and she'll spend the rest of her life in prison. And...if she should happen to come to harm...well..." Paracelsus shrugged, as he gave a disinterested laugh.

"Prison? You really think you'll be able to pull that off?"

"Patience, dear boy. All in good time. All in good time."

Mitch wondered what the hell he had gotten himself involved in, helping Paracelsus, of all people. But if his plans took Vincent down a few pegs and got rid of Chandler...so be it.

~ ~ ~

Matt Smith was surprised when the old man contacted him.

Said he had a specific job for him and boy, what a job it turned out to be. Here he was, following and practically spying on a beautiful woman.

"What the...?" He silently exclaimed. He saw movement near her, as she stood outside the large drainage culvert. He focused his camcorder, as the shadowy figure emerged and moved toward her. A shaft of moonlight hit the couple, and the figure's face was clearly visible through his lens.

"Holy shit!" he muttered. He tried to hold the camera steady on the figure's face, taking in the leonine features and profile. But he was rattled, and he knew it.

He firmed his sweaty grip. He set the video camera down and took out the 35mm that he used for his photography assignments. He took several shots of the figure and of the woman with him.

He had become rather deft at following Catherine Chandler. She almost caught him a few times, but he managed to duck just in time. He even found an apartment across the park from hers with a perfect view of her balcony. He recalled getting some great shots there too. He made sure he got close-ups of both figures as well as close-ups of the intimate embraces they shared.

"The old man said this guy was some sort of freak, but he didn't get the half of it. I can understand why. I wonder what the old boy has in mind with this. He sure is paying me enough."

He managed to get a few more shots before the couple moved back into the drainage tunnel. He waited a good twenty minutes to see if Catherine would return, but when she didn't, he packed up his gear and headed back to his studio to develop the pictures and wait for the old man to contact him.

~ ~ ~

A few weeks later, Detective Hermann found himself in an abandoned warehouse, littered with the remains of five more men killed in the same manner as the other bodies before them.

He also found Mitch Denton, cowering and balling like a baby, on top of a catwalk. Denton begged the detective to take him to jail.

As his men escorted Denton out, Hermann asked him, "Who or what did this, Denton? Do you know?"

Mitch cowered back. His lips worked, but he said nothing. He had the look of someone whose shit had thoroughly been chilled.

He recovered enough to snarl, "Get me the hell outta here and I'll tell you anything you want to know. And everything, okay?"

Mitch remembered his conversation with Paracelsus. It had been very unpleasant, and Mitch had been happy to escape the man’s clutches with his life intact.

Now he thought, 'The cop will never believe me but he looks like he's seen this type of killing before. So maybe, just maybe, he will. That'll get the cops looking for Vincent, and maybe go after Chandler as well. It was the best offer on the table anyway.'

Hermann waved him away. "Take him downtown. I don't want anyone talking to him but me. Understand?"

"Yes sir," the officer answered, as he started pulling Mitch toward the door to the warehouse.

The detective grilled Mitch for over six hours once he was arrested and processed. Denton waived his right to an attorney due to the fact that he thought he'd be better off in prison instead of running the docks where Paracelsus, or worse, Vincent would find him.

Whatever Paracelsus had planned, his henchmen had paid for it with their lives. Now their master had gone to ground, to plan and scheme anew. Paracelsus could use the information Matt Smith was able to dig up on Chandler. But it was a long shot.

Mitch hoped it would pay off. He was tired of games. He only wanted to see the inside of a cellblock, and find some peace.

Hermann got plenty to work with. Once the detective was finished with Denton, he found himself itching to speak to Catherine Chandler.

He didn't believe Mitch's story, but it sounded too impossible not to give it a run through, given the evidence he had.

He checked with Lang General and they had no explanation for how Chandler ended up on the steps of their emergency room. He had a man stationed there now, to wait on news of her surgery to remove a bullet.

He would check with ballistics to match it against the gun Mitch had dropped from the catwalk.

He was aware Chandler was lucky to be found when she was. Any longer, they said, and she would have bled to death.

Hermann knew what kind of shit storm would have come his way, if the woman had died. She had powerful friends and a rich family. It never paid to go against such people. It would mean his badge, if he stuffed up.

He also knew it would be a while before he could talk with Catherine Chandler, herself.

Wearily, he made his way home where he found an old man waiting for him, holding a manila envelope.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend."

"Friend, huh? What do you want, friend?"

"The same as you. To find the mystery killer in this city. I might be able to help you."

Then the old man handed the envelope to Hermann. "Everything you need to find Vincent is in there."

"You...You know this Vincent? Denton's story is true?"

"Yes, I know him."

"Okay, this is a start. So, where can I find him?"

"The woman will lead you to him. Catherine Chandler. If you handle it right. I'll return, after you've talked to her."

The old man turned and left before Hermann could think to reply. Shaking his head, he entered his apartment and poured himself a round of Scotch. He dumped the contents of the envelope onto his coffee table.

His mouth swung open in disbelief. He forgot to drink his Scotch.

“What gives?” He saw numerous photographs of this Vincent character with Catherine Chandler. She was close enough to get killed.

And then there were photos of the creature himself. There was also surveillance footage on a VHS tape marked as evidence of the recent killing at the warehouse.

Hermann pushed it into his player and switched it on. The television flickered to life and showed stark evidence of sheer brutality. There was this Vincent character, snapping the necks of two of Denton's goons and slashing the others, like they were animals to be slaughtered as efficiently as possible.

This Vincent beast had killed before, that much was obvious.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Hermann swallowed his Scotch in one mouthful, and reached for the bottle. Then he rewound the tape…

~ ~ ~

After Mitch was released on bail, pending trial for shooting Catherine, Paracelsus sent him word of their next meeting. He reminded Mitch of the plan they had worked out.

The Sutton Place apartment was as stuffy and dark as before. The sense of unease crept back into Mitch’s spine. But he decided to tough it out, put a good face on it, and hope the old man didn’t notice his knees were almost knocking together.

He wished he could sit down, but he doubted that would be allowed. He didn’t ask. So he stood in the middle of the rich carpet, like a schoolboy hauled before the headmaster, and tried to look like he was relieved.

"Hey, man, thanks for bailing me out.” He wiped the palm of his sweaty hand down the side of his trousers.

Paracelsus shrugged elegantly. "For my plan to work, I need you on the street."

Oh, shit… Mitch blinked. "You're still gonna try and go through with this crazy scheme?"

Paracelsus laughed. "Why not? Just because you got greedy? That doesn't matter to me. Everything you need has been provided for you. You'll know when the time is right."

"You're crazy, you know that. But taking down those two could be worth it. As long as we don’t get caught."

“I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

Paracelsus encouraged Mitch closer with a demanding hand. He placed a large bag of gold coins on the edge of the desk. Mitch assessed it with greedy eyes.

It was payment for what happened to Catherine. Mitch’s master told him where he should wait until he was called. He was not to get arrested again. It wasted precious time.

“You’re the boss.” Mitch grabbed the bag, and quickly left Paracelsus in the overly perfumed darkness of the apartment. He made his way to wherever destiny would eventually take him.

~ ~ ~

Six weeks went by. Hermann kept a low profile, working on his other cases at the precinct and tracking details on the other files on his own time. He brought the twelve files home with him and laid them out on the table, along with the information the old man had given him.

He heard through the grapevine that Catherine was back at work at the DA's office.

Now's as good a time as any to talk to her, he thought as he gathered his notes.

Hermann made his way to the DA's office. As he walked through the door, he saw Catherine sitting at her desk.

She looked better in person. She had a winsome beauty he liked.

She looked up and saw him. An irritated frown marred the smoothness of her forehead, as if she already knew he was coming. He shrugged, slowly making his way over to her.

"Miss Chandler, I'd like to talk to you about Vincent, and the men he's killed.''

Catherine glared at him. Her features showed a look of suspicion, and some apprehension. "Vincent? I don't know who you mean."

Hermann leaned on the edge of her desk beside her. "Mitch Denton told me all about Vincent. I’ve been chasing this story for months. Don’t ya think I’m tired of playing games by now?"

Catherine moved back in her chair. "Mitch Denton is a bitter liar, a thief and a drunkard," she said roundly. "He blames me for the consequences of his choices. Whatever Mitch told you about Vincent, is probably an outright lie..."

"I thought you said you didn't know anyone called Vincent," Hermann replied, smoothly.

“I…” Catherine realized her mistake too late, but didn't say anything else.

"Well, I don't believe you. I have all I need to go after this ‘Vincent’ and bring him to justice." Then Hermann pulled out the photo of her and Vincent in an intimate embrace. “So who’s this, then?”

"Where did you get this? This isn't real." She frowned at the photo.

"Oh, it's real all right. That's not all I have, Miss Chandler." Hermann watched her go pale at the comment. "I have pictures and video of the two of you, together."

"Where did you get these so-called pictures? I want to talk to your source."

"My source wishes to remain anonymous. I'll find this Vincent, Miss Chandler, and when I do, he'll face justice for the men he’s killed. Including Detective Yates."

Catherine flared. "Yates was a dirty cop who killed Perotta because he wanted to turn his partner and the others in for taking drug money."

"Yeah, he might have been dirty, but he didn't deserve to die the way he did."

Catherine knew she wouldn't be able to convince him this way.

"I will not allow you to hurt Vincent, or those he cares for and protects. Be very sure of that. I can and will take matters into my own hands if you so much as breathe a word of this, to anyone."

"Is that a threat, Miss Chandler?"

"Not a threat, Detective Hermann. I'll prove any information you have is false. No matter what it takes." Catherine glared at Hermann, as Joe came into view after hearing Catherine's raised voice.

"You okay, Radcliffe? What's going on?"

"I'm fine, Joe. Detective Hermann was just leaving." She quickly covered the picture of her and Vincent with a file.

Hermann saw her reflex action, and shrugged in disbelief. "We'll talk again, Miss Chandler. You can bet on it." He knew then that he had her.

"You're wasting your time, Detective." Catherine’s green eyes snapped with displeasure. “Do not come here again.”

"It's my time to waste. I'll get to the bottom of this, Miss Chandler. Even if I have to charge you with obstruction."

"Now, wait a minute," Joe started.

Catherine held up a denying hand. "Don't, Joe. It's personal. Nothing involving any cases I'm working on here."

"Good day, Miss Chandler. Mr. Maxwell." Hermann walked away with a smile on his face.

"Cathy, what the hell was that all about?" Joe asked.

"Let it go, Joe. As I said, it's personal."

"Personal?! He's willing to charge you with obstruction!" He folded his arms. “You’re gonna need a good lawyer.”

"He can try, Joe.” Cathy was wearing her poker face. “But he won't get very far. I know what I'm doing. Believe me."

"If you're sure then." Joe shook his head. “But, don’t forget I’m here, Radcliffe.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine sent a message via Benny for Vincent to meet her at her threshold. She knew he would be worried, having felt her anger and agitation after her conversation with Detective Hermann.

She quickly left her office and made her way to her building. Once there, the trip to the storage area was short work, and soon the doors to the world Below opened. She heard Vincent's quiet whisper just as she locked the door behind her.

"Vincent…" she said with a concerned voice, worried that Detective Hermann might have followed her, but she didn't see him.

"Catherine? What is it? What's wrong?"

She quietly explained her conversation with the detective, and showed Vincent the picture Hermann left with her.

"We face a much more urgent problem than placing blame on how he found out," Vincent began. "What if he told my secret? Who would believe him?"

He took a short turn about the tunnel. “Perhaps rather than concealing the truth from this man, we should tell him who I am. About the tunnels. He must be made aware of its importance."

"I think this man has a good heart and a conscience. If he understood that people's lives depended on him keeping this secret, I believe he could be trusted. I'd like the chance to try," Catherine commented.

"I'll have to tell him my very existence lies here, in these tunnels. It is my salvation. I couldn't exist elsewhere. Without the tunnels, there is nothing for me. We will make him aware that my secret will now be in his hands." Vincent was worried, but it was clearly the only way.

"I'll set up a meeting with him in my apartment. There's no need to actually show him the tunnels. Just telling him they exist should be enough," she hoped.

"Come Below this weekend?"

"I'll set it up for next week sometime. Tomorrow's Friday. I'll call him in the morning and come down right after work."

"Your chamber will be awaiting you upon your arrival, as will I."

She bid him goodnight, and worriedly watched him go.

~ ~ ~

Catherine called Hermann the next morning and informed him that Vincent was willing to meet with him. She set the appointment up for the following Wednesday evening.

"I have your word, Detective. You'll come alone."

"Yes, Miss Chandler. You have my word. I'll come alone. I am looking forward to this."

"Thank you, Detective."

~ ~ ~

Hermann had heard from others that she was a tough nut to crack, but that photo had really spooked her. He put his desk to rights and headed for home.

Once there, he poured himself a splash of Jack Daniels and settled on the couch to watch the news.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door.

"Who is it?"

"Detective Hermann..."

Hermann recognized the old man's voice as he went to answer the door.

He didn't trust the old guy, not really. But he seemed so innocent, so nonchalant.

And after all, he was the one who had given him the information on the Vincent character, with pictures to prove his theory. The old man was the reason Hermann was able to rattle Catherine Chandler, and he knew it.

Hermann frowned at the man standing on his doorstep. "I wanna talk to you. How did you find out where I lived? Where did those pictures come from? Who are you, and how do you know Miss Chandler? Who, or better yet, what, is Vincent?"

The old man didn’t answer immediately. He walked into the apartment like he owned it and then turned as Hermann closed the door behind him.

"Did you talk to the woman?" he asked.

"Yeah. It took a while but she finally admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that she knew this Vincent guy. Your photos will help me get him. I'm supposed to meet with the two of them next week. She promised to tell me everything."

The old man smiled. But it was chilling, and Herman felt a frisson of fear creep up his spine.

"Of that I have no doubt," his visitor said smoothly.

Paracelsus clicked the hidden switch and the long blade slid out from his sleeve, hidden from Hermann's view. Then, without even seeing the blade, Hermann felt an explosion of pain in his stomach, like he’d been hit hard by a coward’s punch.

He gasped for air, as his lungs burned. Time slowed to a crawl as he looked down to see the silver blade carve its way inside him, digging deeper, as a crimson blush spread across his shirt. It was given a final twist, and then came another powerful thrust.

Hermann clutched the man’s shoulder, level with his staring eyes. But he was pushed back with ease, by a powerful hand.

He heard the old man comment, in a resigned voice, “The world is so full of fools.”

The blade was suddenly removed, as smoothly as it entered his body, and he heard a satisfied laugh.

But he could not reply or fight back. The searing pain had stopped his voice, beyond an agonized groan.

Lou gagged, tasting blood in his mouth, as he hit the living room wall before slumping onto the carpet. Above his head the TV news reader droned on, as if nothing had happened.

Paracelsus followed him down, to lay a comforting hand on the detective’s shoulder. "It's better if you don't fight."

"Why?" Lou managed to whisper.

Hermann never heard the answer, if there was one. Blackness took his vision and his hearing, and then, there was nothing…

As a pool of blood started to coagulate around the body, Paracelsus opened the front door with his gloved hand to admit Tamara. She pulled an identical blade with a handle out of a plastic bag. Her gloved hand held the blade so Paracelsus could see it close up.

"You're sure her prints are there, on the handle?" Paracelsus asked her.

"Positive. Your man did a beautiful job, transferring Catherine's prints from the glass she held, onto the blade's handle," Tamara said, as she wiped the blade with Hermann's blood and placed it next to the detective's body.

"You took care of him, of course?" Paracelsus asked.

"Certainly. As well as the waitress who brought me the glass Catherine used at lunch a few days ago. No one will ever know you and I were involved. What about them?" Tamara's eyes glanced at the table.

Paracelsus removed the packet of photos of Vincent and Catherine from among the case files on the table, as well as the videotape from the warehouse. He wanted the evidence to come out in stages, making it all the more damning.

“I have plans for them.”

The photos would be found in the Chandler woman’s apartment. It would be from an anonymous tip, of course.

He smiled at Tamara. "Once Vincent is out of the way, then the next phase of my plan can begin. Poor Jacob. Always counting on Vincent for protection. Soon he will have no one to help him, and no one to stand in my way. But then, I always beat him at chess."

"What about the man who took the photos?"

"What do you think happened?" Paracelsus shrugged. “He served his purpose and then was disposed of, like all the others."

They took one more look around the apartment.

"Ahhh, one more piece needs to be added."

Tamara took a piece of paper with Catherine's name, as well as her home and work numbers, and placed it next to his phone. They then left the apartment, leaving Detective Hermann to his inevitable fate.

~ ~ ~

After a frustrating night interviewing Detective Hermann's neighbors, Greg sat down at his desk with a hot cup of coffee. His phone rang.

"Hello." He barked, as his coffee sloshed over parts of his desk. "Great, just great. This is starting to be one hell of a week."

"Detective Hughes? This is Sam, from the crime lab."

"Hey Sam. You got something on one of my cases, I hope?"

"Yeah, Lou Hermann's. I ran the knife your boys found for prints."

"And?"

"You won't believe whose prints came back. I can't believe it myself."

"Slow down, Sam. Whose prints are you talking about?" Greg asked.

"Catherine Chandler's."

"What? You're crazy!" Greg’s coffee was in imminent danger of spilling, as he quickly stood up from his desk.

"I ran the test myself. Twice. Both times, the same result."

"I don't believe it. Not her."

"Greg..."

Hughes recognized the tone in his friend’s voice.

"Hey Sam, do me a favor. Send them to O'Rourke over at the FBI office in Brooklyn. He owes me a favor. Tell him to put a rush on it.

“Sure.”

“I'm sorry, Sam, but you must have made a mistake. Can't be Chandler. No way. Can't be. She's no killer."

"I'll contact him right away, Greg. I hope, for your sake, I'm wrong. I know she's a friend."

Greg settled back down. "Thanks, Sam. Hey, can you keep a lid on this for the time being?"

"Yeah. I'll pull the files on this one for now, till your friend either proves me wrong, or verifies my findings. Greg, what are you going to do if I'm right?"

"I don't know, Sam. I don't know."

~ ~ ~

The following day O'Rourke called Greg.

"I double checked your crime lab's findings, Greg. They are a positive match for the set they sent over matching Catherine Chandler’s."

"You're sure, Rick?"

"I'm sure, Greg. I'm sending you a copy of the report via messenger. You should have it by the end of the day. Your friend Sam said you wanted to keep this confidential."

"For now. Thanks, Rick."

"Don't be a stranger, Greg."

"I'll call you. Soon."

Greg hung up the phone and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He wondered at the reaction he was going to get from the DA's office.

"Shit! Maxwell's gonna have a coronary when he finds out. I pray Cathy's got an alibi for this weekend. If she doesn't, I'll have no choice but to take her in."

~ ~ ~

Greg reluctantly walked into the DA's office the following day. He asked one of the passing interns if they knew where Cathy Chandler was. He was informed she was with Mr. Maxwell in his office. Hesitantly, he knocked on Joe's door.

"Come on in," he heard Joe call out.

As Greg entered, he saw Catherine and Edie sitting on the couch with Joe perched on the corner of his desk.

"Cathy...Edie...Hey, Joe."

"Hey Greg. What's up?" Joe started to rise.

"Something I hope can be fixed easily.” Greg spread his hands in apology. He turned to Catherine. “Catherine, I've got to ask you something. Where were you Saturday night?"

"What's this about?" Joe asked.

"Why?" Catherine questioned.

"Just answer the question. Please, Cathy…"

"I went away for the weekend."

"Can anyone verify that? Were you with someone?"

Catherine hesitated, then reluctantly answered Greg's question. "No. I can't verify it."

"Damn! I was afraid of that." Greg looked from Joe to Catherine.

"Cathy, I'm afraid you're gonna have to come down to the station with me."

"Now wait one damn minute!" Joe exploded.

"Joe, its procedure. You know that. I've got to take her in… on suspicion of murder."

"Murder? Cathy? You're crazy, Greg! Whose murder are we talking about?"

Catherine and Edie looked at Greg in shock, as Greg gave his answer.

"Detective Lou Hermann's. We found his body late last night. His partner Jackson went to his apartment and found his front door ajar. When he went in to investigate, he found Lou's body in his living room and a knife lying next to him.

“I'm sorry, Cathy, but the crime lab confirmed your prints were on the knife Jackson found."

"Joe..."

"Don't worry, Radcliffe. We'll get to the bottom of this. Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"

"My dad. He’ll be so worried. Would you also call Jenny, Elliot and Peter? Tell them all what's happened. I'd rather they heard it from you than on the six o'clock news. My dad will be straight down to the station. This case won’t stand, I just know it."

"Sure, okay, Radcliffe. Whatever you need. Right away. Hey, Cathy, Burch and I will figure this out. Don't say anything till we get you a lawyer."

Joe glared at Greg. "C'mon, Greg, she's gonna need someone, right?"

Greg reluctantly nodded, and then escorted Catherine out of Joe's office.

“I’ll get right on it. See what I can dig up.” Edie followed them out of the office.

“Thanks, Edie.” Joe nodded.

Joe punched out the last number he had for Elliot's office. "Burch? It’s Joe Maxwell. I’m seriously gonna need your help. You up for it?"

"Now, how can I help the mighty Joe Maxwell, and the DA's office?" He said sarcastically. “And how much is it going to cost me?”

"Dammit, Burch! Catherine's in trouble and I don't need any of your bullshit right now!"

Elliot’s tone changed, immediately. "Why the hell didn’t you say that, first?!” Elliot demanded, his attention fully focused. “What’s happened, when, and why?"

Joe hunched behind his desk. "Not over the phone."

"Okay…” Elliot agreed. “Come to my office. I'll have my investigator Cleon Manning meet us here."

"I’ll be there ASAP."

"I'll be waiting."

Hanging up, Joe immediately called Charles Chandler. The call did not go well.

The old man seemed to be blaming Joe for the current mess his daughter was in. Like if Cathy hadn’t come to work for the DA’s office…

Joe knew he’d been well and truly told off and it stung, but it couldn’t be helped. He gave the details as he knew them and hung up, before he said something both men would regret.

But he was glad Cathy had her dad in her corner. The guy might be a rich, corporate lawyer, but he had a reputation for being doggedly tough when the chips were down.

And they surely had been slammed down now.

Time to play the best hand they’d been dealt and hope to win. Joe hurled a couple of darts at his board, to work out his thinking.

Then he phoned Jenny and Peter, trying to explain what happened. He told them that as soon as he had more information, he would let them know.

~ ~ ~

Vincent felt a flash of fear and apprehension from Catherine. He knew she was at the DA's office, so there was no danger to speak of. He knew Catherine was worried about the detective questioning her, and thought that was what he was feeling.

He made his way to the nearest tunnel entrance by the DA's office, to wait for Catherine to come to him.

He waited for over an hour. He could feel her apprehension growing, and wondered what was going on.

There was a sudden tapping from the pipes with a message from Pascal, summoning him to Father's chambers.

Vincent hesitated, torn between wanting to wait a little longer for Catherine and answering Father's call.

Another round of tapping sounded. This time, the message said it concerned Catherine, and to return to Father's chamber immediately.

Vincent quickly made his way back and soon found himself staring at Peter as he entered.

"What's happened?"

"Catherine's been...detained," he said.

“Detained? Why?"

"Her boss said they took her down to the police station, to question her regarding the recent murder of a detective."

Vincent’s heart missed a beat. "Did he happen to mention the detective's name?"

Peter frowned. "Lou Hermann. Why?"

Vincent exhaled deeply. "That was the detective Catherine told me about. He's the one who was investigating her about...unsolved killings...in some of her cases."

"Oh." Father and Peter both said, in dawning comprehension.

"I was going to meet with him, talk to him. Try to explain..."

Jacob rose. "Vincent, what were you thinking?" Father exclaimed.

"I was thinking of trying to protect the woman I love," Vincent said, in a whisper.

"Vincent, was Catherine with you this weekend? I hate to invade your privacy but...under the circumstances. You understand…" Peter awkwardly asked.

It was Jacob who answered. "Yes. Catherine was Below and stayed in one of the guest chambers," Father stated.

"Are you sure?" Peter asked.

"She was...with me..." Vincent hesitated. "Catherine was never out of my sight the entire weekend," he finished quietly.

"You mean..." Father stammered.

"Yes Father, I've spent each minute with her since she came Below Friday, day and night, until she left this morning to return to work. We were never apart."

"Vincent..." Father couldn't believe what his son was saying.

"I'm happy to hear that, but that doesn't solve the immediate problem,” Peter stated. “We can't give Catherine an alibi without compromising the tunnels and exposing you."

Peter had more bad tidings. “Her father is heading over there now. But there is only limited information she can give him. This doesn’t look good, for any of us.”

Vincent pulled himself erect. "I can give her the alibi she needs. I can go to the authorities..."

"Vincent, you can't. Catherine wouldn't want you to do that! There has to be another way, another explanation," Peter told him.

Father held up a hand. "Peter's right, Vincent. We'll find another way to help Catherine. Exposing yourself would only cause more problems and raise questions that you and she would refuse to answer."

"I know, but..."

"We love her too, Vincent." Peter put his hand on Vincent's shoulder.

Vincent nodded, as Peter continued. "Joe Maxwell said he was contacting Elliot Burch to help figure this mess out, and hopefully get to the bottom of it. If anyone can find out who framed Cathy, they can. And her father will not let her stay in jail a minute longer than needed."

“Very well…” Vincent sagged. "Thank you, Peter, for everything."

Peter buttoned his coat, preparing to leave. "As soon as I know more, I’ll send word."

~ ~ ~

Joe was shown into Elliot's office as soon as he arrived. As he walked in, Joe heard Elliot and another man talking in low voices. Both men turned as he came closer.

Joe nodded to Elliot. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."

Elliot indicated his investigator. "Joe Maxwell, Cleon Manning."

Both men shook hands. "Cleon is one of the best investigators in the business. It’s why I pay him such a huge retainer."

"I hope so. Cathy's gonna need it," Joe sighed.

"Okay, Joe, now that the niceties are over with, what in blue blazes did you get her involved in to warrant her being questioned by the police? What bullshit investigation was it this time?"

"Hey! Slow down, Burch! Cathy wasn't involved with anything important enough to cause this. A detective came to ask her some questions a couple days ago about unsolved killings related to her investigations."

"Detective?" Cleon inquired.

"Yeah," Joe said hesitantly. "The one who was killed the other night."

Elliot held up a hand. "I read about it in the paper. Whoa! Wait! They think Cathy killed him?"

Joe shrugged. "Greg knows she didn't do it. But, Elliot, she told him she doesn't have an alibi for that weekend. She won't reveal who she was with. And I know it wasn't you, so don't even start making it up as you go along.” He held up a staying hand. “Also, Cathy's prints were found on the murder weapon. A knife, next to the detective's body."

The tall black man smoothed his patterned tie as he walked across the room. "That’s damning, but it can be explained away, given the right lawyer,” Cleon replied. “Do you know how Miss Chandler's prints got onto the knife?"

"How the hell should I know?” Joe asked. “That's what I thought Burch brought you in for, hot shot! So you and your high-end retainer can get to the bottom of it!”

Joe stood close to the other man. “If you can't figure it out, stay out of my way and I'll find the bastard who did this. Even if I have to tear this city apart, brick by brick."

Elliot stepped between them. "Calm down, Maxwell. Cleon does have a valid point. If it’s bad enough that she’s being held, the frame-up is pretty complete. But there has to be a loophole somewhere. We just need to find it.”

He rubbed his fingers along his whiskered jaw. “No alibi and prints on the murder weapon. It is all just too neat, too organized.” He turned to his investigator. “Any ideas?"

"Yeah…" Cleon began. "I know a guy who's an expert at pulling off something like this. If it’s him, he'll tell me who hired him, even if I have to break every bone in his body to get him do it. And for good measure, I’ll go search Miss Chandler’s apartment.” He buttoned his coat. “If she’s locked up, we don’t want any surprises sprung on us by the guy who did this, whoever he is."

"Just make sure your expert is still able to testify," Joe cautioned. “And I didn’t hear a word about you planning a little breaking and entering on Cathy’s apartment.”

"Don't worry. He only needs to keep his tongue to do that. He'll tell us whatever we need to know." Cleon nodded. “And Miss Chandler will never know I’ve been in her place. It’s what Elliot pays me for... discretion.”

The black man frowned at Joe. “You might want to make an official search, say tomorrow morning. Keep it above board. I’ll remove anything I find.” He left quickly, leaving the two men staring at each other.

"Look, Burch...uh...Elliot...I'm sorry for my outburst earlier."

"I understand perfectly, Joe. You love her too," Elliot shrugged. "Don't look so surprised. Like you, I'm caught in Catherine's spell myself. But I struck out. Now, I envy whoever the man is who has captured Cathy's heart. I would alibi her myself, if only she would let me, which she won’t." Burch sighed.

Joe headed for the door.

"I'm counting on you, Elliot!" he said, as he departed.

~ ~ ~

Greg and Catherine entered the 33rd Street Precinct shortly after they left the DA's office. Greg gave her the courtesy of not handcuffing her, for which Catherine was extremely grateful. He led her to a conference room off to the side, and offered her one of the chairs at the table.

"So, Cathy, you wanna tell me how on earth your prints got onto the knife that killed Detective Hermann?"

"Greg, believe me. I had nothing to do with his death."

"I know you, Catherine. I don't think you are capable of this."

"Thanks, Greg. I appreciate it." She was sincere.

He asked the next question casually, almost idly. "So, where were you this weekend?"

Catherine stared at him, silently.

Greg set his jaw. "Cathy, give me something, for Pete's sake. No one else in this office knows about your prints but me, so far."

Catherine looked at him.

"I told Sam at the Crime Lab to keep this between us. I told my friend at the FBI who verified it the same thing." He tried to impress her that he’d already gone out of his way to try to help her.

"I can't tell you," she said softly.

"Why not?"

"It's complicated."

He leaned over the conference table, for emphasis. "If you don't give me someone who can verify where you were this weekend, I'll have no choice but to charge you with Lou Hermann's murder. You know that."

"I know, Greg. I'm sorry but I'm not saying anything else."

"Jesus, Cathy! Someone? Anyone?"

"I can't."

"Come on! Work with me here. You have to give me something."

“I’m sorry, Greg.” Catherine raised her shoulders in denial. “I just can’t.”

Greg sighed gustily. “Suit yourself.” He turned and walked out of the conference room.

He called one of the officers over and asked him to keep an eye on Catherine, and not to allow her to leave. The officer nodded, as Greg walked over to his desk.

He knew he could hold his suspect for forty-eight hours, before he was forced to charge her. Or let her go.

Once Greg cooled down, he went back to talk to Catherine. She continued to refuse to reveal who she was with, or where she was.

"I'm going to hold you here until you tell me, Cathy."

"I understand,” she said steadily. “You do what you have to, Greg."

She was giving him no choice, and they both knew it. "Then, Catherine, I am holding you till Joe can clear this up if he can. If he can't, I have no choice but to formally charge you with Lou's murder."

"I didn't do it, Greg, but I understand."

He turned to the uniformed officer who’d been watching Catherine. "McKenzie, take Miss Chandler to a holding cell. Special privileges."

"Right, Greg. This way, Miss Chandler."

~ ~ ~

"Damn, this guy is good. Getting rid of any loose ends so they don't squeal if they're caught. Aww, Calvin," Cleon looked down at the dead body. "Your talents finally caught up with you."

Cleon proceeded to search Calvin's room for clues.

"Oh.....What do we have here?"

He uncovered a few gold coins under some papers, with the names Tamara, John Pater and Paracelsus written in Calvin's scrawl.

"Holy shit, Calvin. Where in the hell did you hook up with this maniac?” he wondered. “Why would this nut job go after Catherine Chandler? How does she know who John Pater is?" Cleon wondered.

~ ~ ~

After Joe left, Elliot called his sharpest attorney, Jack Ryan and asked him to represent Catherine. Ryan told Elliot he'd go to the 33rd Precinct as soon as he could, and get the particulars on her case.

Ryan also asked to have Manning bring him any information he found.

Things were moving fast. Elliot placed a call to his investigator.

"Cleon, it's Elliot. Any luck with your guy?"

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean, ‘yes and no’?"

"Yes, I found him. No, he can't tell us anything. He's dead."

Elliot sighed roughly. "This day is only getting worse. Now, what do we do?"

"I found some info on who might have hired him. I'll let you know once I check it out. I've also contacted the police."

"Give any info to Jack Ryan. I just put him on Cathy's case. At least you found something."

'Great,' Cleon thought. 'Jack's heard the stories about Paracelsus like I have.' "Will do, boss."

Cleon left Calvin's room and headed toward Central Park. He wanted to let Vincent and Father know about Paracelsus and what he had found in Catherine’s apartment. Someone was holding out on him, big time.

After entering the culvert, he started banging on the pipes, asking to be escorted Below.

One of the children arrived and before long he was outside Father's chamber. As he approached, he heard voices, and one of them was Jack's.

"...discreetly. Can you find out anything further about Catherine, Jack?" Cleon heard Father ask.

"Father?" Cleon called out.

"Cleon, what a surprise!” Jacob greeted. “We haven't seen you for a while. Your detective agency is doing well I hear," Father commented.

"Thank you Father, but catching up is not why I came down here.” He addressed Elliot’s other immaculately dressed employee. “Jack, I heard Elliot assigned you the Catherine Chandler case. I might have some information for you.”

He faced Jacob again. “Did I hear you correctly, Miss Chandler knows about the tunnels?"

"Yes, she is a...special friend of Vincent's, and she's gotten herself into a little bit of trouble. She can’t allow him to alibi her."

"Little? I don't see how you can call murdering someone ‘little.’"

"Catherine didn't harm anyone, Mr. Manning." Vincent calmly looked at him.

"I knew that already, Vincent. I came down here because I found out something disturbing. Paracelsus is involved somehow, along with his companion, Tamara."

He withdrew an envelope of photos and opened it. He spread the contents across Father’s desk. “I found these in Miss Chandler’s apartment. They were conveniently placed for discovery when the cops arrived to search it.” He looked up. “Just as well I got there first.”

"I don’t understand.” Father stared at the photos. “What has Paracelsus got to do with all of this mess?"

"I’ll bet a year’s salary that he’s the guy who planted Miss Chandler's prints on the knife. My informant had a few gold coins in his apartment and some papers with John Pater, Paracelsus and Tamara's names written on them."

"Will this prove Catherine's innocence?" Vincent asked.

Jack Ryan shook his head. "No, but it can place doubt on some of the evidence they have. Her prints are going to be a problem to disprove though."

"We must let Catherine know that Paracelsus is involved," Vincent said.

"That's easy enough,” the dark haired attorney replied. “Since Elliot's assigned me to her case, I just need to figure out how to let her know that Cleon and I know you guys," Jack commented.

Vincent quickly wrote a note and gave it to Jack.

"Give this to Catherine. This is the only way she will believe that you and I know each other, and that you know about the tunnels. She won't discuss it with you otherwise, no matter what you tell her."

"She's that loyal, even if her life depends on it?" Jack seemed skeptical.

"Without a doubt," Father stated.

Vincent gazed at Father with a look of disbelief at his finally acknowledging that fact.

Jack nodded his agreement and slipped the note into his pocket. "Was Catherine Below this weekend?"

"Yes," Vincent replied.

"All weekend?"

"Yes."

"No wonder she hasn't got an alibi for when the detective was killed. I’d better hurry over to the 33rd and have a talk with my client. I hear her father’s already raising the roof on the place."

"If there's anything we can do, Jack...Cleon..."

"I know. We take care of our own. I'll be in touch soon. Father...Vincent..." Jack turned to leave.

"Wait up, I'll walk with you. Hey kid! You within earshot?" Cleon called out.

Geoffrey appeared at the top of the stairs. "I'm here."

"Good lad. Guide us up by the fastest route. We've got work to do."

"Thank you, Cleon," Vincent said.

"As Jack said, we take care of our own, and Catherine is definitely one of our own." Cleon grinned and winked at Vincent as he climbed the stairs behind Jack.

~ ~ ~

In the meantime, Greg went to see Sam at the Crime Lab.

Sam had called Greg to go over a theory he had on how Catherine's prints got onto the knife used to kill Detective Hermann. Greg was just relieved that something had caught Sam’s attention.

"Hey, Sam, I brought Joe along with me to hear this theory of yours. You said on the phone that something’s… wrong?"

"I should have noticed this before, Greg,” Sam said, showing them the slide of Catherine’s fingerprints.

Sam pointed to the slide and the placement of the fingerprints on the long knife. “The prints are too ‘perfect’. They're placed in such a way that a woman would not normally hold a knife, especially if she wanted to kill someone. See here?" He indicated the knife handle.

Joe nodded.

“Women mostly stab downwards.” He held up his hand over his head and made a downward, stabbing motion.

“These prints are the wrong way around. And they are not smudged at all.”

"You can tell that just by examining the prints on the knife?" Joe looked sceptical.

Sam nodded. "The knife was clean except for some smeared blood and one set of perfect prints. No gaps or any sign of movement. Not enough blood from the victim on the blade either. No blood on the handle, none. She stabbed a man. There should be smears from her hand moving on the handle. She would have gotten lots on her too."

Greg nodded at that.

"So…what?" Joe questioned, knowing even though Cathy hadn’t done it, she would have had time to clean up. He was thinking like a prosecutor.

"That ain’t all of it. The wound to Detective Hermann was horizontal and very low on his abdomen," Sam started to explain, and again made a matching gesture of someone holding a knife at waist level.

"Miss Chandler is a lot shorter than him and she doesn’t have a long reach. Since the detective was caught by surprise, it stands to reason whoever killed him was at least the same height. And women like to go for the face or the neck. They seem to think it’s easier. Men stab in the guts. It takes longer to die. But a man of Lou’s size would have defended himself easily against a smaller attacker."

Sam picked up the plastic wrapped knife lying on the exam table. He showed it to Greg and Joe. "A woman, especially a woman who's never been in a knife fight, would hold it secretively and down, until she’s ready to strike. She’d hold it vertically and her hand would likely grip it the same way you or I would hold a kitchen knife."

"There were no marks on Cathy that I could see," Joe said. “We’ve already been in and searched her apartment. There’s no blood evidence anywhere.”

"There were no signs of a struggle at Lou’s either." Greg stated. “He knew his attacker that much is for sure. He let him in too.”

"Hermann's knuckles were unbruised. No defensive wounds. He didn't die fighting. He just died. So he knew his murderer well enough to let them get close. Then the murderer planted the knife with Miss Chandler's prints."

Greg and Joe looked at Sam. They seemed at a loss for words.

"I can't prove it yet, but I'm sure Catherine Chandler did not kill Detective Hermann." The coroner frowned. “There are no traces of clothing on the knife. It went right through Lou’s shirt so it would have picked up fibers.”

“Better and better.” Gregg nodded. "Keep digging, Sam. I can't rule Catherine out as a suspect based on this evidence alone. We’ll need a lot more if we’re gonna clear her of this mess."

"Count on it, Mr. Maxwell."

"Thanks, Sam. I appreciate you telling us this." Greg shook his hand.

"Oh, an interesting side note. Jimmy Moreno had the identical knife wound, and almost in the same place, something long, sharp, thin, and very surgical. Its user has done this before. I’d guess many times. You’re dealing with a professional killer. And we know for sure Miss Chandler didn't kill Moreno."

"Jimmy Moreno!" Joe exclaimed.

"You're sure about this, Sam? You know we never found any evidence about who Jimmy's killer might have been." Greg asked. “The case is still open.”

"I'm positive. This is a unique type of weapon. There is a pattern here."

"Good work, Sam. Damn good work. It's a start at least," Greg complimented.

~ ~ ~

It came as a surprise to him when Cleon got word from one of his CI's that an old man was seen trading that hallucinogenic drug out on the streets for gold coins.

He met his informant in the usual place.

"Are you sure about this, Leo?"

"Yeah, man. The old dude was jonesing for some big payday. He was also mumbling about some chick going up the river. He's real secretive, man. Said this chick was some sort of ADA, and he got rid of some guy and got the blame put on her. Real crazy dude. I think he’s been snorting too much of his own stuff."

Cleon seized his arm. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"Nah, man. I'm just tellin' ya what I heard. Some crazy old loon. That’s all I got."

"Leo, would you be willing to swear to what this old man said, and give us a description of him?"

"Hearsay evidence?” The CI threw up his hands. “Not me. I don't wanna get involved, Cleon. I just wanna pass on the info as usual."

"Leo, you tell the DA exactly what you told me, and that child support charge you've been running from, I'll make that go away."

Leo’s dark eyes sharpened. "I have your word, Cleon, no jail? I get away scot-free?"

Cleon nodded. It left a bitter taste in his mouth as he said, "I'll have my boss make the payment in full, plus another $10,000 for you."

Leo gave a low whistle. "Ten grand..."

"The info has to be legit, Leo. We have to find this guy, otherwise, no dough."

"Okay." Leo looked up and down the street. “I’ll get right on it. Where do we go from here?”

"Thanks, man." Cleon shook Leo's hand. “We’re off to meet a friend of mine.” He took Leo downtown to see Joe.

~ ~ ~

Jack arrived at the 33rd Precinct shortly after he left Father and Vincent. He was shown to a conference room, and Catherine was brought in a few minutes later.

"Would you wait outside, please?" Jack looked at the officer escort.

“Okay.” The officer nodded and left the two of them alone.

"Miss Chandler, my name is Jack Ryan. Elliot Burch hired me to represent you. I'm going to try to get Mr. Maxwell to agree to release you on your own recognizance, pending the outcome of the investigation. Now, let’s get down to business. We can speak in total confidence."

“My father is here. Thank you, but I don’t need you.” Catherine looked at him stubbornly. “I have nothing to say.”

Jack studied her closely. "The DA believes you didn't do this, Miss Chandler. But the facts state otherwise. You told Detective Hughes you have no idea how your prints got onto the murder weapon?"

“I did not commit this crime.” Catherine nodded.

"And you refuse to tell the authorities where you were, or who you were with this past weekend. You have no alibi for Detective Hermann's murder. You know that. Excuse me a moment."

Jack exited the room and entered a small room next door. Two-way glass showed everything in the interrogation room. Two men were watching Catherine and, with a video camera, were recording every word said in the room.

"You can turn the camera off and leave us alone," Jack told the two officers. “Out, now!” He held the door open.

"But, it's procedure..." one of the officers protested.

Jack pointed. "Look, I've already cleared this with Detective Hughes and your watch commander. Out!"

The officers nodded reluctantly, turned off the video camera and left the room. Jack checked to make sure the camera wasn’t working. He took the extra precaution of unplugging it from the power outlet before he returned to Catherine’s room.

He sat down. "Now we can talk privately."

Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, Jack palmed the folded note Vincent had given him. He held out his hand palm down, as if he was simply reaching to take Catherine’s hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I am here for you,” he said, winking.

“Are you?” Catherine frowned at him, but accepted his gesture. She took his hand in both of hers.

“We can’t be too careful,” he said, laying his other hand over hers. “We will get you out of this.”

Catherine felt the note between her palms and nodded. “It’s been hard. But I didn’t do it.”

As she spoke, she pulled back to the edge of the desk, dropping her hands into her lap. She acted like she was beaten, keeping her head down.

She unfolded the note. She recognized the handwriting, immediately.

***

My dearest Catherine:

Jack Ryan is a good friend. Trust him as you would trust me. Know that I am with you in this… ALWAYS...

V~

***

Tears glistened in Catherine's eyes as she looked up at Jack. She tried to speak but her throat felt constricted.

"Are you all right?"

Catherine nodded, unable to answer. She cleared her throat and answered a minute later.

"You know...?" she asked, protective of Vincent at all times.

"Yes. Is he why you won't reveal where you were this weekend?"

"How can I explain I was Below with Vincent all weekend? They'd lock me up in Bellevue and throw away the key. Or worse, investigate and find out I was telling the truth."

"Does Elliot Burch know about Vincent?" Jack asked. Cleon was one thing. Elliot was another.

"No. He doesn't know anything about Vincent, or the tunnels, or what they are,” she said.

"Do you have any idea how your fingerprints got onto the knife?"

"None." She shook her head.

"I'm sure you've made enemies during your investigations. Received threats..."

"Of course, everyone working for the DA's office has at some point."

Suddenly, an officer knocked before entering the room, to tell Jack there was a phone call for him. He excused himself and got up to take it.

It was Cleon, telling him about the old man his CI told him about.

"Thanks, Cleon." Jack returned to talk to Catherine.

"Miss Chandler, are you investigating, or have you heard about an old man selling a new kind of drug on the street?"

Catherine shuddered. She knew instantly who the old man was.

"I can tell by your expression that you recognize this person," Jack said.

"Paracelsus." She looked stricken. “He used to be John Pater.”

"Ah, of course.” Jack nodded. “I've heard stories about him from my parents. Is he capable of something like this?"

"Paracelsus must be trying to expose Vincent in order to leave the tunnels unprotected. The detective had pictures of Vincent and me. Paracelsus must have hired someone to take them, to discredit me, to get me out of the way so to speak. I can’t imagine where those pictures are now."

"The pictures...” Ryan looked relieved. “They are safe. We have them. They will be destroyed. But proving your prints were planted will be a little more difficult. Not impossible though. Let’s see if we can get you out of here."

~ ~ ~

As Jack tried to arrange for Catherine's release, Cleon took Leo to see Joe, and soon a sketch of Paracelsus was sent to every precinct in the city.

The authorities wanted proof the prints were planted before they would agree to release Catherine, even though she was thought to be innocent.

Cleon was also true to his word. Elliot agreed to pay Leo's child support payments and gave him the $10,000 as promised.

"When we catch this guy, I'll give your friend another $10,000 for his help," Elliot told Cleon.

~ ~ ~

Sam went back to Calvin's apartment to see if anything was missed on his initial visit. Elliot Burch's investigator said that Calvin could be the one who planted Miss Chandler's prints on the knife. He wanted to try and prove that theory.

After searching for a few minutes, he happened to find a wine glass under a stack of paper. 'This is probably what he used for her prints.' Sam thought to himself. He carefully placed it into an evidence bag and then double wrapped it so it wouldn't be damaged during transport to the lab.

When he arrived back at the crime lab, Sam set to work on the wine glass. First he dusted it with a fine, white powder, eventually revealing a set of fingerprints. Carefully he managed to lift the entire set and transfer them to the paper in front of him. He compared the prints on the paper to the ones taken off the knife.

They were a perfect match.

"Well now, this shows how he got Miss Chandler's prints on the knife. Hey, wait a minute. I remember I saw something like this when I first started here. Old man Turner showed me three similar cases. What was it he said? He thought he knew who was responsible. What was the guy's name he mentioned?"

Sam paced back and forth, trying to remember. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Calvin Fremont. I knew that name sounded familiar from somewhere. Old man Turner just couldn't find enough evidence to prove it was Fremont. It always fascinated him. Well, Fremont won't be doing that anymore."

Sam called Greg and told him he had the proof he was looking for that Catherine's prints were planted on the murder weapon.

"You're sure, Sam?'

"Absolutely. I found the wineglass Fremont used to lift her prints."

"Thanks, Sam. I'll let Maxwell know right away."

Greg called Joe a few minutes later. "Joe, it's Greg. I'm releasing Catherine. She's no longer a suspect."

"Finally came to your senses, did ya?" Joe said sarcastically. "You knew she was innocent."

"Sam found proof that her prints were planted. She's not out of the woods yet. We need to know what her involvement is in all this mess."

"We'll get to the bottom of this, guaranteed."

"I hope so, Joe. I hope so.”

Greg proceeded to the holding room and told Catherine he was releasing her. Greg felt she was no longer a suspect in the actual murder.

He also told her they were still investigating, and she could still be charged with conspiracy to commit murder when the real killer was found, depending on the circumstances.

Catherine and Jack left the precinct and made their way to the Central Park entrance to the tunnels. They were met by Vincent, shortly thereafter.

He enveloped her with his protective embrace.

Jack left them and made his way home.

~ ~ ~

The next day, Peter Alcott used the entrance near his office to make his way to Father's chamber.

"Jacob, where's Vincent?" he asked.

"Here, Peter," Vincent said, as he descended the stairs from the upper level of the chamber, Catherine following close behind.

"Were you here in the tunnels, last night?"

"Vincent was here last night with me," Catherine stated.

"What's the matter? What's wrong?" Father asked.

"This is the matter.” He brandished a morning paper. “I gather none of you have seen the morning paper, right?"

"No, Lou hasn't sent it down yet," Father said.

Peter handed Jacob the newspaper he was carrying. Vincent and Catherine looked over Father's shoulder as they checked out the headline.

'LION MAN ATTACK IN CENTRAL PARK'

'A man, looking like a lion, attacked a twenty-five-year-old man last night, near the Carousel in Central Park. Jake Murphy was savagely assaulted and left bleeding on a park bench where he was found by passersby. Police are investigating.

Murphy described his attacker as Caucasian, 6' 2”, 210 pounds, wearing a black hooded cape and long, tan, leather boots. He had blonde hair, a face or mask like a lion, and long claw-like fingers with which he inflicted the injuries.

A spokesman for the police department has asked if anyone has any information or knows who or where this lion man is, to contact police.

"My God. Who would do this?" Father was appalled at what he read.

"The same person responsible for framing Catherine for Detective Hermann's murder," Vincent offered. “The one who took those photographs of us.”

"I think you might be onto something," Peter began. "Do you know anyone who might hate Vincent and Catherine that much?"

"You don't think...?" Father looked at Catherine who in turn looked at Vincent with a question in her eyes. Vincent nodded.

"Paracelsus." They all said at the same time.

"John? I thought he was dead. You never mentioned him after he was banished so I thought..." Peter shook his head in bewilderment.

"He tried drugging Vincent a few weeks ago and is responsible for that new drug that killed fifty people," Catherine explained.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I heard about that new drug but didn't know he was involved. The police never caught who was distributing it, or so I've read."

"Vincent managed to stop him,” Catherine explained. “He just vanished after that, until this incident involving a new drug source," she commented.

"First, Catherine gets accused of murder and now this!" Jacob declared.

Vincent was clearly displeased with the news. "Trust in the authorities to find the real killer. As for me..."

"Vincent! Don't even think about it. Paracelsus wins if you do. We'll prove the attack wasn't done by you, somehow," Catherine pleaded.

"How?"

"I don't know yet."

~ ~ ~

Greg and Joe were discussing the case.

"...That still doesn't explain the pictures Lou had of her and a lion man. And with the attack in Central Park, she's not out of the woods yet. This lion man could have gone on the attack in retaliation for us holding Catherine."

"Radcliffe? Involved with some freak from a sideshow? You're crazy, Greg. It's probably just some nut job who digs lions. This is New York City. God knows who and what is out there."

"I don't know, Joe. I just don't know."

~ ~ ~

"I've had it, man. I'm outta here," Mitch told Paracelsus.

"What? Things get a little… uncomfortable and you leave, like a child?" Paracelsus questioned.

"You said you'd help me and get me a good lawyer to help beat the attempted murder rap on Chandler. I ain't seen no lawyer yet."

"All in good time, my boy. All in good time."

"That ain't good enough!"

"Do not try my patience! They will pay for their arrogance. Both of them, and Father as well. Leave, if you must. I grow weary of waiting."

Mitch tried to grab the lion mask lying on the table when Paracelsus turned his back. The conversation was obviously at an end.

"I'll take my chances on my own terms."

Paracelsus turned back before he could complete his treason. The mask fell to the floor.

Mitch swung around and stormed out of the darkly cloying place he had come to hate. The feeling of being an insignificant fly caught in a very large web could not be banished.

He waited around the corner of the hallway. He knew the only way he could prove things was to get that lion mask away from Paracelsus.

"Well now…et tu, Brute?" Paracelsus quoted, as he picked up the mask from the floor and placed it back on the table. "It's time for the final stroke."

With that, Paracelsus quickly left the room and made his way down to the street. Mitch watched him leave.

"No more, Vincent. No more."

He returned to the apartment and managed to get inside. He grabbed the mask and claws and quickly left.

Paracelsus had a plan to get Father and Catherine together. Posing as Mitch, he managed to get a message to Father, asking to meet at Catherine's apartment.

The note said he wanted to come clean to both of them, about everything. Paracelsus, the detective's murder, the lion man attack… He could be very plausible, when it suited him.

Father was very skeptical upon receipt the note.

"Mitch Denton wants to see us," Father told Catherine, as she and Vincent entered his chamber.

"Us?" Catherine asked.

"Yes, you and me. At your apartment. He says he wants to 'come clean'. Tell the police everything. He can clear you, Catherine."

"Father, should I trust him after everything he's done?" she asked.

"You must hear him out, Catherine. If he can indeed clear you..." Vincent began.

Catherine seemed less sure. "You're right, Vincent. I know that. I just don't like the idea of meeting him in my home."

"Tell Joe Maxwell. He'll know what to do," Vincent said.

Catherine nodded her agreement and both she and Father prepared to go to Catherine's apartment to wait for Mitch.

"I'll be near," Vincent said.

Catherine refused his offer. "No, Vincent. You mustn't. Joe will make sure the police are there. We'll be all right."

Vincent nodded his head and gathered Catherine close. He didn't like the idea, but knew it was the only way.

Father was ready quickly and soon they were on their way to her apartment.

In the meantime, Mitch gathered up whatever courage he could, and with a deep exhale, walked into the 33rd Police Precinct, carrying the lion mask and claws.

The desk officer took one look at what Mitch carried and drew his gun.

"Freeze!" the officer yelled.

Mitch immediately raised his hands, dropping the lion mask and claws to the floor in front of him. Other officers grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back.

"Whoa! Hold it! I have information for the detective in charge. I can give you the man who wore these."

"Mitch Denton," Greg said as he came into view. "What makes you think I'm gonna believe anything that comes out of your mouth? You shot a good friend of mine."

"I'm sorry about that. I was messed up. I didn't care about anyone or anything. It took an old friend to scare me straight. I tried talking this guy out of it but he's obsessed. I came here to warn you. He's gonna go after her."

"Who's “he” and who is he after?"

"The maniac responsible for killing that detective and for the lion attack. He's gonna kill Catherine Chandler. He planned the frame up. Then he found out she wasn't gonna get charged."

"How the hell did he find that out? I thought we had a tight lid on that information."

"I don't know, man. All I know is that he flew into a rage when he found out. He said something like 'It's time to finish this. The Chandler woman's death will release the beast within.'"

Greg looked at the lion claws. "Put him into a cell. He's not going anywhere till we check out his story. I want two cars to go to 135 Central Park West, Apt 21-E, code 3. They are not to engage until I get there," Greg said, charging toward the door.

"Right, sir." One officer responded.

~ ~ ~

Father decided to go with Catherine to see what Mitch wanted. He also offered to stay with her there until she contacted her boss to let him know about the note from Mitch.

Vincent wanted her to come below after the meeting where he could protect her till Paracelsus was caught.

Shortly after arriving at Catherine's apartment, Paracelsus surprised them by walking out of Catherine's bedroom.

"So, you are finally here."

"John, what are you doing here?" Father asked.

"Removing the one obstacle to unleashing the beast. Having you here, dear Jacob, is a bonus in itself."

"Forget this foolishness, John. Vincent will never be yours."

"Of course he will, with Tamara to teach him."

"Teach him?" Catherine questioned. "Teach him what?"

"That everything Father ever taught him was a lie," Tamara said in an exact copy of

Catherine's voice. "That Paracelsus is his true father. That he created him."

"He will never believe you." Father stated.

"With love and the right amount of persuasion, anything is possible." Tamara continued to use Catherine’s voice.

"Vincent will know that you are not me."

"I can make it so he will believe anything I want him to believe, and more," she said, this time speaking as herself.

"The police are on their way. They're supposed to meet me here," Catherine said.

John’s voice was silky and evil. "I will be long gone by the time..."

Paracelsus' statement was cut short as a loud bang went through the apartment as Greg kicked the door in. Two officers followed him inside. One went over to Tamara and the other stood near Paracelsus. Greg went to Catherine who was standing in front of Father.

"Put your hands where I can see them," Officer Flarity ordered, as he stepped forward.

Paracelsus made a dash for the front door. Flarity blocked his path and made a grab for Paracelsus' arm. Paracelsus twisted away and once again tried for the front door. The other officer managed to handcuff Tamara before she could get away.

Greg moved in front of Catherine and Father. Paracelsus tried to push the officer away from him and both toppled into the door frame and slid down to the carpeted floor. Flarity managed to get a firm grip on Paracelsus, after a brief struggle.

"Hold it right there, old man," Flarity told him as he pulled Paracelsus to his feet.

"I'm an old man. I pose no threat to you."

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," Greg ordered.

"An old injury prevents me from bending my arms as fully as you ask."

"Cuff his hands in front of him then. Make sure you search him thoroughly."

After Flarity cuffed Paracelsus, he proceeded to search him for any weapons. As the officer reached Paracelsus' right arm, Flarity suddenly heard a click and then felt a searing pain on the inside of his left arm.

"Mindless fools, you have no power over me!" Paracelsus yelled as he struck at the young officer, the long steel blade leaving wounds where he hit the man.

"Son of a bitch!" Greg yelled, as he came forward, starting to draw his gun.

"You think you can put me in a cage."

"I'll put you in the ground if you try anything like that again," Greg stated, the gun clearing his holster.

"John, please. You were a good man once. You don't want to die like this," Father tried to plead with him.

There was venom in the low voice. "You have everything. I have nothing. If I can't have him, no one shall." Paracelsus raised his arms and ran towards Father and Catherine, trying to strike them down, in his rage.

Catherine pushed Father out of the way. Greg fired two shots, point blank, as Paracelsus crashed into him.

Greg flew backwards, avoiding the bloody blade, as Paracelsus toppled sideways and they both landed with a thud on the carpeted floor. Greg extricated himself from Paracelsus' body and checked to see if the old man was still alive.

"Is he...?"

"He's gone," Greg shook his head, in the negative.

Father was mournful. "Such a waste, a brilliant mind twisted by greed, by gold, by power."

Tamara was too frightened to move. The officer with her finally got her to leave the apartment.

Father walked stood over Paracelsus's body.

"’You have been the sun of our lives. Our prayers will be the sun that lights your journey home. We will remember you every dawn and await the night to join you in the sky.’"

"That's beautiful, Father," Catherine said.

"It's an old English prayer I learned as a child. I hope it brings him some peace."

"Do you have a place to stay?" Greg asked Catherine.

"Catherine can stay with me and my family for as long as she needs,” Jacob replied.

"I'll have an officer stay here till I can get the manager to replace the door,” Greg said. “I'll make sure the front desk gives you the keys when you come back."

"Thanks, Greg, for everything."

"You can thank Mitch Denton." He surprised them all, by saying it.

"Mitch?"

"Yeah. He's the one who told us this guy was coming after you."

"Well now. That is a first." Father commented, as he took hold of Catherine's arm. "Come, dear Catherine. Let’s get you home."

Catherine and Father left the apartment, making their way to the waiting arms of Vincent, and hopefully a new life of peace for them all.

~ ~ ~

FINI

“There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.”

Frank Herbert

~ ~ ~

The Diary of Kate the Chandler

By C.J. LaBelle

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

St. Francis of Assisi

~~~

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

~~~Author’s note:

This is ‘The Diary of Kate the Chandler,’ a family story passed on to Catherine by her father, Charles. Owing to its age, some pages were no longer in order, while others have been translated from the original French. Please enjoy it with that in mind.

Also, for how this diary affects our couple, please enjoy the accompanying fic, Kate the Chandler, where the diary plays an integral part in their story.

‘The Diary of Kate the Chandler’ works both by itself, as a stand-alone fic, and as a ‘fic within a fic’ when paired with the longer work. We do hope you enjoy this 30th Anniversary offering in the joyful spirit in which it is intended.

– C.J. La Belle

*R-Adult Theme*

From the Diary of Kate the Chandler:

December, 1851

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to change…

~ ~ ~

June, 1791

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I watched her hide my creation away, behind some pots of beeswax on a back shelf, and my heart sank. So it has always been. My heart and will have never been my own to follow. I am not even called by my given name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~

July, 1791

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~

August, 1791

Oh, my beloved Diary, though summer’s heat bears down on me, you cannot conceive of the freedom I have found in my work! The Holy Mother has tasked me with delivering the candles I help to make in the Chandlery!

It was at Sister Marie’s insistence that I returned to the work I love. God bless and keep her old soul. She also has much need of my young hands and straight back. My fresh legs replace hers. She fears to fall, traversing the narrow lanes on her unsteady, aching knees.

I am also under strict orders not to create anything beyond the function and form the convent has always been famed for making. Or it is back to the gardens for me, forever.

So I bend to a will not mine own, and suffer in silence. But, at least, I am back where I belong!

I set out each afternoon carrying my basket of the day’s wares, and armed with nought but my faith, and a stout walking stick. The lanes are not always safe, they say, but I hold myself well, and I keep a wary eye out.

Once alone, I sing to the rambling, wild roses that grow along my path. They seem to nod their heads in approval, red and white sometimes mingled. Their glorious, heady scents lift and carry me onwards!

The days are long and testing, but I escape the convent walls for most of the afternoon, to walk the lanes and make my deliveries. The people I meet are fearful, thanks to the terrible news from the cities, but most are still kind.

The whispered words I hear speak of revolution, and the death of the noble class. They say France is changing still.

I am not noble, and all too soon, my long hair will be shaved for the cowl of the nun. We only await the arrival of His Excellency, the Bishop, to perform the Holy Investiture, and I will finally be married to Christ.

But the Bishop is unaccountably delayed, and he sends no word of his coming. Some of the local people say he has been attacked upon the road, and robbed of his valuables. It is said he was injured and returned to Paris.

But not even the Mother Superior can confirm this disturbing rumour. Her messages go unanswered.

So I clutch my walking stick tighter and tread the lanes. I am forced to await a choice that was also not mine, but my deeply devout parents’. Such is my simple lot.

They cast me into this walled place, to live out my days in prayer and the contemplation of my sins, of which there are almost too many to count…

But I am free, at least for a bit! The joy of it is almost too great to bear inside my maiden’s heart.

~ ~ ~

September, 1791

I have seen Him…it is to your pages alone I commit these words, my Diary. I can never speak of what I know. It is far too dangerous.

At first I thought He was a dream. A dream my vivid imagination made live. Can dreams be made to live? I do not know.

The farmhouse was remote, the way torturous, to the point of my giving up altogether. I was sure I had lost my sense of direction more than once. The threat of rain had replaced sunny skies. My spirits were very low, and my feet ached.

I was turning around from yet another blind pathway, when a voice spoke. He spoke to me. Him! The man whose name I don’t even know.

I can say nothing to the sisters, even Sister Marie, only to you, my diary. My keeper of all secrets, hidden among pages no one else ever reads.

He said, “You are in no danger here. Not from me. But such innocent, little butterflies should not wander so far from the convent walls, especially when the weather is about to turn.”

I gasped my shocked surprise. But I heard no threat in His voice, which was deep and melodic. If anything, I think He was … amused? And concealed. I could barely discern His form, from the deep shadows of a grandfather oak.

“And where is it you think I belong?” I challenged, surprised at my own temerity. I wanted to hear His voice again.

He hesitated a moment, before He gave His reply. “Safe. Walking through a garden. Gathering… roses perhaps.” Then… “White ones. Fair, like your face.”

His words set my face to blushing, Diary. I felt the heat, and dropped my eyes, though I was still curious to see His.

No man had ever spoken to me thus. Who was this mysterious stranger, who moved neither toward me, nor away?

I didn’t tell Him that the only thing I was going to be allowed to do in a garden was weed it. And only red roses were useful. They were grown for their fragrant oils, not for idle gathering. Sister Bernice had said so.

“I’ve no need of the walls. They say my faith will protect me.” I think I mumbled it.

I pulled myself up to my full height, which was not tall, like Him.

He seemed to consider my words, a moment. “That is an easy thing for them to say… when they are behind an iron gate, and surrounded by high stones. They must not like you very much, little noviciate, to send you out, thus.”

I kept my blushing countenance looking down. Perhaps that was true. “I’m not a very good noviciate,” I confessed. Then I raised my gaze, knowing He could see my eyes, even as I couldn’t see His. “I’ve been told I have too much pride.” I don’t know what made me confess it. But something about His low voice inspired… confidences.

“Do you?” He breathed the words on a sigh, and the summer breeze bore it to me. He seemed to consider my pronouncement. “I would keep such pride, if I were you. You’ll need it for what our country is becoming.”

He indicated the path, with an outstretched hand. Even from the shadows, I could see He had a long reach.

“You’ve passed me twice now, half lost and singing your song of wild roses, rather than the hymn I’d expect from you. Where are you bound?”

His accent was not French, even though His words were flawless. I could not place where He was from.

I squinted, but still could discern Him not. He was a caped figure, the hood drawn up. And He kept to the shadows, where the waning light did not reach, where darkness dwelled, and my overactive imagination took flight. He seemed large, a shadow shape against the failing light.

I named the farm and the woman. I watched Him turn, seemingly uneasy with my reply. His voice was like low music. How can speech sound like a hymn?

“Take the path you passed moments ago,” He said. “It is direct. But the woman, she is not kind. She will try to cheat you.”

I nodded my appreciation, and looked back the way I’d come. “Thank you. I will be wary.”

At this moment, I can remember every word we spoke, each to the other. They are engraved on my mind, and my heart. I also hear them in my dreams, they are so powerful.

I marvelled at His voice. Velvet wrapped within steel, with an odd huskiness that spoke of some slight impediment to His speech.

He could have read Sister Marie’s ingredient list for her potions to me, and I would have been happy. My knees bid fair to give way entirely.

Such was the stuff of a foolish girl’s daydreams…

I am not free to dream thus. Remembering my manners, I turned to bid Him my habitual “God be with you,” but there was no one there. Those same whispering shadows were empty and silent. A single bloom from a wild, red rose lay upon the dusty ground in His stead. I looked at it, but I did not dare approach to gather it up. I made my way back to the path he’d indicated, knowing I had to be about my business.

But the questions remained stark in my mind. Who was He, and where did He vanish to, and so quickly? How did He know I adored roses? Was it just chance? Or was He making sport of me, thanks to my song?

I had no answers until my return that way again, in the near blackness of dusk, and even then, the answers were only so clear.

The woman of the farmhouse had stayed me while she haggled over the prices I had been told to set. I think she hoped to lower the convent’s earnings by keeping me past the time it would be safe to walk home, on a night when rain threatened.

She finally paid me the full price, grudgingly, but only after I gathered my basket upon my arm and made to leave. She watched her few coins pass into my keeping with greedy eyes.

I hurried, so as not to be caught by either the inclement weather or mortal man. I held fast to my sturdy staff, and armed by my calling, I trotted towards the safety of the convent. Thin drops of rain misted the night air, and I knew I had to keep up a quick pace.

But my path was suddenly blocked by two men who emerged from the shadows and stepped right onto the lane with me.

‘Farm workers,’ I thought. ‘No doubt dispatched by the farmer’s wife to retrieve the few sous she paid me for the candles.’

“Leave me be!” I commanded, in my best voice. “I am about God’s work!”

They did not reply, but lingered in the pathway, watching me. I closed my grip upon my stout stick and continued on my way. Then they stepped before and behind me, tugging at my basket and my person!

They demanded both my coins and my virtue. I was terrified, and though I tried not so show it, I think they knew.

I tried to hit them with my staff, but they were stronger than me.

All would have been lost, if not for Him.

From nowhere and everywhere, there came such a roaring as to rupture my eardrums. The sound beat upon me, pushing both me and my assailants backwards in fear. It was as if a great animal had been set loose from a confining cage.

A shape, a demon, a mortal man, I knew not which then, came hurtling from the darkness. The bigger of the two men was sent flying, crashing into the brush like a broken rag doll.

The other clutched at me, trying to shield himself behind my slender body. I fought to be free. As I turned, something sharp ripped through the loose sleeve of my habit, drawing red lines down my skin, quickly parting it into three bloody scratches.

I cried out and fell to my knees, clapping my hand over the injury. My basket and its contents of money, soap, and candles, went tumbling. It was only in that instant of terror did I realise the men had fled, and the roaring had stopped.

The sudden silence dropped heavily upon my abused senses, and the raw sound of my own laboured breathing was all I had to fill the void.

“You are hurt…” He spoke from behind me. I knew that deep voice.

“I am all right…” I lied, even as I tore strips from the hem of my cloak to bind my bloodied arm.

He said nothing. Nor did He offer to help bind my wound. I sensed Him gathering my scattered things back into the basket. He leant to place it between us, but still remained a goodly distance from me. He would come no closer.

He seemed to be waiting.

But for what?

Knotting the bandage tight with my teeth, I turned to look at Him, but once again discovered I could “see” Him not.

He moved as I turned and His hood remained up, His face still deeply shadowed. He stayed back from me, keeping just beyond my ability to determine any of His features at all.

There was nothing to see beyond my sense of a huge, black shape, outlined by the light of the fitful moon.

“Do not be afraid,” He said, from inside His hood. “Please, do not be afraid. I will not harm you. Or t’was not my intention.” He made to raise a hand, but before it reached the moonlight, He dropped it. “You are safe, here with me…”

Mystery piled in upon cryptic circumstance. I saw Him move to pull on a pair of gloves, keeping His hands low inside His cloak, awaiting my response.

“The fault is not yours,” I replied quickly. “In part, it was mine for lingering to haggle over a bad trade. I stepped into your path.”

I had barely finished speaking when the heavens opened and it began to rain in earnest. In the distance, thunder rumbled and I knew I would be completely soaked before I reached the convent.

I would doubtless catch a chill, and be the worse for it. In vain I threw up the hood of my thin cloak, but the rain only fell harder.

“If you will…allow me, I can show you a place nearby, where we may shelter from the rain.” His hesitant request was filled with the expectation of refusal.

I did not immediately reply. I found my voice had dried, and I could not turn my eyes away.

His cape appeared heavy and full. Black thigh boots covered the lower part of his strong limbs. I am sure I glimpsed a hint of a white shirt at his throat, and a heavy belt at his waist. I saw no sign of the weapon that slashed my arm. He must have sheathed it.

His beautiful voice, which sounded like a hymn, yet could roar like a hellish demon, seemed to belong to a man in his prime. I still tried to pierce His looks, but could not. I knew He could be fearsome and I knew He was large. I should have been fearful.

Had He expected me to run screaming from His intimidating presence? My convent life had taught me not to show fear. It made the weak of spirit feel powerful. And I was no longer a child.

But, Dear Diary, I could have remained standing there, in the rain, listening to His voice, forever. It touched me, moved me somewhere deep inside, where none had been before, or touched.

By what power I do not know, I felt His spirit, and knew Him to be beautiful. Truly, by God’s great and wondrous grace, He was mon bel homme. My deepest and most cherished dream sprung to impossible but undeniable life. I could not turn my eyes away.

“The nuns, they will miss me at Complin,” I managed to reply, sensing my rescuer was not to be feared. “I should not linger.” I huddled deeper into my sodden clothing and clasped my hand over my hastily bandaged arm. The once dusty road was going to turn to mud, and quickly.

“Your wound needs proper cleaning and binding, and I would not have you out where trouble can find you again. I will send a messenger to them,” He offered. “One saying that you have found decent shelter for the night. Come with me, please.” He tried to shepherd me in the direction He wished me to go, without drawing too near.

He adjusted something, inside His hood, as if He drew a scarf up over His lower face, the common disguise of any bandit. Yet I knew my saviour was neither common, nor a common thief.

“Very well…” I picked up my basket and stick.

It seemed churlish to argue further, while standing in a downpour. Nodding my consent to walk before Him, I allowed my feet to answer His small commands to go this way, or that.

We passed through a small clearing then came to the side of a large hillock. We stopped on His word, and He stepped in front of me, leaning to remove some sort of closure, covered in thorny rose brambles and willow branches.

The darkness of a large cave loomed out of the gloom, set into the side of the hillock. The entrance was completely invisible to the casual glance.

We hurried into the cavern, and the noise of the rain became muffled. Small flambeaus were spaced along the rock walls, their flames shedding a flickering light. As we walked deeper, somewhere within, a sheltered fire was burning. Men’s voices echoed into the recesses of the cave roof, far above our heads. I heard children laughing and a woman’s response.

A low-toned challenge sounded and a reply was given. Some conversation passed between my companion and the challenger, before a young child hurried past us and out into the rain.

“Oh, please…” I stared after the boy in consternation. He would soon be soaked to the skin.

“Do not fret for him. He travels more invisibly than you do, and a good bit faster,” replied my rescuer. “He knows to use the hidden pathways.”

“Very well.” I nodded my understanding, though I was still vexed.

I looked about me. I took in the sight of a mixed group of people clustered around the fire. The smell of food cooking permeated the air, and my stomach growled its protest. I sighed.

I watched the people moving about their business. Young, middle-aged, old. Men, women, youngsters, and an infant… They were of mismatched dress, and had questioning looks.

They were hiding in this dank and sparsely lit cave, and could have been anyone and from anywhere. They could have been fugitives, and surely, some of them were. They could have been desperate souls. They could have been anything…

Those seated near the fire, attending to the evening meal, looked up at my entrance into their hidden world. They did not speak or move to greet me. But, on seeing my companion, they turned their faces away and went back to their own business.

I noted that some were wearing what had once been expensive clothes, while others were dressed far more simply. I could see there were provisions, stacked against a wall. Beyond the fire, a woman was nursing what looked to be all but a newborn, singing to the babe in a low tone.

I turned back to glance at my guide. I could not then explain why I knew there was nothing to fear, least of all from Him...or them.

My gaze moved towards the exit, the way the child had gone, who was now running an errand...for my sake?

“He will be all right,” my companion answered to my continued concern for the boy. “And so will you. But you must do as I bid you.”

“Merci.” I was almost tempted to extend my hand to Him.

But somehow I doubted He would respond in kind. He seemed content to observe me from a face hidden deep within the cowl of His black cloak and to keep a certain… distance between us.

The nearby flambeau did little to illuminate His features. I saw only the sheen of His watching eyes.

I did not care that it was all still such a mystery. I was safe, and with Him. I do not often smile. There was not much to smile about. My Christ figure in wax was the last time such a vanity curved my mouth. But I smiled now.

It seemed to make him curious.

“What makes you smile?” He asked.

In my mind I could picture Sister Bernice, and the months I would be consigned to spending down on my knees, if she so much as caught a hint of my present predicament! And these people! In the midst of a land full of terror, they’d managed to find safe haven. And He. He Himself. He was near, and He was…speaking to me. In spite of all that had happened before, that was the thing that kept… soothing me, and making my heart sing.

“Everything,” I replied. It was far easier a response than telling Him more. I had not the words to explain the confusion of my feelings then.

There I was, in the half-dark, with a stranger who could do anything to me. And I knew that some part of me would welcome whatsoever He willed… Some unspoken tie seemed to join us.

“You smell of jasmine,” He finally broke a lengthening silence between us. “Even when you are wet with rain.”

Did I? I suppose I did. But I knew jasmine was a costly fragrance. I did not want Him to think me a thief, or a wastrel.

“The sisters make the oils I use in the candles. I have to touch it to create with it. Then I pick up my skirts to walk. It gets on my clothes.”

He breathed in the scent. “It suits you,” was all He replied.

Did it? Jasmine was a wealthy woman’s fragrance, as was attar of roses. I knew there were few more humble than myself.

I knew I trusted Him. I knew I wanted this huge, mysterious figure near me. I can explain it no better than that. The sheer beauty of a man whose face I could not even see surrounded and comforted my thirsty soul…

It was as if He had always been waiting, just for me. My smile grew wistful, as I dreamed of things I may never possess. My sorely tried heart began to sing. Just a little…

Then I heard Him gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and I stopped smiling. He drew himself back from me, as if it were a thing that must be done. It seemed I had transgressed some invisible line. Had I been judged and found wanting, again? My heart sank.

“You may rest here.” He said brusquely, pointing to a pile of blankets set against the wall. “I will send some meat, with bread and cheese back to you.” He nodded towards my bloodied arm. “Also water and fresh bandages. Give me your cloak. I’ll see it warmed and dried by the fire.”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” I tried to reassure Him, as I surrendered my damp cape. “I would never tell. I could never betray your faith in me. I promise you this upon my immortal soul.”

“I know,” He replied, in a rush of breath. “I knew that, the moment you trusted me not

to harm you.”

He shrugged, as He took what I offered. “This is a place of safety, for those who have nowhere else to go. And there are many. To reveal it is to condemn them all, including the children.”

“They are… refugees?” I asked, wanting at least that much clarity.

“They are whatever the world outside this cave has made them,” was all the answer He gave by way of explanation.

He paused. “I would…ask for your name…”

I felt the intensity of His gaze from within the hood, as His head lifted. I knew His eyes stared into mine. Eyes I could scarcely see.

“My name…?” I frowned, lost in the moment. “I…it’s Katherine…”

“Katherine…” He breathed it, like a benediction.

I wanted to hear Him say it again. But the moment was lost.

“But, the nuns call me Kate,” I hurried to correct my error. “I was first named for a blessed saint, and they think it’s not proper for one so lowborn…”

“I prefer Katherine.” He shook His head. “Katherine you shall always be, to me.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” I lurched forward, making a snatch for His arm, but He avoided me, fluidly.

“Please…” I begged. “Please…your name, in exchange for mine. What is it? I swear I will not speak it to others.”

“My name…” His breath hissed inwards and He froze, as if suddenly on alert for the slightest threat. My skin prickled with confusion. What had I said, or done, now?

“Vincente…” He finally allowed, after a fraught silence. “I am named for the Portuguese monastery they found me near. I was abandoned and left to die.” His voice held neither regret, nor self-pity. He was simply stating a fact.

Then He asked, “Do you speak Portuguese?”

I shook my head, regretfully.

“’Sao Vincente de Fora’. It means ‘Saint Vincent Outside the Walls.’ I must go now…”

Before I could reply, or even try to see His face in the gloom, He was gone towards the firelight. So He remains almost a complete enigma to me. Others may see what I am not permitted to observe.

That is His name. I must not speak it aloud outside these rough-hewn walls for fear of discovery. His secrets must remain safe from those who would seek to do Him harm.

“Sao Vincente de Fora,” I repeated softly, committing it to memory. St. Vincent Outside the Walls. “Vincente…”

The promised hot food, bandages and a jug of water were silently delivered by another child. Then I was left completely alone to tend my wounds. Laughter and bonhomie radiated down the passageway to my lonely outpost. I was sure I heard His voice lifted in song. It sounded hauntingly sad, like something a lovelorn gipsy would sing…

‘We’re all vagabonds here,’ I thought.

I sighed, as I lay down on my blankets, quite dejected. Was I not to be trusted with any more secrets? I felt… blind here, and at least a bit shunned, pressed back near the wall, away from all others.

I tried to sleep, but it was elusive at best. For the first time in many years I did not dream…

In the morning He sent another child to me, one bearing my now dry cape. I knew not the way home, but I wished for larger company than this elfin, dirty scrap of humanity.

We walked in silence, the little boy and I, and I slipped him some copper for his pains, hoping it would help him… help all of them. Considering I’d been beset by robbers, a few coins more or less would not be missed. Much more than that, I could not dare.

As soon as the stout walls of the convent appeared, the child slipped away.

All I had to show for my rescuer being in my life was a basket of broken wares, a few coins, and a bloodied arm, tucked under my cloak…

“Vincente…” I whispered to the roses along my pathway, breaking my own vow. Then I stowed His name safely within my heart, where none may read it and know.

One part of me longed to run back to Him, to beg Him to allow me to stay, to serve Him as the others in the cave. But in that way lay madness and betrayal. I was not free to choose thus.

The convent did not like to lose their noviciates. They would come looking for me, and find Him. I could not bear that.

I had to return to my world. I had to. I had nowhere else to go...

~ ~ ~

Early October, 1791

I saw Him again. It had been two weeks, and I thought He had left me. But He was there today, in the evening shadows near the pathway, watching me pass by on my way home.

He did not speak. Oh, how I longed to hear His voice again! It haunts my dreams to exclusion…I can hear Him calling my name… I can hear the gipsy song He sang that night, with such deep sadness, its haunting beauty twisting like a knife in my sorrowing heart.

My arm continues to heal well. Only three faint scars remain to remind me. They will always remain. It is fitting. His first and only touch, cruel to be kind.

Thankfully, none of the nuns were aware I had been injured. I made my way undetected to my cell, and tended to myself in secret. I am skilled in the healing arts, knowing healing poultices, potions and ointments. My arm is always covered by the rough cloth of my sleeve.

I had to explain my absence to Mother Superior, and of course I told lie after lie. They must have been good ones, or at least they were the same ones my little messenger had told. I gave her all the coins I still had, and told her the wax could be melted down and reused.

She believed me, and I was dismissed. I hope God forgives my subterfuge. I could see no other way.

I make the ointment that heals a wound, and the candles that banish sorrow. But what I really want to do is make a love spell…

I know that thought alone, damns me. But something in me feels… tied to Him now.

Sometimes, when I am alone, I run my palm over my scars, thinking and remembering Him. It is always Him in my mind now, to almost the exclusion of all else…

My chest grows tight with wanting. The mingled scents of the wild red and white roses haunt my senses, for if I am jasmine, he is wild roses. They bloom and grow, despite the poorness of the soil they are forced to live in.

They flourish against all the odds. I must try and do the same.

My whole body craves for something I cannot define. But oh, how I burn…

I have not been able to write about it until now, because someone new has come to the convent. I know I am being watched. We all are.

I will keep my pages in the recipe book. Few here can read well, and that shoddy collection of misfit pages is such a simple text, no one bothers with it but Sister Marie and me, and her eyes fail her too badly to make out any words. It is another reason why they brought me to her and allowed me to stay.

Still, I must be very careful…

There is a new priest in the area, sent by Paris they say. The people think he is here to find those who have been hidden. The ones whose fine necks Mm. Guillotine craves with an insatiable thirst. Some of them hide with my rescuer, I am certain…

Father Damien is the priest’s name. He knows I travel alone along the paths to the farms, the village, and the convent. He seeks to enlist me as his spy, his aide in the spreading terror. I must name names and tell all I know. Or it will be the worse for me.

I must resist. But he is relentless.

He says he also seeks a highwayman, who is thought to hide somewhere near. Cloaked and masked in black, he is the one rumoured to have recently robbed our Holy Bishop of his most treasured possessions. They say he lost his blessed gold chalice and a sacred cross set with jewels to this man. The brigand also injured the Bishop, breaking his arm, thereby sending him back to Paris for urgent treatment.

It could be more than three months before His Excellency is able to return for our investiture. My heart leapt with both joy and trepidation at that news. By then the roads could well be impassable, thanks to winter snows. That means it may not be until spring that the ceremony could be performed.

Faced with Fr. Damien’s suspicious eyes, I tried hard to keep the joy from showing on my face. I cast my eyes down, and folded my hands penitently.

I must tell him nothing. I say I see only the rutted road, and those we sell our wares to.

Damien is furious at such temerity. He thinks I am lying, and to be fair, he is right. I am. He says it is my duty to become his puppet, for God and my country. To tell him anything I see, to say who is speaking with whom. My duty to… reveal anything I might come across.

How can that be? My duty to send innocent men and women to their deaths? They have done me no harm. And a highwayman was more use to the poor, starving folk I have seen than some fat Bishop.

But I cannot question Fr. Damien. I would not dare! I would be weeding the garden, face-down on my stomach for the rest of my miserable existence! And that existence would be a short one, I have no doubt.

Fr. Damien has a lust to send others to their doom. It is a thing he courts, if such a man can be called one who pays court to anything.

But for my mysterious rescuer, watching me from afar, I would have been quite wretched. I think of His name and I know He hears me. My Vincent Outside the Walls. It sings within me, like a beloved melody…

He was there for me today. I know now He will be there again tomorrow. I feel He fears for me. I sense His concerns for my wellbeing. Somehow, He knows what I am thinking and feeling. Almost as if we are one…

I dreamed again last night. I dreamt of the violence my love had to endure for my sake, and an incredible image appeared before my mind’s eye.

I saw His face, as clearly as I see my own in a mirror. But His was not the visage of a mortal man, and it should have frightened me awake. But I clung to it, and Him, feeling like a tiny craft being swept down swirling rapids from which there is no escape.

I hurtle on towards an unknown future.

Is my love part… what? A great wolf? Something else?

Of course, I know this could not be Him in truth. It is only my fevered imagination, working beyond its limits to try and explain the unexplainable.

Despite all that, I have drawn the image from my dream and will hide it here, among my recipes and plain things. Only the most determined seeker would find it.

Mon bel homme… my fingers ache to create Him in wax, as I did my blessed Christ figure. To make Him live for me, in truth. But in that way lays madness, and certain death. For if it was ever seen…

Though it breaks my heart, my dream image cannot ever be made real. But I could not resist committing it to paper. If only that I may look at it in secret.

It is the face of the man I have come to love. Even as I ask myself, ‘how can this be?’

By what mysterious alchemy this has come to pass, I do not know.

If I had taken to practising the arcane arts, I might have crafted the love potion I was previously considering. I have the means and the old recipes copied from the library. I have hidden them all within your sweet pages, my Dear Diary. I know you will never betray my trust.

But for Him to receive such a potion, I would have to get closer, and He does not allow that. The distance between us might as well be the whole Atlantic Ocean, which, I have been told, is impossibly vast. I stand on my shore, and He on His.

Distant we are, and distant we seem destined to remain…

If only the fickle fates had chosen to be more kind. What might we have been, one to the other?… I would follow Him, penniless and barefoot to the uttermost ends of the earth, and beyond. Will God forgive me such thoughts? Or is it God who allows them to begin with?

Somehow, the people who buy my wares seem to know I am well protected. They also say nothing. But they watch me, and talk behind their raised hands. There are so many secrets not allowed to be shared.

It is almost as if my unknown protector has become my talisman. No one troubles me now, and even the most difficult of customers pay without a qualm. As they take their purchases, their eyes are fixed on something beyond my shoulder.

I know my virgin heart burns with a deepening love for Him. I have a desire that can never slacken, even as it cannot be fulfilled, thanks to the lives we lead.

I spend hours on my knees, praying to be either free of my vows, or free of these feelings which race through my veins. I know I cannot have both. And my traitor’s heart tells me the one I prefer.

Does He feel the same? He says nothing and keeps His distance.

And I swear, sometimes my longing is His, and I can feel it, like fire, in the link that connects us. We cannot be together. And we cannot be apart. It is a maddening thing.

My nights are spent aching for Him. The warmth of Him, the protection, the knowledge He only exists to love, to defend, and to be near me. It should be enough to know I am cherished in such a way.

But it is not…

~ ~ ~

Late October, 1791

The autumn winds are bitter, and the season is grim. My candles are in demand for the dark hours, but payments have been reduced. The people pay what they can afford, and my guardian says nothing. I think He is there, sometimes. Sometimes, I am not sure.

Perhaps it is my fancy. Perhaps… so much of it was. Mayhap a forlorn dream is all I will ever possess…

With coins that much the less, our situation inside these convent walls… tightens. I understand that in the cities, it is much worse. They say it’s hard for ships to get in and out of the ports; that everyone in power fears spies and usurpers, both of whom are guillotined immediately. Even suspicions can result in deaths. Neighbours grow wary of each other, and old grudges can turn deadly…

What damage will these huge changes bring? I know we will survive. But money is scarce, and ill will flourishes. Panic spreads, and the government now holds sway

within the church, as it demands the money from tithes and all that we sell. And more besides…

That is another rod with which Father Damien beats me. The money is for the church. I must make the people pay what they rightly owe and get more when I can.

But how can I, when I know that some of them are trading medicine for bread?

Mother Superior stands against him in this one thing. She knows I keep nothing back from what little I can collect from our sales. My honesty is well-known, and she can find no obvious fault. But she watches…

Sister Bernice waits and bides her time. Soon, she senses, I will return to her clutches. This time, for good.

Because Father Damien is not satisfied. He would know all, everything I think and feel. I know he watches me, and schemes…

~ ~ ~

November, 1791

I can never tell. I must never tell. I have made a solemn promise to the man I love, with all my heart and soul...

This is a thing that must be understood, Dear Diary, for in your sweet pages, though I may pour my heart out in full, I can never tell. I have hidden pages of you. I have been supremely careful.

Lives depend on it. Mine. Others. His…

We can never be together. No matter what I dream. Or how much I ache…

But we will never be apart, never truly divided, one from the other. I have written that before, and I write it still, clinging to it like my only lifeline in a raging sea. It is a thing as permanent as the stars, and as fragile as a summer flower. It makes my heart sing with joy, and cry with an intense sorrow unknown in this world.

And beyond that, there is only so much I can ever say. And even as I “say” it here, I know I will keep it hidden, and only reveal so much. You never leave me now. I bear your secret pages close against my bare skin, beneath my habit, held there by its stout belt...

The work was long today, very long. Dawn was barely birthed above the black horizon. The dark winter brings a chill wind into the Chandlery, and the thin pillars I created were not worth the wax and wicks it took to make them. Tomorrow I must begin again, or suffer the consequences…

Starvation and revolution stalk deeper into the land, and I can do little to help. I worry now that He and His fellows may not have enough to eat.

Even in our forgotten little corner of la belle France, we will soon no longer be immune from unwanted intrusion.

How will He survive then, if the soldiers come to occupy us? Or if the Bishop finally returns, seeking his revenge…?

It would be the worse for Him and His followers, those who have nowhere else to hide…The children worry me most of all. They are so small and so innocent.

But I am not permitted to walk beyond these hallowed prison walls now. If I would become the spy Father Damien wants, only then I could walk free once more.

Where could I go, but to Him?

And that would mean disaster, for both of us. Both of us and all of them. I could not risk it. Damien has other spies. They follow me. Sometimes, I think they even follow each other. Has there ever been a time of such paranoia?

My eyes long to see Him. My ears crave the sound of His voice. My entire form desires to know simply that He is near, with His huge, strong presence. Mon bel homme…

I long to rest in His arms. If only He would allow it.

But I would lead Father Damien’s spies right to Him, and that would be beyond a disaster. I cannot risk even that one of the children might run up to me, or acknowledge me.

We are all living in fear.

The nuns have the stores to feed themselves, and they say they must survive. They are God’s chosen people. Surely, they will be saved.

But my soul is slowly dying.

Unable to see Him again, and when I need Him the most… It destroys my very being.

The last time I was allowed out of these bitter walls, the last time I delivered my wares,

I looked toward the deep shadows, sensing He was there. I could barely make out the outline of His great cloak, (or perhaps I even imagined that I could) but I know He could see me. I sent Him my love, and it was as if we were exchanging glances, in secret. I think He knew I was losing hope. I think He knew I was tired, and bone-weary with despair.

I stepped closer to the shadows, longing to be embraced.

I think then that He also longed to hold me, to comfort me. But, as always, He kept His distance. It is right that He did.

Yet, I know He was there…

It is pain for both of us. So I stepped back into the light, aware I was placing Him at risk.

But if He had reached for me… what then?

If I am observed, He is dead. We both are.

I no longer smell of jasmine. The flowers are long gone, as are the roses. What oil we had was shipped to Paris on a covered cart. It is only the dried herbs I can use now.

Winter snows cover all. Bleakness surrounds me, everywhere.

I can feel Him chafing against the constraints between us I can feel Him longing to test them. I know He would not dare come inside these convent walls. I know that. As long as I remain inside, He is safe, in a way.

Safe and unhappy. Is He as miserable as I am? I think that He is. But I have no way to know.

At first, though I sensed Him near when I went out, I could not see Him anywhere. Later, I thought I could discern His shape in barn doorways, or His great form threading between the trees.

I used to think I’d caught some bare sight of Him, then turning toward that vision and sensing Him.

But now I think it was the opposite. That I sensed Him first, then saw.

I know that sounds impossible…

And I know I could feel Him wanting to draw closer. Wanting to be near…It is as if

those limits He first set had shrunk to a few yards. He wanted to venture ever nearer, as if drawn like a helpless moth to a bright flame.

But at what cost?

My heart bids Him “come,” while my mind screams “stay back!” I shall go mad, as mad as my beloved nation is going.

Who could have predicted what the next few months may have held, had the entire country not become so… cast down? I yet dream of a touch of His fingers. My arm through His…the two of us, walking, hand in hand, in the sunshine…

It is nothing but a fancy. And it is also being foolish beyond all permission. I must be strong, for both of us.

He always knows how I’m feeling. I do not know how I know. He touches me, without touching me, if that makes any sense at all. But then, He is always there, in the hidden recesses of my mind. Always…

Is it all right if I use that pronoun, here? I call Him “He” and capitalise the word, everywhere, as if it were His beloved name. Is it all right that I do that? As long as I say nothing more to give away His identity, in these pages I scribble upon so furiously?

I swore I would not say His name again. And I will not. I’ve pressed those pages together, to hide their secrets. And oh, but I have dreamed! His beloved name is my secret to guard, as a protective she-bear with her only cub.

Because I know this much is true. He is mine, and I am His, in both body and spirit. We will always be together, in this world, and the next.

He is the only one to call me by my given name, Katherine. That night, in the cave, my name on His lips, it sounded like a blessing and an invocation. He breathed it, more than said it…like a dream from which I would never willingly choose to awaken…

But my love and I have divined no answer to our predicament, and indeed, cannot even speak of the problems we face, much less their solutions. Any dream of a future we may have together is surely an insane imagining, born of our mutual aloneness and our loneliness. For I know He is lonely. It is a thing that stalks us both.

But I do know, whatever happens, whatever comes, I can never tell. And I never will. As

Father Damien says we must always tell him the truth. He must know everything, all we do and think. Especially the noviciates. For the sake of our immortal souls, he says.

Almost daily now, he probes my mind with the expert hand of a skilled surgeon, hunting for impure diseases or unclean thoughts.

“Confession is good for the soul,” he says. “Your burdens must become mine, so you nuns may save souls in this world. For the Blessed Church and God, the Father.”

The other girls whisper they will tell him anything and everything, to escape his attentions. I alone remain standing, isolated and defenceless, against the priest’s constant, strange assaults.

But, if I say nothing, surely that too is a form of truth, is it not? Father Damien says omitting anything from my terrifying journeys to the confessional is, in itself, still an unpardonable sin, and my eternal soul will be damned for all time.

“Confess!” he shouts at me, loathsome spittle coating his black beard. “Confess, or you will be shamed before God!”

He licks his lips, and leans closer to the grill between us, waiting. I keep my silence. He demands again to know all. And yet, I can never tell.

He grows angry, pressing his hand against the grillwork, demanding I tell him more, my innermost thoughts and feelings. What I dreamed in the night. How it made me feel...everywhere…

I tell him what little I think I must, and pray it is enough. How can I share the visions that haunt my dreams? Or the fervent wish to be free of all this torment? I own a desire that grows stronger by the day. Or perhaps it owns me. I can no longer tell.

Father Damien would think me mad, or worse…

His reddened face comes closer. His breathing is heavy, and his dark eyes are wild with disbelief. It is all I can do to hold his gaze and say there is nothing more to tell, in my meekest voice. I am a simple, dutiful daughter of the church. There is nothing I can say, so I say nothing.

Yet somehow, though not in the particulars, I think he knows. He suspects everyone.

I try to maintain my charade. Try to play my part, to keep the truth hidden.

I am the humble daughter of an honest, yet simple merchant; he, the scion of a great and noble house. I know my place in this wretched life. He is very assured in his.

I drop my head, and cower in the corner. Submission must be everything, or at least the pretence of it. I try to watch him through my lashes.

Damien snarls that he does not believe me. I hear him rear back in disgust. I open my eyes to see if he is gone, but he is not. He leers at me, saying he knows I will go straight to hell.

There, he says that things, horrible, awful, disgusting things, will be done to my eternal virgin’s body. Things I cannot escape, things he seems at pains to assure me will happen, unless…

I remain cowering in my corner, until the good Father finally releases me from that hateful prison. “So be it. Let your immortal soul be damned then,” he mutters.

I agree. Damn me, and be done with it! Because I cannot tell, I can never, ever tell. And I never will, even if I have to live eternally alone, without the gift and benefit of His touch…

And I speak not of faceless, uncharitable gods here, but of a mortal man, a very mortal man indeed. A beautiful man…for, to me, His face must surely be the most beautiful thing in all of God’s creation…I have seen it often enough in my dreams…

~ ~ ~

Someone has been in here! Again! They have been in my cell again, this I know for a sad fact. Father Damien sends his other spies to look constantly for my supposed secrets. What can be found within my mother’s wooden-backed hairbrush, or the old shoes beneath my cot, I do not know. My things have been moved, items rearranged, more than once.

They think I do not notice. They think me too simple to understand their deviousness.

Oh, how I long for fresh air and spring sunshine, but I think they will never come again. Will spring forget my benighted land?

So, once more, I must hide you, Dear Diary, secure beneath the stout rope belt of my habit, against my back and naked skin. A sacred place only you have touched and warmed.

There has been no other… But oh, how I wish it was not so...

~ ~ ~

Late February 1792.

For many weeks, I have kept your pages hidden, scattered among the recipes, and secreted inside the pages no one uses but me. I did not write. I did not dare. But now I am so alone… please let me speak to you, my Diary. For if I do not, I am sure I will lose my mind…

The celebration of the birth of our beloved Christ child has passed without incident. And the whole month of January followed without remark. In the dead of winter, nothing moves.

Then, a deep sorrow struck. I haunt the Chandlery since the death of my mentor and friend, Sister Marie. The bitter cold was too much for her aged body. All my infused candles, medicinal soap, potions and health giving pottages could not save her.

I miss her simple company more than I can write here. All I can do is pray for our God to keep and care for her kindly, old soul.

For now I am truly alone, and I will be forced to become a spy for Father Damien. He is triumphant that he has finally broken me. Or so he thinks…

He threatened my parents, you see, my family, with the attentions of Mm. Guillotine. He said he had the power to do that, to condemn all those close to me. He has powerful family members in the National Assembly.

There was only one blessed exception to the list of names he thrust under my nose. Names of people he swore will make a gallows march, unless I agreed to use my eyes and meek form for his sake. My desperate eyes hunted, but could not find His name.

My sigh of relief, Father took to be my final acceptance of defeat.

“At last, we understand each other,” he purred.

His stroking hand upon my forearm sickened me. I kept my temper, but only just! I longed to throw the vat of hot tallow I was working with into his smirking face!

So I walk the paths and lanes once more, with my candles and my fear. I can give no one away, give no true name.  For I would send that person to their death. I will watch the comings and goings near the river, and in the market. I tell Damien I’m sure I overheard the language of other places.

But I say I understand nothing of the words I do not know, spoken in tongues I cannot pierce.

They are always looking for other spies, other hateful ones, like themselves. I will feed Fr. Damien the lies I know he longs to hear. I will keep my love safe, and implicate no one directly.

It is a dangerous game I play. And he will not let me play it for long. Damien is no fool.

But I feel He is always near…

~ ~ ~

Early March, 1792

Father Damien is dead! And it was my love who caused that hateful man’s demise. If a death is a thing to rejoice in, then I do so with unbounded joy.

My spy master followed me. I did not see him in the evening gloom, until he saw my love and gave chase. Damien was armed. The sound of a shot tore the air and I saw my love fall!

I screamed! I know I screamed, until my voice gave out. Then I fell to my knees and Damien came to stand over me, gloating, saying that he knew I was not to be trusted. He said he knew I was hiding someone.

He told me that there was a rich bounty to be claimed for my lover’s head, for the callous attack on the Holy Bishop and others.

As Damien gloated, he aimed his pistol at my forehead, and then consigned my eternal soul to hell.

It was his last act on this unfortunate earth. This time, my love’s roar was truly awful to hear; as if His own life was about to be snuffed out.

Sent spinning by a powerful blow to his head, Damien was dead of a broken neck before his body ever fell upon the ground.

I looked up and my mouth fell open with horror! My love was wounded! His white shirt was growing black in the darkness, as blood spread slowly across his left shoulder, staining His great cloak.

He staggered towards me, my name on His lips, and I hurried to hold Him upright. His arm went around my shoulders, and He leant heavily upon me, nearly buckling my knees.

“Katherine…” He breathed my name again, slumping against me.

His hand was heavy upon my shoulder, and I felt the strong length of His nails digging into my flesh, despite the thickness of the leather gloves He wore. I buried my teeth into my bottom lip to prevent myself crying out, such was the pain.

“I’m sorry…” He rasped. The pressure eased. He knew He had hurt me, again, without intention.

“You’re hurt,” I replied stupidly. The dark stain continued to grow. He was gasping for breath, and He tugged down the cloth that usually covered His face…

“Please… don’t be afraid,” He begged. He turned His head, to look down at me, His eyes pleading for my acceptance and understanding. Begging me not to scream…

For, in that moment, I saw His face for the very first time. His beloved and beautiful face…and felt my mouth fall wide open with wonder and disbelief.

In truth, He was my beautiful man.

I did not scream. Nor I did faint at His feet. I think, from the look in His eyes, He expected both. But my sobbing cry was caught in my throat.

It was not one of terror, but of blessed recognition. Dear Diary, I had seen that face, before. Almost…

But now, the pair of eyes I had drawn, actually lived and stared back at me. I felt my heart racing. It snatched my breath and challenged my reason. But I could not look away, even though my knees shook, and threatened to give way beneath me.

Surely God would not bless me so, with such an imagination to know and see the things I should not. For standing before me was the very man of my imagination. What I had dreamed so often… it was all true.

It is all true.

“You will not let go of me. And I will not let go of you,” I said, trying to cover His terrible wound with little more than my hand. “We must stop the bleeding and get you to safety.”

He seemed … dazed by the violence, or perhaps it was His wound. I kept Him on His feet whenever His body threatened to fall. His nails pierced my habit again, and I could feel His power there. He eased His grip once more, and I forced us to continue on.

I knew each step brought us closer to aid, and away from harm, and the hate that had caused it. Getting my love away safely from danger was a Herculean task. Together, we staggered to the cave and the ragged inmates there could not have been more helpful. Some, I recognised from before. Some were new.

Had He been providing for all of them? All this time?

I gasped out the whole sorry tale, even as I tried to staunch the flow of blood, thankful the shot had passed right through Him. But He resisted me. Instead of keeping me near, He ordered one of His followers to attend to Him, banishing me to the background again.

I knew He was only trying to shield my maidenly eyes from His strong, male form. And He was, but I suspected that it was not just His face that bore the marks of some wildness, of some unfathomable magic. Perhaps other places on His form had been touched by enchantment as well?

I sighed. Wondering and dreaming does not get a task done! So I kept to the back of the cave, making poultices and boiling water, anything to keep busy. Anything to help Him. I bid the little girl assigned to help me to fetch me what honey they had, and wine. To bring me thyme, if there was any.

All the while His face remained, burning brightly before my inner vision.

Was He more man than beast, or more beast than man? I did not know then.

His noble face was like an animal’s. A wolf? A lion?

I had seen wolves, running in the distance. But a lion, only in paintings and in the illuminated pages of some scriptures. Both have the claws capable of leaving the marks that made the scars on my arm. I felt those talons again, when my love gripped my arm after He’d been shot.

My love is very dark and His visage is most fearsome. He would give anyone cause to scream. And yet…Was this not my saviour? My Vincente?

It was almost as if an animal had mated with a mortal, yet rather than creating something base, had made something... divine. I know in my heart my love is no beast, or not to me. I knew the idea of two different species mating to be an abomination. This was something more, something different from whatever had gone before.

Perhaps the fickle gods had decided to meddle with His life, making Him an outcast not through choice, but by an accident at birth. Did my love even know His own origins beyond His presumed abandonment?

He is beastly featured, with a long, flat nose, and an all but nonexistent upper lip. His teeth are long, like a wolf, and but for the gentleness in His green eyes, I’d have thought myself likely to be devoured.

His eyes had gazed into mine so beseechingly, part of me thought I might not mind that fate. Set below slanted black eyebrows, they seemed to glow in the dark. Sable stubble adorned His lower face, rising to His angular cheekbones, matched in the thickness of His long hair, blacker than the darkest night.

What did it all mean? I had no idea then. I was sure of nothing that night, except I knew I could never leave Him again.

The little girl brought me what I asked for. “You will help?” she asked. I could see by the look in her eyes that she was as concerned for my love as I was.

‘My love’…my heart whispered. God himself surely could not have crafted a more glorious human being. Nor one with greater compassion for His fellow man…

“Of course I will,” I answered, firmly. “He… protects you? Keeps you safe?”

She nodded. “All of us,” she replied. “And we care for him.”

I looked around, making a quick count. Twelve souls inhabited the warm space. A dozen lives, depending on Him and His undoubted talent for survival.

They were cleaning His wound, and an old man was readying strings of silk to put stitches in I think, while others stayed near. They spoke mostly French, of course, but there were also tongues I did not understand, and He responded in their same language, His voice full of both pain and reassurance.

No one had more heart and a deeper desire to protect than my beloved. It truly was as if a dark angel had been flung from heaven and had fallen to earth…

I wanted to be near Him, even as I knew He still wanted me to keep back. The woman who had been nursing the babe was bringing fresh bandages. No one seemed to find His looks remarkable. Perhaps, in a way, they weren’t, to these lost people.

His incredible green eyes had looked into mine, and the soul of a human man stared at me, begging for my understanding and love. Those things I could give readily and forever.

The rest would take time and patience to unravel.

I only knew I had to help Him. And so I did. “Tell them to soak His bandages in this, and pour it into the wound before they stitch it closed,” I told my small helper, pressing a warm wooden bowl full of my mixture into her hands. She did as I had bidden her.

I then unlaced and pushed aside the shoulder of my habit. I set about cleaning the marks left in my shoulder by His heavy clasp. They were no more than ragged indentations, shallow in my skin. They would heal well and without blemish. It was of small consequence.

I straightened my soiled clothing as best I could, before placing my hands on my hips and stretching my tired legs. Was I now a homeless refugee as well?

Of course, I could not return to the convent, nor did I wish to do so. That life, I knew, was behind me now.

I watched as my saviour moved slowly to His allotted place at the back of the cave, where He lay down to rest. An old man settled near Him and checked His bandages. Someone else spooned broth from a bowl for Him to eat.

I watched all this from afar, feeling useless now. I wanted to approach, to check that all was well. But Vincente shot me a stern look. It was all right. I understood. I knew my love needed sleep, and that He would not rest if I came too near.

His companions divided the responsibility of keeping a strict watch for any intruders into their realm. But all seemed quiet, and one by one they retired to their places by the fire, and talked in low tones. Some drifted away to sleep.

I looked down. His blood (and perhaps even some of Father Damien’s) had stained the front of my habit. Dipping a cloth into the water I had set to boil, I tried to clean it, but I only succeeded in spreading the stain.

Seeing my concern, one of the women sent the same small elf to bring me clean clothes from their store. The dress and underthings were shabby, but very welcome.

“Come with me.” The child then took my hand, and led me to a small rear alcove, where I could change.

I confess I returned to burn my bloody habit within the cave’s fire without pause, I also stripped the noviciate’s veil covering my hair, and burned that too. It felt freeing to do so. That life was truly over.

For I now wore the ragged clothes of a French peasant woman. It is all I have worn since.

Freed from its confinement, my long hair tumbled down my back and over my shoulders. It seemed to revel in its unexpected freedom. I was at somewhat of a loss about what I could do with its unruliness.

A nearby woman noticed my consternation. She held out a length of black velvet ribbon. “If you will allow me…” She stood and walked behind me.

“Your hair is very beautiful,” she said, as she pulled the ribbon through my hair, to hold it back from my face. “The colour of a robin’s red breast in spring,” she continued wistfully, stroking out a long curl.

“Merci…” I flushed with embarrassment. I thought she jested. My hair has only ever been a common colour of brown.

The woman then turned me to face her. “I once had a daughter with eyes as blue as yours.” She sighed, hugging me close. “But I lost her to sickness when she was young. I miss her still…”

“I am so sorry,” I said. I held the woman as she cried softly for her loss.

She finally moved back and cupped my cheek. “Come, we have tasks that need attending. There are sentries who will want a warm drink, and children to get to bed.” She took my hand. “Then we will find you something to eat.”

So the die was cast. I was accepted into the group without question or comment. I gave thanks for the boundless generosity of my new companions. Those who have the least to give, so often give the most…

I helped clean the bowls and spoons from the evening meal. I helped with what chores were given to me. The night hours dragged past on leaden feet, finally tipping towards the new day. I watched the guards change, but that was not a task entrusted to me.

Finally, with everything stowed away, and others in charge of the fire, I was at a loss. Most of my companions were now asleep, wrapped in their blankets. A lone sentinel kept vigilant watch, seated within the throat of the cave mouth.

Lacking anything more to do to help, I moved towards the cave entrance, and placed my rude pallet of blankets against the wall. I was tired to the bone, and my head throbbed. I lay down and curled on my side. I longed to lie near Him, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

Outside, I could see the dawn was well advanced. The nuns would have missed my presence at their Morning Prayers by now, and would look for me within the confines of the convent. My beloved chandlery would be thoroughly combed. When I was nowhere to be found, they would begin a search in earnest.

I did not doubt the authorities would soon find Father Damien’s body sprawled in the roadway, and mark me as suspicious in my absence. Or perhaps they would think we were beset by the very highwaymen they sought, and we were both their victims.

There is no one there to tell the tale. Perhaps they will think Father Damien died trying to protect me, but in vain. Or perhaps they will think that I am simply… gone, like so many others in the countryside, who have become part of the missing.

Let them tell he was a hero, if it pleases them, even as all here sigh in relief at his passing.

If that awful lie keeps one person safe, I will let them tell it. They will not spend much time looking for me. They will think they know my fate.

Mayhap they will decide it is for the best, where they are concerned. Indeed, I would have made a very poor nun.

So be it…I settled deeper into my blankets and prayed my family would not suffer because of me… More, I cannot do. I will never see them again.

~~~

I awoke, and rose from my pallet in the early evening, having been allowed to sleep all through the day. I went to check on my beloved. He still slept. I knelt down beside His blankets to examine Him. Thankfully His brow was cool, and His breathing was shallow, but even.

His wound looked clean, and did not need any fresh attention. The old man attending Him frowned, but said nothing. He did not strike me as a bad man, though it was clear he had an opinion of me. Many of them probably did. Most seemed kind.

I sat back on my heels, allowing my love the healing power of sleep. God knows when we all would sleep so well again.

I watched Him rest for some time, marvelling again at the dark beauty of His unusual features. I saw by the movement of His eyes behind the lids that He was dreaming. I hoped it was a good dream.

“Mon bel homme,” I whispered, for Him alone, kissing His cheek gently.

His eyes opened at my touch, and He stared hard at me. He frowned, seeming not to recognise me at first. Then His brow cleared. His hand rose to caress the length of my hair, that hung over my shoulder.

"Katherine…it is you,” He whispered. “I dreamt I had lost you…” His great body shuddered beneath the blankets.

He shook His head. “I almost did not know you…so fair. So belle.” He swallowed. His incredible eyes traced their way down my hair, then back up again. His unusual fingers wound themselves in my unruly tresses. “It would be such a great sin to ever cut all this beauty away…”

His breath hitched, and then He said, ”There is a beach near Lisbon with sand this very colour. Promise me you will never cut it…"

His eyes drifted shut again, before I could think to comment. His hand slipped away from my curls, dropping back to His blankets.

I clasped it between mine, waiting for Him to speak again. But His breathing lengthened and evened out once more.

“I promise…” I fetched a sobbing breath, waiting for Him to respond. “But you must promise to get well again, for me…”

He did not respond and slept on. I rose, finally, and moved away to the fire to prepare another poultice.

Some of His companions came to talk to me while we ate the evening meal. They had all decided some days before that it was now too dangerous for any of them to remain

here. Father Damien had been a powerful enemy, and now his death would need to be avenged. No matter what, his passing would bring the area under even more scrutiny. Soldiers would surely be dispatched and they would hunt for those responsible, guilty or not.

His people had formulated fresh plans, and only waited for my love to awaken before putting them into action. They asked me if I thought it was safe for Him to travel some distance to the coast. I gave my reluctant consent, knowing staying here could be more dangerous than leaving.

They then laid out their plans and my heart leapt with sheer joy. It seems my dreams of seeing a life beyond the familiar were to come true after all.

My Vincente and I are bound for distant shores. And, it seems, very different shores. Where all in our odd company are accepted and none are questioned too closely about their origins.

Money buys disinterest, and all of us need that now…

~ ~ ~

Late March, 1792

Pirates! The very notion of them should frighten me. But, Dear Diary, I have been through so much in these last two weeks, I barely raise a weary eyebrow anymore.

I know I am heartily sick of this ship! This tiny craft which bobs up and down on the ocean like a cheerful cork, and does not count the cost to my terribly abused stomach! The crewmen have given me several new recipes for mal de mer to add to my own, but I say here that so far, none of them are working!

I have spent a great deal of time standing with my head over the rail, staring into the heaving waves, as my stomach empties, much to the sailors’ delight. But their ribaldry is good-natured and they mean no harm.

Dolphins swim often before the ship’s bow now. They watch me and seem to approve. The sailors named them for me. They said they are good luck.

The sleek sea creatures dive and splash like children, without a care. They lead us ever onwards, towards a new world…The New World, Diary!

For we are going to America! I say that name beneath my breath. I still must pinch

myself to believe it is all real. All of us from that dank cave found safety and passage, upon the rolling bosom of the great ocean. It is truly as immense as I was told.

The sailors say we go to a wild, sometimes savage country. And all I can think is, “How much more savage could it be than what we left behind?”

We are worked hard as part of the hefty price of our passage. I help to cook and clean. But I do so with a glad and grateful heart.

Our powerfully built captain (as dark as my love, though human featured), will be exchanging fine French brandies and wines for cotton and furs when we reach the distant shore. Illicit trade goes on, regardless of the actions of governments and powerful warlords. People slip ashore in the New World, and no one asks their business.

In daylight, my Vincente bides His time below, in a narrow room we use as a cabin, waiting for the safe darkness of the night. It is only then when He may venture above decks in the lonely keep of the night’s watch.

He does not wish to be the object of speculation and gossip. Hearsay begets rumours, and the real truth becomes fluid, and dangerously distorted.

Sometimes I walk with Him. But I can only see a tiny part of what His keen eyes can determine. So He tells me of the heaving cast of the waves, and the beauty He knows is there, far beyond the black and stormy horizon.

Then He reminds me to look up. By God’s truth, I never saw so many stars. And the moon never looked more beautiful. Its serene beauty seems to beckon us onward.

Vincente’s face is known to the ship’s captain, who is an old and trusted friend. They have contracted such delicate business before it seems… smuggling the unfortunate and the dispossessed to new lives.

But always at a price. Vincente had the means to pay, and did so without a quibble, though He said the cost was very fair for such a large group of twelve people. He said the pirate captain owed Him a favour or two. Debts were called in and a rich bargain accepted.

Was there truly honour to be found among such daring thieves?

When I am not being sick and my work in the ship’s galley is done, I am busy serving the men their meals and clearing away the dishes afterwards. They gossip and I listen, though I do not understand every tongue.

Once my traitorous stomach settled, I began to take note of things said, which I would later relate to my love.

Some of the young sailors spoke of a blonde beast man being seen living among the wild Indian tribes who inhabit the immense wilderness. They are said to have been seen where few white people dare to venture. Some also say there is more than one…

Older sailors scoff, saying it’s just wild rumours.

Thanks to the plethora of Indian tribes, the New World is FULL of such tall tales of huge men and giant deeds. Gold and silver are said to abound in the rivers and streams, there for the taking. If only a man has the courage…

The seasoned men stand and stretch, complaining they are too old for such foolishness. It is deemed bottle talk, and should stay thus.

When I spoke of this to my love, and asked if He had kin on this far-flung land, He frowned and shook His great head. “As you see, I am not yellow haired. I am cast in a very different mould.” He turned His face to me, and pointed to the darkness of His features and person. “Such a man, if he exists at all, is not any brother of mine.”

He dismissed all such wild talk as perhaps such a blonde one could have been a Viking raider’s bastard, or the son he made with an Indian maiden he briefly took to wife. Such men are known to be giants, massively proportioned, and tall beyond measure.

My love said He has met some who stand over seven feet in height! I frowned at such an obvious exaggeration, but He assured me it was true.

“Perhaps,” Vincente continued. “He is simply a man like us, seeking the freedom he could not find anywhere else.” He sighed. “For that thought alone, I wish him well, and bon chance.”

“As do I.” I nodded, quickly.

“Perhaps, my love,” He whispered. “We may never know. Perhaps that is best. Some mysteries in life are better left unexplained.”

Understanding what He had been trying to tell me all along, I went readily into His invited embrace and lay against His great heart, listening to it beat, only because of me. And I truly understood the great sin of pride, and rejoiced in it.

For I had saved my Vincente’s life. It was that simple…

~ ~ ~

We saw some scrap of forest-clad land on the horizon this morning, and birds flew above us. There are more dolphins than ever, playing at our bow. But we passed the island by and went on. The sailors said fierce cannibals lived there, and they did not welcome strangers, except to make a juicy meal of them!

So we watched the island slip from view and once more we rode the restless waves ever onwards towards the distant horizon. Our ragged company knows a nagging longing to set foot upon solid ground and forget this endless heaving.

My love must still hide His face from most of the crew and stay below decks until night comes. For His secret is one that still must be kept. But He is far from the first person to spend the voyage behind a door.

Other wealthy expatriates have made this crossing, fearing being recognised as either great nobility, or great traitors. The pirates do not care. All money spends the same.

We only know that we can never again live in France. Mm Guillotine’s endless lust for fresh blood shows no sign of being satisfied, the sailors say, both they and the few other passengers.

Still, there are those in our company who worry. Some say there are only dragons dwelling beyond the edge of the horizon, waiting to devour the unwary. Even now, in this age of enlightenment, it is still believed by the ignorant.

Well, I say, there be no dragons here...

So, please be kind to us, America. For we stand sorely in need of a brave New World…

~ ~ ~

May, 1792

After more than six weeks upon the ocean, we have finally arrived in New York City. I was not prepared for anything so big, or so noisy! Dear Diary, they bustle and chatter incessantly, night and day. It is all a body can do to find any respite in sleep!

My love healed well on the crossing. His stomach is more mannerly than mine! The pirates allowed us to stay on the ship until darkness fell, before we slipped ashore. My cloaked love kept to the midst of His people, and the ill lit alleyways were dark and sheltering to us.

Vincente (I can write his name at will, now we are free) halted me with a hand upon my arm as soon as we were safe, hidden ashore. He drew me near, holding my hand in His. He began slowly, and His final confession was that He had done many things to survive.

Most recently He had been haunting the highways and lonely places where foolish, wealthy men sometimes ventured. Men who had looted great fortunes of the dispossessed for the rebellion, or for their own personal gain. Murderers. Charlatans who took from others, simply because they could, because there was no one left to stop them. Horrible men, who killed the women for what remained of their jewellery, or the men, for their gold.

Vincente’s cave had become a place for refugees, and people who could tell where the evil men lurked. People who tried to help Him redress the balance in any way they could.

A highwayman’s life had been how He kept His people fed and safe. The week we left, the pickings had been lean, but…

From deep inside His great cloak He produced what was left of the money He’d used to keep them all fed, and to bring us here. A small pouch of jewellery remained, and a bag of coins, mostly silver, but some gold. Then, finally, He produced a battered chalice that had been flattened for easy concealment. Also a jewelled cross, crushed in upon itself. The Bishop’s missing treasure!

We all stared in disbelief. No one would be going hungry that night!

“These could not be sold in France without drawing the attention of the authorities. Here, it is a different matter,” He said, with a shrug.

My smile was bright, as one of His comrades clapped Him on the back. Vincente passed some coins into his ready hand, that he might go and buy us food.

“Then it was you,” I said, my voice breathless with wonder. “You saved me, even then.”

“Your Bishop was taking from everyone. A greedy fool who robbed all he could find, to pay for these. He attacked me, so I was forced to lay him low,” Vincente explained.

“He fell and broke his arm. As his guards carried him away, he screamed that he would soon have his revenge.”

He shrugged His unconcern, and tucked the bounty away. It would be divided later.

I did not know how long such money would last, divided among the large lot of us. But I knew it was good to not be utterly penniless on this foreign shore.

His fingers then dipped inside the dark velvet bag that seemed to hold some small pieces of jewellery.

“Now, this is for you.” He deftly pocketed the little pouch, before holding out a small, golden band.

“There is safety to be found in being a respectable, married woman, or even a widow, fleeing the troubles in France with her family. No one will question you too closely. I will keep out of sight, and no one will know if your husband is with you. We will come together only at night.”

It was necessary, I knew that, but still my heart quailed. To have come so far…

Before I could speak, He took my hand between His and slipped the ring over my knuckle. It warmed my chilled skin, and glowed softly in the darkness. “It will grant you whatever protection marriage gives among these people,” He said, quietly, touching my cheek with His fingers. “Merci, ma belle, for everything.”

“Does this mean you’re married?” A small, dark head intruded between us. “I like weddings,” the little girl cooed in delight.

“You need a priest for that. Thankfully, we don’t have one of those here,” her father admonished her, and no more was said.

~ ~ ~

Incredibly, we have found modest premises to rent, where we can all live in the small rooms above an abandoned shop. Not everyone who ventured to the New World decided to stay. And what they left behind could be had for no more than a promise to maintain the property, plus an adequate amount of silver. So we can all live in the small rooms above the place where I will set up my very own Chandlery, making special candles, soaps, and curatives.

I was aware that many here made their own candles and lotions. But they will soon see that mine are exceptional, and are worth the modest price I will set.

It is cramped, and we live on top of each other. Twelve people living in three rooms is not ideal, but we have our freedom, so no one complains. It will soon be made into a home.

~ ~ ~

We exist on the edge of the city, where we make and sell my candles, and no one thinks to question a poor French wife/widow, who lives frugally with her extended family and some few friends, and bothers no one.

But I create beauty as well, and my fame is spreading. Everyone, it seems, wishes to own one of my carved candles.

Faithful replicas of my beautiful Christ figure are becoming highly sought after by the wealthy ladies of the city…

Oh, and yes, if pressed, I could say my husband is anything from a sailor, to a trapper, to an explorer. Rumours abound, but I have not yet been approached for the answers. Even in this brave, new world, I am only a woman.

So many of our friends come and go, it’s assumed one of the men must be my husband. Those who have at least pierced that they are not… well. I must been seen to be waiting patiently for His return. I am modest in my person and cause no one to gossip. I am often spoken of as “a good wife”. It seems there can be no higher praise…

If I am pressed for answers, I wave an apologetic hand. “My English…” I emphasise my accent for effect, and shrug my shoulders, in the French style.

I pretend my English is not very good, though I am learning, and I grow in confidence every day. I understand more than I speak. Even though I still write in French on your pages, my Diary, some new words of English now slip from my pen.

The children, running wild in the streets of the city, are my teachers. Little sponges all, they soak up this new culture as if they have been born to it! They find their impudent way into anything and everything.

We must see that they are schooled, if we are to advance our position in this new land. But getting any of them to stay still for long is an ongoing challenge. I teach them, where and when I can, being the most literate among our group.

Serving in the shop, I overheard once that my husband is a Huron warrior. ”No, he’s a Seneca, a civilised Indian. Not some heathen savage! Madame Chandler would not allow!”

I smiled behind the shield of my lace handkerchief, and went about my business, pretending not to understand. I do not know when my profession, written in bold legend above the shop doorway, became mine own identity. “Chandler,” it says.  And it is taken as my name, as well as my vocation.

Once given, it would not allow me to deny. Who else could I be now?

“’Madame Chandler, how much for this carved rose?’  Or ‘Madame Chandler, your white tapers are so very fine.’  Or ‘Good Mistress, the Chandler, are these Christ figures carved by you?  Such art!’  Or ‘Madame Kate, my little one suffers the grippe. Might you have a medicine sachet for her? Or some scented candle? They speak of your chandler’s skill…’”

And so now I am known by the thing I loved to do, always. Kate the candle maker, it is fitting…

Some say I am a nobleman’s daughter, others a poor peasant farmwife.  Still others have me pegged as a midwife, and one, as a simple nun. Though the latter is the closest to correct, I confirm little, and work hard, all the while hearing the language I must learn more of.

And if anything, the rumours about my “husband” are more varied than the ones about me. “No! He’s not an Indian,” came a customer’s certain reply. “He’s a French nobleman who’s been dispossessed of his lands, and is trying to regain his fortune trading furs. He will be home any day now. Madame awaits in pious certainty.”

I raised my brows at that one. It was as if I did not exist, and no one thought to ask me the truth. Are those who cannot speak the native tongue always thought to be invisible?

“Well, I heard he’s a proud Spaniard fleeing the remnants of the Inquisition. He speaks to no one, because he speaks no English.” That one got my attention. It was nearer to the truth than the customer ever knew. For my Portuguese beloved is very proud of his homeland.

In the evening, my Vincente brings home game for our table, and at supper we always tell Him the rumours of the day. And He tells us of the wild, beautiful land which spreads far outside our door. And sometimes of the natives He meets.

They do not fear Him, saying He is a spirit who walks like a man, and brings them good fortune. They vie with each other, like the children in our group, for His undivided attentions. Vincente hunts with them, and they have made an honoured space for Him at their council fires.

Sometimes, late in the night, when the others are all abed and the house is quiet, He tells me stories of His travels, or reads me poetry by candlelight. But He shares little of His own personal story. He identified the country of His birth, and the monastery they named Him for, but it was all He would say.

He sleeps near me, as He did on the ship. His is a fur covered pallet on the floor. He is always close, but we do not share a bed through the night, as others in our group do. Lovers are being married, and children are then born. But yet, I wait...

My saviour will not speak of a future with me, though I know His love is true. It is as if He cannot believe in a day that will see us as one, even though I think He longs for it as much as I.

Last night He related to me the Persian fairy tale of the nightingale that fell in love with a white rose. A romance forbidden by their God, but they did not listen, and from that illicit union came the red rose. A loveliness their master had never meant the world to see. I wept for the tragic beauty of the story, as I was held safe within the strong shelter of my love’s arms.

We have a corner of the largest room to ourselves, and a blanket to hang over a rail at night, for a small measure of privacy. It must be enough.

I do wish it could be more, but for now, we must abide…

The ongoing rumours about my husband are allowed to fly, and everybody thinks they’ve got the correct story, and of course I just nod, smile, and go to church on Sundays, making sure to tithe just the right amount.

Then I offer healing remedies, soaps and candles to my customers on Monday.

The money from my carved candles increases every week. I am now teaching others my skills, to keep pace with the demand. Soon we will need to look for a larger shop. Perhaps a house of our own…

But, above all else, my love is my business and no other’s. I turn the golden ring He placed upon my finger. I lie within His embrace at night and smile, listening to His voice as He reads to me. I feel Him tuck the blanket around me as I drift off to sleep, and I hear Him settle on the pallet near mine. And with Him so near, I often dream...

I dream of the day He will be truly mine, and I His…I cannot wait for that day to finally arrive! I fancy that I must find a love potion again, but I think none of the old recipes will work for one so special. I long to draw Him closer…

But my love is stubborn. I experiment with certain fragrances, touched to my wrist, and behind my ears. I think He knows I am trying to draw Him to me, though He resists. There are some scents He prefers, and some He does not.

We shall have to see what else I can concoct from the new herbs and flowers to be

found in this land.

Our life is changing. We do not know what our limits are. This very night I finally showed Him my scent bottles, and we both knew I was trying to tease Him, in my own way.

“Do you like the rose best, or the lavender?” I asked Him, holding up each bottle to His very sensitive nose. I sat at a small table, while He stood.

He can detect the tiniest fraction of any scent. It is how He knew I used jasmine in my oils, the first time we met.

But now, rather than replying, He put the cork stoppers on both.

“Katherine… I know what it is you wish. But there are things we must speak of, powerful things that will affect us both.”

“Lily of the Valley?” I teased. But His face became so grim, I knew this was no time for jesting.

“Katherine… you are beautiful. And I will always stay near you, always protect. But…”

“But…?” I prompted. I sensed such torment from my poor love!

“But… you are so young, and beyond fair. You have a skill to make a new life in this place. I already know my place. It is out there…” His hand swept out, indicating the great, green forest that could be seen from our bedroom window. “What can a man like me offer a woman such as you?”

“A new life, together,” I prompted, giving Him my best smile. It hung on my lips, feeling brittle and forced. “Cedar wood, perhaps? I know you like that one,” I prattled on, as if He had not spoken of painful things.

He shook His great head, and remained so sad looking, I did not know what to think.    “Katherine… this new life. This new world… You can tell them you are widowed, and have the others confirm it. If I step back, you would yet have a chance at happiness with another. A man featured as all men should look…” His eyes lingered on the dark forest, outside our window.

“No!” I confess that I jumped to my feet so fast, the bottles were scattered across the table. I should leave Him? He should leave me?  Unthinkable!

“But… we love each other!” I could barely choke out the words. Tears swam before my eyes, and His beloved face blurred, lost to them. To think that I would never see Him more! I would die!

I had to make Him hear me. ”I know we belong together!” I grabbed His beautiful hands. His beautiful, terrible hands. The hands that saved me. The hands that will always … save me. If only He would allow it to be so…

I reached for my courage, and found only bitter sorrow. To think of a life without Him! “No…” I shook my head, and could say only that word. My only word of refusal to Him. And it was given in love, and with my whole heart.

He must have felt the depth of my pain. Or perhaps it simply mirrored His own. My eyes still shimmered at His forlorn words. I could not help it.

His voice was low in the room. “I have injured you, twice, now. Once when I saved you from the ruffians, and once when my nails pierced the shoulder of your gown, when I was shot. You were so brave that day… But I don’t think I ever put tears in your eyes… until now?”

He touched a fearsome nail to my white face, and caught a glittering diamond from my cheek. It ran down from His fingertip to become lost in His palm. He closed his fist upon it, and I noticed He was shaking. My distress affected Him badly.

I wiped away the next tear to fall. “I don’t think you ever truly hurt me… until now. Please stop. Please, never let us speak of such things again. I cannot bear it.” I shook my head in negation. I could not help it.

He beheld my tears and I saw the choice in His eyes. He looked once more at the deep forest. And then He looked at me.

“I will stop. I will say it no more. If this is your will, then I will make it my own.”

I was made to feel content. But my tears took a long time in drying…

~ ~ ~

June, 1792

My love seems to have resigned Himself to remaining with us. I pray it is for good. I wish with all my being for no more talk of His leaving for that great wilderness that beckons beyond the city limits. Once free and running, I dread He may never look back again. The world is so large. There are so many possibilities out there…

There is a sense of a great wildness in Him, which thirsts to be unchained. It is almost as if another being lives within Him, beneath His own skin. But He does not share that side of Himself with me.

I only know His mood has become contrary and puzzling. He watches me, as if I am a complex riddle for His solving. I smile as best I can, and go about my business, keeping my thoughts to myself.

In desperation, I take the time to anoint my body with the essence of night-flowering jasmine, a costly and expensive oil. So I am forced to use only a little. I hope it will be enough. I wish to evoke powerful memories.

The rose scent my love favours, I keep at hand, just in case. I secret the tiny bottles within the pocket of my kirtle, where I may find them quickly, if I ever have need of them at any time.

But my agonised wait seemed to be in vain. His deepening silence had become deafening. I had almost given up. Almost… But, then my love truly surprised me with a stunning gift.

He purchased a bed for us today. It is handmade and very handsome, with a real feather mattress. He smiled when I chided Him over the expense we could not afford. An old straw mattress would surely suffice.

He said we needed a warm nest if we are to survive our first winter. My poor heart soared! He had chosen to stay for the coldest months of the year! Surely this was a sign of better things to come…

And He also said He would be sure to make the bed pay its way. This last left me confused, and more than a little intrigued. We have a large fireplace, and enough dry wood to burn. What need did we have of such a wide and deep bed?

We have said no more about joining our lives, since what I can only describe as our one quarrel. But He stays near. And I think I am starting to sense His wants as my own. Such an odd feeling, that, and it is different than what I thought I felt when we were in France, even as it is the same.

He keeps much of Himself contained, as if held on a fraying tether. Once more, I sense that same wild spirit in Him, and understand about that other, turbulent life force wanting to run.

Will it run to me? Or away, into that great forest? Though I think I know the answer, I also know some measure of fear. What would I be without Him?

And then I am only left to wonder… Is it His fear I am tasting? Or mine own?

~ ~ ~

Our small band of helpers and friends had all gone to the docks this evening, looking for any family who may have escaped France on the latest ship to dock today. My love and I were alone and the hour seemed late.

He’d bid me close the shop for the lack of customers, and come to bed where we may be warm. He’d said He would read to me.

That is a sweet pleasure I could not deny. His voice is His most abiding beauty, and I never tire of hearing Him speak.

Diary, you are the only one I can tell. How can I begin to think of the words which will say it all? But I must try. I must. My heart is too full to lose all that is contained within it.

Mon bel homme…my Vincente took my hand and led me up the staircase. Only a small fire had been lit, more for light than warmth, and the room was close-shadowed and cosy. Curtains of bleached flour sacks sewn together covered the only window.

He bid me sit on the bed while He knelt and removed my shoes, before frowning as He studied my stockings. I did not comment, but watched Him.

After a time, I reached beneath my skirts and removed the woollen hose for Him, rolling them down and off my feet. It was easier than sitting on the bed, waiting for whatever He had in mind.

I looked up from my simple task, not daring to speak, for fear of breaking His strange mood. He glanced toward the fire, to see if it was how He wanted it and then

back at my bare, simple foot, as if it was a thing He’d not seen before. His eyes still shone with the glint of the flames, somehow.

He seemed intent on my comfort above all else. I waited to see what He would do next. I looked towards the book on the bedside table, but He did not touch it.

Usually, Vincente would draw me between the sheets with Him, and we would cuddle beneath the warmth of our black bearskin cover if the summer night turned unexpectedly cool, until exhaustion claimed me. His voice, quietly reading to me, always gave me over to deep, peaceful sleep.

One recent morning, I awoke to find myself still cradled in His embrace. His eyes were open, and He was watching me sleep. My breath shuddered, even as surprise kept me quiet and still. I could feel His heart beating against my cheek.

I did not wish to move. Even though it was past time for me to go below, summoned once more to my day’s labours. The morning sunshine was strong at the window, indicating the lateness of the hour. He is often gone from me by then. I could hear voices below in the shop. But still I did not stir. The busy world beyond the bed no longer existed for me.

Had He simply held me all night, then? Awake and… what? Thinking?

I wanted to ask Him. But when I moved to sit up, He avoided my eyes. He said nothing. Not a single word about his thoughts or feelings.

Knowing I was finally awake, He simply pushed back the covers and rose, leaving me alone, bereft and confused. I had shivered in the sudden chill of His leaving.

Tonight, for a moment, I wondered if that was what was about to happen again. He seemed so… intent. I longed to lie again in His great arms and listen to his heartbeat.

But no, not tonight.

He rose from his task to stand before me, His eyes fixed on mine. It was as if He was silently begging for my permission. For what, I did not know then. Not truly. How could I?

Then, I saw the look in His eyes, clear, and pure. And more… I felt it, in my heart. It was as if He had spoken of His intent.

“We have but an hour or two before they return,” He finally said. “I wish…”

“Hush…” I rose then, placing my fingers across His unique mouth, sealing His unspoken fears within. “I am yours, and you are mine. It will always be so…”

“I know…” He nodded, taking my hands within His, bringing them to rest against the fastenings of His shirt. “You must know this, my love. Fate has always been mine enemy. I must warn you, I have not been fashioned as other men…”

“That is the very reason I love you,” I replied, my fingers making swift work of His buttons.

My virgin heart was beating so fast it felt sure to choke me. I finally understood His need to purchase our bed. He was bolder than me. This was his way of asking. And now, the choice would be mine, had to be mine. If only I possessed the courage to continue…

“I wish we had more time…” I whispered, as I pushed aside the two halves of His shirt.

Exposed to my deeply curious gaze for the first time, His chest was covered in soft, dark hair. Thin in some places, thick and curling in others, it arrowed down towards the band of His breeches. Strong, masculine darkness met my wondering gaze everywhere in the flickering firelight.

Beneath its fine covering, His body was as powerful and sculptured as I imagined the Gods of old to be. Great muscles flexed to the command of mine eyes, and His pale skin ran with shivers.

He stood still, His hands hanging at His sides, strong nails curled into His palms. It truly was as if some great beast had come before me, trapped by its own wish not to take flight and flee.

My heart quailed that it had been so for Him, all His life. A maiden’s soft caress I doubt He had ever known. But I did not ask.

Having gazed my fill, I looked up into His dark visage. He still watched me like a hawk, gauging my every move by some standard of His own. As if He had still to trust me fully with all His secrets…

“We only have an hour or two…” I repeated His words to Him.

I laid my hand over His heart, and felt it pounding, as if He had just run some great race. I smiled, and He answered me in kind. Relief flooded His green eyes, which glowed in the firelight.

“It is enough…” He heaved a mighty sigh.

His hands went to the laces that fastened my work gown at my shoulders, undoing them swiftly, even as my own hands dealt with removing His shirt, to expose more of what I wished, with all my heart, to finally have laid bare before me. His mighty arms were just as covered by hair as his torso.

And all was mine, even as it was his.

Beneath my seeking hands, His skin was warm, warmer than mine own. Though who could say if that was how nature made Him or if I was trembling, not with cold, but... wanting?

The dark hair of His body lay deeply in places, and my glorious wolf has a pelt that makes my fingers itch to caress it, yet His fine throat is exposed to me, as bare as any man’s. Mon grande bete, Mon bel homme.

It’s all true.

It was only when I watched Him swallow did I realise He was as nervous as I, and oh, did I long to place my lips against His Adam’s apple! There, His pale skin looked to be finer than silk.

His long hair remained bound by its leather thong at the nape of His neck, and the line of His magnificent shoulders were mine for the viewing. The place I’d often laid my head was now open to see, and the power of His arms was to be enjoyed fully.

There was an old, jagged scar, up near His shoulder, not far from where He had so recently been shot. It looked to be an animal bite. Something from long ago. Something large had grappled with the man about to become my husband, in all the ways there were.

“Something bit you,” I gasped, my eyes transfixed. And I felt stupid. What an inane thing to say.

“It wasn't you,” He said, in that voice which always makes my knees utterly weak. “It was only a hungry bear, who wanted to eat me for supper.”

My eyes sought His, and I swear His grew lighter, by the firelight, as if they were absorbing all the light in the room. Their grey green colour reminded me of that unique shade of the roiling Atlantic, the day we approached New York Harbour.

I’ll now always associate that colour with coming home. To the only place I truly belong…

“We may change that, my love…” Was that my voice, making so ... wanton a promise? “I too, have teeth…and I am very hungry.”

“Katherine…” He caught His breath, on a startled inhale, and the barrel chest that had helped bear me away from the hell that France had become, seemed to grow even larger before my wondering eyes.

He was hesitant at first, and I teased Him that was my role. But He looked at me so sincerely, and with such great love in His storm-coloured eyes! He had misgivings, and did not hesitate to share them.

“This will change us,” He said. “Even after all that has come before, this will change us. It will bind us forever. Irrevocably,” He told me solemnly, as if He were frightened for me. I think He meant it as a warning.

“So be it…” I took it as a joy, and held it to my breast, even as I wished to hold Him there…

Yet He stood so still, waiting...waiting for me to act upon my bold words. I know that now.

“I feel what you are feeling,” He whispered, and He had to close his eyes, or be rocked back from it.

I thought He would reach for the fastening of his breeches, but He reached for my hand instead.

“It is for you to do,” He whispered, drawing my hand forward to the simple draw tie. “For you and only you.” He smiled, lovingly giving me complete control of His body, and of His desire. “Always…”

“My Vincente…” My loving, yet inexperienced hand brushed Him, through His clothing. “Mon bel homme…” I finally gave Him my secret title where he could hear it.

“Bel..?” He whispered, raggedly. “Merci, mon petite…”

“Always…” I smiled, even as I watched Him through the shield of my lashes, seeing His bemusement.

How He trembled! How I did as well! I cradled the hard shape of Him and His great arms came around me. He pulled me to Him and moaned, and I knew His pleasure as my own.

He must have feared I would be overwhelmed by Him, for He set me back from Him, the barest pace. The back of His hair-covered hands brushed my cheek, talons tracing across my skin with infinite care.

“Have mercy, ma Belle. For my need is great, and you tempt me so…”  His hand traced down my arm, stopping to caress the scars on my upper arm, before He

covered my hand with His own, keeping me against Him. He surged against my touch, and I longed to free Him.

“Love thy servant,” He implored me, as I untied the fastening of His breeches.

“There are no servants here,” I whispered, holding His most fevered skin.

I blushed furiously at my boldness, and brushed my fingers along His silken length, learning to know Him in all his glory. There was no touch I gave which did not make Him moan or sigh. Raw heat and latent power lay within my emboldened grasp.

“I am burning…” We both said it, together. Because we knew it was true.

Unable to prolong the torture, He laid me back gently upon the bed, moving to lie beside me. In the firelight, His warmth surrounded me and encompassed me.

Soon, as bare as the naked desire we both felt, nothing stood between us and our final union…and there are no words to describe my new being…

I must sleep now, must put out the candle and rest... next to my husband.

Our stolen hour has passed…

~ ~ ~

I am a maid no longer...not in body or spirit. I can say those words, thanks to my love. The welcome joy of His body held deep within mine in no way resembled the torture which Father Damien had described to me so vividly in that hateful confessional.

Truly I feel as if I have grown wings, so high into the night did we fly together. If only we had been blessed with more time…I would do it all again, uncounted times. My body so craves the beauty of His…

Dressed once more against intrusion, He held up my hand with its gold band. “This is now real,” He said, turning the ring slowly. “We have no need of a priest’s blessing, nor any man’s.”

“Then I am content,” I reassured Him. “Read to me, my love, please…”

He was doing just that when our friends returned, quiet, and respectful, as if they all knew what had happened. They had given us all the time they could.

I could not stop smiling, and as each of their candles went out and I heard their own soft murmurs, my love still whispered love poetry in my ear from His book.

As He turned the page, I pushed my leg between His thighs beneath the covers, and behind our blanket wall, so that the other occupants of the room would not see. I moved it gently against His quiescent manhood and felt the hiss of His breath between His tightly drawn lips, as His body hardened anew against mine.

“Witch…” He muttered into my hair, the book falling to the covers.

“Mayhap…” I teased, moving my leg once more, before He stilled it with an iron grip upon my thigh.

“Another time…” He rasped, his taut, emotional control sounding whisper-thin. “Pray to your God, that it will be soon…” His fingers smoothed to the junction of my thighs and His seeking touch made me tremble. His revenge was so sweetly tempting…

“Soon…” He withdrew His hand from my quivering body, and picked up His book. His point had been made.

“I will pray…” I whispered, settling happily against His chest once more.

I sighed, knowing a great battle had been fought and won. Delight moved through my body. I smiled my woman’s smile against His neck. Another snatched hour had best present itself, and soon…

~ ~ ~

My last confession (for now)

Now is the morning after the night, and it was our night, and I am forever changed. Those sisters at the convent, who live in fear of this sublime act, live wrongly, though I am no longer there to tell them so.

Was there ever a man as sweet and patient as mine? Was there ever anyone with more tenderness? I think the depth of His gentleness surprised Him more than it did me, and I swear His tears were falling on my neck before our hour was done. His sweet release, echoing within mine, was strong enough to rock us deeply within our feather nest.

Acceptance of one’s own self alone, is a hard-won battle, one which some chose not to fight. To find the other half of our mutual souls is indeed a gift from God.

The shifting sands of fickle fate threw us together. So be it, together we shall always remain.

I wanted the night to never end, this night we both came to understand had to happen for us. We now accept, each of us, who and what the other is. Love dictates our course. We will accept no other master.

Now, we can never be apart. And in my heart… there is only joy.

~ ~ ~

February, 1798

This then is the bed in which our four sons were conceived and born. The bed which will always hold the memory and the beauty of the man I love beyond everything.

He lies beside me now, sleeping. I know the hour is late, but I plan to awaken Him soon, when I finally put you aside, Dear Dairy.

Writing in you now is more of a luxury, than a necessity. My life is full, as are my days and nights.

I am at peace, in this new house, in this new life. We have our own room, and we have enough for our needs, more than enough. We now help others to find their way, in this ever-growing city.

I even have a small rose garden outside our back door. A place where I tend the plants others gift to me, or remove from the great wilderness beyond the city. I no longer hate working in the garden. Such a difference when the garden is your own to plan and tend.

The roses are so beautiful. All the flowers are. And yet, it’s the roses I caress and return to. They smell different from the other flowers, and even different from each other.

Their mingled scents often drift into our bedroom in the summer nights, when the windows are thrown wide open to the breeze. My favourites will always be those wild and red. Also the white ones, which my love says stand for the purity and beauty of my soul…I think He jests, but His beautiful face is always solemn.

It is in that garden that He can roam free in daylight, and though He also loves the forest beyond it, I know it is our rose bush He treasures. Red blooms with white, against everything the God of the Persians intended.

And I thought I heard a nightingale sing that first night. Mayhap it was only my imagination, or perhaps a sign…for I was sure then, that I was pregnant…

Despite the intervening years, Vincente still brings me the blooms from our rose bush, and begs me to keep their fragrance in my oils.

As if He needs to beg! I would do anything for my love. Our souls are so well matched now, it is almost as if we are one…

~ ~ ~

Last week, my love ordered a gown to be made for me. It was a gift for my twenty-fourth birthday. I do admit I had forgotten the date, but He had not.

He presented the box to me, as I was closing the chandlery for the day. I was so touched by his thoughtfulness, I was lost for words for several moments. A sight that my love seemed to find very amusing.

By necessity, the present was put aside until my chores were done. It tantalised me all evening, as I fed our children and asked them to go to bed early.

They protested long and loud, wanting to see what their father had bought for me, but they finally consented to go their room. I sensed young eyes watching us, as we retired to our own bedroom, and closed the door.

Once there, Vincente again handed me the box and asked me to open it. I did as I was bidden, and beauty met my disbelieving eyes.

I dipped into the folds of blue material and held my present up to the light. My throat closed tight with unshed tears. It was the first grand new gown I had ever owned. I was so touched, it was all I could do to stop from crying.

“How have I upset you?” He demanded to know. “Tell me.”

“It’s only because I already have all I could wish for,” I whispered. “You and our children. This is too much.”

“Katherine, you give too much, and ask for too little,” He said, watching me hold the dress to my bosom. “You deserve everything and more.”

How to tell him he already gives me all? “I am most content.” I smiled through my tears as I kissed Him.

We settled for that. He told me that since He did not know the date of His own birth, He was doubly happy to celebrate mine with me.

“Merci, my love. My dress is very beautiful.”

I held it out. The gathered sleeves were trimmed with white lace that would fall to my wrists, and the collar was ruffled. I confess I spent some time before the mirror in our bedroom, simply turning and gazing at my reflection.

My love retired to watch me from our bed. From there, He made His next revelation. “The blue is for the forget-me-nots you gather. And the russet red is from the roses you love so much. So, your new dress says that I love you, and I'll never forget you. Not if I live to be one hundred years.”

“Nor I…” I turned to look at Him, the hem of the dress whispering softly about my ankles. Was there any man more considerate and caring?

“Would you like me to wear it for you? Or … not wear it for you?” I asked, seeing the light come immediately into his jade eyes.

“It is for you to choose. Still,” He replied huskily, watching me enjoy my lovely gift.

I nodded, understanding what we both wanted in that moment. But then I always did.

Slowly, making sure to keep His gaze fixed upon me, I began to fold my new dress. I smoothed it out carefully, before laying it across the blanket box at the foot of the bed.

Then I moved towards my love, slowly shedding my work gown and under things as I walked to Him.

He never looked away, even as He began to undress. I made it to the bed before my knees gave way entirely. His strong arms welcomed me into His close embrace, as they always will. Always…

My love was thanked very well that night…

~ ~ ~

At other times He brings His wild friends to our door to break bread with us and swap stories. These are the native peoples who inhabit the wilderness, and they are clothed in fine, beaded skins and furs.

These fine men and women come frequently to our home. They are truly magnificent individuals, and not at all as others see them. They have a refreshing honesty, and an engaging sense of humour. They adore our children and cherish them as their own. I would trust these supposed savages above some others of my own race.

Our good Christian friends sometimes decry our wild company, saying these people are nothing but godless creatures and we should not entertain them. I do not think it so, and we welcome them among us. Our circle of friends grows wider, and we will need that, as the city grows. We must always make certain my love can reach me, wherever I am.

Despite the years that have passed, Vincente still searches their legends and lands for the stories of one like Himself. But though they respect Him as a great warrior and wish to help, no news comes.

I once asked Him if He wanted to leave and go searching for the person the pirates spoke of, the blonde one, like Himself. But my love simply laughed and called me a loving fool for thinking He would wish to be parted from my side for any length of time, much less one so long and so fraught with uncertainty.

He then asked, where else would He go?

So we sometimes go for walks in the forest together and other nights we spend in our special garden, for it is high-walled and secure. The times we have removed ourselves to that place when the children were asleep…it makes me blush even now to remember our wild and passionate loving in that sweet place of escape from all our fears of discovery…

As ever, our small group of friends and family changes and grows with the years. Those who know my husband exists at all keep our secrets and guard Him well, as He guards them against those who would harm us.

The business continues to thrive, and each finds their place within. Our children have all taken my surname. The name I had first been given by those we now live among. We have become a family of Chandlers.

It needs to be so, since my love possesses no family name of His own. He never knew His father and His mother died soon after He was born, so He was told.

It took me no small amount of prodding to hear his story. I only set it down here, knowing these books will leave this world when I do.

Found abandoned outside the gates to the monastery, He was given over to the care of an old, blind Italian woman. He said she was not unkind. But they were ever poor, owing to their mutual circumstances.

Vincente learned to fight for everything He needed, to barely survive. The old woman kept Him close and never allowed Him the freedom to roam as the other children did. She knew He would be killed, for she had felt His small face with her old fingers and knew the awful truth. She bid Him become a nighttime roamer only, and so He was.

He was only seven years old when the old woman died. Cast out by necessity into the world, He was forced to make His own way. He became a wanderer, a sideshow freak in the fairs. A face with which mothers scared their disobedient children.

He learned what He needed to survive, how to mask His face against discovery, so He could make His way to the coast and somehow, He thrived. He learned to read, and hid there, inside the pages of any story He could find. I well understood that deep need.

As a young man, He stowed away on a ship bound for France, and came ashore near Calais. The captain was young, but already destined for piracy and they were ever friends.

Then came the Revolution and the hard times, where He could trust no one as the country collapsed and struggled to rebuild itself. A highwayman’s precarious existence became His stock-in-trade. He found shelter among His ragged band of fellow refugees and then later stayed to help them.

My heart broke when He finished the sad tale of His boyhood and youth. He held me as I cried for Him. He said His regrets were none and He did not speak of His trials again.

“And then I found you that night,” He said simply. “After that night, I was forever changed…”

For an eternity, His green eyes stared into mine. Everything He felt and yet could not say, He spoke with that silent communication of our matched souls. When we each could both bear it no longer, He leant down and kissed me.

“My Vincente, Mon bel homme…” My arms went around His neck, pulling Him lower and closer still.

“Katherine…my wild white rose…” He whispered raggedly, against my mouth. “Always…”

As His great body covered mine, I knew an abiding sense of peace. Both mine and His. Once again together, heart to heart, we travelled back to that beautiful garden where both our souls are free and so very eager to run…

~ ~ ~

And so I think I will set down my beloved, little book, for a long time. It is not that I wish to neglect you, Dear Diary. I would write more, but I think my life now wants to be lived, more than written about.

If my tale is fantastical, I can only say my life has been more so. I can only repeat the words I kept saying, throughout these scattered pages. It is all right if we sometimes don’t know what to believe…

It’s all true.

~ ~ ~

“Sensual pleasure passes and vanishes, but the friendship between us, the mutual confidence, the delight of the heart, the enchantment of the soul, these things do not perish and can never be destroyed…”

~ Voltaire ~

~ ~ ~

Wherever your journey takes you, may you always go with love…

~ C.J. La Belle ~

~ ~ ~

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

~ Omar Khayyam~

~ ~ ~

For how this diary affects our couple be sure to read the companion piece, "Kate the Chandler," posted at Treasure Chambers.

Happy 30th Anniversary, Beauty and the Beast

BATB

Actor Memories Poem Ramble

by Lara Beilby

~ ~ ~

I watched as many of the episodes as I could, curious about Below

I found the characters interesting, watching a relationship grow.

Years later I found the Fanfic of Vincent and Catherine's love

And sent in things to WFOL, I can't remember anything of.

I made friends online with Mouse and Kipper

both smart as a reverse snapper whipper.

In between them I worked at Disneyland and

Got to meet "Laura" and shake her hand.

She was the reason I wanted to learn how to sign,

be a bridge between her silent world and mine...

When I saw her my brain matched hers to her younger face

And my memory had hands signing full of grace

Asked her if she worked in finger spelling if she was on Beauty and the...B E

Before I had done the letters A-S-T She signed Beast and agreed with me,

I helped one of her family members get his meal.

Floating on air was how I did feel.

The Meeting

By ChicagoTunnelKid

~ ~ ~

Cathy sat surrounded by stacks of law books on the left and front of her, and case files on the right. She huffed out a breath through her bangs. Her back ached from sitting so much, her eyes were dry from pouring over dusty book pages, and the fingers on her right hand were cramped from taking so many notes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Joe approaching.

“Don’t you dare!” she commanded.

“Dare what?” Joe asked, with exaggerated innocence. “Put these stacks of trial transcripts on your already crowded desk?” He carefully set them atop the case files, figuring they were the flattest surface.

“Joe!” Cathy mustered a glare with all her tired face would allow. “What am I supposed to do with those?”

“Look for the missing key, the inconsistency in Soreno’s testimony that will allow us to nail him. I’m not letting him get away this time!”

“You’ve got me investigating all his past business dealings, legal run-ins, and combing case law for a usable charge already! When am I supposed to get this done?” she spread her hands wide over the paperwork.

“You know the work around here never ends, Cathy. Just do your best. We can’t let this slick weasel slip away again.”

“I’m taking the weekend off, you remember.” She eyed him suspiciously.

“Cathy, this can’t wait!”

“It can and it will. Nancy and Jenny are coming for the weekend, and we three haven’t gotten together in at least a year. I told you about it, and I’m not giving it up, and for heaven’s sake, I need it!” She stared at him as if to bend him to her will.

He threw his hands up in supplication. “Okay, okay! I’m just messing with ya, you can get to these next week. You sure are cute riled up!”

The crumpled ball of paper barely missed his head as he hastily exited, discretion being the better part of valor. She shook her head and smiled. Joe was the big brother she never had, pain in the butt and all.

She also knew the importance of this case and was doing everything she could to help nail Soreno once and for all. But she was looking forward to the “girls only pajama party,” as Jenny called it, and wouldn’t give that up for anything, even Vincent. She’d told him last night in the few spare moments she had.

~ ~ ~

The light tapping on the glass produced the expected results. Catherine opened the balcony doors and ran into his arms. They held each other.

Just the feel of her gave Vincent such pleasure and wonderful memories to think about the next day. He could feel she was tired, but she had sent a note by messenger that she needed to see him. He needed to see her.

“What is it?” he asked. “Your note said ‘important I see you!' Are you all right?”

Her head nodded up and down against his chest. A long sigh escaped before she could gather enough voice to speak.

“Vincent, I’m going to be very busy for the next three or four weeks with this important trial, and the only time off I’ve managed to get, I’m spending with Jenny and Nancy… a girls only pajama party.”

He held her slightly away from his chest to see her face.

“A pajama party? What does one do at a pajama party?”

She noticed he said not a word about her schedule or work, not wanting to make her feel guilty about her decision to be with friends. He knew how little she saw her friends anymore. Very few remained, the others preferring more socializing than she was willing to do.

“Basically… drink wine, talk about boys, and eat pizza!” Her face fell. “Or at least, that’s what we used to do. Now we’ll talk about Nancy’s kids and her husband who is gallantly baby-sitting so she can have the weekend off. We’ll commiserate with Jenny about her latest romance, which isn’t working out just like the others before him.”

“And you? What will you talk about?” Vincent asked.

“Mostly, my job.”

“Don’t your friends ask you about the men in your life?” Vincent wondered about that. What could she say?

“If they try, I don’t answer, so they know not to ask anymore. Nancy has a very general idea of you, as I told her about our difficult situation of not being able to be together. It was when I went to her place last year, when I needed to make a decision about continuing our relationship.” She looked up at him and smiled.

“And Jenny knows I’m seeing someone. Back when the watcher tried to drown me, she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer on her staying the night with me. I finally had to tell her I wouldn’t be alone just to get her to leave.”

“She was concerned about you, Catherine.”

“I know.” She smiled again. “But all I wanted was to be held in your arms and she wouldn’t leave! It seemed like it took forever. To her credit, she left quickly and didn’t even try to worm information out of me!”

“Does it bother you, Catherine, to not tell your friends about me, to even have to lie about me?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes. I just want them to know how happy I am and why, but I can’t. They want to know what’s going on with my life, and there’s this big part of it I just can’t share. What little I have shared just makes them more curious.

“These are my best friends from college, Vincent. And, yes, it hurts to be untruthful to them. But you and what we have are more important to me. I would never do anything to put you or Below in jeopardy!”

He pulled her close. “I know you wouldn’t, Catherine. I’ve known that from the beginning.” He paused, thinking. “What if we asked Father for permission to speak about me to your friends? Perhaps even meet them? Would that ease the tension you feel with your friends?”

“Do you think we could? Would he agree, do you think?” The hopeful look on her face gladdened his heart. He would do his utmost to make this happen – for her.

“How would your friends react?” he deflected her question.

“Knowing both of them, they would be speechless, Nancy longer than Jenny, just because Jenny would be launching into superlatives at the sight of you! Nancy would be quietly taking your measure, to see if you are good enough for me.”

She stopped to think about the likely outcomes. “Both would be surprised, and probably even a little concerned for me, but they would accept you, if for no other reason than because I love you.”

He stepped away toward the balcony ledge. “What would their concerns be?” Somehow, space away from her made the question easier to ask.

She noted the space. “Probably along the lines of what your intentions are.”

He turned and tilted his head in puzzlement.

“My friends, especially Jenny, know all about my girlish hopes and dreams, and would want to know if those would be possible for me.”

“What were your girlish dreams?”

“Oh, Jenny and I would play house together… or rather, neighbors, each with a baby and a baby stroller. We’d have coffee together in our tea cups, talking about our babies, and bragging about our husbands, how handsome they were, how successful they were.” She grew silent. “The kind of things little girls do together with their dolls.

“Jenny knew that I wanted marriage and children, and that I hoped to find the kind of relationship my parents had.”

“How will they react, knowing those dreams aren’t possible with me?”

Her head turned sharply to look at him steadily. “Who says they aren’t possible?”

He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. This was the one conversation they’d had over and over that never ended differently.

“I know you don’t believe it, Vincent, but I do. I have hope.” The last she spoke softly, more to herself than to him.

“But as for Jenny and Nancy, I think they won’t question that, once I’ve made it clear that it isn’t open for discussion.”

They both were silent, lost in their own thoughts.

“It’s not easy, Vincent, either way… staying silent with my friends, or telling them.” She came closer to him. “But I will say this, I would love to have someone to share all the wonderful things about you with and about Below. Someone who understands my life well enough to know what having you in it has done for me. And that’s Nancy and Jenny.”

“I’ll talk to Father. It’s also a matter that will have to go to Council.”

~ ~ ~

Thinking back on their evening, Cathy wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask Father. She and Father had their limits, and this was a big thing to ask. She wasn’t sure their relationship capital could withstand the withdrawal.

Anyway, those concerns were far in the future and she had work to do. She got busy and was able to finish her overview of business transactions just in time to stop at a local deli to pick up a collection of food and wine for the weekend. They would call out for pizza.

~ ~ ~

Vincent waited until he and Father were alone for a chess game the afternoon after seeing Catherine. He was determined to do this for her… request semi-Helper status for her friends, so that she would finally have someone on her side of the river. However, Father was a stickler for their most basic rule… don’t talk about Below to anyone.

He pondered the chessboard and made his move. He was actually considering throwing a game to make Father happy. He scowled because Father would see through that strategy.

“What’s making you scowl, Vincent?”

“Nothing.” He stayed silent.

“Out with it, Vincent or this game will suffer. And I suffer enough when playing you.”

Vincent moved a rook and sat back. “How do you do that, Father? Know when someone has something difficult they wish to discuss?”

“Experience of age, I guess.” He looked up at Vincent. “So, what is so difficult for you to speak to me about? Is it my decision not to allow Jamie on security teams?”

Vincent shook his head. “That will be a topic for another evening, Father. Tonight is about Catherine.”

Father sat back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his right eye. “Of course it is. What was I thinking?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Father.”

Father waved his glasses at Vincent as he spoke. “No, no, you’re right. Go on then, and tell me what is bothering you about Catherine.”

“I want Catherine’s two friends, Nancy and Jenny, to know about me, about Below, so that Catherine can talk with them about her life. You’ve heard her mention them before.”

“Vincent, the more people Above who know about us Below, the more danger our community faces.”

“I know that Father, perhaps better than anyone. But Catherine deserves to have confidants Above, friends to whom she can take concerns and problems, without having to talk in such vague generalities as to be meaningless.”

“How often does she have these concerns and problems? It seems a bit much for an occasional issue to break secrecy.”

“Frequency is not the issue here.” Vincent asserted. “She has no one, Father.”

Father pushed back his chair and stood, grabbing the back of it.

“What about Peter? Or Lin? She can talk to them.” Father looked satisfied that he had solved the problem neatly.

“They are not the same as lifelong friends. Peter is more like a father to her and Lin she barely knows, only since she attended their wedding.” Vincent sat as a contained bundle of energy that didn’t bode well for Father. “Don’t you trust Catherine? Has she not shown herself trustworthy, time and again?”

“Of course, Vincent. It’s not Catherine who worries me. I don’t know these friends of hers.”

“Trust her taste in friends then, Father. Jenny works for a book publisher.”

Vincent watched Father’s head come up at that news. A potential source of books might be advantageous.

Vincent continued layering his argument. “And I believe Nancy is a photographer, which would be handy here in our world, to provide pictures for us all to enjoy, which she could develop here, in private.”

“We have Elizabeth’s tunnels to record images,” Father retorted.

“It’s not the same. And what if some of the children who grow up and leave would like to have a picture of their loved ones to take with them? This Nancy could do discretely and make sure confidences are kept.”

Father was thinking. There was some merit to this idea. He wished he’d had a picture of Devin after he left, to remember his son by.

Vincent had a further thought. “Nancy might also make a visual map of our tunnels. That would surely be a help to new members.”

Father pressed his hand with his eyeglasses against his pursed lips, a man in thought. He broke his reverie. “I suppose seeing dangerous areas would help little ones more easily learn to avoid them.”

Vincent nodded. He was becoming hopeful.

“Should we send around some of the Helpers Above to check out this Jenny and Nancy?”

Vincent was pleased that Father seemed to be coming around to the idea. “Jenny would be no problem, but Nancy lives out in Westport so such a trip might prove ... difficult.”

Jacob gave a slight shake of his head and exhaled. “I don’t know, Vincent. The more I am thinking about it, the less I like it. I just don’t like having more people knowing about us when there is no need.”

At this, Vincent’s coiled energy unleashed, he stood abruptly, his chair teetering behind him, and leaned his fists upon the table. “There is a need. Catherine is one of us, and it is her need. It is a real need to her. And because it is her need, it becomes mine as well. I must insist on this, Father.”

Father had learned when not to press Vincent past a point that he wasn’t willing to go. This was such a time. He would have to hope for the best.

“I’ll present it at the next Council meeting for a vote.”

Vincent saw the decision slipping away in tunnel bureaucracy, with Father’s lukewarm endorsement leading to endless discussions and postponed votes.

“You’ll inform them about the new probationary Helpers at the next Council meeting, Father. I intend to meet her friends tomorrow night.”

Father’s raised eyebrow followed him out. The next council meeting was sure to be interesting. Father said a quick prayer to keep them safe with this new arrangement.

~ ~ ~

After a bout of nonstop gabbing, it was very late Friday, or technically very early Saturday, before the exhausted women retired to bed. Catherine and Jenny slept in her bed and Nancy on the sofa bed. It was midafternoon before the three women stirred.  They sat at the dining table munching on toast with fruit and some leftover pizza as three bleary sets of eyes gazed unfocused over mugs of coffee.

Cathy was pouring a second cup for each of them when Jenny asked Nancy how her husband, Paul, was managing with the kids.

“He’s probably ready to throw in the towel, but he knows how much this weekend means to me… us.”

That word hung among them like an anvil, waiting to drop.

“What’s going on, Nance?” Cathy couldn’t believe anything could come between the couple.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve just become more like roommates than husband and wife. Neither of us has been happy. So when Jenny called about this weekend, I jumped at the chance to get away, and Paul agreed, figuring we both needed some space.” She looked intently at the piece of toast she wasn’t eating. “I ran away from home.” She smiled wanly.

Cathy stood and scooped her up in a hug. Jenny completed the circle behind her. The women stayed connected just soaking in friendship and caring. Finally, they drew apart. Kleenexes were handed out all around as they retook their seats.

“I didn’t mean to end our fun weekend,” Nancy said ruefully.

“Hey, that’s what we are all here for… for each other!” Jenny pronounced. “Besides, things aren’t going great for me either, with George.”

“Not you, too, Jenny!” Cathy teased. Seriously, she asked, “What’s happening, honey?”

“Same old story. He’s in it for fun and I’m looking for family.” She fidgeted with her napkin. “Where are all the good, unmarried, non-momma’s boy, Jewish guys?”

That got all three of them laughing. “Are you sure you want that, Jen? Look at me, I have it, and I’m questioning why at the moment.” Nancy said quietly.

“You mentioned that you and Paul had had some sticky times when I visited you last year,” Catherine recalled. “It seemed then that you had worked them out.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’re just both stuck in a rut. There is so much going on with his work, the kids, it’s just so easy to forget to take care of us.”

Cathy looked at Jenny, and they both looked at Nancy. “Tell you what. Jen and I will take the kids one weekend, and you and Paul can go away and just be together.”

“You guys would do that?” Nancy looked hopeful.

“You know we would,” Jenny affirmed. “We’ll spoil them rotten and return them to you. What could it hurt?”

“I’ll take you guys up on that!” A relieved smile appeared on Nancy’s face. Hope had returned.

“We must remember to check our calendars before anybody leaves, ladies. This will be done!” Cathy finished with her hand raised in a pledge. Hugs ensued all around.

One problem solved, at least each of them hoped it was. On to the next!

“So… Cathy.” Nancy began. “What about that guy Vincent you mentioned last year? Are you still seeing him?”

“Vincent? What Vincent?” Jenny asked. “Wait a minute, how come she knows and I don’t! I live in the same city, for Pete’s sake!”

“She told me about him when she came up for your birthday last year. She was kind of questioning the relationship.” Nancy explained.

“You two realize I am in the room, don’t you?” Cathy asked.

Each of the women grabbed one of Cathy’s hands and together, moved to the couches. Jenny sat with Catherine and Nancy sat opposite.

“So spill, Cath,” Jenny commanded.

“I, um, really would rather keep this to myself.” She squirmed a bit, knowing this would not go over well with Jenny.

“I’m sorry, Cathy, I didn’t know I wasn’t to say anything, I thought Jenny knew all about it.” Nancy looked contrite.

“No, that’s all right, Nancy. You couldn’t have known. I didn’t say anything to you about keeping it quiet. It’s just a part of my life I like to keep private.”

“But you expect to know all about our lives,” Jenny pointed out.

“I don’t know if ‘expect’ is the word, when you volunteer the information so readily, Jenny!” Catherine mildly rebuked her.

Cathy sighed, knowing she was stuck. “Okay, look, it’s just that I really can’t tell you much about Vincent because I made a promise not to talk about him.”

“Why? Is he some gangster? That’s it! He’s mobbed up, isn’t he?” Jenny’s imagination ran off with her.

“I’m a Deputy Assistant DA, Jenny. I’d hardly be involved with someone in the mob,” Cathy pointed out.

“True.” Jenny thought a moment. “Witness protection, then?”

“If I were dating someone in witness protection, I wouldn’t know about it, Jenny, as they aren’t allowed to tell anyone.”

Jenny looked at Nancy. “I’m out, your turn.”

Nancy shrugged.

“Look, I can’t get into specifics, but I can tell you that I love him with all my heart. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. He makes me better just being with him, and I do the same for him. He’s kind, intelligent, compassionate...” Catherine got a faraway look in her eyes, and both women heard the softening of her voice as she described the relationship.

“He sounds too good to be true,” Jenny commented.

Catherine had the grace to blush. “Yes, in many ways, he does. But he is real. And he loves me.” She shrugged at the last words, as if she couldn’t believe it herself, and her eyes teared.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” Jenny hugged Cathy, in apology.

“You didn’t,” sniffed Cathy. “It’s just… I really wish I could tell you guys more about him.” She grew very silent. She looked over to her balcony door as if gazing across the city. “I wish you could both meet him, but you never will.”

Both women looked at each other with alarm. “What do you mean, we never will?” Nancy sat on the coffee table to be closer. “Surely, someday we will meet Mr. Perfect!” She tried to interject some humor.

“Yes, you can’t keep him from us forever,” Jenny chimed in.

“It’s not my choice,” Catherine explained. “It’s his.”

At this, to forestall even more questions, Catherine announced it was time to order pizza, and the conversation was successfully derailed. Cathy called in for pepperoni, sausage, no anchovies (much to Jenny’s dismay), mushroom, and onion. The women got up from the couches to prepare the table and get drinks. Barely a few minutes wait went by, and Cathy buzzed up the delivery guy. With one look at three women in bathrobes as he transferred the pizza to their hands, the delivery guy beat a hasty retreat with a nice tip in his pocket.

Silence reigned as the women ate. Nothing like New York pizza to satisfy one’s hunger. Only a few pieces remained when all three groaned to a halt.

“I’m going to have to run every day next week instead of my usual three, just to burn off these calories,” Cathy complained.

“I’ll burn them off just running after the kids,” Nancy commented.

“I’ll just starve myself for a few days,” Jenny supplied. The other two women looked at each other… “Not!” they said in unison. Laughter rang out and felt good, a perfect end of the meal.

“Don’t think we forgot, Cath,” Jenny said, as they all recovered from laughing.

Cathy looked perplexed. “Forgot what?”

“Your mystery guy, Vincent,” Jenny reminded her.

Cathy sighed. Jenny had the memory of an elephant. “Well, it will have to wait until I get back from the bathroom. You guys can clean up while I’m gone. See how I get myself out of cleanup detail?” she smirked at them as she left for the bathroom.

Jenny and Nancy cleared the table, putting glasses in the dishwasher and wrapping the leftover pizza. They continued the conversation as they worked.

“What do you think is going on?” Jenny asked. “What did she tell you about him last year?”

“Just that she was having trouble accepting that they can never be together. I guess it’s kind of a long-distance type relationship or something. I don’t know. But it was tearing her up, wanting to be with him, knowing she couldn’t be. She was trying to figure out where she stood on the relationship.”

“Long-distance?” Jenny asked. “Where on earth would she have met him? I don’t think she’s left the city for a couple of years.”

“You’re right, other than to Westport, I don’t think she’s made any trips.” Nancy grew thoughtful.

The two continued to speculate as they waited for Cathy to return.

~ ~ ~

It was dark in the bedroom, as evening had fallen and there was little moon on this night. She went into the bathroom and looked at her reflection. I’m getting too old for these pajama parties, she thought. Time to face the music, Chandler. You’ve got to come up with something to satisfy Jenny.

After splashing her face with cold water, Cathy made her way out of the bathroom. She heard light tapping against the window. Checking to be sure her guests were occupied, she quickly opened the door and moved through it, closing it quietly behind her.

“Vincent, what are you doing here? I told you about our girl’s weekend. Nancy and Jenny are inside!”

“I know. I want to meet them.”

Catherine stood, stunned mute.

“Father knows all about it. It’s approved. I can meet them.”

Still no reaction.

“If you want me to, that is.”

Finally, Catherine shook her head as if to wake up as it sunk in that Vincent would get to meet her friends. “Of course I want you to!” She stopped. “Are you sure you want to?”

He nodded. She threw herself into his arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!” The profusion of thanks was uttered into his vest, but Vincent heard it and smiled. Nothing made him happier than to make her happy.

She pulled back and took his hand. “Okay. Come into my bedroom and let me prepare them. Then you can come out.”

Stealthily, the two made it back into the bedroom without anyone becoming the wiser.

Cathy went into the living room. The two friends were back on the couch.

“You know, Cathy, we both just want your happiness.” Jenny began.

“I know.” Cathy sat down. “I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe I can tell you more about Vincent.”

She had their attention! They both sat up like expectant pups anticipating a treat.

Catherine took a deep breath. “You know those ten days I was missing, after my assault?”

They nodded in unison.

“Vincent was the one who found me in the park and saved my life.”

“Oh how romantic!” Jenny said to Nancy, conveniently forgetting the trauma Cathy went through and focusing on the gallantry of Vincent. “Shh!” was Nancy’s reply. Both saw Cathy take a deep breath before proceeding.

“Before I go any further, I need you both to promise me that nothing you hear or see, will ever leave this room. You must keep all of this secret, or I can’t go on.”

Jenny looked at Nancy. Both caught the word “see” and wondered what it could mean. Both said in chorus, “I promise!” Cathy looked at each of them in turn, and satisfied they meant it, continued.

“I was bleeding profusely; there wasn’t time to get me to a hospital, so Vincent took me to his home.” She stopped and nervously picked at the sash of her robe. She continued.

“Vincent doesn’t live like you two, or me. And when I say he’s like no one you ever met before, I mean that. But he’s so much more than any man I’ve ever known.”

“How does he live then?” Nancy asked.

“He lives below New York City.” She stopped to let that sink in.

Two pairs of eyes looked at her, blinking, as if to clear their sight.

“Below ground?” Jenny squeaked.

Cathy nodded. “There is a whole secret community of people who live a full and rich life, simply, but with love and caring, all ... underground.”

“So Vincent’s a ... homeless dude?” Jenny asked hesitantly.

“No. His home is Below. And his life is full of purpose. He teaches literature and other subjects to the children who live there. He protects the community. He works with his hands. He draws. I think the best description is that he’s a ‘Renaissance’ man.”

Nancy took in her words and finally spoke. “But why does he live below? Why do these people live below?”

“Many people struggle Above, for a variety of reasons. Children are abused and neglected, but they are loved and cared for Below. Adults who society rejected for ignorant reasons, find purpose and respect Below and contribute to the wellbeing of everyone. They rely on each other; they help each other.

“You must never tell anyone else what I have told you,” Cathy repeated.  “These people depend on secrecy for their protection, for if people knew, they would probably, in the name of progress, go down and throw them out. And Vincent would have nowhere to go.”

“Why not?” Nancy was genuinely puzzled.

“Because ... Vincent is very different, not just in the ways I’ve described.” She took a deep breath and exhaled, before continuing. “Not just in where in lives, but in how he looks. He’s beautiful to me, but to others, especially seeing him for the first time, he can be alarming or ... off-putting.” She watched both her friends carefully. She felt warmness suffuse her from Vincent hearing her describe him as beautiful.

“Is he disfigured?” Jenny asked.

“Not exactly. He has a unique look. He was found discarded by a dumpster as a baby.” Her two friends grimaced at her description of abandonment. “The leader of this community raised Vincent Below. Because he was so different from other children, the leader knew there would be no chance of adoption. He raised him to be kind, caring, and intelligent. And once you know Vincent’s heart, you will see how beautiful he truly is.”

“Cathy, he saved your life! He’s okay by me regardless of how he looks,” Jenny reassured her friend.

“It’s not the looks that count, anyway,” Nancy offered. “You say he has a good heart,  that’s all I need to hear.”

Cathy smiled at her wonderful, accepting friends. She couldn’t wait for them to meet him!

“He’s here to meet you. He knew how much I wanted to be able to tell you both about how happy we are together, so he got permission from the leader to tell you. Do you really want to meet him?”

Catherine wasn’t sure after her lengthy explanation that they would.

“Yes, of course!” they both said. “But how do you know he’s here? I haven’t heard anyone knock.” Nancy was puzzled.

Catherine was pretty sure they were speaking out of loyalty to her, but it touched her that they would do this for her.

“He comes up a more private way,” was all she said in explanation.

She stood up, went into the bedroom, and brought Vincent out to stand by the fireplace.

He was wearing his best pants, shirt, and vest, proof to Catherine that he wanted to make a good impression. His cape hung about him, his hood around his head. He slowly lifted his arms up and brought down the hood. He stood before the two seated women and took Catherine’s left hand in his right. They stood united, to meet Nancy and Jenny.

Jenny’s mouth dropped. Nancy’s eye’s widened.

“Holy smoke!” said Jenny.

Nancy’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“Vincent, this is Jenny, and that’s Nancy. Guys, this ...  is Vincent.”

Despite her trepidation, Catherine couldn’t help beaming, as she introduced Vincent. Nancy looked at Jenny, who looked back at her.

“It’s written all over your face, Chandler. You’re in love!” Jenny clapped her hands as she stood and rushed over to Vincent. She couldn’t help staring a few moments more, close up, before offering her hand. Vincent let go of Catherine’s to grasp Jenny’s. Nancy was behind her and stuck her hand out around Jenny.

His clasp of their hands was warm and measured. “It is an honor to meet Catherine’s friends. She speaks highly of you both. I assure you, I mean you no harm, despite what you may think of my looks… although, you seem to be handling my introduction quite well.”

Vincent looked at Catherine. “Your friends are everything you said they were.”

“Thank you,” Catherine beamed. “I have good taste in friends.”

Again, heads turned to each other, mouths open, before Nancy spoke. “Cathy, you didn’t tell us he had the sexiest voice in the city!”

Both ladies returned to the couch and gave the other to Vincent and Catherine. Jenny was actually fanning herself with her hand. She mouthed to Catherine in an aside, “He’s a hunk!”

“I’m sure you ladies have questions, now that you’ve met me. I’d like to answer them if I can. I want you to be comfortable with me, so that Catherine can freely share this part of her life with you.”

Nancy went first. “Do you love ... Catherine?” Nancy had caught the difference in names Vincent used.

Interesting question, thought Catherine. She expected one about Vincent.

“With all my heart.” He looked at Catherine with love shining in his eyes.

“Who are you, or why are you, or what?” Jenny was having trouble stating her question.

Vincent brought his gaze back to Jenny. “That is one question I can’t answer. I don’t know. I just know that I am alive, and I live the best I can. As Catherine mentioned, if it weren’t for our community Below, I would have nowhere to be, for others Above would fear me or wish to experiment upon me or worse.”

He stopped a moment. “As it is, I can only visit Catherine in the dead of night so that others don’t see me.”

“Or I visit him Below,” Catherine interjected.

“So that’s why I haven’t seen much of you these last two years.” Jenny figured.

Catherine smiled. “Every chance I get, I go Below.”

“Which brings me to the question,” Jenny intoned. Catherine cringed, waiting.

“Just what are your intentions toward my friend?” Jenny demanded. Nancy perked up for the answer.

Vincent was holding Catherine’s hand. He raised it for a kiss, causing both women to melt, and said, “Our dream is to one day be together. How, or even if, that can be, we don’t yet know. But I promise you that I will love and protect her till the day I die, as I told her father.”

“Your father knew??” Jenny squealed.

“Not exactly,” Catherine calmed her. “When he had his stroke, Vincent came to his room late at night to introduce himself, since I hadn’t been able to speak about him to my father.”

Vincent explained. “Our community survives by secrecy. We take in new members very carefully so that anyone who has a true need and is willing to abide by our codes can become a part. But no one must know or our home will be destroyed.”

Both women nodded in understanding.

Vincent continued. “We have a few people Above we call Helpers, who help us when we can not provide for ourselves. We work very hard at being self-sustaining, but sometimes food supplies run short, or we need medicines, and our Helpers come to our aid. Some day in the future, you both may become Helpers if that is something you might wish to do and are proven trustworthy. We take nothing for granted. Your contributions would be valued in our community.”

“What could I do that would help?” Nancy asked.

“Catherine mentioned you do photography.” Nancy nodded. “You could take pictures for us if you would be willing to develop them Below and leave the negatives with us. You would have your own dark room for the developing.”

Nancy perked up at that thought. She’d wanted to get active again in photography, but space and adaptations for a darkroom were a sore spot with Paul.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Catherine said. “Nancy, would that interest you? You should see some the of caverns Below. They are simply breathtaking! You could get some fantastic shots!”

“Sure! I could do that!” In her mind, she thought wistfully, Cathy, you have no idea how much I would love to do some photography.

“What about me?” Jenny was feeling left out.

“You work for a publisher, Jen, perhaps you have some misprints or excess inventory of books that could get ‘lost’ Below?” Catherine suggested, using “air quotes” as she spoke.

Jenny brightened. “Yes, in fact, we just had a printing error on some children’s books I could give you to take Below! When can I bring them down to you?”

“You are very generous. The children will be thrilled.” Vincent smiled, and Jenny melted.

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” Catherine warned. “I’m afraid you guys are on probation for a while. They do take this very seriously... the secrecy.”

“We hear you,” Nancy said. “I promise, not a word to anyone, not even Paul.”

“Me, too!” Jenny added. “I promise to tell no one.”

Vincent stood. “From what Catherine has told me about pajama parties, you ladies will be wanting to talk about Catherine and me, so it’s best I leave you to it.” He took first Nancy’s hand, then Jenny’s, as he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope we can meet again, soon.”

“Oh, yes! Nice to meet you, too, Vincent!” Jenny gushed. Nancy elbowed her in her side. “It was a pleasure, Vincent,” she managed with more decorum.

“Catherine, if you would see me out?” She took his hand and rose from her seat and followed him into the bedroom. Both friends were confused by this. They heard the balcony door open and shut. Curious-er…

~ ~ ~

Nancy whispered to Jenny, “Quick…what do you really think about Vincent?”

Jenny looked momentarily surprised. “Well, he is different, I’ll give you that. But it’s clear they are both crazy about each other.”

“He seemed very protective of her, watching our reaction very carefully.”

“Did he? I was too busy looking into those killer blue eyes of his.” Jenny sighed.

“He’s not really human, is he?” Nancy was processing what she saw of Vincent. “Still, there seems to be a lot that is human, or human-like in him.”

“So what?” Jenny asked. “He seems nice, he loves Cathy, and she loves him. The rest is for them to work out.” Life was much simpler for Jenny. Besides, several visions she had of Cathy were now explained, and in a way that made Jenny very relieved.

“I’m not saying that against Vincent, Jenny. Just trying to figure out who, or what, he is. I’ve never seen anyone like him before.”

“Me neither. Shh! She’ll be coming back soon!”

~ ~ ~

Catherine looped her arm through Vincent’s as they stepped out onto the balcony. Vincent turned, facing Catherine.

“I had no idea you would be here tonight, Vincent, let alone wanting to meet my friends. How did you pull that off so quickly with Father?”

“You might say I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” He smiled as he used one of Catherine’s favorite film references. “I told him the decision was for me, not him. I wanted it and would have it.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t do you justice in your introduction, though. I wasn’t as prepared as I might have been, if I had known.” She looked crestfallen. “I’m sure they are discussing you while we are out here.”

“No doubt.” Vincent tilted his head. “I am a lot to ...  absorb, Catherine.”

That he kept a sense of humor about himself was one of the many reasons she loved him so.

“Still, I think it was easier all the way around to introduce you to both of them together. And I still have a day together with them to answer their questions, and help them come to terms with my life as it is now.”

“I’m sorry that your life has to be so complicated, Catherine, because you dare to love me.”

“No, Vincent, I wasn’t complaining, just happy that I will have two very good friends that I can talk to, honestly, from now on. I wouldn’t trade a ‘normal’ life for you, whatever normal is! You have given me so much. I am so loved by you in so many ways. And I love you so deeply that I am so thankful that fate brought us together despite the tragic manner it used.”

She pulled him into a tight hug. Moments later, Vincent stepped back.

“You should get back to your guests.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Vincent.” He began to move toward the balcony wall when she pulled him to her and kissed him, lingeringly. That was proper thanks for what he had done for her. And it would feed her dreams for months to come. “Thank you, Vincent,” she whispered reverently.

“Be well,” he replied. And with that, he was gone. Catherine hugged herself as she prepared to go back inside and face the music she knew must be playing.

~ ~ ~

Both women looked up with innocent expressions when Cathy came into the room. Cathy wasn’t fooled.

“Okay, spill. What do you really think? You both were on your best behavior.  You could be a walking ad for civil deportment.” She stopped abruptly.

“Wait. Hold that thought. I think this situation requires wine, a lot of wine.” She went to the kitchen and came back carrying a tray with two bottles of wine and three glasses.

Jenny looked up. “Where’s my bottle?” she teased.

“Don’t worry, Jenny. I have plenty in reserve for even you!” Cathy teased back.

Catherine sat down on the couch opposite of her two friends. Each chose their wine and Catherine poured.

“I think a toast is in order.” Nancy raised her glass, the other two women followed. “To Catherine: a truer friend we couldn’t find who trusts us so much. May we prove worthy of that trust.”

“Here, here!” Jenny seconded. They all drank.

“My turn,” Catherine raised her glass. “To good friends who always have your back.” They all sipped again.

“Last but not least,” offered Jenny. “May our boobs stay perky, our asses small, and our bank accounts large!”

The three broke out in laughter and companionably drank. They were starting on their third glass, when Nancy finally broke the ice.

“I notice he calls you Catherine, and you seem different, somehow, when you are with him.” Nancy was the observant friend.

“Yes, he always has.” She shrugged. “From him, I like it. It’s like I get a chance to be a different person, a better person when I’m with him.” She paused. “Catherine just fits, somehow.”

“But it’s still ‘Cathy’ with you two nuts,” she joked.

“Does Vincent have any clue how sexy he is?” Jenny was enamored.

“No,” Catherine said stoically. “Honestly, he’s one of the most obtuse men I’ve ever met when it comes to relationships and his effect on the opposite sex.”

“Have you two, um, well, you know …” Jenny had the grace to look uncomfortable, asking.

“No. We haven’t made love.” Catherine met the question head on. “It’s not because I don’t want to, it’s Vincent. He is so cautious because of his differences.” Cathy looked down at her hands.

“Tell me you’ve at least seen him without his shirt on? He looks like his muscles have muscles!” Nancy appreciated good form, being a photographer.

“Yeah, is he is as hairy on his chest as his hands?” Jenny wanted to know. Personally, she favored a hairy chest.

Cathy shook her head and shrugged.

“Oh, girl, we’ve got work to do!” Jenny proclaimed. “Operation Shirt Off commences!” Giggling erupted at the thought. Jenny rattled off ways for Catherine to get Vincent out of his shirt. Nancy embellished them, each getting wilder than the last. The last involved starting a fire and having Vincent rip off his doused shirt to put it out.

“The man wears layers. If he takes his shirt off, there are three more layers underneath!” Cathy groaned.

At this statement, the two women looked at each other, took another sip of wine, and said this was going to require more cunning than originally thought.

“There’s a part of all this you don’t know yet.”

Everyone sat mute as they waited to hear what Cathy was silently composing.

“I don’t know if you noticed the nails on his fingers.” She looked at her friends. Both of them shrugged and shook their heads. “They are quite long, and sharp. And on more than one occasion, he’s used them to save my life.”

“What are you saying?” Nancy asked cautiously.

“Vincent has had to kill bad men, bad people, for my sake, and for the sake of the community Below.”

She gauged their reaction.

“Every time he has to kill, it takes something from him that costs him dearly. He feels obligated to be the protector Below because there is nowhere else for him to live. And I hate that he feels he has to protect me that way, too.”

“How often has he had to do that? Jenny asked.

“He saved me from Belmont’s men; from the watcher; from Stephen Bass, to name a few.”

“Oh, Cathy! We had no idea. We could have lost you several times over.” Jenny was aghast. She shuddered because of her dreams of the watcher, and her knowing Stephen.

“I’m trying to ease out of investigations to reduce that side of danger in my life. But regardless, Vincent will be there whenever I need him. We’re connected by a ...  bond ... in which we can sense what the other is feeling.” She paused. “Vincent is much better at it than I am. So whenever he senses my fear, he comes to protect me, to fight for me.”

“Wait.” Jenny sat up. “You’re saying Vincent knows what you are feeling?”

Cathy nodded.

“So what about when you get revved up and ready to go, if you get my meaning?” Jenny winked exaggeratedly.

“We always get your meaning, Jenny,” Nancy said.

“It’s hard to get too revved up when all you do is hug or hold hands.” Cathy took a gulp of wine. This conversation was certainly getting personal. “Of course, at night, my dreams are a whole ‘nother thing!”

“Whooo! I bet they are!” Nancy fanned herself. “I remember some juicy dreams before Paul and I became intimate.” She thought for a moment. “Do you think Vincent can feel you through your dreams?”

“God, I hope not!” Catherine pleaded.

“What about you? Do you ever feel Vincent is sexually frustrated?” Jenny got right to it.

“There are times,” Catherine started, “when we’ve been reading together, me nestled against him, and he’ll suddenly move away and stand up.” She was thoughtful. She took another sip of wine as the truth hit her. “He says it was to stretch his legs, but that wasn’t it.” She took a deep breath. “Simply put, he can’t be too close to me for very long,” she smiled, “before he changes his position.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting!” said Jenny.

“It’s frustrating and depressing!” Cathy barked. She tipped her glass up and emptied it. She leaned forward and poured another. Both friends looked at each other.

“I’d say you’ve got it bad,” Nancy pointed out. “Have you and he talked about this at all?”

“There’s a part I haven’t told you.” Cathy took another sip of wine and thought that there probably wasn’t enough wine to cover this explanation. Both women had looks on their faces that said, “there’s more? Like what else could there be?”

“Vincent is so aware of his differences, that he thinks he can’t be in a relationship with a woman. Actually, his father reinforces that thought.”

“He has a father?” Nancy asked.

“The man who raised him after they found him. He’s a physician and knows Vincent probably better than I do, at least medically speaking. I think he questions Vincent’s capacity to deal with strong emotion.

“You see, when Vincent saves me, he becomes almost ... animalistic, like a beast. Instincts in him take over, and he snarls, growls, and uses his strength and his nails, until he vanquishes his opponent.”

“By ‘vanquish,’ you mean he ... kills them?” Nancy asked.

Cathy nodded. “I’ve seen him when it happens. It’s like he ... loses himself.”

Both women’s eyes were wide at this description. Catherine went on.

“So Father questions what his instincts might do if Vincent was to act on his passion for me.” Catherine sighed. “And I can’t convince Vincent that he would in no way hurt me. He’s had opportunities before and has never, ever, hurt me.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Jenny came to sit beside her. “Surely, with patience, he’ll come around.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“There’s more?” Jenny could hardly believe it.

“Vincent thinks I make too many sacrifices to be with him. That I give up too much of the life I’m used to. If we were to be intimate, then in his mind, the next step is that he asks me to give up my life, and live Below with him. And he won’t do it.”

She looked at her two dear friends. “My friends were one of those sacrifices, but now, I can have you back in my life, my whole life. Maybe there’s hope that on that score, at least, he will budge a bit.”

“Would you live Below, with him?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t know if I could, at least, not fulltime. I tried it after my father died. I had a hard time dealing with his death, and Vincent helped me through it. I went Below for several days. I thought I wanted to stay there.”

“Obviously, you didn’t,” Nancy said.

“No. Vincent keeps saying I’m a woman of both worlds, that I have a life Above I can’t ignore. Yet, I also have a life Below, with friends and Vincent.” She paused thoughtfully. “So, no, I guess I couldn’t live Below full time.”

Nancy reached across for her friend’s left hand and held it as she asked the next question.

“What do you want from this relationship, Cathy? You told me in Westport you used to dream of kids, the house with the picket fence, and that now you weren’t so sure.” Nancy looked at her. “Is it because you can’t have that with Vincent? But do you still want it?”

Nancy gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it.

“That’s a tough question, Nancy, because I do want it… not the house with the picket fence, obviously, but I do want to belong to Vincent and he to me. I want to have his children, if it would be possible. I want a life together like you have with Paul.”

“So?” Jenny asked. “Do you get enough out of the relationship if what you want can never happen?”

Wow. Jenny really went for it. She took another long sip of wine, a fact that didn’t escape the notice of her two best friends. “That’s the question that drove me to Westport,” Cathy admitted quietly.

“What do you get out of the relationship?” Jenny asked.

“Everything. He gives me everything. I’ve never felt so completely loved, so accepted and supported. He helps me grow and change, in ways that I’ve always wanted and never knew I could.” Her face softened, and her voice became almost a whisper. “He gives me everything.”

She sat up straighter and looked at her friends. Resolution was pulled around her like a cloak.

“So I take it day by day, and hope that someday, Vincent will see our love as I do, with a future that is together and full of happiness.”

“If anyone could make that happen, my money is on you, Cathy!” Jenny took Cathy’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

“It’s clear how much you love him.” Nancy stood and came over to squeeze in on the other side of Cathy. “And Vincent clearly loves you. His eyes shone every time he looked at you. And he was certainly taking our measure, making sure you were going to be okay with us.”

Catherine smiled and shrugged slightly.

“I can’t believe you’ve had to carry this yourself for so long, Cath!” Jenny was indignant for her friend. “To have someone, yet not have him ... I can’t imagine what you must deal with coming to terms with that.

“But based on all my failed relationships, Cathy, you seem to have the real thing here. You have to keep fighting for it! At least now, you don’t have to fight alone. You’ve got us!”

Nancy nodded. “I think all you can do is be patient.” Nancy offered. “You’ve heard this before, but it’s still true: Follow your heart. It seems to have done right by you so far.”

“You have no idea how much I love you guys!” Cathy hugged first Nancy, then Jenny. “I am so relieved that you know about Vincent. And that I can talk to you about him.”

“We’re here when you need us,” Jenny vowed. “Besides, now you’ve got us on your side. How can Vincent last against the three of us? She smiled broadly. “Face it, the man is toast!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Nancy, “if the first time we get to come Below is for your wedding. Now, that’s an occasion I would love to photograph!”

“Hey, are there any more hunks living Below? Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong place all these years.” Jenny considered the possibility. After all, her best friend had found love Below. Why couldn’t she?

“A toast! A toast!” Jenny grabbed Nancy’s glass and handed it to her, and picked up her own. Cathy dutifully picked up hers.

“To Cathy’s wedding! An event that is only a question of when.” Jenny smiled.

As Catherine sipped, she said a silent prayer: let this be true! Catherine sat among her good friends, slightly inebriated, but clear-headed enough to feel Vincent’s love through the Bond and to appreciate the gift she was given: To be able to be truthful with Jenny and Nancy. No more needing to remember what she told whom. And someone she could rely on to be in her corner when her difficult life became too much. She didn’t realize how much she missed that until tonight.

She suspected Vincent did what he did as an escape valve as much for him as for her. Little did he know, she thought. She smiled to herself. My friends are very loyal and very creative. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I supply the will, and those crazy friends of mine will supply the way. Vincent, Jenny was right. You are toast!

The three women finally made it to bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

That evening, more wine appeared, as Cathy raided her reserve, and with it, karaoke started with Cathy singing “Hey Paula,” only she changed ‘Paula’ to ‘Nancy.’

Nancy joined in, of course, on the line “Hey, hey, Paul, I want to marry you too.” Jenny provided kissy face sounds in the background.

The burning question that Jenny wanted answered was, “Who Put the Bop in the Bop Shoo Bop Shoo Bop.” Jenny’s false bass had all three sprawled on the floor, in tears of laughter.

The other two decided to pick the song for Cathy. They chose, “My Guy.” Cathy gamely sang the lyrics.* How perfect this is! She thought. And for them to pick this song means they truly understood what Vincent means to me. Her heart swelled with happiness.

It was probably about that time that Vincent felt a warm rush of love and happiness from Catherine and wondered what those three were up to at that time of night. It underscored to him that he had made the right decision: there was a lightness to her being that wasn’t there before, and she was happy. He returned to his slumbers pleased with himself.

By the time the gruesome threesome finally woke up, showered, and dealt with their respective hangovers, it was time for the party to break up.

“Wait!” Cathy wailed. “We forgot to check our calendars. We promised Nancy and Paul a weekend retreat, remember?”

“That’s right, we did.” Jenny foraged for her daybook in the carpetbag she called a purse. Nancy took out hers, and soon the weekend was circled on everyone’s calendar. Cathy made a mental note to warn Joe way in advance that the weekend was off limits.

Cathy looked at her two friends and teared up. The three fell into a group hug. “I love you guys,” Cathy stated.

“Back at you, Chandler,” Jenny responded. “Same here,” Nancy followed. They vowed not to let a year go by before getting together again.

~ ~ ~

Monday morning, Cathy dashed through her apartment, slipping into her suit jacket and shoes simultaneously, trying in vain to get to the office on time. She wasn’t far off.

She stored her satchel after taking out the relevant papers, and sat down, ready to address the assault on the testimony files, as Joe had asked. She hummed as she began, a sort of close resemblance to the tune of “My Guy.” Joe appeared in front of her.

“Wild weekend, eh Radcliffe?” he smirked, noting the rings under her eyes that she couldn’t quite camouflage. “Humming? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you hum before. If you were any good, I might know what song you were humming!”

Cathy thought back over the weekend, over the momentous decision Vincent had made that allowed her to introduce him to her two friends. She broke into her widest grin. “Yep, a great and wild weekend, and that’s all I’m going to say about it. Don’t you have work to do?”

Joe silently considered his options: press for more information, which he would likely not get, or surrender gracefully, and be happy that his friend was so happy. He wisely chose the latter, saluting her with two fingers to his temple, and ambled off saying, “I need that testimony review by end of day today, Pavarotti!”

Nope, she thought. He’s not going to ruin my mood. She gave a mental hug to Vincent through the Bond and got to work.

Jenny called later to thank her for the weekend, and to tell her she really did like Vincent. “Promise me we’ll do lunch later this week? She asked. “We’ve got a lot of planning to do, you know.”

“What planning?” Cathy asked.

“You know,” she paused. “Operation Toast!” Cathy could swear she heard the wink Jenny gave.

“Aronson, you’re incorrigible! I promise we’ll do lunch this week!” She hung up the phone, happy to be reminded that her friends were in support of her dreams.

~ ~ ~

The End ... or is it?

Thanks to Cindy Rae for her editing and advice!

____________________________________________

“Hey Paula” song and lyrics by Paul and Paula

“Who Put the Bop in the Bop Shoo Bop Shoo Bop” song and lyrics by Gerry Goffin and Barry Mann.

*My Guy

*Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy,

(My guy)

Nothing you could do 'cause I'm stuck like glue to my guy.

(My guy)

I'm sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter,

Like birds of a feather we stick together,

I'm tellin' you from the start I can't be torn apart from my guy.

Nothing you could do could make me be untrue to my guy,

(My guy)

Nothing you could buy could make me tell a lie to my guy.

(My guy)

I gave my guy my word of honor to be faithful, and I'm gonna,

You best be believing I won't be deceiving my guy.

As a matter of opinion I think he's tops,

My opinion is he's the cream of the crop;

As a matter of taste to be exact he's my ideal as a matter of fact.

No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.

(My guy)

No handsome face could ever take the place of my guy.

(My guy)

He may not be a movie star, but when it comes to bein' happy we are.

There's not a man today who could take me away from my guy.

No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.

(My guy)

No handsome face could ever take the place of my guy.

(My guy)

He may not be a movie star, but when it comes to bein' happy we are.

There's not a man today who could take me away from my guy.

(What you say, Tell me more)

No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.

(My guy)

No handsome face could ever take the place of my guy.

(My guy)

He may not be a movie star, but when it comes to bein' happy we are.

Songwriters

Robinson Jr., William

Published by

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Narcissa’s Vision During “Dark Spirit”

by Zara Wilder

I came to meet the darkness

after my children met sickness before me.

Sickness like weary animals that crawl

out of holes and into holes, crying.

Sickness of lives dangling from the fingers

of shameless kings, ruthless queens,

of monsters who profit from our hunger.

Here I am made hungry only by my own hands,

while I serve as a vessel for the Loa.

Or I am filled with good things by the hands of friends,

while I stop begging, stop moaning, stop aching.

These Loa are my Loa.

Once, I had nothing true to give them!

Then I went into the deep places, and I did not need to beg.

Oh, the powerful cling to their riches, stealing to gain more.

The poor struggle to know what is real, what is good, what works.

I know I am poor.

I would also rather beg than steal.

But I steal nothing in the endless night Below the city streets.

I also do not beg here.

I find what I need here.

I know what I need to know.

I am given treasures, given privacy,

given children, given brothers, given sisters,

given open space and mysteries,

so my hands grow full,

my mouth is full,

my heart is full,

my darkness is full,

and I have many good things to give my Loa.

I live alone, and love my living.

I carry life through the darkness.

I scare off misery, gathering secret joys.

My heart holds a Vodou drum beating steady,

while I pass through all the crossroads,

while I talk with the Man of the Crossroads,

while I greet him with a little corn and cayenne,

while I bring him a cup of coffee laced with rum.

I am escaping slavery, making my many journeys home.

I saw you, child, you son of poverty,

golden in darkness, sweeping a foreigner’s floor.

She was hanging your portrait on her wall,

painted in blood, calling a veve by your name,

damning you to her world’s hell with her horror, with her fear.

You were making music, and the foreigner stole it,

locked it away in her chest of fancies, hoarding.

She had already chosen a shell of power instead of love.

Now she clings to the shell, believes in the shell.

It is the enemy’s shell, holding his power to destroy.

She craves more power, more power not to heal sickness, but to hide it.

More power to avoid loving what is real.

The evil one, the enemy, took away her soul, you know.

But you also do not know.

I know she is already dead.

Maybe your love can give her a piece of your own soul—

for her heart to hold, to keep it beating.

Maybe your love can give her a piece of your own song—

for her throat to sing, to keep it breathing.

But she did die and she is hungry now.

She has great power over you,

because you gave your soul to her long before she died,

while she was begging for power, and you know it is best to share your power.

She will steal from you now, hollowing you.

It is in your hollow places that she busies herself.

She thrusts you into her emptiness, to pretend that she is full.

I saw my young yellow dove smothering inside her box.

A box made of bones and crowns.

I once thought I was poor, and I know I was poor,

but when I looked, I also saw people who suffered worse than me.

I wrapped my soul up tight within my courage.

While I dozed by candlelight,

someone feeling more pain than me

stole my people’s yellow dove, my people’s fruitful song.

The foreigner was so bored, so silent, bereft of hope.

Never say you’re the poorest of all,

because someone always suffers even more.

Her suffering made her too empty to eat.

Her strange poverty was her luxury—

her mother’s wealth, her father’s wealth, their curse upon her.

I saw her bulging, too full of rich food to drink the clear water,

oh, the clear, cold water that runs softly through the dark.

She could not taste the water, but only blood.

Magic finds a den prepared in her, and Bacalou a long thirst waiting.

If I do evil, my Loa will turn against me.

When the foreigner does evil, she turns our golden dove against himself.

Oh, I know what I know!

When I call the Loa, the Loa hear me.

When I speak to the Loa, they comfort my problems.

These Loa, my father’s Loa,

shall I beg something good to give them?

These Loa, my mother’s Loa,

shall I beg something good to give to them?

Can I beg the lifeless foreigner, and will she hear me begging?

Or can I ask you, living child, you son of justice?

In a city where there is no justice,

a criminal alone is king, or queen, or judge.

Life spills out, in danger of death.

Can you feel it, golden child?

Beware the foreigner who makes you kill to keep her living,

who kills men with your strong hands in the name of her god,

her vengeful, vulgar idol that is no god,

this strange friend who enslaves the people who try to help her.

She has no Loa to hear her.

She draws you into madness!

She draws you into blood!

She draws you into death!

She cheats her judges of their justice.

She steals your life and calls theft love.

Foreigners will eat the light you share.

They will not give sunshine in return.

They will silence the song you sing.

They will not give music in return.

They give despair.

They give evil.

They give death that refuses to die.

The price, my child, the price they demand is very high.

Oh, my Loa, my problem is my lonely Tunnels son.

Let my dove escape his enemies and their curses.

Let my dove escape their demons and their desires.

Let my dove escape their knives and their bullets.

Let my dove escape their blazes and their fists and their chains.

Let my dove escape their teeth and their eyes and their hateful streets Above.

I see you coming to me, my child, bearing fearful burdens.

I see you coming to your father, my child, seeking kindness after cruelty.

I see you coming home, my child, alone but alive.

But I also see your suffering, my dove, my Tunnels son.

I see you would rather die for your love than live alone.

Cameo

by Angie

Vincent held the old blanket in his hands, stroking it gently between thumb and forefinger, lost in a memory he could barely comprehend. It wasn't for the first time this piece of fabric, all he had from his first days of life, fascinated him. He was very glad Father had preserved it.

It was very old. He had been a newborn, and anything he might remember was suspect. At the very least it would be pure, basic emotion and need, nothing he could put a name to, a speculation of sensation only.

The fabric was a much-washed flannelette, white with a tiny flower motif, soft, probably ripped from the less worn border of an old bed sheet, as it had a finished edge. He ran that through his fingers, following it along its length, his eyes closed, trying to imagine its history, how it had come to be wrapped around him.

His fingers neared the corner, where felt a hard object. He stopped, his concentration broken. He lifted the fabric, his eyes seeking what his fingers had discovered.

There! Caught inside the thick overlapping seam of the “v” formed by the corner was ... something oval. He worried at the fabric, trying to free the thing, but not wanting to break it. There was something sharp sticking from it, which made it catch. Frustrated, he finally used the nail on his forefinger to slice open the stitching and gently winkled the object out.

It was a tiny metal oval, with a small pin sticking out of the centre back. He had seen Catherine wearing something similar. An earring! Turning it over, his eyes opened wide and he gasped. He had to take a deep breath when he realized what he had been holding. He stared at the object in his palm in disbelief.

It was the cameo of a face in profile, pale ivory on a pink background. He gazed at the face portrayed and closed his eyes briefly to gain some equilibrium. This was no ordinary woman, although he was sure she was female There seemed to be ringlets down her back.  On top of her head were two points, probably a hair ribbon, he guessed.

But the facial structure was unlike that of anyone he knew, in fact, of anyone human. The deep set eyes were similar to his own, the nose was straight and understated, the chin almost formed a right angle… exactly like his own profile. There were even clear indications of his high cheekbones and muzzle.

He regarded the blanket again and realized the earring must have been put there deliberately, worked into the corner so that it wouldn't fall out. Repeated washings by the tunnel community had likely embedded it securely into the soft fabric.

He closed his hand around the cameo. He moved onto his bed, made himself comfortable cross-legged, and closed his eyes. He had some skill in psychometry, although he didn't use it often. He cleared his mind and concentrated on the earring.

There! He sensed an intense focus, a careful carving of the cameo from that of another face entirely. Yes, there was satisfaction at the completion. Then he sensed stress, moderated by determination, as the earring was firmly embedded in the blanket.

Vincent looked at the cameo again. It was doubtful he would learn any more from it, but he was sure that the earring had not happened into that corner by accident, that he, or someone, had been meant to find it, and that it had been placed there with love.

His efforts did not answer all his many questions, in fact many more were generated, but he was convinced that it was likely his mother who had wrapped him in the blanket, and that she wanted him found. That was a great deal, he decided, given his complete lack of knowledge otherwise.

He opened the pouch he wore around his neck, and then ripped off a tiny piece of the blanket. He looked at it more closely, realizing the flower, which had a green stem and a single leaf, was probably a rosebud. That thought made him smile as he wrapped the tiny cameo in the piece of blanket and placed it carefully into his pouch.

He would show it to Catherine and Father soon, but at present he wanted to think about this and bask in the new knowledge.

Vincent lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, his mouth turned upward into a slight smile as he saw the tiny cameo in his mind's eye.

Such a little thing, yet so wonderful!

End

(Note: the cameo was found in a 'grab bag' of costume jewelry bought from a thrift store. It is exactly as seen above – the digital camera making the image even easier to see.)

~ ~ ~

Treasured Memories

By Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

Vincent gently pushed aside the ash blond fall of his wife’s hair. The scar before her ear remained, still raised and jagged.

“You never fixed it,” he wondered, tracing it with his thumb. “It has been thirty years.”

“And I never will.” Catherine captured his hand, holding it in place. “It’s one of my treasured memories of you. It’s a part of who I am.”

“You are the bravest woman I have ever known,” Vincent acknowledged.

“That’s because of you, my love. You saw in me what I could not find in myself. The courage and the strength to go on…”

~ ~ ~

My Dearest

by Barbara Handshy Anderson

~ ~ ~

My Dearest,

What can I say to you?

Do you remember the first time I said those words?

You returned me to my world, took me back to my threshold, back to my life. When the truth was… I never had a life until the night we met. I had drifted aimlessly, never knowing what I was looking for, yet fearing I would never find it… would never find you. I can’t even remember when I first realized, nothing in my world had any meaning without you.

There are still no adequate words, except… I love you… truly… deeply… eternally…completely.

~ ~ ~

My Heart

by Barbara Handshy Anderson

~ ~ ~

My Heart,

For that’s what you are, my love.

You’re the air in my lungs, the blood in my veins, the sun on my face when I walk in darkness. It’s been so since the night I found you bleeding in the mist.

I bless the terror that brought you to me. Who could imagine such evil would bring your light into my world of shadows, to penetrate the black abyss in my soul? You once said, there was no darkness when I was with you. You were right, for you’ve been my guiding star  from the moment we met.

Consent

by Janet Rivenbark

~ ~ ~

*R - Adult Content*

Chapter 1

Catherine looked around the living room as she crossed it on her way to the kitchen. It was close to 11pm, but she hadn’t changed her clothes. She hadn’t been home from work long enough to do anything more than wash her face and hands, brush her teeth and take her hair down.

She and Joe had been in court all day prosecuting a sexual assault case, and John had warned her about the judge’s old-fashioned ideas about how a woman should dress. She’d worn one of her most conservative suits with a hem that hit the middle of her knee, plain black pumps and had French braided her hair so that it sat tightly against the back of her head; so tight that it gave her a headache.

It was over, and in the hands of the jury now. The judge had charged the jury, and they would start their deliberations on Tuesday.

She and Joe had gone back to the office. Catherine had been looking forward to getting home on time for a change, but Joe had insisted on rehashing everything that had happened in court over the last two weeks. They’d ordered dinner and had eaten in his office.

“You did well, Radcliffe,” Joe said at one point. “I’ve been watching the jury, and I think they get it. They were hanging on your every word and everything that our witnesses said. I believe that we're going to win this one. But then you’ve won all those that you’ve prosecuted.”

“All except that first one. I was definitely in over my head on that.”

“But you learned from it, and you’ve gone above and beyond since then. You have more than made up for it.”

“I don’t feel like I have, and I doubt that the victim did. I messed up and let that guy back out onto the street where he might do it again. He should be behind bars.”

“You did the best you could with what you had,” Joe argued.

“But I should have dug deeper; worked harder.”

It had been after 9 pm when she’d finally escaped.

~ ~ ~

“Thank God it’s Friday,” she muttered, as she crossed the living room. “And Monday is Labor Day.”

In the kitchen, she filled the electric kettle with water and plugged it in. She arranged lemon rosemary scones on a plate. She had discovered an incredible 24-hour deli-bakery that she’d visited several times in the last couple weeks.

She enjoyed tempting Vincent’s palate with new things, and she’d discovered the scones on her way home that evening. The girl behind the counter was giving bite-sized samples, and as soon as she’d tasted them, she had to have a dozen. She put three on the plate and three more in the refrigerator for tomorrow. The other six stayed in the box for Vincent to take home with him.

He promised he would visit tonight and she was hoping to get him to come inside. There was something important she wanted to talk about. She’d put it off for just too long, and she didn’t want to be interrupted in the middle of it by the rain that had been threatening all day.

She went back to the living room where she lit some candles, turned on the small lamps on the end tables and pushed the button on the stereo. She wanted him to be as at ease as possible, considering the subject she was going to bring up.

Back in the kitchen, she poured water into her favorite teapot then carried the tray out to her new coffee table. She was taking off her suit jacket when there was a light knock on the balcony door.

She walked to the door, opened it and stepped out and into his arms.

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” she said as she hugged him.

“As have I,” he said with a slight smile as he returned the hug. His hand went right to the back of her head, and he rubbed it lightly. “You’ve had a headache all day.”

“It’s the way I fixed my hair today. It was braided too tight, and it hurt.” He rubbed a little more, and she almost melted in his arms.

She finally leaned back and smiled up at him.

“It’s supposed to rain tonight, and I was hoping that you’d come inside.”

He looked over her head into the softly lit room, then up at the sky. Before he could speak, a raindrop hit him on the forehead. He reached up and wiped it off.

“I think that decision has been made for me,” he said as he let go of her.

She was surprised that he had conceded without an argument but happy that nature had gone along with her plans. She went inside, and he followed.

She took his cloak and folded it over the back of a chair.

“I see you’ve repaired the damage,” he commented when she turned. He had only visited a few times since he’d been sick and he hadn’t come inside any of those times.

“Cullen took care of the doors, and as for the rest, it was a good excuse to redecorate.”

Vincent sat in the large wingback chair to the right of the fireplace and Catherine sat on the end of the couch that faced the fireplace. She poured tea and handed him a mug.

“Help yourself to the scones… What do you think of the changes?”

“It’s very… comfortable.”

“I chose it for comfort. Daddy hired a decorator originally. It wasn’t really me, but I never bothered to change much.”

She had replaced the pastel colors and fragile looking furniture with warmer colors and furniture that even someone Vincent’s size would be comfortable on. The sofa was a dark rust, almost brown fabric and it faced the fireplace with a small club chair nearest the door and the wingback chair on the other side. The club chair was the same color as the sofa, but the wingback chair was the leather chair from her dad’s home office. A large wooden coffee table sat in the center with smaller tables at the ends of the sofa.

One of her old loveseats was now in Mary’s chamber, and Catherine thought it suited Mary much better than it had ever suited her. She wasn’t sure where the other one was, but she had heard a rumor that Lena had been looking at it.

There had been blood on the carpet from where Vincent cut his hand when he broke the mirror, so she’d had it pulled it up to expose the hardwood floor underneath. There were large rugs around the room. She still had sheer curtains at the French doors, but there were now heavy drapes that could be closed to block light and prying eyes. The walls in the living room and bedroom were something that had been labeled “Dark Marigold,” and she had chosen it as much for the name, as for the color.

She’d been enjoying the new look and the comfort. She was glad it was finally going to be shared with Vincent.

“Did you redo all the floors?” he asked.

“No. This is what was under the carpet. It was all in perfect shape. Why would anyone cover beautiful hardwood floors? The building is over 80 years old, and I bet these floors are original.”

Vincent took a bite of one of the scones, and she watched him savor it.

“This is delicious,” he told her.

“I’ll remember that. I love them too. I have some for you to take home.”

They were quiet for a few moments; Catherine fidgeted and sipped her tea.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” he finally asked.

“It’s kind of personal,” she said after a deep breath, “but I don’t want you to be embarrassed; it’s vital that we talk about it.”

It had been bothering her for quite some time, and she felt she owed him an explanation, but she wasn’t sure just where to start.

“All right.” She could hear the hesitation in his voice. “If you feel it’s that important, then so do I.”

“It’s hard to know where to start… I know that there are times when we are together that you feel that you must leave… in a hurry. I just want you to know that I understand what’s going on. I appreciate that you care for me like that, and that you want to protect me, but I just don’t want you to be embarrassed about it. I know it’s a natural physical response, and I’m flattered that you have that reaction to me, but…”

“Catherine,” he interrupted. “To be honest, I’m not ashamed or embarrassed when that happens… it’s just that when it does happen… when you realize it, I feel what you are feeling, and your reaction is… strange. I don’t understand it entirely. If I’m holding you, and when that happens I usually am, I feel your body tense just a little, and you feel anxious. That’s part of why I leave; I don’t want to make you uneasy.”

“I’m so sorry, Vincent. I didn’t realize I was broadcasting that. I don’t really feel anxious, it’s just that…”

“Is it me? Are you repelled by me having that reaction to you?” he asked. He had suspected it was a possibility but hoped it wasn’t.

“No! Absolutely not! I told you I am flattered. It’s me… just me. It’s hard to explain.”

“What happened, Catherine, to make you feel that way?” The pieces were beginning to fall into place.

“Ah, well… nothing really happened,” she protested.

“It’s kind of unusual to react that way to nothing,” he insisted.

“Well, I guess I could say that it was more than one thing really.”

“Can you tell me?”

Catherine put down her mug. She toed off her shoes and pulled her legs up on the sofa. Vincent watched as she curled into herself, wrapping her arms around her legs and turning away from him slightly.

“I guess you could say that I’m not very good at a particular aspect of my life.”

“What aspect would that be?”

“Sex,” she whispered. She was so uneasy, she couldn’t look at him.

“You’re not good at sex?” he asked incredulously. “How did you decide that?”

“I didn’t decide it; I’ve been told.”

Vincent was so shocked that he couldn’t find the words.

When he didn’t say anything, she continued: “It started with the first time…”

“Isn’t that to be expected? I’ve been told that the first time is awkward and seldom good.”

“That’s what I thought, but I guess I just made it worse by panicking at the last minute… I was almost twenty. I’d just finished my sophomore year of college and was home for the summer. Daddy and I spent a couple weeks with friends on Cape Cod. Their daughter Eve and I were at Radcliffe together, and she was a good friend. We were having a good time. She wanted me to stay a little longer, and Daddy said it would be OK, he’d come back for me when I was ready to go home.

“I met a boy, a young man really, he was a couple years older than me and had just graduated from Harvard. His name was Josh. He was taking the summer off before going to work in his dad’s business.

“Eve and I were spending every possible moment at the beach. We’d go in the morning, stay all day then go back in the evening. There were parties almost every night, and Eve and I went to a lot of them.

“Josh eventually talked me into having sex... He was charming, intelligent and good looking, but I never thought I was in love with him. I think I just thought it was time… Does that make any sense? Most of my girlfriends had slept with their boyfriends, and I guess I was feeling a little left out, or maybe it was just peer pressure... Anyway, I agreed.”

She stared at her hands for a while.

“He was staying at his parents’ summer house. It was just up the beach from Eve’s parent’s place. His family wasn’t due until the weekend, so we went there. I was nervous, but I was determined… but at the last moment, I got scared, and I tried to make him stop or at least slow down and give me a minute, but he didn’t. Even though I was trying to push him off, he kept right on…”

Vincent could see the tears in her eyes. He moved to the opposite end of the sofa but she hardly noticed. He wanted to hold her but sensed that she wouldn’t be comfortable with that right now, so he turned and reached out to touch her. He put his hand on her knee and she shifted to put her back against the sofa arm, so she was facing him. He took one of her feet in his hands and tugged her leg out straight, forcing her to unwrap her arms. He started to massage her foot lightly.

“You know that what happened could be considered rape,” he suggested quietly.

“But I told him that I wanted to do it.”

“But you changed your mind and told him to stop; he didn’t.”

“But I was at least partially responsible,” she insisted.

“No, Catherine. It shouldn’t matter at what point a woman changes her mind or says ‘no.' It’s the man’s responsibility to stop.”

“OK, so maybe I’m stupid, but the men in my life have always told me that there is a point of no return for a man, a point at which he can’t stop.”

Vincent muttered something under his breath, and she could have sworn that he had just cursed.

“Not that I’ve had any experience in that area, but that just isn’t so. It might be uncomfortable to stop, but it’s not going to kill them.”

“But isn’t that what happened with Lisa?”

“I was fifteen years old, and I wasn’t thinking about sex. I only wanted to hold her. Father had never really had the talk with me because he didn’t think I’d ever be in that position. After that, he did talk to me, and he told me the same thing that he tells all the boys Below: men and boys need to learn self-control.

“But it wasn’t rape. I knew him, and he didn’t threaten me or actually harm me. And he used protection. If I’d accused him, it would never have held up in court,” she argued.

“That doesn’t change anything. He continued when you told him to stop. You’re a lawyer, what’s the legal definition of rape?”

“The crime of rape generally refers to non-consensual sexual intercourse that is committed by physical force, threat of injury, or other duress,” she quoted. It was a line she’d used in a quite a few recent court cases.

“I think the key phrase there is non-consensual and he did physically force you. He was larger and stronger than you, and when you told him to stop, he didn’t.”

“And then he had the audacity to say that it wasn’t very good,” she said, finally raising her eyes and looking at him. “I knew it hadn’t been good for me; it hurt, but he’d climaxed, so I thought it was OK.”

“But there’s more,” he prompted.

“Oh yes. Steven was always telling me that I needed to learn a few things and Tom accused me of being frigid.” Her voice was flat, almost as if she was talking about someone else. Vincent sensed that it was how she protected herself from feeling the pain all over again.

“That was all probably because of what happened to you the first time. Have you ever talked to anyone?”

“I had a couple appointments with a psychiatrist last year, but we never talked about this. I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even your friend, Jennifer?”

She shook her head.

“Catherine, you might want to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you,” she said hopefully.

“I’m hardly unbiased, and I’m not a professional.”

“Vincent, I think we’ve gotten a little off track here. I didn’t tell you what happened because I wanted your sympathy or advice. I told you because I want you to know that if you don’t want to have sex with me, that’s OK. I can live without it. In fact, the last couple years, with you, I’ve felt more comfortable than I’ve ever felt with a man. You don’t make the demands that Steven or Tom did. I don’t feel pressured. And that is a huge relief!”

“Catherine, it’s not that I don’t have those feelings for you; I would think that the way my body reacts to you would let you know that. It’s just that I’ve never felt inclined to act on them and one of the reasons for that is the way you seem to feel about it.”

“What are your other reasons?” she asked, suddenly curious.

“I was talking to Devin about that when he was here the last time. He seems to think that most of my reticence has to do with how Father has always warned me away from that kind of relationship because of what happened with Lisa. I had listened to Father for the last 20 years, and I started to believe it. I started to think He was right.

“Father was so convincing, and everything he said has become part of me. I came to believe the same thing. I was frightened that I might lose myself and hurt you. Although after everything we’ve been through, I now think that I would stop if you asked me to, but these…” He held up his hands. “These can be lethal.”

“But they can be very gentle too,” she was quick to point out. “You’ve been rubbing my feet, and I don’t have any scratches. You haven’t so much as snagged my hose.”

“I’m also in my right mind,” he reminded her. “But… despite what happened, you’ve still had other relationships?”

She nodded. “I guess part of me knows that’s not the way things normally are, so I’ve tried to find that ‘normal’ with other lovers. But although I’ve not panicked and tried to stop anyone, and I’ve been an active participant, it’s just never been that good for me.” She closed her eyes as she spoke. “I’ve never had an orgasm. Neither Steven nor Tom seemed to notice that fact…”

“Never?” he asked quietly. That surprised him.

“Never… But what I’m getting at is that I want you to know that if we never move on to that phase in our relationship, then it’s OK with me. I want to be close to you. I love it when you hold me… I know I’m supposed to be an independent, liberated woman, and I am, but there are times when I just want someone to take care of me. When you hold me, that’s the way I feel. It’s a pleasant change from always being the strong one.”

At that, he did move closer and pull her into his arms. She melted into him and put her arms around him.

“I know I was the one who asked you if we’d ever truly be together. I know how it sounded, but I didn’t mean sexually. I meant more along the lines of being able to spend more time together; maybe living together. I’ve heard that there are people who fall in love and have romantic relationships, even marry, but prefer not to have a sexual relationship. I know it sounds odd, but it exists. It might work for us.”

“I’ve read about it,” he assured her.

“I mean… darn! I really don’t know what I mean.”

“I understand. You had a bad experience, and you just don’t want a repeat of it.”

~ ~ ~

When Vincent reached his chamber later that night, he really wished that Devin was around to talk to. Talking to Father just wasn’t the same.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Father observed as they walked back to the study together after breakfast.

“Catherine confided something disturbing last night.”

Father could hear the stress in Vincent’s voice.

“It must be alarming if it is bothering you this much.”

Vincent contemplated confiding in Father, but then decided he was probably the closest he’d come to a mental health professional.

“She told me she was raped.”

“Raped, but when? Not when she was assaulted that time; we made sure.”

“No, not then. It was years ago, while she was still in college. What surprises me is that she blames herself. She said that she had been willing up to a point, but then changed her mind. When she told the man to stop, he didn’t. Despite being a lawyer, and prosecuting all the sexual assault cases she has lately; she didn’t think if it as rape.”

“A lot of women feel that way.” They reached the study and when they were both seated Father continued: “Girls and young women are raised to believe that they are the ones who must control that aspect of a relationship and set the limits. Not all young men are taught that they should respect those limits and that they need exert some self-control.

“It’s ironic because the woman is physically weaker and the man can often just take what he wants, but she is often the one blamed if she is forced. You’d think that they’d be more sympathetic, but sometimes other women are the harshest critics.”

“I just don’t understand, Father.” Vincent shook his head. “We teach all the boys Below that they need to have respect for women, for everyone for that matter. Don’t they teach that Above?”

“I honestly don’t understand it either, Vincent. I know children are taught respect, but as Cullen was telling me not so long ago when his father had the talk with him, it consisted of handing him a box of condoms and telling him ‘Don’t get her pregnant.’ Cullen thought that was the norm until he met the woman who later became his wife.”

Vincent just shook his head.

“Has Catherine ever sought counseling?” Father asked.

“She said that she saw a psychiatrist last year, but it was about something else, and she didn’t talk about it.”

“She really should talk to someone.”

“I said the same thing, but she seems reluctant.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine didn’t speak of it again, and Vincent didn’t ask her to. Their relationship continued as it had been. They saw each other several times a week when they could. He’d come up to her balcony, and she’d try to make it Below for a few hours on Saturday or Sunday.

~ ~ ~

Vincent was pleasantly surprised to find Devin lounging in his chamber one afternoon when he returned from bringing back a load of produce from Long’s grocery.

The men embraced and then took chairs at the table.

“What brings you to New York?” Vincent asked.

“We’re on our way down to South Carolina. I’ve got a job as Maintenance Manager at a resort in Myrtle Beach. I start October 1st, so I thought we’d stop and spend a few days here.”

“How’s Charles?”

“He’s doing well.”

They discussed what was going on in the tunnels and Devin’s plans, but after dinner, the conversation got more serious.

Devin had settled Charles in the guest chamber then he’d gone back to Vincent’s chamber where he pulled out an old rollaway bed and made it up.

“You sure you don’t mind me sleeping here tonight?” He asked as he started pull things out of his duffle bag.

“Of course not. It will be like old times, and it will give us more time to talk.”

“Yeah, we both just won’t fit in that bed anymore,” Devin said with a chuckle.

“I’d give you the bed,” Vincent said contritely, “but I don’t fit on that rollaway. My feet hang off.”

“I’m not that much shorter than you,” Devin complained, with a laugh.

“But you don’t stretch out and sprawl the way I do when I sleep,” Vincent reminded him.

Both men changed clothes then took turns in the bathing chamber.

Vincent was sitting at the table with his journal open in front of him when Devin came back.

“Was it always so cold here?” Devin asked as he took the seat across the table from Vincent.

“When you lived here you had control of the brazier,” Vincent reminded him as he got up to put another piece of wood on the fire. “I don’t keep it as warm as you used to.”

Vincent returned to his chair. He capped his pen and closed the journal.

“Too bad we can’t go out and get drunk, then you might talk to me,” suggested Devin after a while.

“What do you mean? We’ve been talking all afternoon.”

“Yeah, but not about anything of importance. What’s bugging you, Bro?”

“Nothing is bugging me, as you so eloquently put it,” Vincent denied.

“Don’t try to lie to me. I know you, and I know when you’re lying, remember. Even after all these years.”

“Except when you accused me of telling Father about the knife. I told you I didn’t, and you didn’t believe me.”

“That was a case of having made up my mind before I asked you… but don’t try to change the subject. Honestly, Vincent. What’s bothering you? We were always able to talk when we were kids. Maybe I can help now.”

“Well, you likely do have more experience in this area than I do…” Vincent began.

“Women? It’s got to be women!” declared Devin with a grin. “And in your case, it’s more like woman and likely Chandler.”

“Yes, it’s about Catherine,” Vincent admitted.

“Ah… I’m not asking for details here, but have you two… um… done the deed?” When Vincent looked confused, he continued. “You know, sealed the deal? Gotten lucky? Done the horizontal tango?” When Vincent continued to look confused, he came right out with it. “Have you made love to her yet?”

“Is that what all those euphemisms mean?”

“Yes, and I can’t believe you haven’t heard them… but back to the point. Have you?”

“No, and that is partially what I want to talk to you about.”

“There are plenty of books out there, Bro,” Devin began.

“No. I don’t need a ‘how to’. I think I understand the mechanics, it’s just that Catherine is dealing with an issue. I’ve been trying to get her to see someone about it, but she insists it won’t do any good.”

“An issue? Something physical that she should see a doctor about? I thought she was one of Dr. Peter’s patients.”

“Not that, although, if she talked to Peter it might help, but I was speaking more of a counselor: a psychiatrist or a psychologist.”

“What is it?”

Vincent hesitated, but he knew he could trust Devin. “She was raped about ten years ago, and she’s never really dealt with it. She had never spoken to anyone about it until she told me.”

Devin’s head snapped up, he was clearly shocked. “Wow! I would never have dreamed… what happened to make her tell you now? Were you? Well, you know.”

“No. She told me because she felt that she would be putting me more at ease in our relationship if she said that having a physical relationship with me wasn’t necessarily her end goal. She knew that I was reticent to take things in that direction and she wanted me to know that there was no pressure.”

“So, she’s not had that kind of relationship since?”

“She has, but the men weren’t very understanding. She didn’t say so, but I don’t think she told them about what happened to her. Her lovers have always been critical of her, telling her that she needed to learn more. One even called her frigid.”

“Who in the world—” Devin started belligerently.

“That’s not important,” Vincent rushed to say. “What is important is how I handle this. When we are together, I sometimes become… aroused. When it happens, I usually leave. That is what started the conversation. She thought that I left because I was embarrassed, but my main reason for leaving was that I could sense that she was uneasy with it.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“I did, and that was when she told me everything. I tried to get her to talk to someone else about it.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine didn’t talk to a professional, but Vincent’s advice to talk to someone made a lot of sense. She chose to talk to her friend Jenny.

Jenny was stunned by the revelation.

“Wow! And you’ve never talked to anyone about it? Not even your Dad?”

“Especially not Daddy! I don’t know what he would have done, but it wouldn’t have been pretty. He knew the guy’s family.”

“I think I know what he would have done,” Jenny said after a moment. “Probably the same thing my dad did.”

Catherine was stunned. “You? Were you…?”

“No, I was lucky, Dad walked in when the guy was trying to grab me. He was a friend of the family, and I was twelve. Dad beat the crap out of him, literally threw him out the front door into the street. Dad told him that if he ever saw him again, he’d kill him.”

“Wow! I can’t picture your father ever getting that violent.”

“Mom immediately had me in counseling, but to tell the truth, I didn’t know what the guy was trying to do. I think I was more disturbed by seeing my Dad beat someone up.”

“Did the counseling help?” Catherine asked.

“Yeah, I think so. I still have an aversion to violence,” she laughed, “but sex isn’t a problem. You really should try talking to someone.”

“I don’t know, Jenn. I spoke to a psychiatrist last year when I was so upset by the twentieth anniversary of my mother’s death, and all he did was ask a lot of questions that I couldn’t answer. They made me think, but didn’t really help much.”

“How about a support group? Have you thought about something like that?”

“I haven’t thought about anything until lately. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Let me look into it,” Jenny told her. “I know some people.”

Chapter 2

A few days later Jenny called and gave her the number of a woman who was the facilitator of a support group for victims of sexual assault.

“You will call her, won’t you?” Jenny asked.

“I don’t know about this program, Jenn.” Catherine was hesitant. “I refer a lot of women to these programs in my work. I’ve never heard of this Claire O’Connor.”

“I figured you’d want someone that you didn’t know. A group where you weren’t likely to run into someone you’d referred.”

“I guess that does make sense. How did you find out about her?”

“She’s written a book. She’s one of my authors. It’s a good book. I’ll send you a copy of it.”

The book arrived by messenger later that day. A note inside had Claire O’Connor’s number on it.

Catherine read the book, but it still took her two more days to get up the courage to pick up the phone and call Claire. When she hung up, she had a good feeling about it. The woman had been pleasant and upbeat and told her that they meet two evenings a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, in the basement of a church not far from where Catherine lived. Catherine was at the next meeting.

The group was all women, but Claire explained that men were welcome. Sexual assault wasn’t just a women’s issue. Everyone used only their first names, and Catherine introduced herself as Cathy. She was dressed casually and didn’t wear any makeup in hopes that although some of her recent cases had been high profile, no one would recognize her. It seemed to work.

Since she was new, she was asked to briefly tell her story, then each of the other women told theirs. She was surprised to find out that Claire had also been a victim.

By her third meeting, Catherine knew that not all the members made every meeting, so she had retold her story twice after the first time. And each time, it seemed to get a little easier.

~ ~ ~

Catherine would have been disappointed if she’d known that one of the others in the group did recognize her. Sherry Favorito recognized her as soon as she saw her.

Sherry was the victim in that one case that Catherine didn’t win; the one she’d been in way over her head on, the one victim who Catherine had tried to help, but whose rapist had walked free.

Catherine didn’t recognize Sherry because Sherry had changed in the year since Catherine had last seen her in court. Catherine had known her as Sharon Favorito, and since no last names were used in the group, she didn’t have that to jog her memory. Sherry was a good fifty pounds heavier, had let her hair go back to its natural dark brown and was wearing glasses. She’d been a 140-pound blond when Catherine first met her.

Catherine didn’t even recognize her story, because she had originally heard it from a different perspective, that of the attorney prosecuting the case, not as another member of the support group.

“Hi Cathy, I’m Sherry. I was raped by a coworker. I was the secretary-receptionist for an accounting firm. I worked late one night a week because sometimes the accountants would see clients on that night. While the clients were in the office, I usually kept busy catching up on work.

“One evening I was in the file room when one of the guys who had been working came in to tell me that his client had left and he was going to leave. He was the last one. I said I had one more stack of things to be filed and I’d be ready to leave. He hung around and struck up a conversation. I thought he was being nice and didn’t want me to walk to the subway station by myself, but before I knew what was going on, he grabbed me, had me pinned against the file cabinets, and was trying to kiss me. When I tried to push him off, he got rough. Eventually, he pushed me over the work table, pushed my skirt up, ripped my pantyhose and raped me.”

She didn’t add that she hadn’t fought because she had just found out a couple of days before that she was pregnant and she didn’t want him to hurt her for fear it would hurt her baby. She also didn’t say that her husband didn’t believe her when she told him that the baby she was carrying was his and not the rapist’s, even though she had shown him the medical report from the doctor’s office dated two days before she was raped. She eventually realized that her husband had probably been looking for a reason to leave her and had just used the baby and her refusal to get an abortion as an excuse. He was gone and the baby was born months before she ever met Catherine Chandler and the case had gone to trial.

~ ~ ~

Catherine had been going to the support group meetings at least once a week, for a month. She concluded that it might be doing her some good. She was beginning to look at all of it in a completely different light and had finally admitted to herself that she had been raped. She knew that it was only the first step and part of a much longer process.

One of the things the group worked very hard on was the blame issue. She was surprised to learn that she wasn’t the only woman there who had taken on at least some of the blame for what happened.

~ ~ ~

Sherry Favorito left the church where she met with the support group and headed over to the coffee shop where she was in the habit of stopping afterward. She’d been talking to a waitress there, trying to convince her to join the group. She noticed that the waitress wasn’t working that night, but she slipped into a small booth in the back anyway. When she had given her order for coffee and pie, she was surprised by a middle-aged woman in a black trench coat who came up and spoke to her.

“Are you Sherry Favorito?” she asked.

“I am… Do I know you?” Sherry asked.

“No. No, you don’t,” she shifted a half full coffee cup from one hand to the other, fished a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Sherry. Sherry glanced at it: Joan Hershel-Journalist. “I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m doing a series on victims of sexual assault. I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me?”

“How did you know?”

“It was in the papers. I’ve been trying to catch up with you for almost a week. You’re a busy lady.”

“Who told you I was here?”

“I was at your apartment. The babysitter said that you were at a meeting at the church, but that you usually stopped here for coffee afterward. May I sit?”

Sherry waved her into the seat opposite. “Sure, but why would you want to talk to me? The guy who raped me got off, then his lawyer threatened me, saying that if I continued to talk about it, or accuse his client, they’d sue me. Not that they could get anything ‘cause I don’t have anything, but I just don’t need that kind of trouble right now.”

“All the women I’m interviewing for the series will remain anonymous. I just wanted to talk to you about what it feels like to see your rapist go free. I’ve got plenty of interviews from other perspectives but none from yours.”

The waitress brought Sherry’s coffee and pie, and filled the coffee cup Joan held out to her.

When the waitress left, Sherry looked up at the woman across from her.

“It feels like shit, that’s what it feels like,” she told Joan. “I talked to a guy from the DA’s office; he said he was a Deputy DA. He explained that they would be prosecuting the case. He was so nice. He thanked me for coming forward. He said that a lot of women don’t, especially when they are in the position I was in where their rapist works for the same company but holds a position of authority. The accounting firm I worked for fired me within 24 hours of me pressing charges and they were actively protecting the man who raped me. I think they even paid for his lawyer.

“I thought the Deputy DA would be the one who was handling it all, and I had faith that he’d get the job done right. But when the time came for the trial, they handed it over to someone else, a woman and she didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. She told me that it was pretty cut and dried. They had all the proof they needed.

“But once we were in court, the defense turned it all upside down on her. Instead of trying to prove that their client didn’t rape me, they turned it around. He admitted to having sex with me, but they said that I had been the aggressor and had seduced him and that it hadn’t been the first time; we were having an ongoing affair. They made me look like some kind of a slut; like I did that kind of thing all the time. The other men who worked for the firm testified that I dressed provocatively at work and that I’d attempted to seduce most of them too. It became my word against theirs and naturally since the jury was mostly men, they believed the other men.

“The lawyer from the DA’s office was completely bewildered. You could see it on her face. If it hadn’t been for her, I’m pretty sure that the man who raped me would be rotting in jail right now.”

Joan consulted her notes. “That lawyer was Catherine Chandler?” she asked.

When Sherry nodded, Joan continued.

“She’s been prosecuting a lot of sexual assault cases for the DA’s office lately; she’s got a good record. She’s won them all except your case.”

“She must have learned something since then. I just wish that she hadn’t learned on me. And the funny thing is… she’s one of us.”

“One of you? What do you mean?” Joan’s story radar was pinging like crazy.

“She’s in the support group I go to at the church.”

“She started a support group?” Joan was confused.

“No, she was raped. She’s there for the same reason the rest of us are; to talk about it and work through it.”

“Do you know anything about it?” asked Joan.

Sherry told Joan what Catherine had told the group and she added what she had heard her confiding to Claire.

“She said her dad knew the guy’s family and had introduced her to them when they were vacationing at Cape Cod one year. Josh something or other. His folks had a cottage down the beach from her friend Eve from college.”

“Do you have any idea when this happened?”

“’Bout ten years ago, I think she said.”

Chapter 3

Catherine grabbed a newspaper from the stand in the lobby of the building she worked in. She dropped some change in the cup the vendor left out. He looked up at the sound and smiled at her as he made change for another customer.

Catherine was trying to get to her office early in hopes of getting some work done before Joe started dumping more files on her desk. She’d been given a small, private office when she was promoted to Deputy DA and had taken over prosecuting sexual assaults. She’d made it as comfortable as possible; she interviewed a lot of victims and witnesses in her office. She even had her own coffee pot and had given up drinking the sludge that passed for coffee in the main office.

She dropped her briefcase and the paper on her desk, took off her coat and hung it up, then went to fill the carafe for the coffee pot.

Rita was standing next to the desk frantically searching through her newspaper when she got back.

“Looking for something?” Catherine asked as she crossed the office and poured the water into the reservoir of the coffeepot.

“Yeah, I caught a headline when I glanced at the paper of the guy sitting next to me on the subway this morning. I thought I saw something…” She kept flipping pages then stopped. “Here it is.”

“What is it?” Catherine asked. It wasn’t where her trial stories usually showed up, and she hadn’t been to any social events lately.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Rita. She held the section out to Catherine. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Catherine took the paper and read the headline:

DA’S SEXUAL ASSAULT PROSECUTOR ALSO VICTIM

She gasped then turned white as a sheet as she skimmed the story.

“Where in the world did this… Joan Hershel get this?”

“Are you OK?” Rita asked with concern when she saw Catherine’s reaction.

Catherine sat down in her desk chair, closed her eyes and nodded.

“Is it true?” Catherine could hear sympathy… she hoped it wasn’t pity… in Rita’s voice.

Catherine nodded again, opened her eyes and started skimming the story again. “But I’ve only told two friends and a support group about this, and I’m sure none of them told anyone. For that matter, there’s stuff here that I didn’t tell anyone.”

Catherine read the story again. “This woman found the man’s full name, where he lives now, works; everything... things that even I didn’t know.”

Just as she said that Joe stormed into the office; the door slammed against the coat tree behind it, and the glass in the door shook.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, shaking the paper at her. “Did you give an interview?”

“Of course not! Your guess is as good as mine, Joe,” Catherine spat back. “Rita just pointed it out to me.”

“You didn’t talk to his Hershel woman?”

“No. This is private information I chose not to share with anyone for over ten years. Why would I suddenly decide to tell the whole city of New York?”

“Um… Guys… I think I’ve done all I can do here,” Rita said as she backed out of the office. “I’ll get back to you later, Cathy.”

Catherine tore her attention away from Joe long enough to speak to Rita.

“Thanks for showing this to me Rita. I’ll talk to you later.

Rita left the room and closed the door behind her. Joe pulled a chair over in front of Catherine’s desk and sat.

“Is this all true?” he asked.

“Every word of it, but I don’t know where she got all this information.” Catherine repeated what she had said earlier. “I’ve never heard of her before today.”

“I hate to sound like I’m more concerned with what’s in the paper than I am with your feelings, but we’re talking a possible defamation suit here. This guy could sue you.”

“I know, Joe. At least it would be something personal and wouldn’t affect the DA’s office.”

“Actually, it could affect us. You might lose your credibility because of this. The juries could start interpreting what you say as you pushing a personal vendetta. You might suddenly be a whole lot less effective.”

Catherine pushed her hair back off her face and sighed. “So, take me out of the courtroom until this blows over,” she suggested.

Joe blew out a breath and leaned back in the chair. All the possibilities were suddenly falling in on him. “You know that’s not something I want to consider, but it’s one possibility. Cathy… do you have any idea where she got this?”

Catherine sat back and rubbed her temples. She started to give a negative reply, but a thought came to her. “I’ve been going to a sexual assault support group for about a month. I’ve told them more than I did anyone else before, but I didn’t even tell them all of this. Everyone in the group agrees not to divulge any of what we learn in the sessions.”

“Did anyone sign a nondisclosure agreement?”

She shook her head. “It’s all verbal. Kind of like, ‘I won’t tell yours if you won’t tell mine.’ We don’t use last names, and I didn’t think anyone recognized me.”

Joe was quiet for several minutes, and Catherine was starting to get uncomfortable waiting for him to speak.

“All this happened ten years ago?” he finally asked.

She nodded.

“And you’ve never dealt with it until now?” He sounded incredulous.

“I never talked to anyone about it, not at the time, and not since, until just recently. I talked to my friend, Jenny and she tried to convince me to see a therapist. We compromised with the support group, and I really think it was doing some good, but I doubt I’ll be going back there now.”

The phone on her desk rang, and she picked up the receiver.

Catherine Chandler.”

Joe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as he listened to the one-sided conversation.

“I realize that, Claire.”

…

“No, I don’t blame you, and I’m glad that whoever it was who talked to the reporter didn’t name the group or you. I’d hate to see everyone else suffer.”

…

“I’ll be fine.”

…

“No, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

…

“Yes, that’s part of it. I don’t want to look around that circle and wonder who it was, but I also don’t want anyone finding out where the group meets. Like I said, I don’t want anyone else to suffer.”

…

“Thanks, Claire, and I’ll remember. I’ll talk to you.”

She hung up.

“I take it was someone from the support group?”

“The woman who started it and leads it. She’s a social worker, and also a victim. Speaking of which… What are we going to do about me?”

“I’ll talk to Moreno, but I agree with you that it might be best if we take you out of the courtroom for a while. I still want you working on those cases, but we will just keep you in the background for now.”

~ ~ ~

At that same moment only a few blocks away in law offices of Fox and Hale, Mr. Desmond Hale was reading the newspaper article that had the DA’s office in such an uproar.

He tossed the paper onto his desk with a grin.

Just lost a big case to that Chandler broad, he mused. Maybe it’s her turn to get some of her own back.

His client had been convicted of Aggravated Sexual Assault, and the judge had sentenced him to 10 years.

In Hale’s opinion that was a ridiculous sentence considering the woman was a paid escort and made her living screwing men. If anything, it hadn’t been more than petty theft, but that Chandler woman had made his client, a respected business owner, look like the lowliest scum of the earth.

There had to be something he could use.

He picked up the paper and read the article again.

~ ~ ~

Catherine was sitting in John Moreno’s office with Joe. They’d been called in right after lunch.

“No, I agree with both of you,” Catherine said. “I need to stay out of the spotlight until all this blows over. If I show up in court, it’s just going to distract everyone from the case, and that isn’t fair to the victims.”

“You know how these things are, Cathy,” John said. “It will be all over the papers until something else interesting happens, and then it will be like it never happened. It shouldn’t be long; a couple of weeks tops.”

“In the meantime, you can still do the prep, I’ll just do the courtroom work,” Joe added.

“Sounds like a plan, Joe,” she said with a smile as they all stood.

“Cathy,” John called her back before she could leave. “The guy that the reporter named in the article, was that the guy?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. I don’t know how she managed to track down all that information, I didn’t even know most of it, but I’m pretty sure she got it right.”

~ ~ ~

Later that night Catherine explained it all to Vincent.

“But why would it matter if you are a victim of the same crime?” he asked, truly puzzled.

“It shouldn’t, not really. I mean the victims would probably appreciate the fact that I went through a similar experience, but the fact that the reporter likely got the story from someone in the group, then went back and researched my history and was able to come up with names and dates is the biggest problem right now. Josh Williams is a fairly ordinary name, and I could hope that no one makes the right connections, but she had information about the town he lives in and his work. I don’t want to be sued.”

“But you didn’t give the reporter the information; she even said that in the article.”

“That might be the only thing in my favor if the real Josh Williams hears about this.”

Chapter 4

Catherine had a witness interview to do first thing the next morning and didn’t make it to the office until a little after ten.

“Radcliffe, can I talk to you?” Joe called to her as she passed his office on her way to hers.

She was taking off her coat when she entered his office.

“What’s up, Joe?” she asked as she dropped her briefcase on the old leather couch and sat down.

“I fielded a call for you today,” he said.

“Reporter?” she asked.

“No, some guy by the name of Josh Williams. He made it very clear that he’s not the guy named in the article, but that he does own property on Cape Cod that he inherited from his parents, and he owns his own business which he also inherited from his family. He’s threatening a lawsuit. I told him that he had to prove that the article was referring to him specifically.”

“Which is only true to a point.”

“Exactly. What do you want to do?”

She thought for a few minutes.

“What would you do, Joe?” she finally asked.

“Cathy, this whole thing stinks to high heaven. In my opinion, you’ve been violated twice. First ten years ago and then again in a support group where you were supposed to be able to unload all this and be confident that it wouldn’t go any farther.” He picked up a rubber band from his desk, a nervous habit he’d almost broken. “If I was your attorney, advising you? The statute of limitations on what happened to you has come and gone. But the clock on the one where you can get sued just started ticking. The longer this drags out, the longer your name is in the papers…” He looked at her considerately. “Do you want to pursue this? Because we can. You can tell the truth and shred the guy’s reputation and hope a civil jury doesn’t find you liable. There’s a chance, considering you never consented to the interview. But…”

“But the longer this goes on, and the more statements I make, or the press makes up, the more I could leave myself wide open to a civil suit,” Cathy replied, catching on to his line of thought.

“I hate to say this. In reality, I’d never advise a client to do this, but as your friend…?”

“You think I should lie…that I should come up with a plausible story to cover myself against a suit, and just… let it go.”

“If I were your attorney… I think I’d be advising you to think carefully about what you want the next newspaper story to say, for your sake, not anybody else’s. Is that good enough?”

“Do you think John would go along with an interview with another reporter? I can say that the whole story is true, but that the reporter got the name wrong. That I knew a Josh Williams that summer but he wasn’t the one who… raped me.”

“How about a news conference? No questions, but you make a statement to that effect.”

She nodded. “If John will go along.”

She picked up her things and headed to her office while Joe went to talk to John.

~ ~ ~

John agreed, and the news conference was set up for the following morning. Catherine appeared in her best courtroom attire and made her statement:

“I want to make a statement about the recent article in The Times…” She paused and looked around the conference room which was crammed with reporters. “Joan Hershel is a good journalist, some of you might even know her, and she wrote a good article, but she just got some of the facts wrong. I just want to set the record straight.

“Yes, I spent part of that summer with friends at Cape Cod and yes, I dated. I dated several young men that summer. One of them was named Josh Williams. Yes, I was raped that summer, but not by Josh Williams.” She hoped no one could tell she was lying.

There was a wave of questions that went through the room, most of them asking her to tell them who did rape her.

She smiled and shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you that. There is a statute of limitations on rape. I didn’t press charges back then, and I can’t press charges now. If I name names, then I’m leaving myself wide open to a lawsuit.”

“Is that why you just cleared this Josh Williams?” one reporter called from the back.

“Yes and no. Yes, I just cleared Josh Williams, the one I knew and all the other men with that name because I don’t want to be sued, but I also did it because the man who raped me was not any of those Josh Williams’. I don’t want any innocent man to be labeled a rapist because a reporter got some of her facts wrong in a newspaper article.”

There was another wave of questions and Catherine held up her hand.

“Thank you for coming today,” she said with a gracious smile. “That’s all I have to say.” She turned and went out the door behind her and fled to her office.

Joe joined her a few minutes later.

“I think that went pretty well,” he announced as he came in and closed the door behind him.

“Yeah, and I’m going to hell for lying,” she said with a sad smile.

“Well, at least we know that this guy has kept his nose clean over the years. I checked; he hasn’t got a record.”

“Or there were other women who like me, blamed themselves and didn’t press charges.”

“Well, that’s a possibility too, but let’s hope not.”

“I just hope that the story is believed and that this thing blows over quickly.”

There was a knock on the door, and before Catherine could call out for him to come in, John opened it and walked in. John never visited his Deputies in their offices; he always called them to his.

“What’s up, Boss?” asked Joe.

“We may have gotten that part of this incident out of the way, but now we have real trouble.”

“What?” Joe and Catherine asked in unison.

“That last case you prosecuted, Laskowski?”

“Yeah, we won. He’s only out pending appeal, but the sentence was ten years. If he doesn’t win his appeal, he won’t even get a parole hearing until 1995,” Joe answered.

“Well, his lawyer, Desmond Hale, has just let me know that he’s filing a complaint. He alleges that Cathy hates men so much that she’s been coaching witnesses and victims to lie and has been faking evidence against the men that she’s prosecuted since she became a Deputy, maybe all the way back to the Favorito case.”

“What’s his proof?” Joe demanded as Catherine flopped back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

“He says he has a lot of proof but isn’t prepared to share yet. He claims that Cathy buried proof that his client was over a hundred miles away when the victim was raped.”

“He’s talking about the receipts?” Catherine asked.

“Receipts?” Moreno repeated.

“He presented them at the arraignment, Joe wasn’t there. Hale was trying to use them to prove that his client was out of town at the time the crime was committed. He was trying to get the charges dropped. The judge told him that it wasn’t something that he was willing to consider in the arraignment hearing; he’d have to present it as evidence in the trial. I figured he would, so I checked it out. His wife had a girls’ weekend with her sisters at a resort upstate. She used his credit card. We got copies of the receipts from the bank, and they all had her signature on them. I thought that Hale had found out that I’d checked it out, and decided not to use it. Everything I found is in the file.”

“Why do you think it’s that?” asked Joe.

“Hale said something to me when we broke after closing arguments. He said that he was surprised I didn’t bring it up. I told him that I was surprised he hadn’t since it was his evidence. He just shrugged and walked away. It was just a little strange, but then Hale is a little strange.”

“Strange is an understatement,” declared Joe, “but he always seemed to be such a stickler for doing things by the book.”

“You know him?” asked John.

“Not well. We shared some pre-law classes when I was going to college. Then later we had some classes together in law school. I hear he damn near aced the bar when he took it.”

Catherine shook her head and looked at Joe. “So, what are you saying?”

“Only that I don’t think Hale would pursue this…” Joe paused, looking from Catherine to John then back at Catherine. “…if he didn’t think he had something.” Joe’s tone of voice had changed, and his whole demeanor was different; harder.

“Joe!” Catherine was shocked, it sounded like Joe was throwing her under the bus.

“You have been very focused since you took over the sexual assault cases. You’ve built a reputation, and you have the trial record to back it up.”

“Isn’t that what I’m paid to do?” she retorted angrily. She stood and walked around the front of the desk and got right in Joe’s face. “You recommended me for this job because you knew I would be focused. Now that’s a bad thing?” she looked over at John. “What about you? Are you going to back out on me too?”

John was surprised at the attack. He stood but maintained his composure.

“I’m just sayin’, Cathy…” Joe began.

“Just sayin’ what, exactly?” It was clear she was in no mood to listen.

Joe glanced at his watch. “I’m late for an appointment.” He turned and stalked out.

She looked at John then collapsed into the chair Joe had just left.

“Now what?” she asked in a quieter voice.

“Same plan we talked about before. You lay low until something happens. If Hale doesn’t follow through with his threats, we put you back in the courtroom in a month or two, but if he does, we deal with that problem when we have to.”

“Figures… You’d have to suspend me until I’m cleared, right?”

John nodded. “Sorry, Cathy, that’s the policy.” His words and voice sounded sympathetic, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

Typical politician! Catherine thought to herself. “What if I just quit?” she asked out loud.

John wasn’t sure what she had in mind, but he found it hard to believe that Catherine Chandler would just give up.

“If you are saying that you want to appear to be playing into Hale’s game, it could work, but you’d still have the allegations hanging over your head and wouldn’t be able to practice law effectively until it’s cleared up. The bar could suspend your license and demand that you clear all allegations.”

“Talk about a lose-lose situation,” she grumbled.

“I don’t know a lot about this Hale, but I’ve heard that if he says he’s going to do something, he does it.”

Catherine started sorting the files on her desk and making piles. “Then I will clear my desk and be ready to get out of here as soon as you know something. I need a vacation, anyway.”

“You’re not giving up without a fight, are you? John asked, surprised.

“I’m tired of fighting, John… worn out! I’ve been shot, beat up, nearly drowned and the target of an evil voodoo priest. Not to mention all the stuff in my private life. I need a break, maybe even a career change. If I feel differently after a vacation, then I’ll let you know, but even if I do, I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”

“You can’t quit, Cathy! You’re one of the best! You care!” Again, the words were correct, but he didn’t look or sound sincere.

“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I care too much.” She stacked all the files and picked them up. “I’ll just distribute these among the rest of my staff and let them know what’s going on. I’ll be ready to get out of here as soon as you hear something.”

~ ~ ~

John received a call from a friend at the New York Bar Association before Catherine could even finish talking to the ADA’s who worked for her. John met her as she was heading back to her office to tidy up. He didn’t have to say anything; the look on his face said it all.

“I’ll be out of here as soon as I’ve gathered a few things and straightened my office,” she told him.

“I’m putting Joe on this,” John promised.

She shrugged, went into her office and closed the door. She was still leaning on it when someone knocked.

It was Rita. She had a box for her to put her things in.

“Sorry Cathy,” she said handing the box to her.

“Not your fault, Rita. As they say, poop happens.”

Rita had to smile at that. “You certainly cleaned that one up.”

“Well, if I start cursing now, I’m not likely to stop anytime soon.”

She put the box on her desk and started filling it with her framed diplomas, coffee cup, photos and a few other personal items. She picked up her personal coffee pot, the filters and a package of coffee and handed it to Rita.

“Do me a favor. Quit drinking that sludge in the office pot and start making your own. It’s so much better, and it won’t give you an ulcer quite as fast.”

Fifteen minutes later she was on the sidewalk in front of the building, hailing a cab.

~ ~ ~

The dam didn’t break until she got home and locked the door behind her. Then she collapsed in tears on the sofa.

She let the water works flow for several minutes before she got it under control. She stoically stored the box in the back of her closet. She pulled off the dark blue business suit and hung it up, tossed her blouse and pantyhose into the hamper, then put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

This place could really use a good cleaning! she told herself as she headed to the kitchen where she kept her cleaning supplies.

~ ~ ~

Vincent had been teaching history to a group of rowdy ten to twelve-year-olds when he started sensing some unusual emotions in Catherine.

At first, she felt confident, if a little guilty. He understood that. She was going to talk to the press today, and as she told him, she was going to lie to them. She just wanted to get this whole episode of her life behind her. He agreed with her choice, even though outright lying was foreign to both of them. She needed to be able to get on with her life.

What had him puzzled was what had happened a short time later. She’d been surprised almost to the point of incredulity, and very quickly after that she’d been angry but resigned, disappointed and very hurt.

Her feelings were such a jumble that he dismissed his class early. He could tell that she left her office and a short time later he knew she was home. At one point, he thought she was crying, but it hadn’t lasted long. Her mood shifted, and he knew she was busy and concentrating on what she was doing. It felt as if she was trying to distract herself from something.

He was preoccupied with what Catherine was feeling all afternoon, and at dinner, he told Father that he was going to visit her as soon as it was dark enough.

“Is something wrong?” Father asked. He had noticed Vincent’s preoccupation.

“She’s… something went wrong today. I don’t know what, but things didn’t go as planned.”

“Today was the press conference?” Jacob asked. “It didn’t go well?”

“I thought it had. She felt confident at first, but… Perhaps it’s the outcome of that which troubles her.”

“Was there anything else you were supposed to do tonight,” asked Father, reaching for the duty roster.”

“I’m supposed to read to the children. I can do that before I leave.”

“I’ll take care of it. You go ahead. Use the threshold in her building; you can go earlier that way,” suggested Father.

“Thank you, Father.”

“And Vincent… please send Catherine our love.”

He left the tunnels and used the threshold under her building as Father had suggested. He went up on the top of the elevator and dropped down from the roof to her balcony.

~ ~ ~

Catherine was satisfied with the work she’d done. She’d accomplished a lot. Everything was dusted and polished, mirrors and windows cleaned, floors swept and mopped, bathroom cleaned, linens changed, three loads of laundry done and the refrigerator and oven cleaned.

She had showered, there was soft music playing on the stereo, and she was relaxing on the couch with a book and a glass of wine when Vincent tapped on the door from the balcony. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was still early.

She was smiling when she opened the door, and she could see him visibly relax.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she stepped into his arms for a hug.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He leaned back and looked down at her. “Your feelings have been very chaotic since this morning.”

“It’s been one of those days.” They both turned and moved to lean on the wall overlooking the park.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I need to tell you.” She went on to explain everything that had happened that day.

“And Joe didn’t believe you?” asked Vincent hitting on the main issue on his first try.

“I thought he was my friend. He recommended me for that job, and now he’s acting like he thinks I did what Hale said I was doing. He worked on a lot of those cases with me. He knows what I did on every one of them. He has at least reviewed the files if he wasn’t in court with me.”

Catherine was more hurt now than she had been and Vincent felt that her earlier anger might have been the healthier emotion.

“I told them I might take a vacation, and maybe I will,” she said without a lot of enthusiasm. Vincent could tell she was just thinking out loud. “A week or two in the Caribbean, or maybe a cruise. At the very least I could go up to the lake.”

Vincent didn’t think it was a very good idea for Catherine to go off by herself especially to Connecticut. Fall weather was always unpredictable, there could be rain, sleet, even the possibility of snow.

“You could ask your friend Jennifer to go with you. It could be… enjoyable,” he suggested.

“No, I think it would be difficult for Jenny to get time off on such short notice.”

“Why don’t you come Below?” he suddenly offered.

“Below?” She turned to face him, and he felt her feelings suddenly surge. “You’re sure? That would be wonderful!”

He was as surprised at her sudden acceptance of his invitation as he had been at his extending of it.

“Of course, I’m sure.” He put his arms around her and hugged her.

“Do you think it will be OK with Father?”

“If you play chess with him and let him win,” he suggested.

She chuckled and felt a little lighter already. “There’s no letting him win. I’m not good enough to beat him.”

“Not yet. Give yourself time… You’ll come Below?” he asked, hopefully.

“Yes, I think I will. I think it is just what I need, a way to truly get completely away from everything here for a couple weeks.”

“When will you come?”

“Tomorrow afternoon sometime, I think. The apartment is clean; I even cleaned out the refrigerator. All my laundry is done. All I have to do is call my accountant and make sure he pays my bills and I will have my mail forwarded to Peter.”

“We’ve changed the ways since you were down last; I’ll meet you at the threshold.”

Chapter 5

After she finished all the other things the next day, Catherine was packing when the phone rang.

She considered not answering it, but…

“Hello?”

“Miss Chandler, it’s Roger in the lobby. There is a Rita Escobar here to see you.”

“Please send her up.”

She was surprised that Rita would visit, especially during business hours.

“Hi,” she said as she opened the door. “I was just going to call you.”

Rita noticed the backpack on the sofa.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

“I have a cottage on a lake up in Connecticut. I’m going up there for a couple weeks.” She thought that was as good an explanation as any. There wasn’t a phone at the cottage.

“Then I’m glad I caught you before you left. Joe asked me to come and talk to you.”

“What, is he afraid to face me himself?” Catherine asked sourly.

“Joe’s in court today, and you know it,” Rita responded. “You said something about going out of town for a while, and he wanted to catch you before you left. John has put him on the investigation. It’s not official, but we look after our own. I’m helping him all I can.”

“I bet Joe’s thrilled at the prospect!” Catherine said sarcastically.

“He doesn’t really believe you did anything wrong, Cathy,” Rita protested.

“You could have fooled me.”

“Will there be a way to get in touch with you if we need to talk to you?”

Catherine realized she was taking her anger out on the wrong person.

“I’m sorry, Rita.” She turned and went to the sofa. “Sit down, please.”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get back. I want to keep you informed on how it goes, we want to. Will there be a way to reach you while you’re out of town?”

“There’s no phone at the cottage,” Catherine told her, “but you can call Peter Alcott. He knows how to contact me.” She went to her desk and wrote Peter’s number down and gave it to Rita. “Anything that’s not urgent, you can just mail it to me. I’m having my mail forwarded to Peter. He’ll see to it that I get it.”

“Thanks.” Rita tucked the piece of paper in her purse. “Look, we are all on your side, really.”

“You maybe,” Catherine said sadly, “but I’m not so sure about Joe or John. Right now, I’m a liability to the DA’s office. John could look bad for hiring me and promoting me to Deputy. It could come back to bite him at election time. What he doesn’t seem to see is that I’ve put everything I have into that job for the last two years. John and Joe know me, or they should. I just expected that they might have a little more to say in my defense, that’s all.”

Rita hugged Catherine. “Hang on. We’ve got this. Joe has heard things about Desmond Hale he’s not willing to share just yet, but he’s asking questions… discreetly. I get that you are tired and need time to recharge. Call me when you get back to town and are ready to get to work with us on this.”

“OK. Thanks, Rita. I just hate that this is all so political. At least I can afford the suspension with no pay.”

~ ~ ~

Vincent had just finished making the guest chamber ready for Catherine when he realized she was on her way. He’d been so engrossed in what he was doing that he hadn’t noticed the time.

Catherine was leaning against a wall, waiting patiently when he reached her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he said as he picked up her duffle. “Is this all you have?”

She indicated the backpack she had slung over her shoulder. “I don’t really need much,” she said with a smile. “You are far from formal down here. Besides, I won’t be here long, and if I find I need something, it will be easy enough to go up and get it.”

Vincent got her settled in the guest chamber then they joined Father and Mary in the dining chamber for dinner.

She was surprised at Father’s warm welcome. She hadn’t spent very much time Below since Vincent had recovered from the illness of the previous spring.

“Vincent said that you need a rest,” Father said.

“Relax and let us take care of you,” Mary added.

“I don’t want to be a freeloader,” Catherine protested with a smile as she and Vincent set down their dinner trays and took seats across the table from the older couple.

“Considering all you do for us, I don’t think anyone would accuse you of that,” Father said with a laugh. “If you like, maybe you can help Vincent with some of his tasks.”

She looked at Vincent, a question in her eyes.

“I don’t have anything scheduled until Monday. Then it’s just my regular classes, but you are welcome there anytime.”

~ ~ ~

The next few days were very quiet for Catherine. She slept in every morning and Vincent spent almost every waking minute with her starting with the breakfast that he brought to her.

But despite being together so much, Vincent could sense that Catherine wasn’t as happy as she was trying to look. She was depressed, and it only seemed to be getting worse, instead of better.

When he questioned her about it, she answered with a shrug.

“It just seems that the more I think about it the worse I feel. I worked hard to get to where I am. I went to law school, and in spite of what my friends said about fashion law, I graduated in the upper 10% of my class, I passed the bar on the first try, I did well at Chandler and Coolidge. I may have gotten the job because I was Charles Chandler’s daughter, but I worked hard until the job started to get too easy. Daddy assigned me to Tom Gunther, and Tom seemed to think that it meant he had free rein to monopolize my time.

“I’ve put everything I have into the job at the DA’s office. I deserved the promotion to Deputy. Then all it takes is one off the wall accusation, and I’m out on my butt.”

“You’ve only been suspended,” Vincent protested. “You said yourself that’s procedure.”

“I know, but John put Joe in charge of the investigation. It’s not like he really believes in me.”

Vincent sensed that Catherine’s perception of Joe’s doubts had a lot to do with what she was feeling.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” he suggested.

“I’m supposed to be out of town right now,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe when I get back into town.”

~ ~ ~

Two weeks later Catherine didn’t seem any better and if anything, she was sleeping even more than she did when she first arrived. Vincent noted that it was unusual for her to not have any enthusiasm for anything. On top of that, she wasn’t eating well.

Peter and Vincent had joined Father in the study, and they were discussing Catherine. Vincent knew she wouldn’t be happy if she knew, but he wanted and respected their professional opinions.

“Sleeping more than is considered normal can be a symptom of depression,” Father told Vincent.

Peter nodded agreement. “And so can lack of appetite. It could also be that she’s been here Below and hasn’t gone up into the sunshine the entire time. You could try giving her the Vitamin D supplements that everyone else takes. It can make a huge difference for some people. I’d hate to put her on medication if this is just a temporary thing. It’s not like she doesn’t have a reason to be depressed.”

“She told me that she feels better since she started taking on a few chores, but she’s still going back to her chamber and taking a nap before dinner every day.”

“Try the supplements,” Peter urged.

~ ~ ~

A few days later at lunch, Kipper delivered a note to Catherine from Peter.

“What is it?” Vincent asked her.

“Rita called and left a message. She wants me to call her as soon as I get home.”

“When do you want to go up?” Vincent asked, assuming she’d want to do it as soon as possible.

Catherine shrugged. “I don’t know… in a day or two?”

“She said as soon as you get home, and you were only supposed to be gone two weeks. It’s been longer than that,” Vincent pointed out.

“It has? I haven’t been keeping track.”

“Almost three.”

“All right, then I guess I should go up and call her today. I need to pick up a few things at my place anyway.”

After lunch, Vincent escorted her to the threshold below her building and told her he’d wait.

Catherine took the elevator up to her floor hoping she wouldn’t meet anyone. Thanks to it being the middle of the day, the building was quiet.

In her apartment, she dialed Rita’s office number, and Rita answered quickly.

“Rita Escobar.”

“Rita, it’s Cathy. How are you?”

“I’m OK. Thanks for getting back to me. How long have you been home?”

“Not very long. What did you want to talk to me about?” Catherine stuck the phone receiver between her shoulder and ear and started rummaging through the desk drawer looking for a pad and a pencil

“It’s not good news,” Rita warned.

Catherine gave up her search, shoved the drawer shut and sat back in the chair with a sigh.

“I don’t think I expected it to be. What is it?”

“The state attorney general heard about what’s going on, and he’s pressuring Mr. Moreno to do more than just suspend you. He’s ordered him to fire you and to stop the investigation to clear you. In fact, he says he wants to see what we have and what Hale has, and if he thinks there is enough he wants to prosecute and see you disbarred.”

Catherine paused, sat up straighter and switched the phone to her other ear.

“You still there, Cath?” She could hear the concern in Rita’s voice.

“Yeah, I’m here… Doesn’t it seem like someone is blowing all this way out of proportion?” she rubbed the crease between her eyes. “Now the Attorney General is involved? Is this the same man who was appointed to fill in for the rest of the previous attorney general’s term? And isn’t there a special election in January?” asked Catherine in a resigned voice. All her questions were rhetorical. She didn’t expect answers. “Tell John that I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Rita, answering one of the questions. “Mr. Moreno did say that the new guy is ambitious. That explains why he’s suddenly become a rabid dog. I’ll tell Mr. Moreno what you said. Joe told me to tell you that he’s not going to drop it. He can’t work on it on the job, but he’ll do it on his own time… and I’m helping him. But there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” Catherine had a feeling that the other shoe was about to drop

“Joe thinks that it might be better if you don’t participate in the investigation, beyond cooperating and answering questions and providing information if asked.”

“And did he say why?” Catherine found the request disturbing.

“Only that since it’s your veracity that is being questioned, he thinks that it would be best if you stayed as far away from all of it as possible.”

“I guess he has a point,” she reluctantly agreed, but it hurt. “And thank you, Rita, and tell Joe ‘thanks’ too. You know how to reach me. I’m staying with friends.”

“Ah… Cathy… do you have a lawyer, someone outside our office?” Rita asked hesitantly.

“I never had a need for one before,” Catherine answered, “but I know one or two; I think I can scare one up if I need to.”

When Catherine hung up, she still wasn’t totally convinced that either Joe or John was really on her side.

She called Jay Coolidge and filled him in on everything. He agreed to contact John and put himself on the record as her lawyer. She was glad Jay headed up the criminal law side of Chandler and Coolidge. She wasn’t sure she could trust anyone else.

She went into her bedroom where she pulled a small suitcase out of the closet. She methodically filled it with what she needed then headed back Below.

~ ~ ~

Vincent was sitting against the wall in the tunnel waiting for Catherine when he felt her feelings plunge again. She hadn’t said anything, but he knew she’d been hoping for good news from Rita today. From what he just felt he knew she hadn’t gotten her wish.

He was on his feet waiting at the bottom of the ladder when she appeared. She dropped her suitcase and started down. After she closed the door, Vincent lifted her down and turned her into his arms. She clung for a moment.

“Not good?” he asked.

“No, very not good.” She told him what Rita had said. “I told her that she could continue to contact me through Peter; to call or send a note, and I called Jay Coolidge and told him what’s going on. He’s now officially my lawyer if I need one.”

“It sounds serious,” commented Vincent as he picked up her suitcase and took her hand. They started to walk.

“It could be. The Attorney General is out for blood. If they find evidence that I did what I’ve been accused of doing, he wants me disbarred at the very least. At most, I could be charged with numerous things, and if found guilty I could be facing a prison sentence.”

“But you didn’t do anything that man has accused you of,” Vincent protested.

“No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean that the facts can’t be twisted to make it look like I might have.”

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I told Rita I’d cooperate. I don’t have much choice. She and Jay will keep me informed.”

“Will you go back Above?” he asked.

“No. Joe thinks I should stay out of the investigation, and to tell the truth, I don’t feel as if I want to face that world. If someone shows up to arrest me, I don’t want it to be a surprise. I want warning so I can prepare myself.”

“But you wouldn’t have to stay in jail, would you?” Vincent was concerned. The seriousness of what was happening was starting to set in.

“Only until an arraignment, then I’m sure I could make bail.”

~ ~ ~

Less than a week later Peter delivered an envelope from the District Attorney’s office, that had been forwarded from her apartment.

Catherine held it for a moment then handed it to Vincent.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said, and Vincent could feel the fear rising in her.

Vincent slit the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was official and on John Moreno’s letterhead. He scanned it, and Catherine saw him relax.

He handed the letter to her.

“It’s all right,” he said.

She took it and read it over, then read it again. She sighed with relief.

“What?” asked Father who’d been watching the whole exchange.

“John is letting me know officially that the DA’s office could find no evidence that I knowingly compromised any witnesses or falsified any evidence. There are no charges pending. He’s also letting my lawyer know.”

“You can go back to work?” asked Father.

“Not yet. That was just for the Attorney General’s benefit. They are still dealing with the allegations made by Desmond Hale. They… I… must convince him and possibly a court, if he decides to press the issue on behalf of his client, that none of what he alleges actually happened. His complaint is still pending. If it does go to court, and if they somehow convince the court that I did what they are alleging, then the Attorney General’s office could reopen their investigation.”

Vincent handed her a second, handwritten note. She recognized Joe’s scrawl.

“Joe says he’s still working on that part, but because of the Attorney General, John can’t let him work on it in any official capacity.”

“So I guess Joe is still the friend you’ve always thought he was?” asked Vincent.

“Apparently. I guess I owe him an apology.”

~ ~ ~

About a week later Catherine went up to Peter’s to make some calls. One of them was to Rita. Rita told her that Joe wasn’t having a lot of luck with what he was trying to do, and although Hale wasn’t moving very fast, it didn’t look like he was going to back off.

“It sounds almost as if he has some kind of personal vendetta,” Catherine said just before she hung up.

That made Rita think.

~ ~ ~

Rita tapped on Joe’s office door and stuck her head around it to make sure he was alone.

“Got a minute, Joe?” she asked as she stepped in.

Joe looked up and smiled.

“You sound like Cathy when you say that. Come on in. Close the door. What’s up?”

“I just talked to Cathy and she said something that made me think.”

“What?”

“She said that it sounded like Hale had some kind of personal vendetta. Have you looked at it from that angle?”

“It’s crossed my mind, but I can’t come up with any kind of connection. Cathy was only up against him in court that one time. Knowing Hale, and I don’t really know him that well, being bested by a woman could be enough… but I don’t know. If you talk to her again, tell her I’ll take another look at everything from that angle.”

“Is he known to be chauvinist?” Rita asked.

“Not outwardly, but I do happen to know that his firm hasn’t hired any women above the secretary or clerk level… Tell you what, pull some of his cases. Maybe shake the tree a little, and see if anything falls out.”

“One step ahead of you, Boss,” she said with a grin. “I’ll take them home with me tonight and see what I can come up with. I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine didn’t go straight back to the main tunnels when she was finished. She passed the tunnel to the Falls on her way back, and she found herself taking the turn.

The Chamber of the Falls was one of the few places Below where the constant chatter on the pipes couldn’t be heard. Even though she didn’t consciously notice the sound of the pipe traffic, she did notice when it was completely absent.

She sat down with her back to the wall and leaning her head back she stared up at the shaft of light that lit the huge, silent chamber. The falls was far enough away that it couldn’t be heard, but there always seemed to be a refreshing mist floating on the light breeze that wafted around her.

What do I really want to do? she wondered.

She hadn’t realized it, but she had been looking forward to working on the case with Joe, and when Rita had told her that Joe didn’t think she should, she’d been at a loss. She spent the past week trying to be productive and help out Below but didn’t feel very successful at it. She felt redundant. Everyone worked so well together that she often felt like she was just in the way, or adding to their work when someone had to stop and show her how to do something.

I should probably go back Above. But the idea of leaving the people who were swiftly becoming her family didn’t sound appealing.

Well, I might not be good at washing clothes or dipping candles, but there are things I can do. I wonder if Father needs any help with his record keeping? William might be able to use some help with his inventories. Maybe even a civics class…

Catherine seemed to get a little inspiration from her thoughts, and after a while, she stood, stretched, and headed back to her chamber.

~ ~ ~

I took a while, but a few weeks later Catherine was beginning to feel as if she fit in a little better.  She wasn’t making any moves toward going back Above and that concerned Vincent. When he questioned her about it, he could sense he’d hurt her feelings.

“Am I in the way?” she asked. “I’ve been taking on jobs, working with Father and William, and I’ve set up an account for Long to use to provide us with fresh produce every week. I’ve been trying to do my part.”

“No Catherine, it’s nothing like that,” he rushed to reassure her. He knew that not only was she paying for produce from Long, but there had been more meat at meals. “It’s just that when you first came Below, you said it was temporary and that you wanted to help clear your name once you’d rested.”

“And Joe has advised me to stay away from the investigation. And to tell the truth, I’ve been wondering if that is really important. I could surrender my license and just go back to being a normal person. I could do something else. Maybe go back to school and get a different degree.”

“Not very long ago you were telling me how hard you’d worked to get where you are. Are you willing to just let all that go because you’ve been falsely accused of doing something unethical?”

Catherine sat down, rubbed her face with her hands and then dropped them into her lap. “It’s just that it’s all so very exhausting to even think about. Joe is stymied over what is going on. I haven’t heard anything from Jay. It’s just not going anywhere. To tell the truth, I don’t think I could do any more than they are doing. It’s been so pleasant being here, and not having to worry about any of that. It’s quiet, the people are nice. You all have it made down here. Is it wrong of me to want a little bit of that?”

Vincent was very worried about Catherine’s attitude. It was so unlike her to give up. Perhaps he’d talk to Peter again.

“No Catherine, it’s not wrong. Everyone needs to take a break now and then.” He knelt beside her, put his arms around her and hugged her. “But even for us, the breaks eventually end,” he added in a whisper that he wasn’t sure she heard.

~ ~ ~

Helping William in the kitchen had become one of Catherine’s favorite chores. It had evolved from taking inventory to learning to cook. Thanksgiving was at the end of the week, and she was with him as he planned the menu.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked her as he handed her a list.

“Absolutely. You’ve all been so wonderful to me for the last couple months, I just want to give something back.” She looked at the list in her hand. “OK, so some of this is frozen or staples, and I can go up and order it, and you can store it, but the rest is fresh. I’ll talk to Long about delivering it the day before Thanksgiving. Will that work?”

William nodded. They hadn’t talked to Father about this, and he hoped that he wouldn’t be upset about it. Catherine had urged him to keep it quiet so it would be a surprise.

~ ~ ~

Catherine was on her way Above to do the shopping. Vincent was busy with Father, so she had asked Kipper to go with her and be her guide.

“You don’t know how to get to Long’s?” Kipper asked as they walked.

“I’ve never gone the whole way,” she explained. “Only the straight tunnel that comes from Long’s. Once I get to the lower levels, I’m lost.”

They were finished with their errands when she suggested that they have lunch in her favorite deli. She was surprised when Rita stopped next to her table.

“So, is this the new man in your life?” she joked after she greeted Catherine and was invited to join them.

Catherine laughed. “This is Kipper. He’s part of a… mentoring program I’m involved with. Kipper, this is Rita Escobar, a lady I used to work with.”

Kipper greeted Rita politely and went back to his burger and fries, a rare treat.

“How is everything?” Rita asked.

“I’m staying busy,” Catherine answered, nodding at Kipper. “We just finished buying food for Thanksgiving dinner. How’s everything at the office?” Catherine wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

“You know, same old, same old. Joe still hasn’t made any headway with Hale. Your friend Jay Coolidge and he say it’s like beating their heads against a brick wall. But they aren’t giving up.”

“What’s taking so long?” Catherine hadn’t realized she was getting impatient with it all until just now. “It’s been well over a month.”

“Joe contacted Hale when the Attorney General dropped his case, and he suggested that Hale do the same, but he refused. He told Joe that he wasn’t doing it for himself, but for his client who has been wrongly imprisoned because of you. Joe said it sounded like he’s preparing an appeal for his client based on the outcome of this, so he wants his case against you to be rock solid. Joe and I are still combing through all your cases, but there isn’t a lot we can do until Hale does something. The ball is pretty much in his court.”

Catherine felt bad that Joe wouldn’t let her help, but secretly she was a little relieved. Every time she thought about it all, she felt exhausted, and she was beginning to think it was futile. If he wanted to, she knew Hale could keep her tied up for months, if not years. The criminal suit could give way to a civil suit.

She’d decided that she’d rather move rocks shoulder to shoulder with Vincent than tackle Hale.

Rita’s take out number was called. She hugged Catherine and promised to stay in touch.

Even though Rita had assured her that Joe was still working on everything, her goodbye just seemed so final; as if even Rita had given up hope.

Chapter 6

Catherine stayed almost as busy as William the week before Thanksgiving. He taught her everything from how to properly peel an apple or a potato to how to make a pie crust, and she loved every minute of it.

She was sitting with Vincent on the settee in Father’s study one evening listening to a concert by the children’s orchestra. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She felt him chuckle.

“What?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” he assured her.

“Don’t lie to me. You just found something amusing.”

“It’s nothing really. It’s just that since you started working with William, you smell different every time I’m near you. Tonight, it’s cinnamon and nutmeg.”

That made her giggle. “I had a minor disaster in the kitchen today. William likes to grind all his own spices. He says they last longer in the whole form. He has a small electric coffee grinder that he uses. I was grinding spices for apple pies, and I took my hand off the lid to reach for something, and it popped off. It sent a geyser of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar into the air. The whole kitchen smells like that.”

“I rather like it.” She was surprised when he kissed her temple, and even more surprised when she felt the tip of his tongue touch her tentatively. “You taste like cinnamon toast.”

She felt a blush rush up her neck and into her face. She knew he saw it because he chuckled again.

Her mood had improved immensely over the last week. He knew it was because she was busy and felt useful. He could tell she was sleeping better. Her issues Above were far from resolved, but she had something to take her mind off it all. She wasn’t happy, but she was more content.

~ ~ ~

Vincent was still smiling later when he was back in his chamber.

Where did the sudden urge to taste her skin like that came from? he wondered as he got ready for bed. I wonder if she realizes how long I’ve wanted to do that, or something like it?

It hadn’t been much. If it hadn’t been for the sudden slight uneasiness in the Bond and her blush he would have thought she didn’t notice, but she had noticed, and it had made her uneasy. Anything beyond their hugs and the chaste kisses they occasionally exchanged made her uneasy.

She still fears a more intimate touch.

It was too bad that she was no longer meeting with the support group. It had seemed to make a difference.

Once he’d changed clothes, he moved to his writing table and took out his journal and pen. He always seemed to think better with a pen in his hand.

~ ~ ~

Catherine is a true Helper in every sense of the word. She likes helping people. When she was going to the support group not only was she helping herself, but I think she felt as if she was helping others by telling her story. It’s too bad she was deprived of that outlet because of a reporter who was only interested in the story she could write and not the impact it would have on the life of another person.

~ ~ ~

The letdown of activity after Thanksgiving sent Catherine spiraling downward again. She wasn’t sleeping well and was tired all the time. William told her to take some time off; he didn’t need to start his preparations for Winterfest for at least another two weeks.

Catherine didn’t know what to do with herself. Classes were always suspended from Thanksgiving until after the beginning of the new year, so there were no classes to help with.

She was tutoring two of the children in reading, and she read to all the children several nights a week. She also worked in the nursery with Mary a little, but when she was helping William, she’d been working from the time she got up in the morning until after dinner, when she would spend time with Vincent. The normal workload of chores that everyone had wasn’t enough to keep her mind off her problems or to make her tired enough to sleep at night.

She sent a note Above to Rita, asking her if there was any news, and she received a short note back saying “Sorry, no progress.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to go back and work on it yourself, despite what Joe says,” Vincent suggested after he read the note Rita had sent.

“That’s just it, Vincent. I can’t seem to make myself care that much. I mean, it bothers me, but I care so much more about what is going on down here: Geoffrey’s cold, Caty starting to walk, the new baby’s colic, than anything that is going on Above. Even the stuff that affects me. I know this apathy isn’t like me, but I just can’t seem to make myself feel anything else.”

“Perhaps the support group would help?”

“It might, but I stopped going because I don’t want to have to look around the room and wonder who it was that leaked my story to the reporter. I’d be thinking about that and nothing else.”

“Perhaps another support group, or a professional counselor of some kind?”

“I talk to you…”

Vincent moved his chair closer and took her hands.

“But as I pointed out before. I’m not a professional. And all this isn’t just about the sexual assault now. It’s so much more complicated. Your professional ethics have been questioned, and your professional life is threatened. What happened to your anger? I thought you would be determined to fight once you had a chance to rest and regroup.”

“I’ve been fighting everything for over two years. I fought to prove myself in the DA’s office, I learned to defend myself and fought for my life a few times. I fought for your life. I told you, I’m tired of fighting. I just want to be Catherine Chandler. I don’t want to live up to being Charles Chandler’s daughter or some hotshot Deputy in the DA’s office. I just want to be me.”

She pulled her hands free and covered her face with them. Vincent could tell she was fighting off tears.

He left his chair and dropped to his knees in front of her. He gently pulled her hands away from her face. She had shed a few tears, and he lightly brushed them from her cheeks.

“Catherine, you know I love you, don’t you?” he asked as he looked up at her.

She nodded. “And I love you.”

“And you know that it doesn’t matter what course of action you take, I will continue to love you?”

She nodded again.

“Then do whatever makes you happy! If you don’t want to fight this and you don’t want to be a lawyer any longer, then that is what you must do. But don’t let this one decision define you and defeat you. If you choose a different direction don’t look at it like you are giving up, only that you are changing course in your journey.”

She gave him a watery smile and leaned down to kiss him.

His next words surprised them both.

“One option would be to marry me, Catherine. Marry me and stay with me, always.”

She pulled back and stared at him wide-eyed.

“Marry you?” She was clearly surprised by his proposal. “As in living together?”

“That’s what married people usually do,” he agreed. His proposal had been spontaneous, but it felt right. Now he thought it was the best idea he’d had in months.

She looked around the chamber.

“Isn’t this chamber a little small for two people?” She wondered where among all his keepsakes she’d ever find as much as an inch of space for anything of hers.

“There’s more than just this chamber,” he assured her. “There’s another one, about the same size, behind it. The entrance is covered by that rug.” He pointed to a piece hanging against the wall in the back corner near the foot of his bed. I only go back there if the light for the stained-glass window needs to be replaced. It wouldn’t take much to clean and furnish it.”

“Would we share it?” she asked.

“Only if you want to,” he hurried to tell her. “If you aren’t comfortable with the idea, I can continue to use this chamber, and you can have the new one. For that matter; we don’t have to get married. It was just an idea…” his voice trailed off.

“No! I think it’s a wonderful idea.” She smiled, really smiled for the first time in days. “And I want to share the chamber with you, and your bed.” She blushed. “Even here Below, the only time I feel truly safe is when I’m with you. We’ve shared your bed to nap, and it is so comforting to sleep close to you like that.”

He moved to one knee in front of her, took her hand and smiled up at her.

“Will you marry me, Catherine Chandler?” he asked.

She stared for a moment, and he felt a warm glow start inside her. She smiled at him.

“Yes…” She took a deep breath. “Yes, yes. Yes!”

~ ~ ~

It was late, but he knew that Father would still be up. And when he walked into the study, Father looked up from his medical journal and smiled.

“You’re up late,” Father commented, taking off his reading glasses and putting them on the desk on top of the journal.

“Catherine and I were talking.” Vincent sat down across the desk from Father. “We’ve come to a decision.”

“And what’s that?”

“We have decided to marry.”

He watched Father’s face closely. He’d never had anything resembling a Bond with Father, but he’d learned to read his facial expressions quite accurately over the years. He was surprised when he saw an expression of relief... and even more surprised when Father stood, walked around his desk and leaned down to hug him.

“Congratulations! I’m so happy for both of you.”

Vincent returned the hug.

“Thank you, Father.” He was a little bit in shock. He’d expected an argument, or at least words of caution, but Father seemed pleased.

Father went back to his chair.

“So, she’s decided to stay?” he asked.

“We talked about that. It’s not out of the question that she will maintain some kind of a presence Above. As she says, she can’t just drop off the face of the planet, but she says that she will live with me and only appear Above when necessary.”

“Have the legal issues been resolved?”

“No, not yet and she seems to think that they won’t be. I just find it odd that she’s not willing to fight it harder. She’s been content to let Joe handle it.”

“Maybe she’s just tired of fighting,” suggested Father. “She’s been through a lot since last spring. In less than a year she’s lost her father, you were ill, she’s finally shared the rape with you, she’s taken on a new job, was suspended from that job due to accusations made just because she was doing her job well. That’s enough to make anyone weary. Someone less strong than Catherine might have given up long ago.”

“That’s what she told me,” Vincent agreed. “She has corresponded with her friend Rita a few times, and Rita told her that although it’s no longer an official case, Joe hasn’t given up on it. The DA was ordered to fire her and tell Joe that it’s up to Catherine to clear herself. Now she’s more or less on indefinite leave until everything is resolved. Rita said that Joe is still working on it, and she’s helping, but they’re doing it on their own time. Rita seems to think that John Moreno would ask Catherine to come back if she is cleared.”

“Did she say what she would do if that happened?” asked Father.

“She has convinced herself that it isn’t going to happen. She knows how the other lawyer is and she says that she hears he’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not going to give up. He was very upset that he lost the case she prosecuted, and she’s sure this is just his way of getting back at her. He’s using every tactic that he has. There isn’t a lot she can do, except be prepared to counter every allegation he makes, but she just doesn’t have the energy to do that.”

“So she doesn’t want to go back to the DA’s office?”

Vincent shook his head. “We haven’t really talked about that, but I felt that she was on the verge of giving it all up last spring when I was sick. Then when she was offered the much safer Deputy DA position and the opportunity to prosecute nothing but sexual assault cases it renewed her interest. She’s gotten a lot of satisfaction from the new position.”

“It has been safer,” Father agreed.

“Much safer. The hours were long but more predictable.”

“So, will you be having a ceremony?” Father asked, bringing the subject back to his son’s pending marriage.

“Catherine liked the ceremony when Lin and Henry were married. She asked me if we might ask Master Liang to perform the ceremony.”

When he noticed that Father seemed a little disappointed, he quickly added. “I want you to be my Best Man. Catherine wants Peter to give her away, and will ask Lena to be her bridesmaid.”

That made Father smile. “When do you want to do this? William will need at least a week to prepare, and it will take at least that long to send out invitations to our Helpers.”

“Father, we don’t want a huge celebration…” he began to protest

But Father was more like the mother of the bride, as he went off into planning mode.

“At least the Great Hall won’t have to be cleaned since it’s already cleaned for Winterfest, and we know everything is in good repair…”

“Father! Please, we don’t want a large celebration!” he repeated.

“But you don’t want to disappoint everyone,” Father protested.

“Why don’t you talk to Catherine about it tomorrow Father. Maybe the two of you can come to some agreement.”

“What are your plans, other than getting married?” Father asked, placated with the promise that Catherine would talk to him.

“I plan to open up the chamber behind mine to give us more room. That won’t take long. It just needs to be cleaned before we can move furniture into it. We will probably need to find a few more pieces, but Catherine will be moving into my chamber tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

Vincent woke the next morning to Mary and several other women filing through his chamber and into the chamber behind his. Mary was taking down the rug that normally covered the opening.

“Mary, what are you doing?” He asked as he sat up and stretched.

“This is going to need a good cleaning. It’s been hanging here forever.” She dropped the rug on the floor and turned to him. “Father told me your plans, and I thought you might appreciate a little help.”

She crossed to the bed where she leaned down and hugged him. “Congratulations, by the way. He said that you’d be looking for some additional furniture. There are some nice pieces in the new store room on the level below this one. That was where we put most of the things that Catherine sent us. There is furniture from her father’s place and her apartment. She might welcome some familiar pieces. Why don’t you and Catherine go ‘furniture shopping’ after breakfast and we will take care of things in here?”

Vincent rose and gathered his things to wash up and dress. He tried to ignore all the traffic in his chamber.

Catherine was in her chamber talking to Lena when he went to get her for breakfast.

Lena hugged Catherine then hugged Vincent on her way out.

“You were up early,” he commented as they headed for the dining chamber.

“I wanted to talk to Lena before she took off for the day. She’s attending some classes Above.” She took his hand as they walked. “Did you get a chance to talk to Father?”

“I talked to him last night, and he is already making plans. He wants to talk to you.”

Catherine groaned. “I suppose there’s no way we can just elope, down here.”

Vincent laughed at that.

“We could just do what so many others do. Call ourselves married when you move in with me later today.”

“I do feel like we are already married,” she confided as she hugged his arm, “but I did want a little something, a small ceremony of some kind to mark the occasion.”

“Well, Father is thinking along the lines of inviting everyone Below and all the Helpers.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I am. You can talk to him. I’m sure you’ll come to an agreement. You are good at negotiations.”

~ ~ ~

When Catherine joined Vincent in his chamber later, she looked apologetic.

“Did you and Father come to an agreement?” he asked.

“Yes. We’re doing it at Winterfest. It will be a simple ceremony, and it won’t require any additional preparation, except for a wedding cake, which I will get Above and have delivered to Peter’s.”

Vincent smiled down at her.

“Father out talked you,” he stated.

“Outwitted is more like it.”

They spent the rest of the morning in the store rooms. They found a king-sized sleigh bed from her dad’s guest room, some bookshelves, an armoire that matched the bed and decided that the sofa and chair from her dad’s office at home would be the perfect addition to the front chamber. With Vincent’s old bed gone, some of the furniture moved into the rear chamber, and the rest rearranged, they needed places to sit.

While they were eating lunch, half a dozen of the men showed up at their table and volunteered to help move everything right after lunch.

“Then I guess I’ll go pack up my things in the guest chamber,” Catherine said when they parted at the door of the dining chamber.

“Will you need anything from your apartment?” he asked.

“I’ll probably want a few things, and I’m going to have to come up with a dress, but there’s no rush for any of that.”

She’d been in the guest chamber for only a few minutes when Mary joined her. Mary started helping Catherine gather her things.

“It’s amazing all the things I’ve managed to accumulate since I’ve been here,” Catherine commented. She’d made only one trip up to her apartment herself, but she’d sent Brooke or Jamie up a few times with lists.

“We always feel more at home when we have some of our own things around us,” Mary commented. “I know I hated leaving my chamber when we were invaded last winter.”

“We found Daddy’s furniture. It will be perfect.”

“Did you get the bed? I told Vincent he should claim it when it first came down. It will be so much better for him.”

“We did. Do you still have the linens and bedspread that fit it?”

“I set them aside so they wouldn’t get used to make something else. There is a lot of fabric there. I’ll make sure they get to your chamber.”

Catherine smiled when she heard that. “Our chamber,” she repeated. “I like the way that sounds.”

Mary stopped and hugged her, then was back to business.

“Do you have a dress?” she asked.

“I don’t know that white is appropriate, but I have the dress I wore to Winterfest last year, and there is a lace dress that I have, it’s a pale pink, but Vincent has seen both of them.”

“I still have my dress,” Mary began. It’s been packed away since I arrived here, but it’s still in good condition. It’s not white, but an ivory color.”

“But you’re taller than me. I wouldn’t want to alter it.”

“No, you are about the same size I was, and it’s tea length. Try it. If it fits and you like it, then that’s one less thing to worry about. I’ll get it out and let it air tonight. Stop by anytime and take a look at it.”

Catherine hugged Mary and thanked her again then they both went back to the task at hand.

~ ~ ~

When Catherine and Vincent were at dinner that night, it seemed like everyone decided to stop at their table and congratulate them. Catherine was hugged so many times she felt as if she was already in a receiving line.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone once we get to your chamber?” she asked as they walked back.

“Our chamber,” he corrected, “and yes, I do. We can always hide in the back if we have to.”

Catherine hadn’t seen the finished work yet. She’d just dropped her things in the front chamber and had gone back out to dinner. Now Vincent helped her sort through the boxes and bags and carried her things to the rear chamber.

“This is beautiful,” Catherine exclaimed as they stacked everything in the middle of the chamber. “I thought the bed might be a little big for the space, but I didn’t know the chamber was so large.”

“I thought it was about the same size as the front one, but once there were more lights back here, it started to look larger.” He pointed to the two easy chairs in the corner on each side of a small table. “It looked so empty, I went and found two more chairs and a table. The armoire for your clothing is over there, and mine is next to it. There is a dresser, some bookshelves, night tables and the chest at the bottom of the bed holds extra bedding.”

He helped her put her things away then they went back to the front chamber to empty the boxes she’d left there.

They worked in silence for a while, but Catherine was so quiet that Vincent looked with concern at her where she was sitting on the floor taking books out of a box. Even the Bond was quiescent.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’ve totally invaded your space, haven’t I? Completely set your whole world on its ear.” She looked up at him. “Are you sure about this? I know it was kind of a spontaneous decision on your part, and… well… you aren’t the most spontaneous person I know.”

Vincent leaned down, took the book out of her hands, then helped her to her feet and tugged her into his arms.

“It wasn’t as spontaneous as it may have seemed. It’s been a dream of mine almost since the beginning. I finally found the courage to do something about making that dream come true.”

He leaned down and kissed her lightly.

“Now, I think we should get this finished, or we will be up all night.”

When they were done, she sat down on the sofa. She ran her hand over the worn leather.

“I always loved this sofa. I tried to figure out how to use it in my apartment when I cleared Dad’s place, but it just wouldn’t fit.”

“I sat on it earlier, and it is very comfortable,” Vincent told her.

“When I was little I would nap on it while Daddy worked. Mom liked to sit in the matching chair and read. The three of us spent a lot of time together. We didn’t have to be in an active conversation, but we were always happiest when we were all in the same room.”

“Did you keep doing it after your mother died?” he asked.

“I think I was even worse,” she confessed. “I hated to let him out of my sight. I guess I was afraid that he’d disappear on me too.”

~ ~ ~

That night when they were getting ready for bed, he could feel Catherine’s nervousness. He finally felt compelled to put her at ease.

She was dressed in her nightgown, a warm flannel one that Mary had given her, and was sitting on the side of the bed taking off her slippers when he knelt in front of her.

“What is it Catherine?” he asked. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. It’s been an eventful day. I’m just tired.”

“I think I’m sensing more than tiredness.” When she wasn’t forthcoming, he continued. “It’s time we talked about this. You must know that I have no expectations, and would never ask more of you than you are willing to give. We will go to bed, say goodnight, and go to sleep. Yes?”

“You’re sure?” she asked. He could almost feel her holding her breath. “You don’t want more?”

“I’m sure. I’m in no rush for anything. Nothing will happen that we aren’t both comfortable with. I promise you. All I want is to hold you in my arms as you sleep and know that you are safe.”

Her breath came out in a rush.

“Thank you, Vincent.” She leaned down and brushed a light kiss across his lips, then got up and turned down the bed.

Catherine woke once during the night to find herself wrapped tightly in Vincent’s arms. She sighed with contentment.

This is exactly where I need to be, she told herself before she went back to sleep.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, they were leaving the dining chamber when Mary leaned close and whispered, “Do you have time to come look at the dress?”

Catherine looked up at Vincent.

“You’re going to be busy all morning, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes. We need to move some furniture in the Great Hall and make some repairs. I’ll be back for lunch.”

She stretched up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good, then I’ll see you at lunch. I love you.”

Vincent watched as Catherine turned and left the dining chamber with Mary. The easy, affectionate way Catherine had started treating him in public still had the power to stun him.

He was used to seeing other couples Below holding hands, walking arm in arm, exchanging little kisses, but he’d only dreamed of ever having that for himself, and now it was an everyday occurrence and came so naturally.

He would have thought that he’d be embarrassed, or that others might stare, or even object, but no one took any more notice than if it was Olivia and Kanin or Lena and Joshua. He made his way to the Great Hall, smiling as he sensed Catherine’s happiness.

~ ~ ~

The dress was on the dress form in Mary’s chamber, and it was beautiful. It wasn’t fancy, or extremely formal, despite being made out of a sheer embroidered material with a taffeta underdress. It had aged to a lovely ivory shade and looked very bridal.

“It’s beautiful, Mary,” Catherine exclaimed as she circled around and looked at it. “And it would be perfect. Do you think it will fit?”

“The only way we will know is for you to try it on.”

It only took a couple minutes for Catherine to change. She stood in front of the mirror in the chamber and did a slow rotation.

“It fits as if it was made for me!” she exclaimed.

“It hit me midcalf. It’s a little longer on you, but it’s a good length for you. It could be your something borrowed.”

Catherine hugged Mary. “Thank you! I’d love to wear it. My mother’s veil will be perfect with it; it can be my something old. And shoes can be my something new. All I need is something blue.”

“I can make you a blue garter,” suggested Mary.

“Perfect!”

Catherine moved behind the screen to take the dress off and put her own clothes back on.

“What kind of shoes will you get?”

“Since we will be Below and I’ll have a long walk down to the Great Hall and back, I should probably be practical. I think I’ll find something flat or with a low heel, nothing fancy.”

~ ~ ~

It seemed that everyone was busy during the weeks before Winterfest. If they weren’t doing something for Winterfest, they were working on something for the wedding.

Lena was in a tizzy about what she was going to wear. Catherine offered to take her shopping, but she declined. But they did wind up shopping in Catherine’s closet a few days later.

“I’ve got this,” said Catherine with a grin as she pulled a clothing bag out of the back of her closet. “I was a bridesmaid when my friend Nancy got married.” The dress was made of cerulean blue velvet. “It’s not a great color for me, but it’s Nancy’s favorite, and I think the color would be great on you.” She held out a truly hideous formal gown with huge puffy sleeves and a sash that tied into a bow almost as large as a bustle in the back. “There are shoes to match,” she added with a giggle.

Lena looked like she didn’t quite know what to say, and Catherine burst out laughing.

“Seriously, Lena. It is a lovely color and fabric. Picture it without the sleeves. Mary could alter it. She can take the sleeves off. The sweetheart neckline is very flattering. Try it on.”

Lena stood in front of the mirror a few minutes later.

“It is a beautiful color, and I love the way it feels,” she said as she rubbed her hands over the skirt. “It’s a bit big on me. But I can’t really picture you in it.”

“I’ve got pictures to prove it, although I try to keep them buried. I’ll show you sometime… So can you see what I was saying?”

“I can, and I think it will be a great dress. And it’s neat that it’s almost the same color as Vincent’s eyes. Do you think Mary can do it? We only have two weeks.”

“If she can’t, we’ll go Above and take it to the woman who does all my alterations.”

Catherine was putting the dress back into the garment bag when the phone rang. She let the machine pick it up.

Her attention shifted when she heard Joe’s voice.

“Hey, kiddo. Sorry I missed you. I just wanted to let you know that even though the Attorney General found Hale’s complaint to be ‘without merit,' Hale’s still making noise about a civil suit. If you have the time after the first of the year, why don’t you drop by the office and we’ll talk… I know it’s been a tough road, Cathy. Miss seeing you in the office.” There was a pause, then a click when Joe hung up.

Catherine continued with what she was doing. Lena hung a couple dresses in the closet then turned to her.

“You going to go see him?” she asked.

Catherine shrugged. “I’ll think about it. I just don’t want to stir it all up again.”

~ ~ ~

Catherine and Lena were in Mary’s chamber the morning of Winterfest… and the wedding. Lena was trying on the blue dress, and she was astonished at what Mary had done with it. Gone were the huge puffy sleeves, the oversized sash and the miles of fabric in the skirt. It was a simple sleeveless dropped-waist dress. Mary had shortened it so that it came to Lena’s knees. She’d added a lace shawl.

“It’s beautiful, Mary,” Lena exclaimed.

“I wish it had looked that good when I wore it for Nancy’s wedding,” Catherine added.

“What about you?” Mary asked Catherine. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Everything is in my armoire. Your dress for borrowed, my mother’s veil for old, shoes and lingerie for new. I don’t have the garter yet for the blue.”

Mary opened her sewing basket and took out the garter that she’d made with a length of elastic, a piece of the blue material from Lena’s dress, some lace and white ribbons.

“This is beautiful, Mary! I will cherish it!”

~ ~ ~

“Where’s Vincent?” asked Lena as they walked back to Vincent and Catherine’s chamber.

“They had to carry some things down to the Great Hall. He’s helping with that and then after lunch, he’s going to dress in Father’s chamber.”

“So, you’ve got the place to yourself.”

They walked in to find bouquets of flowers on the table.

“Where did all these come from?” asked Lena. There was a bouquet for Catherine and a smaller one for Lena, and boutonnieres for Father and Vincent. All the flowers were creamy white roses except for Catherine’s, which were red. “They’re beautiful.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Catherine replied.

Lena took the boutonnieres to Father and left Catherine to try to relax for the rest of the afternoon.

~ ~ ~

Catherine and Father had been over and over it, and they had finally decided (with Father making most of the decisions) that Winterfest needed to start as it always had. That tradition couldn’t be broken. It would just go on without Catherine and Lena who would be waiting at the top of the long staircase inside the Great Hall in a curtained off area.

Once the opening ceremony was over, then Father would get everyone assembled for the wedding ceremony, and he would join Vincent on the dais in the front. Catherine and Lena would make their entrance down the stairs next to the dais and would join Vincent, Father, and Master Liang.

Then after the wedding ceremony, they would have a traditional receiving line and then segue right into the regular Winterfest celebration.

At some point during the evening, they would cut the cake, and do the other traditional wedding reception things.

~ ~ ~

Catherine and Lena were waiting in their little alcove when they heard the doors open below them. Lena turned off the flashlight, and they stood and listened as everyone filed in.

As the ceremony below them ended and it was light enough to see, Catherine pulled something off her thumb and handed it to Lena, who looked at it.

“Vincent’s ring?” She inspected it closely. “Oh, this is so cool!”

It was a highly polished wide gold band, and inscribed inside in tiny elvish-style script were the words: April twelve nineteen eighty-seven

“A date?” Lena asked.

“The date he found me and saved my life.”

“And not today’s date?”

“No, the story of our life together began on that date, not today. Today is just the start of a new chapter.”

“It looks like the One Ring, from Tolkien’s books.”

“We both love those books, and we both discovered them at about the same age. He was fifteen, and I wasn’t quite sixteen.”

“What does your ring look like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. I told him I didn’t want anything fancy.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” whispered Lena. “I found out where the flowers came from.”

“Where?”

“You know that it’s traditional for the groom’s family to provide the flowers. Devin contacted Dr. Peter and told him what he wanted.”

Catherine’s eyes teared up, and she used the handkerchief she carried to blot them away before they could do any damage.

“I’m sorry Devin couldn’t be here,” Catherine said. “But Vincent’s whole family has been so helpful and supportive. They are all so… special.”

Lena leaned in and hugged her. “I think his almost wife is pretty special, too.”

~ ~ ~

When the music started a few minutes later, Lena looked over at her.

“You ready to do this?” she asked.

“You don’t know how ready,” Catherine told her with a grin.

They heard someone coming up the stairs then Peter’s voice came from the other side of the curtain.

“You girls decent?” he asked.

“We are,” said Lena with a laugh as he stepped inside and hugged Catherine.

“You are both beautiful!” Peter commented. “I just wish your folks were here for this.”

“I do too, but I feel them. I know they are with me and know that I’m happy.”

“Your mother was a beautiful bride. I feel as if I’ve come full circle from being your dad’s best man to delivering you, and now giving you away at your own wedding.”

He kissed her cheek as the processional music started. They all quickly shifted around so Lena could start to walk down the stairs. She looked at Catherine and winked.

“I’ll see you down there.”

She left, and Peter offered his arm to Catherine. The music changed again.

“We’re on!” whispered Peter as he pushed aside the curtain and they began their descent to the floor below.

Catherine was shaking like a leaf, but when her eyes met Vincent’s she immediately calmed. She took a deep breath and smiled at him. Mary had used some of the material from Lena’s dress to trim the black vest he was wearing. There was just enough blue to make his eyes even more noticeable.

She’s breathtaking, Vincent thought as he watched Catherine descend the stairs on Peter’s arm.

They reached the bottom, turned and crossed to where Vincent was standing with Father and Master Liang. When Peter placed Catherine’s hand in his, Vincent could have sworn that it was as if the light in the Great Hall had suddenly doubled. His whole world lit up.

They turned to Master Liang who began the ceremony.

“May you enter this marriage with love and respect for one another. May you have many years together and may all those years together be blessed. Your love is the sum of your being and must be cherished until the end of your days. Love is truly the strongest of bonds. Yet, for all its strength, love is also delicate as a flower; it requires care. Let your courage to love serve as an inspiration to all who climb the highest mountains and cross the great waters in love’s name.”

He looked out over the people gathered.

“The Bride and Groom have their own vows they wish to make to each other.”

Vincent turned to Father who handed him a ring, and he turned back to Catherine. Neither knew what the other planned to say.

“With this ring, I marry you and join my life to yours. You are the love of my life and my best friend. Wear this ring as a token of my love and know that with it I give you all that I have, all that I am and all that I ever hope to be.”

He slipped the ring on her finger then raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring.

It took Catherine a moment. She teared up, and they were threatening to fall. She finally took a breath, then turned to Lena for his ring.

“I give you my hand as I give you my heart, unreservedly and unconditionally. I give you this ring as I give you my love, exclusively and eternally. This ring is a symbol of my eternal love, my everlasting friendship, and the promise of all my tomorrows.”

She put the ring on Vincent’s finger and smiled up at him.

They both turned back to Master Liang who smiled at them.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. Vincent, you may kiss your bride.”

Vincent leaned in and kissed Catherine lightly, and a cheer went through the Great Hall.

The next few hours were a blur of Winterfest and wedding reception.

Catherine ate, but wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone later what she ate. She danced with Vincent and Peter and several others, including Mouse.

She stood on the stairs and tossed her bouquet, and Lena caught it. She and Vincent made their escape shortly afterward.

“I thought I was supposed to throw a garter…” Vincent said when they were almost back to their chamber.

“That is one of the traditions,” she admitted. She stopped and lifted her skirt to show him the garter just above her left knee. “But Mary made it, and it’s such a lovely piece that I wanted to keep it.”

The closer they got to their chamber the slower Catherine walked and the quieter she got.

“Is something wrong Catherine?” He thought he knew, but he wanted her to feel she could talk to him and tell him anything.

“Nothing is wrong…It’s just that it’s our wedding night and I’m a little nervous.”

Vincent stopped, and Catherine stopped and turned toward him. He reached out and took her hands.

“No expectations, Catherine,” he told her. “I told you that when you first moved into our chambers. It still applies. I love you, and you will set the pace.”

She moved into his arms and hugged him.

“Thank you.”

Her tension was gone, and they continued their walk.

Vincent went to the private bathing chamber to change while Catherine changed behind the screen Vincent had brought in and set in front of their armoires. She was in her nightgown and robe and hanging her dress when Vincent came back in.

“That’s a lovely dress,” he commented.

“It’s Mary’s.” She went on to explain about the dress and the veil. “I’ll return it to her tomorrow.”

Catherine took her turn in the bathing chamber. While she was there, she finally took a good look at her new wedding ring. It was a narrow platinum band with small blue and yellow stones alternating all the way around it. It fit perfectly.

Vincent was just coming back into the bedchamber from the front when she returned. He had a book in his hand.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

He held up a thick volume. The Chronicles of Narnia.

“The children want to read it in class. We’re starting the first book when classes begin again in January. I’m trying to get a few chapters ahead of them. Do you want me to read to you?”

“Not tonight, but it would be nice if we could relax and read separately. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired, but I think it’s going to take me a while before I can relax enough to sleep.”

When they were both comfortable, propped on pillows on the bed, she held up her left hand.

“This is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“Father gave it to me. It was Margaret’s wedding ring. It has sapphires and yellow diamonds. She kept it and gave it to Father when she was here. He said it reminded him of the day he first saw her; the blue of the summer sky and the yellow of the dress she was wearing.”

They started reading, and after a while, Catherine looked up from her book.

“You know, this is kind of weird. I feel like we should be doing something special to mark the occasion. Even if we don’t… well… you know.”

“We could open the gifts that were sent to us,” he suggested, nodding at the stack on the floor by the chairs.

Catherine swung her feet off the bed and reached for her robe.

“We probably should, so I can get started on the thank you notes.” She put on her robe. “I’ll be right back.”

She left the chamber and came back carrying a pad and a pencil. She handed it to Vincent.

“You can write as I unwrap.”

“You get to unwrap them all?” he asked with a smile.

“We could take turns,” she suggested. “As long as we don’t lose track.”

Catherine was amused by the type of gifts they received. Helpers from Above gave the usual wedding gifts; some that they would probably never use since they didn’t have a kitchen although they did have electricity and a hotplate.

“A toaster from Eli,” Catherine said, passing the appliance to Vincent.

“And aptly enough, since Eli has a repair shop, it’s refurbished,” Vincent commented.

“Now I can burn toast in our chamber,” Catherine said with a giggle.

Another Helper sent a beautiful crystal salad bowl.

“I’m sure I can figure out something to do with this.” Catherine rose and took the bowl to the dresser and set it in the middle. “I could put in an arrangement of silk flowers, or maybe find some plants that do well in low light conditions.”

Gifts from their fellow tunnel dwellers were more practical.

Catherine unwrapped one gift and pulled out two brightly colored blobs of dried clay. Each had several holes.

“I hate to ask, but what are these? They’re from Alexis.”

“His and hers pencil and pen holders. Alexis learned that skill from Samantha and is very proud of her creations.” He took them from her and pointed to the letters painted on them. “See, the pink one has a C on it, and the blue one has a V.”

“OK…” Catherine said as he set them on the table next to her. “I think I’m going to have to bring my desk down from my apartment. There’s room in here for it.”

“I can see I’ll be moving more furniture,” Vincent teased, handing her two more packages.

There were a lot of books.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t fill up all the shelves in the new bookcases,” Vincent commented.

And a lot of decorative items.

“We’re going to have to use some of those shelves for all these tchotchkes,” Catherine added.

When they finally finished, Catherine was yawning, and they returned to the bed and their books.

Catherine only lasted about half an hour more before she fell asleep. Vincent continued to read for a while, then he put his book down, took Catherine’s and settled them both for the night.

Am I dreaming? he wondered as he put out the lights. If I am, I know I don’t want to wake from this dream.

He could tell that Catherine was dreaming. It was a pleasant dream, and he wondered what it was.

He pulled the covers over both of them and carefully slipped his arm under her pillow as he curved his body around hers.

She stirred and sighed. “I love you, Vincent,” she whispered.

He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear. “And I love you,” he whispered back.

Chapter 7

Four days later the tunnel community celebrated Christmas. It was a quiet holiday. Vincent and Catherine exchanged gifts then joined Father at breakfast.

Catherine had ventured Above at the beginning of the month to buy gifts and to mail a few Christmas cards. It was the first time she’d been Above, except to go to her apartment, since the week before Thanksgiving.

Vincent had made Catherine tiny crystal earrings to go with her necklace, and Catherine had found a warm bathrobe in a dark blue for Vincent. She gave Father a subscription to a medical journal that he usually borrowed from Peter, and she gave Mary a subscription to a quilting magazine. Both would be delivered to Peter’s.

~ ~ ~

Catherine and Vincent were relaxing in their chamber later that evening. Catherine was reading, and Vincent was writing in his journal.

Catherine put down her book and looked at Vincent.

“I miss my fireplace,” she commented.

“We have the braziers,” he said.

“I know, and they do a good job of keeping the chambers warm, but I miss watching the flames. It’s just so relaxing.”

“I might be able to do something,” he said with a smile and went back to his journal.

A few minutes later he looked up at her, she was still staring off into space.

“I should have asked. Do you have any particular Christmas traditions?”

“I used to go and help Daddy decorate his tree the first weekend in December. We’d decorate and eat way too many Christmas goodies. Daddy and I would have dinner together on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I’d usually go over sometime during the afternoon on Christmas Eve and go home the next evening. We would visit friends together sometimes.” She looked wistful.

“It was nice just to be able to spend some time together without one of us having to rush off somewhere. We’d make a big breakfast together and eat, then open our gifts.” She looked over at him and smiled. “But at least I’m with you this year. I miss Daddy, but you and I can make new traditions.”

Vincent closed his journal and moved to the sofa next to Catherine. He surprised her by lifting her onto his lap.

“Like sitting on the sofa and watching the fire in the… ah… brazier together… As I said, I’ll come up with something.”

He smiled to himself, and as an idea started to form in his head, he brushed a kiss on her cheek.

~ ~ ~

Catherine spent the next day working with Mary in the nursery, and when she returned to their chambers before dinner, she was surprised at the changes that had been made in both the front chamber and the bed chamber.

Vincent had built low stands out of bricks and set the braziers on their sides on top of them. The flames were now visible. He’d even found fireplace screens to set in front of them.

When she met Vincent at dinner, she threw her arms around him and hugged him.

“I love you,” she whispered. “You are amazing! Thank you, I love it!”

A wave of quiet laughter went through the dining chamber at the unusually exuberant display of affection, and they both ducked their heads and went to the table to find seats.

~ ~ ~

They spent New Year’s Eve on the sofa in front of their fireplace; they’d spent quite a few evenings there since Vincent had made the fireplace, cuddling and talking, reading, exchanging the occasional kiss… touching.

“Did you make any New Year’s resolutions?” Catherine asked him after they kissed at the stroke of midnight. She leaned back in his arms and looked up at him.

“I never have before,” he told her. “You?”

She laughed. “I make the usual ones: eat better, exercise more, read the latest and greatest self-improvement book. That last one is the easiest. Jenny usually gives me one for Christmas.”

“She thinks you need improvement?” he asked in surprise.

“Not really, but she knows that it’s one of my resolutions, so she gets me started with something from her publisher. It’s become a standing joke since she started working there… If you were to make a resolution, what would it be?” She smiled up at him.

He thought for a moment.

“Well, I could resolve to spend more evenings like this, with you.” He said before he leaned down and kissed her nose. “But I’m not supposed to tell you that, right?”

“No, that’s birthday wishes or when you wish on a star. You don’t tell your wish, or it doesn’t come true. When you make a resolution, you tell everyone so they can help you stick to it… or say ‘I told you so,’ when you don’t.”

“Did you make a resolution?” he asked.

“I like yours.” She stretched up and kissed him lightly. “I think I’ll resolve the same thing, only with a little more of this.” She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her jeans and moved his hand to the bare skin of her side. He curled his fingers into his palm and ran the backs of them over her skin. He felt her shiver but knew it wasn’t fear or nervousness, just pleasure.

Later, as she slept in his arms, he considered their evening together.

She really was feeling pleasure, he told himself with satisfaction. She enjoys my kisses and when I touch her. He smiled in the dark as he moved closer and nuzzled his nose into her hair.

~ ~ ~

Vincent came back to their chamber the next afternoon to find Catherine going through a stack of mail at her desk.

“What’s this?” he asked picking up a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“It’s from Jenny. It’s probably that book I told you about. Open it.”

She heard the sound of tearing paper then Vincent’s laugh.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s Dr. Seuss,” he said turning it so she could see the cover.

“Oh, The Places You’ll Go? I wonder what she means by that.”

“Inside joke?” he asked.

She shrugged and took the book from him.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe she’s decided I’m a lost cause.”

~ ~ ~

“What have you got planned for today?” asked Vincent as they were on their way to breakfast a few days later.

“I’m not on any work details today, so I’m going to visit Lena and Caty. She said she wanted to talk to me about something.” She didn’t mention that she wanted to talk to Lena about planning something for Vincent’s birthday which was a little over a week away. “You?”

“I have a math class right after breakfast, and then I have to go to the tunnels at the other end of the park and inspect some pipes. The sentry down that way said that he thought some pipes had frozen and I want to make sure that they aren’t cracked. We don’t need a flood at the first thaw. I don’t think I’ll be back for lunch. I have a delivery to make to a Helper at that end of the park as well.”

After breakfast, they parted with a hug and Catherine joined Lena on her way back to her chamber. They spent some time playing with Caty, then Lena put her down on the floor with her toys, and she and Catherine sat on the small sofa where they could keep an eye on her.

“This works well in here,” Catherine commented about the loveseat that used to be in her living room.

“It’s the perfect size. And it’s comfortable. I don’t need the extra bed, but you never know when it might come in handy.”

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Catherine asked.

“I wanted you to be the first to know… Josh has asked me to marry him.”

Catherine hugged Lena. “Congratulations! He’s such a sweetheart, and you two are just so natural together.”

“And he loves Caty and is good with her,” Lena added, but she looked uneasy.

“What is it? Are you going to accept?”

“Yes… at least I think so.”

“What do you mean? You’ve told me often enough that he’s Mr. Right.”

“He is that… it’s just that… well… the idea of being married makes me nervous.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s the… to be honest, it’s the sex. I know I earned my living as a hooker for two years, and I’ve got the sex part down pat… it’s the making love that makes me nervous.”

“I’ll bite… Why?” Catherine was a bit puzzled.

“It used to be a job, and I was able to separate myself from it. I never really enjoyed it, not even before when it wasn’t for money.” Lena bit her lip and looked up at Catherine. “I’m sorry to dump all this on you right now, but you’re about the only person I can really talk to about this. You know what I did before I came here. I know there are a few people here who know, but I’d just rather not talk to them about it.”

“I understand,” Catherine rushed to assure her. She’d talked to several prostitutes, call girls and escorts since starting at the DA’s office, and she had yet to meet one who was doing it because she enjoyed the work. And she felt like she understood Lena’s qualms about making love.

“Is there something specific about it that makes you nervous?” she asked. She remembered it being one of the questions that had been asked in group when they’d gotten around to talking about how being raped had affected their relationships later on.”

“I don’t know what kind of experience Josh has had, but he was in the Army, and he is almost 30, so I assume he’s been with other women. He knows what I did before I came here. I’m just afraid that he might expect something… I don’t know… more exotic from me. Something hookers do for their Johns, or then again, I might go too far and make him uncomfortable. It’s just confusing.”

“You’re afraid he’s going to judge you,” Catherine said. She knew the feeling all too well.

“Exactly! That’s exactly how I feel!” Lena looked almost relieved that someone understood.

“How old were you the first time?” Catherine asked sympathetically.

“I was fourteen. A friend’s brother talked me into it. I guess you could say that I was molested. I know a court would say so, but at the time I looked at it as just me and the boy I had a mad crush on. He was a couple years older than me. It wasn’t good; if I’d been older, I wouldn’t have expected it to be. I didn’t do it again until after I’d run away from home and was desperate and found out that I could make money that way.”

“So you haven’t with Josh yet?”

“No, I keep putting him off. I even explained how I feel about it and he says that he understands and won’t push, but it makes me feel guilty. I know I’ve sent him back to his chamber in a very uncomfortable state a few times, but he’s never made any demands.”

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Catherine suggested. “Find out exactly what his expectations are and be honest with him about what you are feeling. You can approach it slowly, one step at a time. You don’t have to dive right into bed. Go into it with no expectations except that you love each other.”

They continued to talk about how Lena and Josh could take things one step at a time. Catherine felt as if she was giving Lena advice that she should be taking herself.

Lena told her that she felt a lot better and that she planned to take her advice, but the conversation reminded Catherine of her relationship with Vincent and made her feel guilty. She walked back to their chamber in deep thought.

~ ~ ~

Vincent was in a hurry to get back to Catherine. Her feelings had been chaotic all day, and he hated being away from her when she was like this. He wondered if something that had happened with Lena that had made her uncomfortable or upset her.

He stepped into their bedchamber; she was sitting in her chair with a book in her hand. Her head snapped up when he entered, and she jumped up and rushed into his arms.

“What is it, Catherine?” he asked as his arms went around her, despite the dust that covered him. He really needed to bathe.

“It’s nothing, really. I’m just glad that you’re back. I saw Father at dinner, and he said that you discovered some major problems and might have to be gone all night.”

“The heavy work is done. We all came back tonight, and I shouldn’t be needed tomorrow.” He leaned back to look at her face. She didn’t meet his eyes, but turned and went back to the table. “Did your visit with Lena go well?”

“It did. Caty is growing so fast. She started walking just before her first birthday, and Lena said she can hardly keep up with her.”

Vincent decided to stop beating around the bush and ask her outright what was bothering her.

“I’ve been feeling turmoil from you all day, Catherine. Did Lena say something that upset you?”

Catherine finally looked up and met his eyes.

“Yes and no… I know that’s not really an answer. She didn’t intend to upset me, but we talked about things that reminded me that I'm not really a very good wife to you.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t realize that there were rules or guidelines that you had to meet to be considered a good wife. As far as I’m concerned you are perfect… What did Lena say?”

He sat down across the table from her and reached across it to take her hands, all thoughts of bathing put aside for now.

“Nothing. It wasn’t her, it’s just that we seem to be sharing a similar problem.”

“What is it?”

“You know that she has been spending time with Joshua?” At his nod, she continued.

“She says that he’s the one, she’s in love. And he says he loves her too, but she can’t seem to make herself take the next step. He wants to get married, but she doesn’t want to until she knows whether or not she can be what she thinks of as a good wife. She’s not really interested in sex. He says that it’s OK, they’ll work it out, but she’s not sure that it’s the right way to go about it.” She stopped and stared off into space.

“And that made you think of your… our situation?” he prompted.

“It did.” She looked at him, and he could see the sadness in her eyes. “I am happy, ecstatically happy. We get to spend almost unlimited time together. You hold me while I sleep, but I can’t help but feel guilty about it because it’s not really fair to you.”

“How is it not fair?” he retorted, raising his voice slightly. “I have so much more than I ever dreamed of, Catherine. I’m happy!”

“Are you really happy? Fulfilled? I mean, it can’t be easy, sleeping in the same bed every night, holding me and not wanting… more.”

“It’s enough, Catherine. That’s all I ever wanted. I know that you are safe and that you love me. It’s enough.”

“But you shouldn’t have to settle when you could have more! I want to give you more, but every time I start to turn to you in the night… I just can’t.” She looked down at her hands that were clenched together in her lap.

“Why?” He knew that was the key. Why did she feel that way?

“Because I’m afraid that you will be disappointed in me... disappointed that you ever married me. I’ve disappointed every other man I’ve been with. Why should I think it would be any different with you?”

“Catherine!” He reached over and raised her chin so that she was looking at him. “It’s not like I have any expectations. I love you; you can’t disappoint me. If you give yourself to me in that way, how could I ever be disappointed? I’d be a fool!”

“But if I freeze up on you like I always have with everyone else… That isn’t fair, and I couldn’t bear doing that to you.”

He suddenly had an idea. Out of curiosity, he’d read some of the romance novels that occasionally made the rounds among the women Below. In many the heroine was reluctant, but the hero would be patient. He could do the same thing.

“What if we just started slowly?” he suggested. “We’ve been sleeping in the same bed, holding each other and sharing kisses. What if we started moving forward, but at a slow pace?”

“You mean with more kisses, touching?” she asked as her face turned red with a blush.

“Yes, like that… Why does that make you blush?”

“Because that was the advice I gave Lena. I told her to start slowly; to put all her previous experiences out of her mind. To approach it with no expectations for herself or Joshua.

“Can you take your own advice?” he asked with a slight smile.

She nodded, hesitantly. “Maybe.”

He stood and held out his hand. “Then come with me. I need to bathe, and I think you could use a nice relaxing soak.”

“Together?” she squeaked.

“Together,” he echoed. “We have to start someplace, and that is as good as any. We both have hurdles to get over. You’ve never seen me… completely… and you’ve never bared yourself to me.”

He was still holding his hand out to her. She hesitantly put hers in it and let him pull her to her feet. When she was standing, he dropped her hand and went to the armoires against the opposite wall and took out their robes. He handed hers to her and walked into the short tunnel that led to the private bathing chamber.

She followed a few seconds later, determined to try to do this.

When she arrived, Vincent was already half-undressed. He’d taken off his vest and shirt and tossed them into the hamper, and he was sitting on the bench taking off his boots. She sat down next to him and pulled off her shoes and socks. When he stood and started undoing his pants, she lowered her eyes and concentrated on the buttons of her shirt.

He started to say something but decided against it. One step at a time, he told himself. He tossed the rest of his clothes into the hamper and stepped into the water.

When Catherine heard the splash, she looked over her shoulder and saw that he was on the other side of the pool with his back to her. She quickly shed the rest of her clothing and followed him into the pool.

Catherine had never been very shy in her life. Living in the dorm at college the first year would have cured her if she had been. They’d had trouble with the boilers in the dorm, and they’d spent most of the time they were in the dorm either wearing their overcoats or running around in their underwear. She was aware that she had a good body if someone liked lean and athletic. Her breasts were small, but she liked them that way, even if some of the men in her life had felt differently.

Now suddenly, she felt shy, and she couldn’t get out of her clothes and into the water fast enough.

The water came up to mid chest on Vincent. When she stepped off the last step, it was almost up to her chin.

Catherine stayed close to the side of the pool. She found an elastic band in the basket with the soap and shampoo and used it to tie her hair up off her neck.

“Will you hand me the shampoo?” Vincent asked when he saw where she was.

“Do you need the soap too?” she asked as she picked up the bottle.

“No, I have that.” He pointed at the white bar that was floating in the water next to him.

“The people Below must be the best customers that Ivory has,” she said as she moved toward him and handed him the bottle.

“We do use a lot of it,” he agreed. “Rebecca has tried making soap and has done pretty well. It’s just the floating part that has been a stumbling block. She tried whipping air into it like Ivory, but it didn’t float as well.”

“Maybe if she had one of those large mixers like they have in restaurant kitchens,” Catherine suggested.

The mundane conversation was putting Catherine at ease; Vincent could feel it. She moved over to the wide ledge in the water along the side of the pool and sat down. The water was only to her shoulders there; she leaned back and relaxed, while Vincent continued to bathe.

She hoped the Bond was quiet because she was covertly observing as he bathed. The way his muscles moved under his skin and his arms flexed as he reached for the shampoo or the soap. He was leaner than she’d thought, muscular yes, but not as broad through the torso as the clothes he wore made him look. The water slicked down the hair that grew on his body and made everything much more defined.

Vincent turned to say something to Catherine and realized she was asleep, and her body was starting to float up off the ledge she’d been sitting on. He could make out every curve even through the water and in the low light. He looked away and took a deep breath to calm himself.

She’d actually dozed off and was startled awake when he sat down next to her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I didn’t want to leave you here alone in case you slipped off the ledge. I’ve done that and woke up floating in the middle of the pool. It’s startling to wake that way, and I inevitably sink like a rock and wind up sputtering and coughing.”

“I wonder that you can float at all. I’m told women float better because we have more fat on our bodies. You don’t have any.”

They were sitting close, but not touching until Vincent’s hand found hers under the water.

She couldn’t believe it. Here they were, naked, together in same room and neither of them were ill at ease… well, at least not very much, she added wryly to herself.

“This is nice,” she conceded after a little while. “We should do it more often. Maybe next time, you’ll let me scrub your back.”

“And I can scrub yours,” he suggested. He tugged on her hand. “Come over here.”

“What?” she asked as she moved a little closer.

“I have an idea.” He let go of her hand, grasped her around the waist and moved her over to sit on the ledge in front of him between his legs. She immediately tensed up.

Now I’m ill at ease, she thought. Relax, Cathy!

“Relax,” he echoed her thought as he pulled her back against his chest. “I just want you closer.” He had one arm around her waist to keep her from floating off, and the other hand rested on the top of her thigh. She leaned back against him, her head coming to rest just under his chin.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

She nodded slightly. It felt strange to be resting against him, skin to skin instead of having layers of clothing between them. Strange… but nice. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax and just let the tension go.

Vincent’s thoughts were moving along the same lines as hers. He wondered where he’d gotten the courage to make the move he just did, and he was willing his body to stay quiet and not react to having her naked body so close.

“I’ve read that the warmth of a hand held, the sensation of a cheek touching ours, a hug... can all go a long way toward expressing our love,” he said quietly.

“You make it sound kind of clinical; as if you are quoting something you read somewhere.”

She was surprised by his chuckle. “I read it in one of Father’s medical journals. A pediatric article on why some babies fail to meet all the growth goals. It’s not always due to inadequate nutrition but sometimes due to the lack of human interaction… touch. Touch is more than just comfort; it can actually heal. It depends on the situation, but a touch can be relaxing, reassuring, gentle, soothing or stimulating. Touch can also bond us together in ways that surpass words, in situations in which there are no words.”

“It might just be a pleasant, soothing diversion,” she suggested. “Mind over matter or like a massage?”

“No, it’s real. I don’t know why, but I do know that when I’m touching you, the Bond is enhanced. Your feelings come through so strongly that I can almost tell what you are thinking.”

“That’s kind of scary,” she said.

“Why do you say that?” she could hear the disbelief in his voice. “I would think that by now I would be the last thing you’d be frightened of.”

“No, not frightened of you… it’s just that you said you could almost read my thoughts. That’s scary because I’m not always thinking nice thoughts.”

“Whatever you are thinking, about me or anyone or anything else, I hope you feel you can share them with me, even if they aren’t pleasant.”

Her words might have been cause for concern, except that he was holding her and he could feel her amusement and the fact that the conversation had taken her mind off what they were doing and she’d relaxed.

As she sat there, she felt him shift away from her a little as his body started to succumb to their closeness. She tried to ignore it, but he was aware that she’d noticed.

“It’s all right, Catherine,” he whispered. “Trust me, it makes no difference. As I’ve said before I have no expectations.”

“I could stay here all night, but…” she began after a while.

“Yes, I know. We both need to be up early in the morning.”

He lifted her and set her back on her feet.

“You go on, I’ll join you in a few moments.” He wanted to give her enough privacy to maintain her confidence, and he also didn’t want to embarrass himself. She’d been sitting almost on his lap, and he knew she was aware of his body. He just didn’t want the beginning of his arousal to become that obvious. He leaned back against the side of the pool and closed his eyes.

Catherine left the pool, quickly dried off and put on her robe. She was in their chamber, behind the screen and putting on her nightgown when he entered a few minutes later. They traded places behind the screen, and she took down her ponytail and combed her fingers through her hair.

“Did you get any dinner tonight?” she asked him.

“Brooke brought us some sandwiches around four.”

Her question surprised him, but he realized she was making normal conversation to somehow defuse the situation. He knew she had a lot to process.

“Then you have to be hungry. I’ll go see what’s in the kitchen.”

He smiled and nodded as he stepped out from behind the screen. “Thank you.”

As she arrived in the kitchen, Catherine marveled at what had just happened. She hadn’t panicked, hadn’t been more than a little uncomfortable. And Vincent had been aroused, but he hadn’t done anything more than just hold her. She’d always known that she could trust him, but he’d just proven it to her once more.

When she walked into the kitchen, it smelled like heaven. William was just taking the last loaves of bread out of the oven.

“Late snack?” he asked.

“Just something for Vincent. He said all he had was a sandwich and he’s worked hard all day.”

“I sent all the men bag lunches. His bag had three,” William told her as he went to the large refrigerator.

“And knowing him, he probably shared two of them with the other men. Do you have any of that stew left from dinner?”

“I was just thinking the same thing. You slice some of that fresh bread, the cool loaves are on the right side, and I’ll heat this up. We’ll have something for him in no time.”

While the stew heated, Catherine sliced bread and William dished up some peach cobbler.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, as he loaded the tray.

“No, I’m good. I ate two helpings at dinner.”

“Good for you! You need a little more meat on your bones.”

Catherine laughed. “Vincent and I were just talking about how it is that women usually float better than men because we have more body fat.”

William’s laugh boomed out as he patted his girth. “Then I should be able to float all the way to Europe on this!”

When Catherine got back to their chamber, she was smiling.

“Why are you smiling?” Vincent asked as she set out the food.

“William. He keeps trying to fatten me up. I hate to tell him, but I don’t have that kind of metabolism. I’ve never had to watch what I eat, except to make sure I actually do eat. If I start skipping too many meals I tend to get too thin then Peter yells at me for not eating properly.”

“I noticed it too,” he said as he sat down. “When you get very engrossed in something you tend to forget the time. Your body gets hungry, and I feel that, but the message sometimes doesn’t make it to your brain.”

“You can feel that?” She caught herself. “Of course you can,” she said thoughtfully. “If you can tell when something frightens me you must be able to feel my hunger. Too bad the Bond isn’t telepathic. If it was, you could send me a message and remind me to eat.”

Vincent put his fork down and looked up at her.

“Catherine…” he looked up at the ceiling as he searched for the words. Then he looked back at her. “When I say I feel what you are feeling, I don’t just mean emotions. I feel physical sensations too. Your hunger, when you stub your toe, your pleasure when you take a sip of a good cup of coffee or a glass of wine.” He smiled at a memory. “You went out to dinner with your friend Jenny last summer, and you had a little too much to drink. I felt a little tipsy along with you.”

“So I drink too much, and you get drunk?” she asked with a laugh as she sat down.

“Only if I allow it. Normally, I’m just aware of your feelings; I don’t allow them to come through so strongly that I actually feel them… but sometimes they take me by surprise, and I can’t help but feel them as if they are happening to me.”

“Like the pain you felt when I was shot,” she’d been only vaguely aware of his reaction then, but she had known.

“That pain was not only your physical pain but my mental and emotional pain at the thought of losing you,” he told her. He watched her closely for a moment before he went back to his dinner.

She sat and thought about what Vincent had just told her as he finished his meal and when he was done, they retired.

In the quiet of the chamber, Catherine had been curled close to him for some time. His breathing was even, and she thought he was asleep.

“I love you, Vincent,” she whispered.

“And I love you, Catherine,” she was surprised to hear him whisper back. “More than I have words to express.”

Chapter 8

Catherine noticed over the next week or so that Vincent seemed to be on a campaign to help her get used to being touched more intimately. They’d always hugged, sat close to each other and cuddled, but now his touch became more skin to skin. If they sat on the love seat in the study or the couch in their chamber he would surreptitiously slip his hand behind her, and it would often find its way under her sweater, and she’d feel his hand on the bare skin of her back. It never went farther than that, just her back or her bare arm, but when they were together, he seemed intent on that skin to skin contact that he had mentioned in the bathing pool. And it was comforting, just as he’d said.

Vincent had been experimenting; trying to figure out what the Bond was telling him. He could still feel what Catherine was feeling, physically and emotionally as he always had, but he’d noticed lately that when he touched her bare skin, it was different.

Is the Bond evolving… changing? Maybe leading us somewhere? he wondered. Is the Bond communicating with her?

He was making a point of touching her bare skin whenever possible, even if it was just his hand resting on hers or her bare arm when they were together.

They were in Father’s study for a music recital during one of those times. He was touching her skin, and he closed his eyes.

Catherine was relaxed and enjoying the music. He knew she noticed that he was touching her, but she trusted him and no longer tensed up when that happened. In fact, he knew she enjoyed it.

The Bond seemed to be taking on a physicality of its own. Almost as if it stood between them, and was gently drawing them together. He felt as if he could reach out and touch it at times, and that if he did, he would find it warm and welcoming.

This thing he called a Bond was becoming so much more than the simple connection it had been.

He’d tried to explain it to Catherine. He hadn’t asked if her awareness of it had changed. He knew she had some sense of him. She had told him she knew he was in trouble when he and Father had been caught in the cave in, but they’d never discussed how much she could feel.

He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of applause. He joined in, feeling a little guilty that he’d hardly heard a note.

Catherine turned to him.

“You got so quiet, and your eyes were closed, I thought you might be taking a nap.”

“No, just enjoying the music and the company.”

~ ~ ~

Vincent was playing chess with Father on Friday night when Catherine decided she wanted to soak in the pool. She had spent the day working with Mary in the nursery, and never realized how much work eleven children under the age of five could be. She wondered how Mary did it everyday. She’d spend the day chasing after and carrying children, tying shoes and kissing boo-boos. It was the best workout she’d had since the last time she’d gone jogging in the park. Her back and legs were tired; she ached.

She told Vincent what she was going to do. He nodded and said he’d see her later.

She stopped at the armoire and picked up a nightgown, slippers and her robe. In the bathing chamber, she brushed her teeth, took off her clothes, pulled her hair up and slipped into the pool. She quickly bathed, then relaxed on the ledge against the side.

She was surprised a few minutes later when Vincent came into the bathing chamber.

“May I join you?” he asked.

“Of course.” She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “You’ve been on your feet most of the day too. You probably need this as much as I do.” He had taught his usual classes in the morning then spent the afternoon helping bring a load of groceries back from Long’s.

He went to the sink in the corner and brushed his teeth then joined her in the pool a few minutes later.

“Would you like me to wash your back?” she asked shyly, remembering their conversation the last time they’d shared the bath.

“Thank you, that would be wonderful. There’s a soft brush in the basket.”

She retrieved the brush and moved through the water to stand behind him. He pushed the soap toward her. She lathered the bristles and after pushing his hair out of the way she started washing his back using a light, circular scrubbing motion.

“That feels wonderful,” he said. “It’s been years since I’ve had someone wash my back for me.”

“Who used to wash it for you?” she asked, curious.

“The youngest children bathe in groups, and they always help each other. There’s an adult there to supervise, to make sure no one misses their ears or forgets to brush their teeth, but we would scrub each other’s backs. I quit bathing with the group when I was about eleven, right after Mitch joined us Below.”

“He teased you?” She didn’t realize it, but she’d begun to augment the brush with her hand, combing her fingers through the denser hair along his spine. She finished then started to pour water over his back from her cupped hands.

“Would you like me to wash yours?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.

“Would you? That sounds lovely.”

She turned her back to him.

“Why don’t you move over to the steps and sit on one of them? That should get enough of your back out of the water so I can wash it.”

She did as he directed, choosing a step where the water hit her at the waist when she sat down. She leaned forward on her elbows.

Vincent reached for the brush she’d been using then thought better of it.

Too harsh! He said looking at the smooth pale skin before him.

She jumped when his soapy hands made contact with her back. But it felt good, especially when he began to rub the sore spots between her shoulder blades and in her lower back.

He checked the Bond to make sure he had the right spots, and her groan of pleasure confirmed it.

“That feels good! I didn’t know tending children could be such hard work.”

“I’m often just as tired after working in the nursery all day with Mary as I am after I’ve put in a day on a heavy work detail,” he told her.

Carrying on a conversation and monitoring her in the Bond was proving difficult, especially since what he was now feeling from her was the pleasure he was giving her.

He didn’t want to stop, but eventually, he had to. He rinsed her back, and she moved to the bench along the side of the pool where he joined her.

“How does she do it every day?” she asked, continuing their conversation.

“She does have help.”

“Yes, but I noticed that none of her helpers is ever on the work roster for nursery duty for more than two or three days in a row. She does it all the time, almost every day.”

Vincent had picked up her hand and was inspecting a bruise on the fleshy part of just below her thumb.

“That looks like someone bit you!” he exclaimed.

“Delton is going through a phase,” she explained. “In fact, I think half of them are going through a phase of some kind. According to Mary, it’s the ‘Terrible Twos.’ Luke head butts people, Caty’s favorite word is ‘NO!’ and she says it with great emphasis. Clark spits, and Delton bites.”

“I’ve seen most of the children go through things like that. They are learning to assert themselves, but Mary will soon teach them what’s not acceptable.”

“I know. She’s amazing. She has little stools set up around the room, and when one of the children acts up, she sends them to the nearest stool. They’re only there for a minute or two, but it works, at least for a little while.”

He kissed her hand and pulled her a little closer. After a time, he lifted her onto his lap as he had the first time. This time she didn’t tense up, but relaxed right away.

“This really is nice,” she whispered. “I could stay like this all night.”

“And I could hold you like this all night.”

He had one arm around her waist again, and she settled back comfortably against his chest. She sighed and closed her eyes.

“May I touch you, Catherine?” he whispered into her ear.

“Touch me? How?” she asked. He felt her body tense somewhat, but the contentment flowing through the Bond only abated a little.

“Like this.” His hand left its spot on her waist and slowly moved up until he cupped her breast. “Is this all right?”

“Yes,” she knew she sounded a little breathless, but she hoped he could tell from the Bond that it wasn’t from anything but the pleasure of being touched.

“I’ve never touched a woman like this before,” he told her. “Your skin is soft, but the flesh is firm.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the nipple a few times. It immediately responded by getting hard.

I always wondered… would you respond to me, this way? The way all the books say a woman responds to a man she’s in love with?

“It feels good,” she admitted.

He moved his other hand until it cupped the other breast. He kneaded the flesh lightly.

“That’s nice.” She had barely moved, and the Bond told him that she liked what he was doing.

He grew a little bolder as his left hand traveled down to her stomach and he pressed her back into him a little. He was aroused, and he could tell she was aware of it, but she didn’t seem concerned.

He’d been reading, learning what he could do to please a woman… please Catherine, without actual intercourse. He’d learned a few things and wondered if now was the time to put what he had read to the test.

“May I touch you… more intimately?” he asked.

This time she did react; she flinched.

“You can tell me to stop anytime,” he assured her. “If we don’t push the boundaries at least a little, we will never move forward. You don’t need to be frightened of me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m not afraid.”

No, not afraid, he said to himself. But you are… worried. Let me help you, Catherine. Let me try.

“I told you I have no expectations,” he continued aloud. “Any privilege you grant me will be more than I ever dreamed of having.”

His sense of the Bond told him that she was struggling. He felt her hand over his, but she didn’t do anything. Didn’t try to restrain him or urge him on.

“Do I have permission?” he asked.

“Yes…”

He moved slowly, he’d never done this before. He didn’t want to rush, and he wanted to get it right the first time.

He could feel her calming, turning the control over to him.

“That’s right, relax,” he whispered,

Putting his other arm around her waist, Vincent pulled her more tightly against him. She felt the heat of his body and began to release the tension in hers.

“Mmm…” She cuddled back against him and closed her eyes. She had a feeling their relationship was about to change. “Now what?” she asked softly.

“Now this.” Vincent put his large left hand on her bare thigh. But he wasn’t caressing or stroking her, just offering it to her.

“Um… what?” Catherine was confused.

“Put it where you will allow it,” Vincent told her in a low voice. “Where you want it.”

“I…” Catherine started to say how it couldn’t possibly work… and then wondered… why wouldn’t it? “I guess I can try,” she said at last, her heart beating even faster. “You… you’re sure?”

“Anything you need, I am ready to give to you. All that I am is yours,” Vincent mumbled.

Catherine turned her head and looked at him wonderingly. “You said that at our wedding.”

“It’s a promise I intend to keep.” He squeezed her thigh gently to get her attention and then offered his hand again.

“Catherine, please, show me.”

“All right.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she lifted his hand in hers and pressed it between her legs. The moment his long fingers touched her, she felt a shock of pleasure run through her.

Yes! This is what I need! she thought. What I’ve needed all along… the touch of the man who truly loves me.

Vincent wasn’t trying to use his fingers, wasn’t trying to stroke her; he was simply holding still, waiting for her, waiting for the Bond to tell him she was ready.

“God,” Catherine half whispered, half moaned as she pressed his hand to her body. One long finger slipped a little deeper, and she gasped as she felt it.

“Catherine…” Vincent’s deep voice was hoarse in her ear.

He cupped her breast in his other hand and gently caressed her nipple. The gentle touch sent another bolt of pleasure through Catherine, and she squirmed a little in his arms.

“Yes!” she moaned.

“Like this?” Vincent caressed her nipple again. The Bond told him it was good, but he needed to hear her say it.

“Yes!” She was starting to feel something she’d never felt before.

Do I… surprise you, Catherine? Is it because this is me, or have you never… you said you’d never…

“Am I doing this right?” he murmured in her ear. “Tell me what to do, guide me. I want to do it right.”

“God,” Catherine moaned again. She loved the sound of his deep voice in her ear as his body surrounded and cradled hers.

He moved his hand so that two of his fingers were making contact with the soft folds of skin that begging for attention. She needed to move but wasn’t sure if she could. All of her attention was focused on what his hand was doing, and she wasn’t sure if she could get the rest of her body to respond to commands.

Vincent knew her need and moved his fingers so that they were on either side of the tender bundle of nerves as he continued the tender massage.

“Catherine! I can’t believe what the Bond is telling me,” Vincent groaned softly. “I can’t believe that I can give you this pleasure.”

“It feels amazing,” Catherine admitted as Vincent started moving his fingers more insistently. Part of her couldn’t believe it was happening, couldn’t believe she was allowing him to touch her like this; letting him stroke her. But part of her… a more insistent part… wanted more. “Touch me,” she begged Vincent. “I know you’re trying not to take advantage and just let me get used to being touched, but it’s not enough. I want you to touch me. I won’t break. I need more!”

“Thank you,” he growled in her ear.

She was breathless, and she grew bolder and pressed her bottom back against him. He was erect, more so than she’d ever felt before.

He could make love to me…  but I’m not even sure I could accommodate him, she thought. She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t do that…couldn’t go that far; not yet.

She put both hands on his big, muscular thighs and squeezed. The sensations were building, and she couldn’t help moving, and he hesitated.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Please Vincent. I want you to keep touching me.”

“It’s all right,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t stop. I want you to hold still for a moment, Catherine. Be still and let me touch you.”

With difficulty, she stopped wiggling.

Everything changed. Wrapping one arm firmly around her waist, Vincent shifted her even closer so that she could feel the long, hard ridge of his erection pressing against the small of her back. She quickly realized that he wasn’t holding her like that for his own pleasure though; he just wanted to have more control of her body before he continued.

And when he finally did touch her again it was with light but surprisingly masterful strokes, caressing in gentle but firm circles around the swollen button, bringing her pleasure like she’d never experienced before.

She tried to arch her back to get closer to the pleasure, but he held her so tightly she could barely move.

“That’s right, Catherine,” he breathed softly. “Trust me and let me touch you. Be still and let me give you the pleasure you’ve missed.”

The words enhanced the sensations, and she found herself reacting to his voice as strongly as his touch; she could barely breathe.

Deep down a part of her insisted that she shouldn’t like this… not after all the bad experiences she’d had, the men who’d never given a damn. But she couldn’t help herself or stop the way she felt. At last, she stopped even trying.

Something was happening. She saw colors behind her closed eyelids, and it was almost as if she could feel what Vincent was feeling; the pleasure he derived from giving her pleasure.

“Vincent,” she moaned, writhing against him. “Vincent, please…”

His long fingers sped up, circling with more force, more intensity.

“Oh God! OhGodohGod!” Catherine moaned, barely coherent. It felt so good to have Vincent caressing her… so much more than she’d ever experienced before. The wave of pleasure built inside her until she thought she was going to explode.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, still stroking her. “I can feel what you are feeling, almost as if we are one.”

“Yes, Vincent!” she moaned. “Yes, oh yes.”

And then the pleasure overwhelmed her, and she finally exploded. It was a deep, satisfying sensation that started deep inside her and filled her whole body.

At last, she collapsed, panting in his arms.

“God… oh God…” her voice was faint. She was exhausted. Completely spent and her body was as limp as a rag doll as he held her securely.

“Catherine,” he murmured in her ear. “Are you all right?”

“Yes… Of course, I just…” She shook her head, too drained and emotional to lie. “I’ve just never felt anything like that before. It was amazing.”

“You’re amazing… so beautiful,” he growled softly. “I’ve never seen a sight so beautiful. It was… all right?”

“It was wonderful!” she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight.

That was when she noticed that he looked uncomfortable. She didn’t look, but she could feel his erection pressing against her hip.

He looks like he’s in pain, she thought.

She reached for him, but Vincent grasped her upper arms and held her away from him.

“What’s wrong?” she looked at him, feeling hurt. “I just want to help you.”

Vincent gave her a small smile. “Not this time. This time was for you. I think we’ve done enough for one night.”

“All right.” Catherine shivered, already missing the warmth of his arms. “Then I need to get out and get dressed. I’m all pruney and cold.”

Vincent stayed in the pool while Catherine got out, dried, pulled on her robe and left. He was concerned when he felt the Bond so suddenly silent. She was shutting him out. He knew he couldn’t have done anything any differently.

Once his body was back under control, he left the pool, dried off as quickly as possible and went to her in the bedchamber. She was already in bed, curled into a ball with her back to his side of the bed when Vincent got there.

He now knew he’d hurt her feelings by pushing her away, but he truly believed that they’d done enough for one night. They’d both made great strides forward, and now he thought it would be best if they would just sleep on it before they went any farther.

He slid into the bed behind her and put his arm around her. She was holding herself so rigidly that she felt like stone. And she was trembling.

“I’m sorry Catherine,” he whispered as he kissed her neck. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I don’t want to rush you either. I love you, and I didn’t want you to regret later what you might have done in the heat of passion. I don’t want you to feel obligated to give me pleasure just because I did it for you. What you gave me… have always given me; it can’t be measured.”

She relaxed slightly.

“It wasn’t because I did something wrong? I wasn’t too loud, or moved too much?”

Vincent paused, not wanting rush into reassuring her and be in danger of sounding insincere.

Who did this to you, Catherine? Who made you feel so insecure? Which one was it? Or was it all of them?

“There was nothing wrong with anything that you did. I loved every sound, every move you made. The only thing that it might do is make me think that I’m a great lover.”

That made her relax and giggle. “You said you didn’t have anything to compare to, but I do and compared to that, you are a great lover.” She turned over and burrowed into his arms. “You keep that up, and you are going to have me singing your praises up and down the tunnels and then you’ll be embarrassed.”

Her threat made him chuckle, relieved that she accepted him so completely.

She was suddenly serious again.

“But you will make love to me?”

“I will make love to you,” he promised. “I just want you to look at it with a clear head once the euphoria has faded. I don’t ever want you to regret your choice, any more than I will.”

He felt her nod against his chest. “And you’re smart too,” she said with a deep sigh before finally drifting off to sleep.

Vincent didn’t sleep for a long time. The Bond, their connection had changed. He’d felt everything she had, but deeper, and more intensely than ever before. She hadn’t noticed while in the throes of her own orgasm, but he’d climaxed at the same time. And even though he had, he hadn’t lost his erection. Turning down her offer had been difficult.

He lay awake until he knew she was finally deeply asleep. Then he kissed her forehead and finally allowed himself to drift off.

Chapter 9

Vincent was gone when Catherine woke the next morning, and when she made her way out to the front chamber, she found a note from him.

***

Catherine,

My assistance is required on a repair. There are lengths of pipe that need to be moved. I hope to be back before dinner.

Love,

V~

***

Catherine had breakfast with Father and shared with him her plans for Vincent’s birthday.

“Mary has assured me that a three or four layer yellow butter cake with dark chocolate frosting is his favorite,” she said.

“You’ll have to make a double recipe of the chocolate buttercream frosting,” said William as he slid onto the bench next to her. “Unless you plan to get one at a bakery.”

“No, I was planning to make it myself, but I think I’m going to need guidance,” she told William with a laugh.

“Anytime. When you’ve helped in the kitchen, you’ve been quick to pick up on things. I think you can bake a cake. Did you have a plan for dinner?”

“I know that everyone who has a gift to give him will want to do it at dinner, so I thought we’d eat here. I’ll bring the cake out after dinner. A layer cake with candles for Vincent. Is there a way to make sure everyone gets cake?”

“We can make a couple of sheet cakes. I’m planning pot roast for dinner; it’s one of his favorites.”

“Do we need anything else? I have to go Above to pick up his gift, and I can get anything else we need.”

“I’ll give you a list,” William promised.

~ ~ ~

Catherine had ordered a set of books from Mr. Smythe. Normally he sold only used books, but he made an exception for Catherine and ordered a brand new set of books. She was pretty sure it would be the first new books Vincent had ever received, even if the author wasn’t new.

“Here you are, young lady. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare; all 37 plays, 154 sonnets and 5 books of poetry, in a three volume set.” He handed her a printed bill.

“I thought he wrote 160 sonnets,” she commented as she wrote a check.

“There are several sonnets that are debatable; he could have written them with someone else or just taken credit for them. And then there is that unfortunate rumor that everything that Shakespeare has been credited with writing was actually written by Sir Francis Bacon. If that is true, then it could be said that William Shakespeare didn’t write any sonnets.”

Catherine tore the check out of her checkbook and handed it to Mr. Smythe.

“I remember hearing that rumor in my literature class when I was in college. My professor was appalled at the very idea.” She smiled at Mr. Smythe. “Do you still have someone to make deliveries?”

“I do. Where would you like these delivered?”

Catherine wrote Peter’s address on a piece of paper and handed it to Mr. Smythe.

“Is after 6:00 this evening all right?” he asked. “My delivery boy is hardly a boy any longer. He’s attending college now.”

“That’s perfect. Peter is usually home a little after 5:00.”

Catherine left Mr. Smythe’s shop and took the list William had given her to the grocery. Again, she picked out her purchases and had them delivered. This time they were going to Saul’s warehouse because he had a refrigerator where they could be stored until someone went to pick them up.

Her last stop was Peter’s office for the checkup that she’d been putting off since before she’d moved Below.

“As usual,” Peter said, in his office after the exam, “you’re healthy if a little too thin, but that’s just my opinion. As far as all the weight charts are concerned, you are right on target. Your heart and lungs are good, kidney function appears normal. I’ll let you know about the other blood tests. It appears your move Below has reduced your stress level, and your blood pressure is excellent, much better than it was the last time you were in. I want you to keep taking the multi-vitamin I recommended, and the vitamin D. Do you want your prescription for birth control renewed?”

Catherine stopped and thought for a moment. She’d been taking birth control since she was 19, as much for the pleasant side effect of easier periods as for birth control. She and Vincent had never discussed that subject, she decided she’d better keep taking the pills until they did.

“At least for now,” she told Peter. “It’s not really something that Vincent and I have discussed. We need to make that decision together.” Especially since it looks like I might soon need birth control, she added to herself.

Peter wrote out a prescription and handed it across the desk to her.

“Anything else?” he asked with a smile.

“Come to Vincent’s birthday party on Friday. William is cooking his favorite dinner, and I’m baking him a cake.”

~ ~ ~

Vincent didn’t make it to dinner that night. The weather had been warmer Above, and some of the snow had started to melt. A small job of replacing one section of pipe had become a monumental undertaking. They’d hoped to get it done before there was a thaw to avoid the inevitable ice cold mud bath. That didn’t happen.

Catherine finally gave up trying to wait for him. She banked the fires in both the braziers, took her book and went to bed.

~ ~ ~

Vincent finally got back to their chamber after midnight. He’d sensed that she had fallen asleep about an hour before. He was muddy, wet and chilled to the bone. He couldn’t wait to get into the hot pool to warm up and soak the mud off.

He smiled as he passed the bed. Catherine had fallen asleep reading again.

The pool felt good, but he found his mind wandering to Catherine, asleep in their bed.

It was the first moment he’d had to himself all day. He had barely been aware of Catherine, he just knew that she’d been busy.

When he was dry and dressed for bed, he snuffed out most of the candles Catherine had left burning. He lifted the book she’d fallen asleep reading and put it on the night stand. He turned off the electric reading light next to the bed and carefully crawled in next to her, trying not to wake her.

“Umm, you’re home,” she murmured as he put his arm around her and spooned her from behind. “Is everything OK?”

“It’s fine, now. I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“It’s OK. As long as you’re here and you’re safe… What time is it?”

“After midnight. Go back to sleep.” He curled closer and buried his nose in her hair. She smelled so good, and she was so warm.

“You smell good, Catherine. You went Above today? You smell like fresh air and snow.”

“I didn’t know snow had a smell,” she said, smiling to herself.

“It does. It’s crisp and fresh… I don’t know, just snow.”

Almost without thought his hand slid down and came to rest low on her stomach.

Her breath caught, and her eyes popped open. When she’d gone to bed earlier, the chamber had been warm, and she was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown. She shivered a little when his fingers came to rest on skin where the gown had ridden up. She realized her bare bottom was pressed against him. He was wearing his old sweatpants, and she could feel it as he suddenly went rigid.

He nuzzled her neck and slid his other arm under her, and his hand grazed her breast. It felt like an electrical connection sizzling through her from her breast where he touched her to that spot between her legs where the fingers of his other hand almost touched.

She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut as his fingers hit home. She was suddenly throbbing with need.

Their Bond responded as it had before in the bath… merging as one and moving to a whole new level of pleasure. She was suddenly more aware of the Bond and of Vincent through the Bond than she’d ever been before

“I need you,” he whispered as his fingers again found that little bundle of nerves that had begun to tingle in anticipation. If she hadn’t been lying down, she was sure she would have fallen.

She couldn’t speak but simply nodded her head as he caressed her. He kissed her neck then sucked lightly.

That, combined with what the Bond was doing, sent her over.

He held her tightly.

She was drowning in the waves of pleasure that rolled over and through her. His kisses on her neck and shoulder seemed to ground her.

He turned her to face him. There was no mistaking it. His eyes were blazing.

“Vincent. I swear, your eyes are almost glowing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He wore the most intense look she’d ever seen on his face; his eyes on fire.

He ignored her comment as he pushed back for only as long as it took him to pull off his shirt, and his pants. He helped her pull her nightgown over her head.

He rolled her onto her back and positioned himself over her.

“You want this?” he asked tentatively. “It will change everything.”

“Everything was changed the first time I heard your voice.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. “I want you! Now… and forever!”

“I meant what I said,” he said softly, as he nudged her legs apart. “I love you.” He settled between her legs and began his slow slide inside, and her side of the Bond exploded. “… And Catherine… Your eyes are glowing too.”

The physical world expanded then broke into tiny shards around her and Catherine lost herself.

There was none of the awkwardness of making love the first time. She knew exactly what he wanted and needed just as he knew what she wanted and needed.

She became Vincent; together they became one, and nothing and everything. Somewhere outside their bodies, the Bond took them to another plane and merged them into one ethereal being, forging something mysterious. It was the Bond she’d dreamed of since he’d first told her about how he could feel her.

Together they existed on a level of pleasure so powerful, she knew one body alone couldn’t hold it. Somewhere in her body, mind or the Bond… she wasn’t sure where… possibly all three, an orgasm took her. Took both of them.

This Bond was permanent. Forever. Their world was nothing but swirling colors, as her side of the Bond merged with his. Neither of them had words to describe this. And then, like a piece of the puzzle that had been missing her entire life, it all snapped into place.

Vincent!

His love echoed through her.

My Catherine. My love. My life!

He heard me? She was in a fog, but that caught her attention.

I heard you! His mental voice was strong and almost amused.

She smiled and felt as if she was a leaf drifting lazily down from the heights.

Their thoughts drifted together until he finally slipped from her body and rolled onto his side next to her.

The connection broken, she almost felt like crying. He felt her distress and gathered her close. He kissed her temple.

“It will happen again,” he tried to reassure her.

She relaxed and drifted off to sleep, and he soon followed.

~ ~ ~

Vincent came to his senses to find Catherine sleeping beside him. They’d slept, but couldn’t have slept long. He wondered if they’d lose control like that every time they made love.

My Bondmate.

Catherine slept sprawled on her stomach, and he stroked his fingers lightly up and down her back. He sensed when she woke. He knew the moment she reached out through her connection with the Bond and felt her joy and astonishment.

She rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow. She reached out and brushed his hair from his face.

He couldn’t stop his smile. He’d never been so happy.

She shook her head and gave him a crooked smile.

“What was that?” she asked sleepily. “I could feel you. I could hear you… inside my head.”

He shook his head.

“I heard you too, but I don’t know what it was. If it’s like that every time we make love, I don’t know if we will survive.”

“Oh, but what a way to go.” She giggled and snuggled closer.

~ ~ ~

Catherine and Vincent had turned a corner in their relationship. Or as Vincent put it, they’d done a complete one-eighty. Catherine said it was more like a three-sixty because she swore she was spinning.

They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and they soon learned that it didn’t matter if their lovemaking was quick, hot and passionate or slow and easy, when their bodies merged, their whole being’s merged. They truly became one.

Catherine was up before Vincent on Friday. She went to the kitchen to fill a tray to take back to their chamber, and she served him breakfast in bed.

“Am I sick or dying?” he asked when he looked up to see her standing next to the bed with the breakfast tray. “No one has served me a meal in bed since I was sick the last time.”

“Happy birthday!” she said with a grin. “Get used to it, because I plan to spoil you, especially on special occasions.”

Vincent sat up against the piled pillows and pulled the covers up to his waist. He was bare-chested, and Catherine admired the view as she put the tray across his lap. She sat next to his legs, across the tray from him and started removing covers from the various dishes on the tray. She poured tea for him and coffee for herself and sat back to watch him.

“Did you bring something for yourself?” he asked.

She pointed to a small covered plate she’d removed and set aside.

“Scrambled eggs, a piece of toast and an orange, but I need my coffee first.”

She finished her coffee and started on the food.

“What do you have planned for today?” she asked.

“Father doesn’t schedule anyone on the work roster on their birthday, so I’m supposed to meet Mouse in his chamber sometime this morning. He says he has something for me. Then the children are going to escort me to lunch. I don’t think I have anything planned for this afternoon.”

“I was just curious. I have a few things to do this morning, but I’ll meet you at lunch.”

When they were done with their breakfast, Catherine kissed Vincent and left to take the tray back to the kitchen. She told William that she was going to Peter’s to pick up Vincent’s gift, then she’d be back to bake the cake.

The children treated Vincent’s birthday as if it was some kind of a major holiday. At lunch, there were games, and each child bestowed a handmade (or at least hand repaired) gift on him.

Back in their chamber after lunch, Catherine surveyed the assortment on the table.

“Now I know where all your unusual decorating accessories come from,” she said as she picked up a slightly crooked model of the Statue of Liberty. It was like the ones sold in the gift shop on Liberty Island, but the base had obviously been broken off at some point. The child who had given it to Vincent had formed a rough square out of modeling clay and had mounted the 6-inch high statue on top of it. The whole thing was almost ten inches high.

“Yes, it usually takes a few days to find places for everything,” he said as he placed a framed crayon drawing of three people on a shelf. He assumed the drawing was supposed to be him, Catherine and the artist. It was signed “AMY.”

“I have a gift for you,” Catherine told him. “Do you have time to open it now, or do you want to wait until later?”

Vincent pulled her into his arms and kissed her, then slid his hand under her sweater.

“Not that!” She giggled as she batted his hands away. “I mean a gift!”

“You are a gift. The best gift,” he protested.

She managed to get away from him as he laughed at her. She went into the other chamber and came back with a heavy package wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with light blue ribbons. She put it on the chair since there wasn’t room on the table.

Vincent hesitated a moment and could feel Catherine’s excitement in the Bond. She must have picked something special. He went to the chair where he carefully unwrapped the present.

He was stunned at what he found.

“This is… I don’t know what to say, Catherine. The complete works? I don’t believe it.” He picked up one of the volumes. “And they are new!” He put the book to his nose and sniffed. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a new book before.”

“Old books do have their charm, but I thought that you deserved something that no one has ever used before, for a change.”

He set the book back on the stack and pulled her into his arms.

“The top shelf of the bookcase in the bedchamber will be the perfect place for them.”

She followed him when he carried the books to the bookshelf to put them away.

“Where did you get them,” he asked as he shelved the books.

“I ordered them at Mr. Smythe’s shop. You know, where I met Kristopher. I did some other errands too. I stopped to see Peter and asked him to renew my prescription for birth control… I didn’t want to make any decision on that until I’d talked to you.”

“We have plenty of time to think about that if it is even necessary… Did you see any friends? Stop at your office?”

“No, I had other things to do. I’ll take care of that stuff later.” He could tell she was purposely avoiding the subject.

~ ~ ~

Peter joined them for dinner, and everyone exclaimed over Catherine’s cake. She’d made a layer cake for Vincent and William had helped her make extra sheet cakes, using the same recipe, for everyone else.

After dessert, some of the adults bestowed their gifts, most of which were of the more practical variety.

After dinner as they were walking back to the study, Peter handed Catherine a canvas shopping bag he was carrying.

“I almost forgot,” he said as he handed it to her. “Mail. I sent the bills over to your accountant, but those looked personal.”

Catherine didn’t get around to opening her mail until they got back to their chamber a couple hours later. She was sitting in the middle of their bed just opening a large manila envelope when Vincent came back from the bathing chamber.

He felt her shock when it hit her.

“What is it?” he asked, turning toward her.

“It’s from the DA’s office.”

He hurried to her side thinking, from her reaction, that it was bad news. He sat down next to her, and she shoved the papers into his hands. On top was a sheet from a yellow legal pad. The words

Radcliffe,

We did it! Hale is a fraud. He was the one making it all up.

He just couldn’t stand that he’d been beaten by a woman!

All our findings are enclosed.

Please come back!

I’m also enclosing a formal offer from John. Even he admits that he misses you!

Joe

scrawled across it seemed to have been written in blood? He looked closer… no, red magic marker.

Vincent looked up at her and handed the papers back. She started to read through them, handing each sheet back to Vincent as she finished with it.

They read through it all. Joe had proved that Hale had taken offense to being beaten by a woman and worse yet, over something that Hale considered trivial.

“His client raped a woman, and this Hale considers it trivial, a non-issue?” asked Vincent, in shock.

“He made sure that everyone knew what the victim did for a living and argued in court, that if there was any crime committed it was that of petty theft and nothing more since the woman was a professional escort. In his book that’s synonymous with prostitute and that sex with a prostitute, even non-consensual was in no way rape. I argued that it didn’t matter if the woman was a nun or a hooker if she said “no” then it was rape.” She suddenly caught what she’d just said. “And I guess if I’d thought about it, I might have realized that it also applied to me.”

“And the jury obviously agreed with you,” Vincent added, all but ignoring her last comment.

“Yes, it was unanimous, and half the jury consisted of men,” Catherine agreed.

Vincent held up the letter from the DA offering her old job back.

“What are you going to do about this?” he asked. “He’s offering you the same job, at the same pay, with no loss of seniority; he wants to treat it all as a leave of absence.”

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “I was doing some good work, and I liked what I was doing,” she conceded. “I want to think about it. I might go up and talk to them on Monday, but I want to have my ducks in a row by then.” She reached out and took his hand. “I know things are different for us now. What would you like to see me do?”

“What I want is beside the point,” he told her as he withdrew his hand from hers. “I want you to be happy, and if that is what will make you happy, then you must do it.” He dropped the papers onto the bed and stood. “I have sentry duty in half an hour. I should leave.”

“Sentry duty? I thought Father gave everyone the day off from all duties on their birthday.”

“He does, but Stephen is looking feverish, and I told him I’d take his shift for him.” He turned and pulled his sentry staff out of the corner and picked his cloak up off the chair. “Don’t wait up, I’ll be late.”

“But Vincent…” she called after him as he left.

Well, so much for my plans, she muttered to herself as she stacked the papers and put them back into the envelope.

~ ~ ~

Stephen had looked feverish at dinner, but Vincent hadn’t offered to take his shift. Stephen and Brooke were surprised when Vincent caught up to them on their way to the sentry post under Belvedere Castle.

“But I’m OK, Vincent,” Stephen protested. “Brooke gave me some aspirin, and I’m feeling better.”

“And I came with him to make sure that he stays awake, or if he starts feeling bad, I can let him sleep, and I can watch.”

“It’s probably better that you go back to your chamber and get a good night’s sleep,” Vincent insisted. “And if you don’t feel better in the morning, go see Father. A virus has been making the rounds among the children. We don’t need you down with it too.”

Stephen finally agreed, and he and Brooke headed back the way they’d come. Vincent walked the rest of the way deep in thought.

He reached the post and settled in behind the grid to watch the tunnel that led to the surface.

When Catherine had asked him what he would like to see her do, he’d almost told her.

I want to see you here, with me, safe in my arms. Working next to me every day, and sleeping next to me every night.

But he knew he couldn’t do that to her. If he said that, he knew that she’d do whatever he asked of her, but this was an opportunity he couldn’t take away from her. She had to make the decision, then they’d see how he could fit into that decision.

But if she decides to go back Above and go back to work, where do I fit? He wondered. At best, we will be back where we were before; her living Above and me visiting when there is time. I don’t know if I can be that occasional lover who always has to leave before dawn.

~ ~ ~

Despite what Vincent had said, she tried to wait up, but she’d been up early, and it had been a long day. She finally went to bed and didn’t even notice when he came in. And he was up and gone when she woke the next morning.

She joined Father for breakfast.

“Where’s Vincent?” he asked her as she slid onto the bench across from him.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. He was gone when I woke up this morning.”

“That’s odd. He wasn’t scheduled for anything today.”

“He took Stephen’s sentry shift last night because he said Stephen was feverish. He came in late, and I was asleep, and then he was gone when I woke.”

“You’re sure he came back,” asked Father with some alarm.

“Yes. His side of the bed had been slept in, and he left his sentry staff in the front chamber.”

Father looked around the chamber and caught sight of Mouse coming in. He waved at him and signaled him to come over.

“Father needs Mouse?” Mouse asked with a grin as he walked up.

“Yes, Mouse. Vincent seems to be missing. I was wondering if you knew where he might be.”

“Vincent’s not missing. Just went down to Narcissa.”

Father’s eyebrows went up as he looked over at Catherine.

“I thought I scheduled you to make those deliveries to Narcissa,” said Father.

“Was, but Vincent wanted to do it this time. Said he hadn’t seen her in a while and he wanted to make sure she was OK.”

“That’s odd. He usually tells me, or at least leaves a note, when he goes off,” Catherine said as Mouse went to get his breakfast

“Precisely. I don’t mean to pry… but did you two have a disagreement?” he asked tentatively.

She was quiet for a moment.

“Not a disagreement, at least I don’t think it was.” She went on to explain the letter and file from the DA’s office. “I wanted his council; his opinion, but he just clammed up and suddenly announced that he was taking Stephen’s sentry duty.”

“Have you made a decision?” Father asked warily. Catherine could almost read his mind.

“Father, I’m not going to leave him. I love him! If I do decide to go back to the DA’s office, I’ll come up with a way I can do it and remain with Vincent. There are others Below who do it. They live Below but work Above. I’m sure I can do it too, but if I can’t then Vincent comes first. He will always come first.”

“But it can be difficult. Most of those who live here but work or go to school Above do so only on a parttime basis, and a lot of the jobs are with Helpers.”

“I could keep my apartment and use the threshold in the basement,” she suggested. “Or I could use Peter’s threshold.”

“It’s possible Vincent fears that things will return to how they were before. Maybe it’s not just the time you would need to be away at work, but the distance he sees. He couldn’t see you whenever he pleased before.”

“Perhaps a home with tunnel access?” Catherine suggested.

“Yes, perhaps a home with tunnel access.” Father agreed after a moment of thought. “There are several Helpers who have access in the basements of their homes or in their businesses.”

Catherine’s eyes lit up at the thought.

“Do you know any Helpers who have houses that might be for sale?” she asked. “Or maybe locations of old thresholds that have been closed?”

“I’ll check my records,” he promised.

“That sidetracked me off the subject,” she admitted. “But do you think that is Vincent’s problem? He did seem to shut down as soon as he read the note from Joe and the letter from John.”

“I think it’s very likely. He’s gained a lot of confidence in your relationship in recent months, but I have a feeling that it’s a fragile confidence. He needs more time to get used to all the changes.”

“Will I ever be able to convince him that I won’t leave him?” she asked.

“How you handle this will go a long way toward that,” Father stated.

Catherine went back to their chamber, determined to do the right thing, and as much as she wanted to be able to discuss it with Vincent, she knew that making the decision on her own, a decision that wouldn’t cause Vincent any pain, was what she needed to do.

The way I see it, she said to herself, as she sat at the writing table with a pad and pencil, I’ve got two choices: I could just continue as I have the last few months, or I can go back to the DA’s office. Father’s idea of a house with tunnel access would make that second option a whole lot easier.

She started making a list of pros and cons, and when she was done with that, she started on a list of the things she’d have to do to make either option work. The fact that she was putting way more thought into what she would need to do to make a return to the DA’s office work than her other option, wasn’t lost on her.

It looks like I’m leaning toward going back, she thought.

She was still sitting and staring at her lists when Father called out to her, asking permission to enter.

“I found you two properties,” he announced when he came in. He was carrying a rolled up map and a file folder. He sat down across from her and unrolled a map on the table. He pointed out two red circles. “This one is a brownstone a few blocks from Peter’s home. It isn’t for sale, but the Helper has mentioned that he’s been thinking about selling and moving to be closer to his children.

“This other one,” he tapped the circle closer to the northern end of the park, “is only about ten or eleven blocks north of your apartment, and I know that it’s currently vacant.” He pulled several photos out of his pocket and handed them to her. “It’s a little over 5,000 square feet, on four floors with a daylight basement. It has 6 or 8 bedrooms and even more bathrooms, and I don’t remember how many rooms, total. It was built in 1887 in the Queen Anne style.”

Catherine was speechless as she looked through the photos.

“This is huge, Father. And from your description, I’m sure it’s going to sell for millions. I don’t know that I can afford it. Is, or was, the owner a Helper?”

“Not really, but it has a new owner now.”

“Then it’s not on the market?” she was puzzled about why he’d show it to her if it wasn’t for sale. She went back through the photos. She turned the one of the exterior over and saw the address on the back then looked up at Father. “I thought this looked familiar. This is Margaret’s house!” She exclaimed. “Isn’t her will still waiting to be executed?”

“Not any longer. I got word just a few days ago that it’s been settled. I signed all the paperwork, and the lawyer gave me the keys. Half of her estate is going to go into setting up a foundation. Our community will be one of the beneficiaries of that foundation, and this house,” he tapped the photo she was holding, “along with a trust to use for upkeep and taxes, came to me. Margaret’s father gave us this house as a wedding gift when we married. She moved out after the annulment and didn’t live in it again until right after she spent that time Below with me. While she was here, she had everything moved back in and was there until she died.”

“It didn’t sit empty all that time, did it?” she asked.

“No, she leased it. It’s been renovated several times over the years.”

“Oh my God!” Catherine didn’t know what to say.

“After she went back Above before she died, Mouse opened a threshold under the house so I could visit.”

“You know you could sell this and use the proceeds to support this community for years?”

“I realize that, but Margaret loved that house even though she didn’t live in it, and she and I made some wonderful memories there in the short time we shared it. I think it would be the ideal place for you and Vincent. Besides the Foundation allowance we will be getting is more than adequate to provide for our needs.”

He handed her several sheets of paper which contained floor plans of each floor.

“But Father, it’s huge! What would we do with all this space?”

“Well, with that many bedrooms, several of which are suites, you might offer space to members of our community who are transitioning Above. When Kanin gets out of prison, he’s probably going to be on parole, and he will need an address. The basement is a self-contained apartment with its own entrance. Maybe he and Olivia could live there during that time. When Margaret and I lived there, it was where the butler lived.”

“You had a butler?” asked Catherine with a laugh.

“And a housekeeper, a cook, and several maids,” he told her, laughing with her. “It’s only a few minutes farther than your current apartment, and it has a private threshold. You and Vincent could live there, but come Below whenever you need to. Vincent could treat the tunnels as a job and come Below every morning to go to work.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. She was looking at the photos of the interior, and the rooms were beautiful. “Is there stained glass in every room?”

“On the ground floor. It’s Tiffany,” he told her with a smile. “Margaret loved the colors. She had all the plaster walls painted white so it wouldn’t interfere with the colors.”

“Do you think Vincent will go along with this?” she asked.

“If it’s part of a plan to keep you in his life, then yes, I think he will.”

“Then I’ve got some work to do.”

~ ~ ~

A message was delivered to her from Vincent on Sunday morning. Narcissa needed his help with something so he wouldn’t be home until Tuesday.

Catherine groaned and rubbed her forehead, but she managed a smile for Eric.

“Thanks, Eric.” She ruffled his hair and gave him a quick hug.

She left her chamber and went to the study to talk to Father.

“I’m going to go Above to talk to Joe tomorrow morning, and I’d like to go look at the house and see if there is anything that needs to be done.”

Father rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a heavy ring of keys.

“You might want to look into having the locks changed or rekeyed,” he suggested. “Each outside door has a regular lock, a deadbolt, and a chain, and each of the locks has a separate key; it would be much easier if they were all the same.”

“What about the inside doors?”

“They are all the original hardware, and they have the old skeleton keys. Those keys should be in the house somewhere. Margaret had the place renovated not long ago. All the windows, except for the stained glass, are new, and so are the outside doors. There is a new heating and air conditioning system, and it’s been rewired and re-plumbed. You shouldn’t have any problems with it.”

“When I was looking at the pictures I noticed a roof terrace on the back of the house. Do you think that would be safe for Vincent? I mean, it’s very close to the building behind it and the street.”

“That terrace is off the master bedroom on the second floor. If I remember correctly, the building behind doesn’t have any windows on that wall, and no roof access. Margaret had an eight-foot wooden privacy fence built, and there is an awning shading a good portion of it. She used the terrace frequently in the short time she was here.

~ ~ ~

Catherine was surprised at the reception she got when she arrived at the DA’s office on Monday morning. Rita saw her as soon as she walked in the door. She flew across the room to hug her.

“Are you coming back?” she demanded. “Please tell me you’re coming back.”

“That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to Joe and John. A lot has happened in my life since I was last here.” She held her left hand out to Rita.

“You got married?” Rita was obviously surprised. “I didn’t see anything in the papers.”

“That is because it was a private thing. We didn’t tell everyone. My husband is a very private person.”

Rita hugged her again and congratulated her. Joe was walking up when Rita released her.

“Are the hugs free or are you charging for them?” he asked as he held his arms open.

Catherine stepped into them and hugged Joe fiercely.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Joe turned and led Catherine into his office and closed the door. He waved toward the old sofa in front of his desk. She took off her coat and sat, and he sat on the other end.

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not surprised that you doubted me. My initial reaction wasn’t exactly one to instill a lot of faith in what I was thinking.”

“I should have known better, but I was really blindsided by Hale’s accusations. And I should have been more involved in the effort to clear my name,” Catherine admitted.

“Like I said, it was better that you weren’t involved. Since Hale’s allegations were based on his idea that you were manufacturing evidence and coaching witnesses to lie, it was probably a good idea that you stayed as far away from everything as possible. Even the Attorney General was impressed with the results of the investigation and is all for John asking you to come back and treating your time off as a leave of absence rather than a suspension.”

“That does look better on my record,” Catherine agreed. “Just know that I’m very grateful; don’t ever doubt it.”

“So, you’re grateful… does that mean you’re coming back?”

“If I can get a few concessions from you, yes,” she said with a smile, hoping he’d be willing to go along with her ideas.

“What kind of concessions?” he asked. He sounded a little wary.

“Nothing major. I just don’t want to put in any more of those sixteen-hour days. The occasional ten-hour day wouldn’t be too bad. And I would like to do some of those extra hours at home. You see, there have been some changes…” She held out her left hand.

Joe looked a little confused at first then he looked at the ring on her finger.

“Is that a wedding ring?” he asked, incredulously.

“It is.”

“That guy who was sick last spring?”

“Yes. This leave of absence gave us a lot more time together and we were able to work through some of the obstacles. We got married just before Christmas.”

Joe grinned and leaned in to hug her. “I know there are a lot of guys out there who are going to be disappointed that you are off the market,” he told her. Like me, he added mentally.

“So, nixing the long hours is so that you can spend more time with the new hubby? Gee, you newlyweds sure can be demanding.” He laughed. “But I think we can accommodate those demands. When do you want to start?”

Catherine laughed.

“Do you think you can to without me until the first of February?” she asked.

“If we have to. Why so long?”

“I’m… we’re moving.”

“You mean that luxury broom closet you’ve been living in isn’t big enough for two?”

“That’s part of it. I’ll give you the address once we’ve finalized it all…” she looked around. “Does John want to see me?”

“John is on vacation, believe it or not. I think it’s the first one he’s taken in years. His oldest daughter just gave him and Dee their first grandchild; a boy, and they’ve gone to Chicago to meet him.”

“That’s wonderful!”

They brought each other up to date on what had happened over the last few months, then Catherine looked at her watch.

“I’ve got a few other things to take care of. May I use your phone?”

“Sure. I need to talk to Rita. Come find me before you leave.”

Joe left, and Catherine used his phone to make two calls. The first was to Jenny, and she arranged to meet her for dinner. The second was to the locksmith who had changed the locks on her apartment door almost a year before.

When she was done, she picked up her coat and went to find Joe.

“I’ll see you on February 1st,” she said when she joined Joe and Rita. “I’ll be in touch. If you need to talk to me before then, don’t call me at home; I’m not staying there. If you need to contact me, you can still do it through Peter. I’ll send you my new address once we’ve moved.”

She hugged both Joe and Rita and just before she reached the door, Joe called after her.

“Hey, so when do we get to meet this Mr. Right?”

She knew this was coming, but she didn’t really have anything to respond with.

“Well, soon enough, I guess. He’s kind of a private person and isn’t into socializing much, but I’ll talk to him about meeting my best friends. Maybe we can set up a dinner at our place once we get settled.”

She waved and escaped out the door.

Once she reached the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Margaret’s house. Father’s house, she mentally corrected herself.

~ ~ ~

After her first quick walk through the house, all she could think was Wow!

The place is huge!

It was a fairly narrow house, probably 24 or 25 feet wide. The ground floor hallway ran down the inside wall that it shared with the building next door, but it was deep, and since it was on a corner, all the rooms had windows. The floor plans said that there was over 10,000 square feet of living space.

We could run a bed and breakfast, she commented to herself as she found the stairs and went down into the basement.

Father had said that the threshold was in the furnace room behind the furnace. It was easy to find and the key he’d given her worked.

The basement was a self-contained apartment with its own entrance, and she could see Kanin and Olivia living there when Kanin came home. And it was completely furnished.

She and Vincent could very easily live in the rest of the place with plenty of room left over.

Back upstairs she crossed the hall and went into the kitchen. It had all the appliances and a table that would seat six.

The next room was the dining room. It had a huge antique table, chairs and an extra large breakfront china cabinet that seemed to have been built for the room. She had her mother’s china and a set of crystal, but she was sure she didn’t have enough of anything to fill those glass front cabinets.

Next to that was a room that was labeled a music room. It was small but stunning. The walls in this room were paneled from floor to what looked like to be at least a 14-foot ceiling. There were shelves, and she could see it being used as a small library or office. Her father’s desk from his office at home would fit in perfectly. In the front was a large living room.

And the striking thing about the whole ground floor was all the stained glass. Father had said it was all Tiffany, and as far as he knew original to the house.

The second floor had two bedrooms in the front that shared a small bath. The master bedroom was in the back and had French doors that led out onto a rooftop terrace. Part of it was screened and roofed, and the other part was open to the sky.

Catherine went out the open part of the terrace and looked around at the surrounding buildings. The building behind was taller, but there were no windows on the wall. The house next door didn’t extend as far back as this one, and unless someone hung out a window on the third or fourth floor, it would be impossible for them to see anything on the terrace. The house across the street on the other side could pose a problem, however. It was a large apartment building and looked like it was 9 or 10 floors. The street between them was only about 35 feet wide with sidewalks on both sides.

Vincent would be able to go on to the terrace at night, but probably no further than the roofed area during the day.

The top two floors were almost identical. They each had four large rooms that could be made into separate bedrooms, or they could be used as two suites on each floor. There were even two areas on each floor that could serve as tiny kitchenettes, and the suites could become efficiency apartments.

By the time Catherine got back down to the ground floor the locksmith she’d called earlier was knocking on the door. She let him in and explained what she wanted. Once he examined the front and back doors of both the basement apartment and the house he told her that the locks and dead bolts weren’t very old and he could rekey them all so that they’d all open with the same key.

While he was working on that she started walking through the house making a list of what furniture they would need. She still had some of her dad’s stuff in storage that she knew she could use, and the rest was just an excuse to go shopping. She wondered if she should ask Jenny to come along.

She also made some notes on a rough drawing of the floor plan she’d made.

What in the world are we ever going to do with this? She wondered as she stood in the middle of the huge formal living room. The room was almost as large as her apartment. This place is definitely from an era when people did a lot more formal entertaining.

By the time the locksmith was done, she was finished with her lists. She let him out the front door, then went around locking up.

She took a taxi to her apartment where she packed a few things into suitcases. She carried them down to the basement and dropped them into the sub-basement. She’d pick them up later.

Catherine was glad she’d asked Jenny to meet her for an early dinner. She’d skipped lunch, and she was hungry. She hoped Jenny would have time to have a look at the house after they ate.

~ ~ ~

“So, what have you been up to? It’s been so long since I heard from you I would have sworn you’d dropped off the face of the planet.”

Catherine apologized for the long absence and explained all that had gone on in the previous months.

“I just decided that I needed to take a break before I did anything. I recognize now that I was depressed and just trying to run away. If Joe hadn’t kept at it, I don’t know what would have happened.”

When she finally got around to showing Jenny her ring and telling her that she was married Jenny squealed and drew the attention of half the other diners.

“Jenn!” said Catherine with a laugh as she looked around the dining room at the people staring at them.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Where did you get married? Did you run off to Vegas or something? You know I’m mad you didn’t invite me!” But she didn’t look mad.

“I’m sorry, but Vincent and I wanted to keep it small and quiet.” That much was true, they had wanted to, even if there had been nearly two hundred people there.

“Where are you living? And most importantly, when do I get to meet him?”

“I thought I’d show you the house after dinner if you have time… We aren’t moved in yet. His father owns it and has offered it to us. I looked at it today, but Vincent hasn’t seen it yet,” Catherine said, deftly sidestepping Jenny’s request to meet her husband. One thing at a time, Catherine thought.

“Of course, I have time!”

After dinner, Catherine found herself in the back of a cab giving the address of Father’s house to the driver for the second time that day.

Jenny was stunned by the house.

“Can I rent that basement apartment from you?” she asked with a laugh. “You could put two of your apartments on one floor and almost three of mine.”

“Now, I never thought of that,” Catherine said with a wink. “The basement is promised to someone else right now, but they won’t need it for very long. Once it’s empty again, I’ll let you know.”

That sent both the women into peals of laughter that was reminiscent of some of the hilarity experienced in their college years. “If we were both living under the same roof, we’d drive your poor Vincent insane,” Jenny said once she caught her breath.

And hopefully, Vincent will agree to living here with me, she thought as she and Jenny left.

Chapter 10

After Jenny left, Catherine followed the well-marked route through the tunnels back home.

When she passed the threshold under her building, she picked up the two suitcases and small duffle she’d dropped down earlier. They were heavy, but she could manage. She slung the shoulder strap of the duffel across her body and pushed the bag behind her and picked up a suitcase in each hand. She passed the sentry post just as Jamie was getting off and was more than happy for Jamie to take the heavier of the two suitcases.

“Is this your whole wardrobe?” Jamie asked with a laugh.

“You know better than that; you’ve seen the inside of my closet,” Catherine joined her laughter. “No, this is just some of my professional wardrobe and some makeup. I’m going back to the DA’s office the first of next month, and I think I might need to try some of it on and make sure it’s all ready to go.”

“Like what you have on today,” Jamie observed. “You look a lot different. Almost like a different person.”

Is there really that big a difference? She wondered as they walked along. Vincent has seen me in most of these, but nothing really belongs down here. Hopefully, he will be all right with moving into Father’s house.

Jamie helped her carry everything into the chamber, and Catherine told her to just leave it out of the way next to the entrance. She’d get to it in the morning. She might not even bother unpacking most of it.

Catherine was taking off her coat as she entered the bedchamber. She was surprised to see Vincent standing next to his armoire. He’d obviously been there a while. She could tell that he’d bathed, his hair was still damp.

He had his back to her as he buttoned his shirt. She quickly tossed her coat on a chair and crossed the chamber and hugged him from behind. She tried to ignore that his whole body tensed up at the contact. A thought ran through her mind. He feels like I did when I was afraid to be touched. Afraid I was about to be hurt.

“I wish I’d known you were back,” she told him as her arms went around his waist. “I wouldn’t have gone to dinner with Jenny. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I finished early and decided to start back this afternoon, instead of waiting until tomorrow,” he told her as he unwrapped her arms and turned to face her although he avoided looking into her eyes.

Catherine took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. “The Bond may be much stronger for me than it used to be, but I still don’t have that much of a sense of you… I don’t need the Bond to tell me that something is bothering you. Please tell me.” She was almost afraid to hear what he had to say.

He went to sit in the easy chair in the corner of the chamber and waited until she sat on the other one before he spoke.

“I talked to Narcissa; I asked for her advice.”

“And what did Narcissa tell you?” Catherine had a lot of respect for the old woman but doubted that she would be much good at relationship advice.

“She told me that I must talk to you. She said I was likely making assumptions that have no basis in fact.”

“And were you?” she asked. “Making assumptions, I mean?”

“I’m not sure. I was making certain assumptions, but as I try to look at them, I realize I’m … not sure if they are true.”

“I think that is where talking to me comes in,” she told him as she leaned toward him slightly.

“You do know me very well, Vincent, and the Bond is very good at letting you know what I’m feeling, but you can’t read my mind. It comes close sometimes, but our link isn’t that good. Very often you let what you think might happen, your fears, cloud your judgment. Just ask me.

“I know things are different now, for us. Whatever you want to know. I’ve never lied to you, and I have no intention of starting now.”

He sat and stared at her for a moment before he spoke.

“Are you going back to work?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said, and she was surprised to see his eyes close and a look of pain cross his face as he let out a gusty sigh.

“You’re making assumptions again!” she pointed out. “What do you think that means?”

He took a deep breath. “It means that you will be going back Above.”

It was her turn to close her eyes and sigh. “And why would you assume that?” she asked looking at him.

“Because that is where your job is, that is where you belong; where you need to be.” His tone was resigned as if to say he’d expected it all along.

Catherine’s voice was louder than she intended, but she was on the edge of anger. “No Vincent! You’re wrong! I need to be wherever you are. I won’t be going back Above; at least not right away, and when I do, I won’t be going without you.”

“You know that is impossible! It can never happen,” he retorted.

“Never say never.” She stood and held out her hand. “Come with me. There’s something that I have to show you.”

He rose but didn’t take her hand. He didn’t take her hand, so she picked up her coat and left the chamber. He grabbed his cloak and followed.

They walked in silence, and when they passed the side tunnel to the threshold under Catherine’s building, he finally spoke.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“It’s about half a mile north of my apartment on Central Park West,” she said.

“North of the museum?” he asked.

“Several blocks. I know this tunnel isn’t used a lot past the threshold under my building, but from what I saw on Father’s maps, it runs straight north under Central Park West for a very long distance. It’s parallel to the subway for most of the way. There is a junction just before 85th.” She pointed to the chalk marks on the wall. “It’s marked, so we won’t get lost.”

Vincent was completely baffled. He could tell Catherine was excited and just a little anxious.

They finally reached the junction she mentioned and turned left. About 200 feet in, the tunnel dead-ended and there was a wooden stairway that went up. It looked new.

They climbed it, and Catherine let them into a small, dark, sub-basement. Across from them, there was another, older stairway with a door at the top. At the top of the second stairway, Catherine pulled a key ring out of her pocket and opened the door. They entered the room beyond to find themselves in what appeared to be a furnace room.

Vincent looked around. There was a large boxy HVAC unit and a water heater. Vincent followed Catherine through another door, and they were in a large comfortably furnished room.

“This is a one bedroom apartment,” Catherine told him as she showed him the space. It’s not huge, but it’s a lot larger than my apartment.”

“Are you moving here?” he asked. “Admittedly, having a threshold right here would be convenient.”

Will you give up 18 floors up, for this… basement? Catherine… you can’t think I want you to make that kind of sacrifice, he wondered, preparing to protest.

“I’m not living in this apartment,” she told him. “I can think of several uses for it, though. Come upstairs.”

She led him back to the hall between the living room and the bedroom. She pointed out the street entrance at one end and a staircase at the other.

They went up into a long hall.

“There are two staircases,” she told him. “One from outside the kitchen downstairs to the kitchen on this floor and this one that is closer to the front of the house.”

“A whole house?”

“Four floors and the basement. The apartment downstairs is self-contained and has a separate entrance. This floor and the one above could make up one three-bedroom home, and the two top floors could be broken up into small apartments. There are areas that could be small kitchens although right now they are only set up as wet bars. I think the rooms would work better as bedrooms or small guest suites.”

She led him into a kitchen that was almost a copy of the one below it.

“It’s a great kitchen. I’d love to cook in here, now that William has taught me to do more than boil water and burn toast.”

“You didn’t buy this, did you?” he asked as he started to prowl the room. It had a surprisingly homey feel.

“No, it’s not mine.”

She left the kitchen, and he hurried to follow her into the dining room.

He glanced around as they moved quickly through the room and into the next one.

“This is a library?” he asked, looking around at the shelves that already held some books. There was also some furniture; there were two chairs in the large bay window. “And it’s furnished?” He glanced through the arched opening into the living room. It looked very comfortable with a wood burning fireplace.

“This floor is partly furnished, but most of the other rooms aren’t.”

“And you didn’t buy it… Are you planning to?”

“I didn’t, and it’s not for sale,” she told him as he again followed her up a flight of stairs.

“Did you rent it?”

“No.”

“Your father left it to you?”

“No, it wasn’t one of Daddy’s properties.”

“Catherine… what is all this about?”

She ignored the question as they reached the master bedroom which was empty. She crossed it and opened the doors to the private terrace. She decided to stop playing twenty questions and tell him the whole story.

“It belongs to Father. Margaret left it to him. Her father gave it to them as a wedding gift. She kept it but didn’t live here until just before she died. I’m surprised that you didn’t know that Father had Mouse open the threshold and was visiting her after she came back Above.” She told him a little of the history of the house. “… and Father has some ideas for it.”

There was still furniture on the terrace, and they had seated themselves in the roofed section. There was little wind, and it was almost warm; at least warm for a January night.

“What kind of ideas?” She could tell Vincent was still on edge. She could hear it in his voice.

“For one, he’s thinking ahead to when Kanin gets out of prison. He will likely be on parole and will need an address and a job Above at least for a while. He thinks that the apartment in the basement would work for him, Olivia and Luke.

Vincent nodded thoughtfully. “That would be beneficial… for them.”

“The extra bedrooms or suites on the top two floors would be good places for anyone who is coming Above for school or jobs. He thinks that the rooms on the ground floor and this floor would make a good home for us. I agree with him. It would give me an Above address, but still be close enough, and connected so you could easily walk back to the main chambers every day. That is… if you decide to stay here with me.”

She studied his face, but there was no expression, and he was refusing to meet her eyes again. She knew that she’d have to leave it for him to work out for himself.

She rose and leaned down to kiss him. “I’ll be Below in our chambers if you want to talk… I want you to remember one thing. I love you, and I’m not leaving you. If you don’t want to move in here, then we won’t. I can find another way, or I just won’t go back to the DA’s office. I could do something else. I need you to tell me what you want… what you think. I can’t just do it and assume it will be OK with you. I need your consent.”

She left a very stunned Vincent behind when she was gone.

The Bond had told him that she was hopeful, and he was beginning to understand why all the married men Below always said that they would have to talk to their wives before they committed to something.

I’ve been doing it almost the entire time Catherine has been Below. Now she was doing it for me.

He sat for quite a while until the chill worked its way through his layers of clothing.

He finally got up and made his way to the top floor of the building. The bay window in one of the bedrooms on the front of the house on the top floor gave him a view of the park. It wasn’t the same as the one from Catherine’s balcony, but he could still see the trees and the buildings on the other side.

The view had never been the draw to Catherine’s balcony, though. It had been Catherine and the night sky. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t really missed the balcony since Catherine had been Below.

He walked through the rooms on the top two floors. She was right, they could be broken down into as many as eight or nine bedrooms or four two-room suites, each with its own private bath.

The master suite was at least as large as the chambers they had Below, in fact, the sleigh bed, or one like it, would look very nice in the bedroom. The other two rooms on that floor were empty. They faced east like Catherine’s apartment, and one even had a small Juliet balcony. He caught himself picturing the rooms decorated as nurseries.

Is this what we need? he wondered. Not a different dream, but a different place to dream? A new place to build on our love.

He quickly made his way back to the basement and out through the door in the furnace room. Catherine had left the key in the lock. He locked up, pocketed the key and headed home.

He’d pointedly ignored the Bond since he’d left on Saturday, but now he tuned into it, hoping it would tell him where Catherine was.

She was relaxed and very comfortable. He knew the feeling, she was in the bathing pool.

He would miss their trysts in the bathing pool when they moved Above, but he’d seen a huge soaker tub in the master bath that presented some interesting possibilities.

By the time he reached their chambers, Catherine was finished with her bath as was sitting on their bed in her bathrobe. She had her legs crossed and was rubbing her left foot. Vincent could feel a small amount of pain.

He sat on the bed next to her and put his hands over hers.

“If those shoes hurt your feet so much, why do you wear them?” he asked as she scooted up to the head of the bed and relinquished her feet to him.

“I was just asking myself the same thing. The ones I had on today only have two-inch heels.” She pointed at the boots on the floor with a wry smile. “My only excuse is habit. When I went up to my apartment to get clothes, I just automatically grabbed them. Higher heels do give me an added height boost in court.”

“But you weren’t in court today,” he pointed out. “And when you are you are on your feet a lot, and they always hurt when you come home.”

“I know, but I’m only 5 foot 4. The judge’s bench is on a dais that is about two feet above floor level. That allows him to remain seated and still be at eye level or slightly above with a man who is of average height. In three or four inch heels, I can at least see over the wooden wall that is above the top of his desk. Without them, it’s at about my nose level. It doesn’t look very dignified.”

The picture she had just conjured made him chuckle.

“Still, there must be a more comfortable way,” he insisted.

“Stilts?” she suggested with a laugh. She sighed with pleasure as Vincent rubbed her feet, ankles and up onto her legs. “Although, if it would get me more foot rubs, I might be willing to wear my highest heels every day even when I’m not in court.”

Vincent moved up and leaned on the pillows next to her.

“So, what did you think of the house?” she finally asked.

“It’s large, and the rooms are lovely. I can’t wait to see the stained glass in the daylight.”

“And Father’s idea?”

“That we could live there?” he was quiet a moment, considering his words. “I love this world, Catherine. I could never leave it…” He felt her emotions plummet. “…permanently. But I think it would work if we could move back and forth between both worlds. You have become a woman of both worlds over the past months. The least I could do is spend my nights Above with you.”

She turned and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He returned the embrace and then kissed her.

He finally loosened his hold on her, and she snuggled into his chest.

“Did you enjoy your dinner with your friend Jenny?” he asked.

“It was great to see her after so long… You know she wants to meet you.”

“I thought something like that might happen after your friends found out you were married,” he commented. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“What do you think, Vincent? This is too important. You know I wouldn’t risk you or your world. I can always tell people that my husband travels for his business and isn’t home a lot.”

“You know her, Catherine. She’s a stranger to me. What does your heart tell you?”

“I think, with some preparation, she would fine with it. She will adore you… you remember she works for one of the larger publishing houses in New York. In fact, they have offices in Toronto and London.”

“Then we will have something in common… books,” he said with a smile.

“And then there is Nancy.”

“In Westport?”

“Yes, that’s her. She’s the one who sent me back to you. She told me to follow my heart. She, Jenny and I usually get together one weekend sometime around the beginning of December and do our Christmas shopping. They generally stay at my place since I used to have two sofa beds in the living room and Jenny just lives in a tiny efficiency. I missed it last month. With Father’s house, there would be plenty of guest rooms.”

“I suppose I could make myself scarce for a few days once a year,” he suggested.

“Not if you meet them and get to know them. I’m sure Nancy would adore you too. She’s actually known about you for almost two years. She just doesn’t know everything.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you are going to want me to meet them sooner rather than later?” He rolled to his side, propped his head on his hand and looked down at her.

“I’ve got almost two weeks before I start work. I know we are going to have to move in that time. I’m going to have to shop for some furniture, and I thought I might invite them to help me. To make up for missing the Christmas shopping weekend in December.”

“Where will you put them?” he asked. “The bedrooms in the house aren’t furnished, and you no longer have the sofa beds in your apartment.”

“I could buy metal bed frames, mattresses, box springs and bedding for twin beds for one of the bedrooms, then they could help me find the rest. I made a list today of what we will need. I just want your input on what you’d like to have.”

“My… input. Is that like my permission?” he asked.

“No, more like your consent.”

“I only have two requests.”

“What’s that?”

“That the bed you pick for the master bedroom be the same style as this one.” He looked up at the dark mahogany headboard.

“What’s the other one?”

“Those big, fluffy towels they call bath sheets. We had a few down here once. I could actually get dry with only two towels, but they eventually wore out, and we never found any more of them in what we were given.”

She was surprised at the request.

“You could have asked me for that, anytime, you know.”

He nodded. “I’m so used to making do with what I have. And to be fair, I only recently discovered how much my wife enjoys a long bath.” He brushed a kiss across her lips.

“I’ll go buy some tomorrow!” she promised. “Some for here and some for Above.” She sealed the promise with a kiss.

“Do you have to talk to Father about meeting my friends?” she asked after a few minutes.

“No,” he said after a moment of thought. “We just won’t tell them everything. We can tell them my history, but just leave out the tunnels. If we ever decide to introduce them to the tunnels, then we need to talk to Father and get the council’s permission.”

“How do we explain it without the tunnels?” she asked.

“We could say that I was raised in this house. By the people who owned it and they left it to me. It’s partially true. Later, if we do decide to introduce them to the tunnels we can explain our reasons for the fabrication at that time.”

“That sounds like it will work… I’ll call them tomorrow.” She snuggled close again. “Are you planning to sleep in your clothes and boots tonight?” she asked.

“Only if you are planning to sleep in your robe. Would you like my assistance?” he asked as he got up.

She quickly sat up, pulled off her robe and tossed it to the end of the bed. She shimmied up, pushed the covers down and slipped under them.

“I think I have it,” she said with a grin.

Vincent crossed the chamber, banked the fire in the brazier, put out most of the lights, then shed his clothes and went back to the bed and climbed in next to her.

“I’m surprised at how quickly you became accustomed to sleeping nude,” she whispered as she snuggled closer.

“It’s very comfortable… not to mention convenient,” he said as he put his arms around her.

~ ~ ~

Thank you, Cindy, for your thorough editing and your amusing commentary.

~ ~ ~

Mousecapade

by Judith Nolan

“This is my son!” Mouse displayed the tiny baby proudly to the waiting crowd at the hospital chamber door.

The tinker’s cheeks were wet with tears. His blue eyes sought and found his best friend. “I want to call him Vincent. Jamie says I can name him anything I like.”

He frowned. “You okay with that, Vincent?”

“I would be honoured, my friend.” Vincent took the babe, holding him close against his chest. With three children of his own, he knew how to handle a newborn.

“Vincent Mouse.” Mouse wiped his nose on his sleeve, grinning. “Okay, good, okay fine!”

All That Lights Upon Us…

by C.J. La Belle

*R-Adult Content*

“No human relation gives one possession in another — every two souls are absolutely different. In friendship or in love, the two side by side raise hands together to find what one cannot reach alone...”

Kahlil Gibran

~ ~ ~

Chapter 1

What One Cannot Reach Alone

Alone now, driven onwards by his deepening rage and growing fear for Catherine’s safety, Vincent poled the small skiff across the vast underground lake. He prayed the signs he was following would not lead to a dead-end.

He hoped Jamie and Pascal would get Winslow back to Father in time. His injuries were serious enough to hinder him and make him vulnerable, so they had all agreed to stage the funeral in the cavern, and pretend Winslow had died.

Then they had ‘buried’ him beneath the stone cairn they’d erected. They were aware of the possibility that they were being watched.

Vincent knew he had to go on alone. Paracelsus had made it clear he would not hesitate to kill Catherine, if his commands were not followed.

Jamie had seen the logic of Vincent’s argument, even as she’d implored him to think again. “It’s too dangerous, Vincent. You need us.”

“Winslow needs you more now. I will not debate my decision.”

“We came of our own choice. All of us,” Pascal had tried to be reasonable.

Vincent had denied him, regretfully. “I am still responsible. I can no longer share that burden, even with my friends. You must go back… tell Father and the others…” He had sighed heavily then continued... “What happened here…”

“No, Pascal.” Jamie had caught his arm when he’d tried to protest further. “As much as we want to disagree, Vincent is right. We have to do this, for Winslow and Catherine. Vincent knows what he’s doing. We have to get Winslow back to Father. That’s our job now.”

“Very well.” Pascal had given in, uneasily. “But I still don’t like it. This is our fight, too.”

As he had spoken, he’d turned his back and moved closer to his friend. “Count on us, Vincent. We’ll be back, as soon as we can. And we’ll bring reinforcements. We’ll tear this place apart, if we have to. We will find you, and Catherine. You can count on that. And if Paracelsus gets killed in the process, then we’ll all be better off.”

The Pipe-Master cast one final, frowning glare around the echoing vastness of the grave cavern before he followed Jamie into the smothering darkness, where the “dead” Winslow lay waiting for them. The sound of their footsteps soon died away into silence.

Vincent pushed on towards the distant shore of the lake. He did not have to wonder who’d left the boat on the nearer shore for him to find. He knew. And he also knew he was deliberately walking into the trap that had been set for him.

That was why he could no longer endanger the lives of his good friends. He had no choice. Catherine’s life had, once more, been put in danger by her association and love for him. Therefore, it was his responsibility to try to save her… his, and only his.

But he was more afraid of John’s unpredictable nature. The man had the ability to kill out of spite, if it served his ego. If he became bored by the chase, as any feral animal might, he would dismiss Catherine’s life as worthless and move on.

Or he would pass her over to the hulking giant who followed him slavishly. She would not stand any chance of survival if that happened. Paracelsus would delight in doing that, if it suited him.

Vincent was aware he had to think of John Pater as someone less than human. Despite what he had once been to the tunnel community in the early days, he was now a mad creature that needed to be put down at the next opportunity. The man had gone too far this time.

He should have died in the fire of his own making, unable to abandon his gold. For that matter, he should have died after he’d been exiled, or when struggling with a young police officer, one he’d gotten the best of and killed. How many lives did Paracelsus possess?

Vincent eased his shoulders, as he pushed the skiff along. His whole body ached from lack of sleep and the long journey to this impossible world, far below the tunnels he knew and loved.

Faking Winslow’s death had taken cunning and skill to pull off. Sending both Jamie and Pascal homewards with their badly injured comrade was the best decision they could have made, given the circumstances.

Whatever was ahead, it was Vincent’s to face, come what may. Paracelsus wanted only one victim, one life. And that life belonged to Vincent. So be it.

He frowned around at the vast canyon, which was diffused with an amber glow and rays of golden lights. The impossibility of such a place, so far below the earth, spoke of John’s skills to create worlds within worlds. A fitting place for Paracelsus to rule, where none could deny him, and only those who lived solely to serve him could survive.

“Paracelsus…” The hated name tasted bitter on Vincent’s tongue. He snarled his rage, even though he knew his anger was useless here.

Vincent knew he was running on pure adrenaline now, and he had no idea how far the last of his great reserves of strength would carry him. How deep was this lair that John Pater had made for himself?

At the lake’s further shore, Vincent staggered up the stony beach. He left behind his heavy pack, taking only the small lantern from the boat to light his way forward. Cautiously, he approached the rugged, towering cliffs that backed the beach. He could see a small, black opening in the rock face.

Almost immediately, as he stepped into darkness, a roiling, scarlet fog rose from the floor, as if triggered by his movements. It swirled around his legs as he followed a faint trail of more than one set of heavily smudged footprints into a small cavern. He held up the lantern, illuminating the darkness. On the far side the only visible exit appeared to be a narrow passageway.

As he moved, the fog thickened, rising to band his chest, before seeping into his eyes and mouth, leaving a harsh, bitter taste on his tongue, and making him cough.

Covering his lower face with his hand, Vincent staggered on, following the twisting passageway. This brought him into a larger cavern where the rock walls spewed jets of red steam.

The footprints he had been following terminated here. There was no longer a clear path and it seemed, no other way out. Did everything end here?

Indecision made him hesitate. His feet began to feel leaden as he attempted to walk through the swirling jets, searching for fresh clues. He began to see things he was sure did not exist. Monsters and demons haunted the edges of his vision.

Unable to see much in the semi-darkness, he nearly tripped over a tumbled skeleton. Looking down, he saw it had Catherine’s crystal pendant draped around its neck.

The grinning skull seemed to mock him with silent disdain. Voices began to whisper inside his mind, speaking of things he dared not entertain… The uselessness of his quest, the certainty of death, and the lack of need to go onwards…

“What if only painful emptiness lies ahead…? What if she is already dead and gone from you? What then, Vincent?”

“I won’t believe that.” Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the muttering of many voices, Vincent sensed he’d been drugged again. Narcotics, Paracelsus’ favourite play toy.

This was John’s latest attempt to confuse and redirect his thinking, leaving him open to suggestion, and vulnerable to certain attack. It wasn’t a killing thing. Not yet. The man who’d invented tunnel code and sought to make a fortune selling poison to others, wanted him weakened, not dead. Not yet.

John Pater’s giant follower had almost killed Vincent once. He was strong and moved with heavy, undeniable intention. No doubt he was lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting to attack again. And this time there was no Jamie to save him with two hastily fired bolts...

The insidious voices grew louder, speaking of resting here, beside the skeleton. Vincent looked down, and the image seemed to beckon him to take a seat.

Was this the last man who’d ventured too close, and paid with his life…?

The voices rustled and whispered. “Let the world go about its business. What do you want with such things, troubling things such as love and duty? Better to rest here, and allow everything to drift away into oblivion…

“It is what you truly want to do, yes, Vincent? Put down your struggles. Isn’t that right?”

“No!” Trapping a warning growl in his throat, Vincent bent down and snatched up the crystal. He held it in his hand, watching the light flash through it. Just holding it made him feel more connected to her.

“Catherine,” he whispered despairingly, searching for her inside their bond. But again, he felt nothing. It had been that way since the night they’d taken her. The night he’d found the half-melted gold coin on her balcony.

He searched for her again, mentally. Nothing…

It was as if she was already dead…his great heart quailed at the thought. The swirling black pit of aloneness opened within his mind, threatening to swallow him whole. He knew he could not go back to the way it was before, without Catherine. In that way lay madness. Worse, in that way lay total insanity.

He searched for any connection to her, however tenuous. Nothing but a yawning emptiness now existed, where the warm light and colours of their mutual bond had once lived.

He’d become so used to living with their bond and within it, that he didn’t realise how much he would miss it once it was removed. Until her abduction, he hadn’t even considered that possibility, or at least, he hadn’t considered it this closely.

Now he couldn’t escape it.

How could he live without their bond…without her…?

“You can do it. Stay here. Stay forever. You can even keep holding the necklace. Keep your illusion of her…”

“No!” he shouted again, swinging the lantern wildly at the clustering shadows.

But only the mocking echoes of his own despair answered him when he came to rest again. The sibilant voices inside his mind intensified, becoming almost overwhelming.

Rest…peace…oblivion…The words repeated over top of each other until they were a hissing cacophony, in his mind.

“I … can’t …” He shook his head from side to side, snarling at the thickening shadows that gathered around him, watching them manifest into huge, shambling shapes. He saw things within them he dare not name, embodiments of his worst fears, and demons, leftover from childhood.

And one not from childhood.  The largest, darkest creature seemed to bear more than a passing resemblance to his own face…it snarled at him, its breath hot and fetid.

He snarled back viciously, fighting with all his strength to remain standing and alert for danger. He surged forward, making his feet move in long strides. The blackness retreated, but now he could feel it moving within him, seeking any new opening to exploit.

Breathe. Clear your head. Do it!

Taking in huge draughts of the close air, he fought down his fears, and resisted the urge to doubt. Paracelsus had had her for days now… days. What did that mean for her? He wished he knew. He wished he could feel her enough to be able to know.

He concealed the necklace in a pocket of his vest. No matter what the future held, he would give it back to Catherine…

Pushing his aching body onwards again, he suddenly stumbled onto a narrow passage, hidden behind a rocky outcropping. A large hand smear of blood marked the entrance. He prayed it wasn’t Catherine’s.

John’s monster? Jamie’s bolts had struck true. Somehow, he knew the blood belonged to the giant. He also knew the wound had only deterred the simple-minded behemoth, not killed it.

Paracelsus’ savage follower had tossed them around the chamber like rag dolls, including him. The man’s strength seemed… limitless.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except finding Catherine, Vincent thought, reassured that at least this thought was his own.

Following the passageway, Vincent entered a larger chamber. It was filled with light and heat. The sudden brightness seared Vincent’s eyes, so used had he become to the semi-darkness of the outside tunnel. He found he was standing on a ledge, looking down into a wider cavern below.

Books and flaming candles lined the walls. All the comforts of a home, it seemed. He wondered where its vicious master had hidden himself.

From both inside Vincent’s mind and without, Paracelsus’ voice gloated at his sudden arrival. “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven…eh, Vincent?”

Vincent couldn’t conceal his rage. “Paracelsus!”

Paracelsus emerged slowly from his hiding place. “Milton, actually,” he remarked, sarcastically.

His dark eyes seemed to be assessing what his latest cocktail of drugs had been doing to Vincent’s equilibrium. Their sudden narrowing showed their master’s displeasure at what he perceived, Vincent, still standing and presumably still strong enough to thwart his latest schemes.

No matter, his shrug of dismissal seemed to say.

Vincent stared across at the glowing gold, half-mask his dark nemesis now wore. It was strapped to his head by a band of leather and covered the left side of the old man’s face, and the bridge of his nose.

What was he hiding? Some disfigurement he could not bear to look at?

What did the fire do to you that I could not? Vincent wondered.

Focusing his fractured attention on the man beneath the mask, Vincent snarled, “Where’s Catherine?”

Paracelsus shrugged. “Oh, she’s uh…well. And alive, for the time being,” he purred, as if discussing the weather.

Vincent was heartily sick of the old man’s games. But he needed to play along, albeit unwillingly. “I’m warning you!”

Paracelsus sneered his contempt. “Your threats, Vincent, hold no power here. It is my place. It is I who brought you to where you are standing.”

Again a flash of annoyance was evident in his dark eyes. He preferred to exert total control over his subjects.

But Vincent knew the twisted alchemist would not dare to use his mind-altering chemicals so close to his own person. He had a very large interest in his own safety. Hence he employed other, lesser beings, to do his dirty work.

Vincent breathed in deeply again, confident that the dank air was at least pure. He dismissed John’s words, striving for calmness. Anger would not serve him here. “Twice, we have been lenient with you, and twice you have taken advantage.”

Paracelsus looked pained. “What would you know of that?”

“I know you have killed…”

The reply was the expected one. “And who are you, of all people, to judge?”

“I speak for many.” Vincent set the lantern he had been carrying on the ground. Bending over before his eyes had adjusted to the room proved to be a mistake. Concentrating on Paracelsus’ words was making him dizzy. He took a tottering step forward.

Paracelsus’ voice was filled with blind hatred. “Come any nearer, and the woman is dead!”

Vincent straightened with care and glared at him. His pupils were finally adjusting to the lights, and he could see more than the old man bargained for.

Paracelsus nodded sharply. “Now, it’s your turn to listen… to know my pain, my grief at seeing the only things I’ve ever loved, torn away. But it wasn’t just me. There were others! You! You were betrayed, Vincent! You call him ‘Father’! But it was I who found you, wrapped in rags, starving. It was I who named you ‘Vincent.’”

Vincent remained silent and watchful, seeking any opening he could exploit. He knew anything Paracelsus wanted him to think was probably an untruth, or a twisted version of some other reality.

But the off-balance feeling persisted, a remnant of the drugs. He willed himself steady with a desperate snarl.

He probed for any sign from Catherine. But again he could not sense her. He had no way of knowing if she truly lived... if John had kept his word about that.

Paracelsus seemed unaware as he went on, caught up in his own memories, or at least his fabrications of them. “And it was I who cared for you, all those months. Even Father didn’t think you would live, but I… I fed you, I… bathed you… and you did live! Don’t you see, Vincent? He wouldn’t let me take you! When I was exiled, he made me leave you behind. I loved you! You were mine!”

Vincent remained silent, letting that be his answer.

The Alchemist’s dark eyes flashed contempt. “You don’t believe me.”

Vincent’s reply was low and even. “What would you have me believe? That you loved, and are now capable of this?”

Paracelsus breathed deeply, and long. “Now is the time for retribution.”

Vincent surveyed him with sadness. “Then… you never really knew love.” He paused, then demanded again, “Where’s Catherine?”

Paracelsus dismissed his concern with a sneer. “Directly below you.”

Vincent looked down, and immediately threw himself into the lower chamber, landing heavily, but alert to danger. Instantly, he saw that Catherine was chained in a higher alcove to his left, behind a pile of combustible material. She said nothing, though her eyes pleaded for Vincent’s help.

Vincent’s great heart leapt with joy at the sight of her, before plunging with fresh despair. She was in great danger, and he could not reach her.

John’s giant was standing too close to her. His shoulder wounds strapped and covered with rude pieces of leather, the man was hovering at her side, ready to use the torch he held to ignite the pyre. The moment he saw Vincent, he threw the flame onto the fuel, before charging down the stone steps towards his victim, swinging his arms wildly.

Catherine, hold on. I swear I will reach you.

They fought violently, neither gaining the upper hand. The drugs seemed to shackle Vincent’s ability to react quickly. Muscles obeyed his commands, but not fast enough. He fought back, both internally, and against a sustained assault from his larger opponent.

Erlik seemed to rejoice as he slammed Vincent backwards into the rocky wall, trying to crack the big beast’s spine. He made a vicious attempt to knee Vincent hard in the groin, but it glanced off his opponent’s hastily raised thigh. Vincent retaliated by clawing deep and bloody slashes into the giant’s shoulders.

Erlik twisted away, but almost instantly he came charging back, massive arms opened wide, seeking an opportunity. He did not appear incapacitated by the fresh wounds Vincent inflicted upon him, nor Jamie’s earlier strike.

He’s drugged, Vincent thought. Drugged like I am, only with the opposite effect. He will die before he surrenders…

Knowing he would soon lose ground to the mindless brutality of the stronger man, Vincent made a flying tackle. They crashed together, and Vincent tried again to overcome the giant. But neither man was prepared to give ground. For Erlik, no wound seemed consequential. For Vincent, everything was. He knew he was running out of time, because Catherine was.

Paracelsus watched from a distance, his hands clenched at his sides. He seemed to be watching for an opening, any advantage for his poor, dumb creature to exploit. The candlelight glowed off his mask, swathing his head with a radiant nimbus of light. Flames from the pyre heightened the effect, and John’s demonic face seemed to shimmer, his victory near.

The flames rose higher around Catherine. The heat in the chamber was intensifying, and beginning to suck out the available oxygen in the small alcove she was imprisoned within.

It was swiftly becoming difficult for her to breathe. But still, she struggled for air and tried to remain calm, refusing to scream and call Vincent’s attention to her plight.

She pulled against the bonds that would not give, her struggles to be free did no good. She was forced to watch the desperate battle in horror, even as she felt the control she’d been able to assert over her fears quickly slipping away.

Blackness hovered at the edges of her vision, threatening to envelope her. Suddenly, internally, everything she had been suppressing for so long, burst forth, rushing outwards, like the spitting showers of sparks surrounding her.

A heightened sense of awareness immediately jolted through Vincent, even as he fought for his life. Images swirled within his mind. Dark thoughts of reproach, and pain he couldn’t ignore. The narcotic he’d passed through had heightened his sense of fear, and of hopelessness. He felt her. He felt her fear. And in feeling hers, he felt his own.

Everything he had been thinking and feeling in the last few days clashed with all of Catherine’s pain and anguish. The darkness ripped through him, the taste of it harsh, and horribly bitter. Did she blame him? Or was it he who blamed her, in that confusing moment?

You left me, Catherine. The thing I thought you would never do… you abandoned me. Do you know how... empty it is, when you are not with me? How black? And how... horribly familiar? I could not live without you…

He felt as if he was choking on the dark thoughts, knowing now that he’d thought himself clear of the drug only to find it had just been a reprieve, and a temporary one at that. Voices whispered again, and resentment reared its head. He could feel that the smoke from the fire was threatening to consume Catherine. He knew that more people died from smoke than from fire, that the need to cough while fighting to draw the next breath soon overcame them.

Don’t blame her. Blame yourself. You couldn’t keep her safe. You couldn’t keep Winslow safe. You can’t keep anyone safe.

The shared darkness threatened to take his vision, and he could feel Catherine’s struggle with every tortured breath he drew. Erlik and he moved around each other, but he knew the giant wouldn’t let him near Catherine.

His chest became tight and he fought against the need to cough himself. Their bond had reasserted itself, but the pain that accompanied it was almost unbearable.

Circling each other in the middle of the floor below the fire, Erlik took advantage of Vincent’s distraction and wrestled his opponent into a crushing bear hug. His grunt of satisfaction was echoed by his master. He began to tighten his grip, anticipation of the kill evident on his brutish face.

Choking on the rising smoke, Catherine finally screamed in her fear. “Vincent!”

They all thought it might just be the last word Vincent ever heard from Catherine… his name, screamed in terror and despair.

God knows we’ve had enough of that between us, Vincent realised bleakly, feeling his chest tighten... or was it hers?

The giant grinned, obviously thinking he’d won. His wide, dark eyes stared into Vincent’s, and his mouth worked, as if he was trying to speak. He tightened his grip further, looking past Vincent’s shoulder to his master, and his grin widened.

Momentarily confused by his own inability to breathe, the sensation of being swallowed by a yawning black pit of aloneness and despair overtook Vincent. He wasn’t just being swallowed whole. He was being eaten alive. He felt Catherine sag in her bonds, her struggles weakening, as the swirling smoke robbed her of air.

She is slowly dying…and I cannot help her!

You should have stopped earlier. Rest. Just rest, Vincent, the insidious voices whispered. Just close your eyes and…

No! Not now! Not when you have only just come back to me! I won’t let you go. Not without me…

Vincent knew he was swiftly losing this fight for survival, and that he couldn’t allow. Ignoring the crushing pain in his ribs and back, he struggled to be free, but it was of no use. Erlik merely increased his grip, and Vincent felt his senses begin to swim, as the roaring darkness filled his vision.

Aware he was about to lose everything he loved and believed in, he took the only course of action the giant had left open to him. He relaxed his conscious mind, and the savage beast that had been struggling so long for freedom from its chains perceived the opening and took it, swamping Vincent’s conscious mind in a blind, red rage.

The Beast also had fears. Being bested was one of them. It also wanted to live! It cared for nothing else…

Growling ferociously, the Beast threw his head down and forward, sinking his gleaming fangs deep into the giant’s throat, searching out and brutally crushing his windpipe in its jaws, cutting off his air.

John’s behemoth froze in shock, his great chest heaving in a futile attempt to draw breath, but to no avail. He pushed frantically against Vincent’s body, striving to be free.

The Beast pushed deeper, crushing out all life with ease. It rejoiced in the freedom to kill. It didn’t use words, so Vincent wasn’t about to think any, or be aware of them. This was carnage, savage and effective.

Surprised and defeated by his wilier foe, Erlik suddenly went limp. His grip dropped away from Vincent’s back, setting him free.

The Beast managed to unlocked his jaws, as he stumbled back, pushing aside the other man’s body. Paracelsus’ pet fell forward onto his face, and lay still at the base of the steps leading up to Catherine’s flaming pyre.

Turning his head away, the Beast spat out the hot blood that had flooded his mouth. It gloated at its victory, and murmured its satisfaction in a low, threatening growl. It flexed its muscles, testing the limits.

Immediately, it transferred its glowering attention towards its next victim. Struggling to regain control before it was too late, Vincent rose up within himself, and stamped hard on the almost overwhelming urge to go after Paracelsus. Not now!

Catherine’s strangled cries were the last gasps of a doomed woman. “Vincent!” It was all she could do to cry out, as she struggled to breathe.

Ignoring the snarling, dark beast that sank back beneath the whispering voices inside his mind, Vincent ran up the steps to the recess where Catherine was chained, and tore away her bonds. Behind them, the flames leapt ever higher, devouring the pile of flammable material with greedy ease.

Paracelsus ignored them, as he stepped forward into the light, and looked down at the still body of his henchman. He said nothing, though intense hatred gleamed in his eyes before he turned away, hurrying from the scene of his latest defeat.

As Vincent gathered Catherine into his arms and carried her to safety, beyond the reach of the flames, Paracelsus retreated back into the smaller cave, from which he first appeared. He paused to look back once more, and then slid back into the depths of his own hell.

He knew that there would be time enough in the future to exact revenge. And what did he have, but time…?

Patience, my son. We’re not half done yet… he thought, slipping away into Purgatory.

Vincent cared nothing for future concerns, not when present ones were so pressing. He lay Catherine on the ground near the wall and bent over her. “Breathe! Breathe deeply!”

He watched closely as she drew the first shuddering breath... then another…

The dark sense of abandonment retreated, but he still felt off-balance and concerned, as he watched her struggle.

Breathe. You have to breathe. I can’t do it for you.

He cast a worried look at the fire, and saw that its supply of fuel would soon be gone. There was no immediate danger of it spreading further, and whatever air moved in this place, it seemed to be bearing it away from where he’d carried her.

Catherine coughed again. The smoke she’d inhaled clogged her lungs. “Paracelsus!” she finally managed to gasp.

Vincent glared up at Paracelsus’ hideout, only to discover that the man had disappeared completely. Though the immediate threats had been removed, Vincent knew that danger still remained. Narcissa’s comments about John’s followers had haunted him since he’d gone to see her, accompanied by Pascal and Winslow.

He felt on edge from the battle, and confused by whatever cocktail of drugs Paracelsus had exposed him to. Within him, the darkness of his inhuman side still grumbled its complaint, testing its mental chains.

The Beast had tasted blood, and it wanted more. But it was prepared to wait, for now…

Vincent managed to ignore the roiling blackness that had felt a part of him for too long now. His keen eyes dissected the chamber. Here, there was no drugged gas, or not yet. They were safe from that kind of harm. John Pater was always very careful not to ingest the poisons he inflicted on others.

But what other denizens inhabited these foggy caverns, and what would they do for their master? Narcissa had said they were the simple ones. The lost ones, who followed and protected Paracelsus, even at the cost of their own lives…

He frowned at the giant’s limp body, knowing it bore no signs of life. If something in this cavern was a threat to them, it would not be coming from that quarter. The metallic taste of the big man’s blood lingered on his tongue, but that had to be ignored for now. There were far greater concerns.

Catherine gasped as he held her shoulders, and she drew in air. She was shaking, and unsteady, and like him, gathering herself for what could be yet another fight. She knew they weren’t safe, not here. Not right where the evil Alchemist had held her.

They needed to get away from here, put distance between them and this place, before they could rest. Behind them, the dying fire crackled and spat.

Vincent assessed his own body. His great limbs still felt sluggish and imperfectly coordinated.

If I were Paracelsus, I would strike now... now, while she’s dazed, and I’m still slow.

He looked around the open room. “Catherine, besides Paracelsus and his giant, did you see anyone? How many are there?”

She shook her head, forcing the noxious fumes out of her lungs with each strong exhale. “No one. I only saw them. Paracelsus and… Erlik.” She coughed on the name. “Sometimes… sometimes I thought I could… sense some others… moving. Shadows…” She coughed again, trying to say more. “I thought, once I heard a woman’s voice. I don’t know. But someone prepared food…for us.”

Vincent nodded, putting his hand on her shoulder to bid her to stop. He had sensed much the same thing, when they’d been attacked by John’s huge brute.

“Paracelsus is still near. We must leave this place,” Vincent whispered. He had no doubt that Paracelsus was already planning his next move, while they were still helpless.

Calling on the deep well of his strength, he helped Catherine to her feet. “Can you walk?” he asked, holding her close.

She nodded quickly. “Water…” she croaked, licking her dry lips. “Please…” She passed an impatient hand across her forehead, wiping away the heavy beads of perspiration from her bangs.

It was a simple request and he knew that for her, it was a requirement. He looked around and spied a large stone basin built into the back wall, into which a trickle of water had been directed. A dark, mossy stain spread across the floor from where the water overflowed into a small drain at the base of the chamber wall.

The swirling smoke had not reached the area, and against the wall, the air looked clear. Brushing against his cheek, Vincent felt the movement of a small downdraft from somewhere far above, which kept the smoke at bay.

His mouth thinned. Trust Paracelsus to make any place he owned habitable. The books, chairs, and candlelight partly dispelled the understanding that they were buried deep in the bowels of the earth. The man’s resources seemed endless.

“There…” Taking Catherine’s arm, he drew her towards the basin.

But his sense of caution did not ease. The traitorous voices within his mind might be silent for now, but his concern still remained.

“It may not be fit to drink. Let me try it first.” Transferring Catherine’s tight grip to the basin’s edge, where she watched his movements with hungry eyes, he dipped one hand into the water, and lifted some to his lips. He waited for any effects and found none.

Again he sensed John would not poison where he lived. He was too smart for that. Or too sure of himself…but doubts still lingered. If the end justifies the means…

Catherine leaned closer, turning her attention to the swirling water.

“He let me drink from a bowl. I think it was brought from here,” she said, putting her own hands in. Soot streaked her arms and hands, but she didn’t want to bathe where she was about to drink. Cupping the water, she took a small step away from the basin and splashed her arms passably clean, sparing a moment to wipe the back of her sweat-soaked neck.

Seeing she was no longer watching him closely, Vincent made swift work of cleansing his own hands and rinsing his mouth in the small overflow released by a large chip out of the far side of the basin.

“Vincent…?”

He felt Catherine sag against him, her breathing ragged. She coughed again, not as hard this time, but still “there.” He knew the water would do her good.

He looked around for any kind of container, but there was nothing.

“Here...” Scooping up a fresh handful with both hands this time, he held it out for her to drink. Her head came forward without hesitation.

The sensation of her tongue and lips lathing against the sensitive skin of his palms made Vincent shudder. His skin felt like it was tingling in the extremities, and everywhere she touched. He had a moment for a fleeting thought. Is this the drugs still? Or is it her?

He brought her another double handful, and she drank this one more slowly. Her normally sandy hair was dark with perspiration, and her shoulders glistened from it. But she was alive. They both were.  He watched her finish as she nodded her thanks, before sinking to her knees at his feet.

She leaned closer to rest her head against his thigh, another intimacy that threaded its way through Vincent’s heightened senses. He could feel her breathing, where the rise and fall of her breasts were pressed against his leg.

Vincent pushed back the roaring sensation of the blood that hammered through his system and allowed her to rest, as he assessed their options… options which he knew, were painfully few.

He looked around again, scanning every nook and cranny, every shadow and rocky outcrop. But he came up empty. There may be nothing to hurt them here, at the moment, but there was little to help them, either.

The fire had died down to flickering embers. The heat of the chamber began to lessen. But they were still trapped.

The only way forward it seemed, was the way he had come. Through the red cavern, with its eerie skeleton and intoxicating smoke and the sibilant voices that had urged him to linger, rest and die, all without putting up a fight.

The path of least resistance…yes, Vincent? Paracelsus’ voice joined in with those that still lingered in the back of his mind. All you had to do was let go, and all would have been as it should…as it was always destined to be…always…you were my son, before Jacob claimed you… There will be another time. We are destined to be together, you and I…

He’d bitten into Erlik, drugged, stupid Erlik. He had no idea if that was why the narcotic effect was persisting or not. He only knew he had to be clear of it, for her sake.

You could have just… “No!” This had to stop. It had to. They needed to leave this place. Now. Vincent shook his head in a violent negative, startling Catherine into sitting up.

“Vincent…?” She stared at him. “What is it?”

He rinsed his mouth again, not caring if she saw him spit this time. He had to get her up. Get her moving.

“We are still in great danger.” Vincent urged her to her feet with a hand on her shoulder. “Paracelsus drugged the smoke and mist I had to pass through to reach this place. But we are no safer here, now that he has gone. He will be hatching new schemes. We must not stay.”

He stared down at the body of his vanquished foe. The giant was done bleeding out. He wondered if John would come back for the body and give it a decent burial, the way they had pretended to do for Winslow. Somehow, he doubted it.

“He used drugs…?” Catherine looked around.

“That man drugged me when he first kidnapped me from my balcony. He carried me all the way down from Above.” She nodded at Erlik’s sprawled corpse. “We barely stopped to rest. He gave me a little water, but no food. He didn’t seem to understand, or care.”

Her mouth thinned. “Paracelsus gave me water and fed me when I first arrived. But only because he said he needed to keep me alive. I was no good to him dead. I was supposed to be grateful.” Her eyes searched his. “Do you think… he put something in it?”

Vincent had no real idea, but he knew John, or at least, he was learning him. “No. I think he wanted you to be aware. It would not suit his purpose to keep you compliant. He wanted you to know when you were about to…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“About to die,” she finished it for him.

Her eyes tracked back to the sprawled giant. “He carried me from the boat, bound in a thick blanket. I could barely breathe. I think I passed out more than once. But I don’t feel as if I’ve been drugged since that first night…”

She frowned, turning her attention inward for a moment. “No, I feel the same as before. Perhaps it was only you. Paracelsus wished to incapacitate you, to weaken you. To bend you to his sick will.” She frowned up at the dark passageway he’d come in through. “What are we going to do?”

“Whatever we do, it must be now,” Vincent replied hardily, his attention was on the water in the stone basin. “Before any of John’s henchmen discover us here. Or the man himself decides to play some new trick.”

He scanned the shadows of the chamber’s corners once more. They were as dark and deep appearing as the loneliness that had all but threatened to engulf him for the last three days.

“Vincent…?” Catherine prompted. What now? Does he see something?

“It will be all right.” He moved quickly away to snatch up Catherine’s sweat top, where it had been discarded over the back of a nearby chair. He came back to plunge it into the basin.

Bubbles swirled and the soft material was soon soaked. Taking it out, Vincent wrung most of the excess moisture from it.

“This will protect you if we hurry and do not linger for anything, or anyone. Do you understand me, Catherine? No matter what you may see, nothing in this place is real.”

“Yes, of course.” Catherine nodded quickly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep close to me, and hold your breath for as long as you can. Or until I tell you the air is safe to breathe.”

They crossed the chamber, hurrying towards the dark tunnel entrance. Vincent quickly scaled the ledge to retrieve the lantern that was still burning. He jumped down again, and placed it at their feet.

Standing beside Catherine, he wrapped the damp sweat top over her lower face and neck, allowing her to see where she was going.

“Get as close to me as you can.” He held out the side of his cloak and drew her tight in against him once more. She huddled into him, waiting for his next command.

“Good,” he encouraged, nodding at her look of wide-eyed trust. “Now take several long, deep breaths, and then hold the last one. Nod when you’re ready. We must hurry…”

Catherine breathed deeply several times and pulled in as much air as she could, before nodding her readiness. Vincent picked up the lantern with his free hand, before burying his mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow, and they plunged together into the black hole that was their only escape route…

~ ~ ~

Catherine looked all around as they arrived at the lake edge. She gasped at the size of the bronzed body of water she didn’t remember crossing.

The smoky passageway had been too long to not breathe through, and even with her soaked shirt to help her, she’d taken in some of the harsh mist.

Her mind swam, with images she didn’t want, and feelings she couldn’t filter. Sorrow... Loss... Death... her mother’s. Charles was holding her hand, they were going to the funeral. She was ten years old again, and weeping.

“No. No…” Sobs shook her small frame, as Vincent held her shoulders. Her skin was clammy to the touch. He yanked off his cloak, shook it out, and wrapped it around her.

“Breathe,” he instructed, aware he was telling her to do the simplest things often today. “It will pass. Just breathe, Catherine,” Vincent repeated, having come through the hellish fog better than she had.

At one point, she had stumbled, and he’d bend down and hoisted her over his shoulder, still keeping hold of the lantern. His great lungs had burned, begging for air, but he had known better than to inhale this time.

She shook her head and the image began to fade, along with the feelings it brought with it. “I just—”

She shuddered as a fresh vision hit her. She clutched his cloak as another image, this one of an unmarked van coming toward her, filled her mind’s eye.

“No! Please, no!”

You got a big mouth, Carol… In her mind, a rough hand covered her mouth, as the man who had pretended to be a cheerful Samaritan revealed himself to be a heinous villain. Catherine struggled against the arms that were holding her, arms that were pinning her down.

“No!  No, I can’t! Please!”

Vincent spoke as loudly as he dared. “Catherine, I’m here. I’m here.” He prayed she could hear him. “Even in this darkness, inside this terror, I am with you. I am with you, Catherine.” Vincent’s voice was steady, and he knew better than to let her go. But he also knew better than to try to restrain her fully.

She’s lost. As lost as I was. More, maybe.

She whimpered a moment, and her hand covered her cheek. “It hurts…” she whimpered.

Vincent got down on his knees beside her. “Breathe. It will pass. Hear me, Catherine. Follow my voice. Come back to me.”

He reached into her mind, and for a moment, saw what she was seeing. A stocky man held a switchblade and was bringing it down toward her skin. The metal was already bloodstained. She cried out again.

Vincent growled, low in his throat, and the terrifying image disappeared like smoke. He chased away her attacker, in her mind. She flailed an arm in fear, inside the van, as she did on the cavern floor. His cloak dropped to the sand, and she swung her arm again. She could move. Confusion reigned, and she sought him out.

“Vin…cent?” The broken word was a tattered plea for help. The image of being inside the van began to fade.

“That’s it. That’s it,” he whispered near her ear. The cheek near his lips still sported a reminder of that night. “Return to me… Return with me. I have you. It will be all right, Catherine.”

He extended a hand to her physically, as he did so in the bond. She reached out and grabbed it, all but crushing his fingers with the strength the adrenaline gave her.

“Vincent,” she whispered it, and then swallowed, hard.

“I’m here. I’m with you.” He pulled her arms around his body, and held her tightly to him. “The feelings are intense, but it does fade. Breathe. Just… breathe, Catherine.”

He hated that he could give her no more than that weak advice. “Clear your lungs. It will pass. No matter what you see, I have you. I’m here, and I have you.”

She did as he ordered, and coughed a little more. No more nightmare visions rose up to haunt her, though she felt unsteady. “Did you take any in?” she asked, as soon as she could recover herself.

He shook his head, as he pulled back from her. “I managed. Part of the way, I carried you.”

She barely remembered it. When he had had to pick her up must have been when, in her mind, she and her father had emerged from the black limousine, on the way to the church for her mother’s funeral. She remembered that she’d stumbled, when was ten. She’d looked up at the huge church doors and realised she didn’t want to go in.

In that moment of confused inattention, her black patent leather shoes had tripped, on the concrete. Her knee had been wrenched painfully, and she had gasped in agony, her hiccupped tears falling heavier than before.

Charles helped steady her, then simply hoisted her into his arms. “It will be all right, Cathy…”

Ten was old for that, but Catherine remembered feeling grateful for him then. Her tears had dried because her beloved father’s arms had felt so secure. He’d carried her all the way to her seat, in the front of the church.

He put her down and patted her shoulder in awkward comfort. She found she was seated right before her mother’s coffin…She froze in shock.

All through the painful service she tried so hard to be brave. She would not let anyone see her crying. She didn’t want to disappoint her mother, or her father. But it had been a very difficult day.

Sitting rigid in her seat, she reached into her coat pocket and clutched the white porcelain rose her mother had given her. It had been to help her with her fear of the dark. Whenever she got frightened, Catherine had been told to hold the rose, and think of her mother. And, then wherever Caroline was, she said she would be thinking of her daughter.

Catherine held so tightly to that rose, her fingers finally went numb. But she could not let it go. Of course, everyone said afterwards, how brave she had been, and what a picture of innocence she made. A beautiful, pale child, seeming almost not to even breathe…

That long ago day she had been dubbed the ‘perfect’ daughter and her father had been congratulated. Long afterwards, she was often pointed to as an excellent example to all children.

It had set the pattern for her young life. Please people, never disappoint anyone. Always be what they want you to be... compliant, sweet, and soft-voiced.

Do not cause any trouble, or upset… listen to your elders and betters…they know what is best for you…

She hadn’t remembered the painful stumble, or its aftermath, until just at that moment. It had been lost to her memory… until it had returned.

“Th-thank you, Vincent.” She shook her head, and pushed the long-ago sorrow aside. There was no time to indulge it. “I tried breathing through my shirt. I guess it only helped so much.” The now useless cloth was a damp bundle on the ground.

Vincent knew it had helped more than she realised, if she was already regaining her mental equilibrium. Or perhaps for him, the effect had simply been that much worse, thanks to his sensitivity to drugs.

“Catherine… I know you are tired. But we are exposed here. Please. Can you get in the skiff? You can rest and I can pole us across.”

She nodded weakly, returning his cloak. “As long as we’re not about to run any marathons,” she said in what she hoped was a positive tone.

We aren’t. But we are about to walk one, he thought, tugging his pack from where he’d hidden it. He set it near the bow, put the cloak and the lantern in, and then offered her his hand.

“I’ll help you. Come.”

Catherine obliged him, settling herself into the odd boat.

“What is this place?” She asked, looking around as if she’d never seen it.

All things considered, she probably hadn’t, he realised. “An amber cavern. The water is probably part of the Nameless River. You do not remember coming this way?”

Catherine shook her head. “After he took me from my balcony, Erlik carried me, for all of it.” My hip was sore, from being slung over that man’s shoulder. It was a thing she thought, but didn’t tell him.

He pushed off from the shore. “You may have been. Paracelsus had an exit, so there are at least two ways into that room. Unless Erlik crossed with you farther downstream, he didn’t come this way. There is only one skiff. And that was on the far bank, waiting for me.” He nodded toward the way they were going.

“He wanted you to come in that way. Paracelsus did.” Catherine’s eyes closed, in remembered fear. You shouldn’t have come. Not that way. Not any way. You could have been killed. He was planning on it.

“There was nothing going to keep me from you,” Vincent said, as if he’d just read her mind again.

Catherine sighed, and looked around her. It was a beautiful place, amber tinted and full of the flowing, silt-laden water.

She dropped her damp sweat-top to her knees, and huddled on the narrow seat, trying to keep herself warm in the pervasive chill. The air seemed hot one minute, and cold the next, another parting gift from Paracelsus’ narcotics. Catherine marvelled that Vincent had survived the fight with Erlik, all things considered.

Vincent saw she was shivering as her green eyes tracked up the topaz walls. He bent down and gave her his cloak again, draping it around her slender shoulders while their own momentum kept them going forward. She nodded her thanks, as she settled into it, grateful for its warmth. He picked up the pole again.

“I sweat, then I can’t seem to get warm.” She wasn’t complaining. She was simply telling him. “My fingertips feel strange.” She rubbed her thumb across them, not liking the sensation of pins and needles there. “I… I don’t like what I saw,” she concluded.

“My hallucinations were as yours. Images of death, of fear, a voice, speaking to me... telling me to give up.”

Catherine pulled the welcome cloak tighter. “I’m glad you didn’t listen,” she said, realising he had had no one to help him through his fears, while she had him. “I saw the day we buried my mother. Then my attack.”

He knew about the latter.

She shrugged and tried to push the sad and terrifying images away again. “Greg Hughes spent some time with the DEA. I remember him saying that some nerve agents are very good at showing you what you most fear.” She shook her head, as if to be rid of the unwelcome images once and for all, and to rid herself of the feelings they engendered.

I know that’s what I saw as well, he thought, but didn’t say. The thing that most terrifies me. Losing you. Giving up. Knowing… I can’t, anymore.

His mouth drew into a grim line, and he simply looked up toward the shore, making her think he was concentrating on the task at hand. He remembered how the voices had filled his mind, voices, alien or hated. So many of those, when he sought only one, sought only hers... and he couldn’t find it.

Remembered blackness lingered. Not just because of the drugs, but because to one degree or another, it had been with him since the moment he’d stopped being able to sense her, inside their bond.

Aloneness. Fear. How lucky I was when I thought those days were no more, that that feeling would never be mine again.

They did not speak for a while, as they continued across the mysterious waters that filled the amber canyon. The whole world looked as impossible and false as Paracelsus’ dreams of renewed glory.

Catherine knew they were far from home. She had known it since Erlik had set her at John’s table. She remembered her fear, and remembered the need to push it aside.

Vincent was aware of her thoughts. The fear you felt… this is because you dared to entangle your life with mine. Winslow is injured and Paracelsus is still loose. And all of it could have been so very much worse.

The water was getting deeper, and he needed to push harder, to keep them moving. Something sharp dug into his chest as he moved. A small irritation, but he knew what it was. Do I give you back the crystal necklace that’s riding in my vest? Do I ask you to continue to tie your life to mine?

Uncertainty gripped him as he worked.

How can I... and… how can I not?

He knew the second question was the strongest one. He couldn’t keep it from her. He couldn’t not ask if she would consent to still be his, even after all they’d suffered the last few days. In a way, offering to return her crystal was a selfish act on his part, and he knew it.

As they neared the distant shore, Vincent paused in his steady rhythm of propelling them with his long pole against the lake bed. He reached into the pocket of his quilted vest and withdrew Catherine’s crystal pendant.

He held it out. He knew his voice sounded surer than he felt. “I found this on my way to you.” He let it dangle by its chain between them.

Take it, Catherine. Please accept it, and me, again.

Swamped by the vastness of his cloak, Catherine looked up at him. “Oh! I thought it was gone forever!” She grasped the pendant with a grateful smile.

There is no doubt in her. How… how can that be? Doesn’t she understand all that’s just happened? Doesn’t she know she nearly died, simply because I’m… what I am?

Vincent leaned closer, looking down at her with intense curiosity. “Catherine…on the journey, I felt for the first time, as if, somehow, you were lost to me. I knew you were in danger, and yet I could sense no fear.” It was a thing that had been either bothering him or terrifying him, almost every step of the way.

Catherine saw the question in his eyes, but couldn’t begin to guess at its depth. “I was afraid, Vincent…But I couldn’t allow myself to feel the fear.” Her green eyes pleaded for his understanding.

You are my world, how could I endanger you? How could I draw you to your doom, when I knew I could save you? she thought.

Vincent sighed, knowing what she was thinking, if not in words, at least in her intentions. “You didn’t want to draw me.”

Catherine swallowed tightly. “I couldn’t,” she admitted, huskily.

Vincent frowned at her, in awe of her courage. “You would sacrifice so much…”

Catherine’s tone was vehement. “I would sacrifice everything for you!” She paused, then went on. “What Paracelsus said…about your past…” Her breath hitched.

Vincent shrugged. “Before I left, Father told me something that I’m just now beginning to understand. He said that there is a truth beyond knowledge, beyond… everything we could ever hope to know.”

“Yes…” Catherine smiled, and the shimmering threads of their bond began to dance anew within Vincent’s consciousness.

There you are. Be with me. Stay with me. Be mine again. He felt her happiness, as she held onto his token.

This time, in Vincent’s mind, there was no yawning pit of darkness. No pain and no fear.

She held the pendant, and it gleamed with the shifting of the light. Vincent welcomed back the renewal of the ties that bound them so irrevocably. He leaned closer still. “And that truth… is love…”

Catherine’s smile widened, as she dipped her head in acknowledgment of what they both knew.

“Yes. Yes, it is. It is love.” She reddened uncharacteristically, blushing at the intensity of his words, if not their meaning. She put on the necklace, and stroked the length of it.

I love you, she thought.

He saw her shiver, even inside his cloak.

“You’re still cold?”

“No. Yes… I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s still just the chemicals wearing off.”

The shaking stopped, and he pushed them along the shoreline. He wanted them to emerge a little farther down than where he’d originally found the skiff. Just in case they were being followed.

“When we are far from this place, then I will make a fire, and you will be warm.” They both knew it was the best he could do.

Amber water continued to slide almost soundlessly by. After a long pause, she sighed wryly. “So much for my first real vacation in months. I had been so looking forward to it. Joe said he couldn’t spare me, but I managed to bargain him up to two weeks off by promising to take on twice as many cases when I returned.”

She shook her head, as she gazed at Vincent. “I was so looking forward to spending all my free time with you. Maybe I should have been more careful about what I wished for,” she murmured regretfully. “Somehow John knew I would be alone, with my guard down and he took advantage.” Her frown deepened. “Do you think he had someone spying on me?”

“You are not to blame for any of this, Catherine. Paracelsus makes his own rules. He is always looking for openings to exploit.”

“I know…” She was tired beyond belief, dirty and sweaty from all she had been through. Her clothes were smoke-stained and scorched in places. Hunger made her empty stomach growl.

Yet all that counted as nothing against seeing her love again, and knowing he was safe. All because she’d refused to show fear in the face of Paracelsus’ wrath. She’d refused to give in and be cowed, as the evil man had obviously expected her to, as a soft, city woman.

Paracelsus had quoted Nietzsche’s saying. “That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.”

Her mouth firmed into a determined line. “Well, I am stronger now too,” she muttered.

Vincent watched her expressive face, as he pushed the skiff in against the shore. The reflections of her thoughts echoed to him. He sensed her pride and her resolve.

“Though she be but little, she is fierce!” he quoted the Shakespearian line beneath his breath. He loved her all the more because of it.

Chapter 2

What Love Knows Not

~ ~ ~

And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

Khalil Gibran

~ ~ ~

The boat bumped to a halt on the gravel and Vincent dropped the pole, before reaching to help Catherine make her way ashore.

Standing again felt difficult, and she realised that, for all her brave words, her strength had not yet returned. Her legs threatening to no longer support her. She took his arm gratefully. She stepped onto solid ground, before finding and seating herself on a nearby rock. Her shoulders slumped, but her expression remained determined.

“Give me a minute,” she asked, rubbing circulation back into her thighs and stamping her feet. She was preparing to push on, if he needed her to do so.

Vincent was aware he had so much more to tell Catherine, but he was unsure of where to start and how she would react, if he did find a way to explain all that had happened in the last few days.

Of how the loss of their bond had affected him, and that Winslow had nearly died for her, how close they had all came to death. If not for Jamie’s skill with her bow…

“Of course, we will not go until you say it.”

He watched her chafing her legs, and was pleased to see some of the colour returning to her cheeks. Beneath the smoky grime she’d been pale, since he had pulled her clear of the mist. At first, he’d put it down to the images she’d seen in her fear. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

How close did I come to losing you? he wondered. How close to us losing each other?

His ever present sense of aloneness reasserted itself. To think that I actually forgot what this incredible, empty feeling was. To think that I could. He knew the darkness had the power to overwhelm him… that he could fight many things, but “aloneness” wasn’t one of them. In that way lies true madness, my love…

“Vincent?  Is there danger? What can you see?” Catherine asked, watching him closely, sensing his struggle.

“We are safe, for now,” he replied. “I wanted to emerge in a different place than I crossed. If we’re being followed, that should slow them. We will…endure, Catherine.”

She nodded her head, and accepted his outstretched hand. When she stood, she was still a little shaky, but gave him a game smile and steadied her balance.

I’m not going to be the reason we’re stuck down here, she thought.

Vincent removed his pack from the skiff and sorted through its contents, knowing he needed to make it less cumbersome for the return trip.

“We’ll need to leave the lantern,” he said regretfully, knowing she wouldn’t favour such a thing.

“The lantern? Why?”

“The oil is running low and it’s heavy. But mostly… it gives away our position, Catherine.”

She nodded her understanding, as her green eyes tried to pierce the shadows. Anything behind the rocks could see them, but they could not see it.

“Won’t it be too dark for you to…?”

“I can see.” He pressed a small flashlight into her palm. “Only for emergencies... and perhaps, not even then.”

He knew she had a fear of the dark and that he was about to plunge her into it.

She nodded again, understanding.

“Some areas have luminescence. It will be all right.”

She sat near, as he lightened the pack as much as he dared, then scanned the area.

Catherine watched his sentinel eyes take in their surroundings, seeking and finding nothing to alarm him. He had no idea where Paracelsus was now, but he knew the man would not give up so easily. And, as Narcissa had said, there were those here who were only too willing to do their master’s bidding.

Their obvious course was to return home the way they had come, for the most part. And quickly.

He had contemplated following the river, but since he was unfamiliar with this place, he had no true idea where the river went.

But the route Vincent had used to make his way here also presented possible dangers. John’s giant had found Catherine’s would-be rescuers in a blue cavern. One he knew they’d both have to pass through to get home.

“We cannot stay long here.” He turned back to Catherine. “But I feel you are tired. And you must eat, to keep your strength up. We have a long way to travel.”  He dug a trail bar out of the bottom of his pack and handed it to her. Hiking food. It was oats packed with carob for sugar and protein. He had a few more of them. They would help keep them on their feet.

As strong as the urge to ‘go’ was, he also felt that he just wanted to draw her near and cradle her, until she recovered. He knew she wanted and needed him to hold her, to make her feel safe once more.

But this was not the place to let their guard down, nor where to indulge in ‘wants’ when needs more pressing. Not when they were trapped against the water’s edge.

“It hasn’t been an easy couple of days,” Catherine freely admitted, with a shrug. “But, if we need to get away from here, I promise I will not hold you back. Although, when we go farther away from the river and into the darkness, I’ll need your eyes, and probably your hand for at least part of it.”

“I will guide you up.” Vincent drew her to her feet.

She made to return his cloak, but he forestalled her with an upraised hand. You need it more than I do, his look said to her.

“Very well,” Catherine acknowledged. “Which is the fastest way out of here?”

“This way. We can hope that Jamie and Pascal will be halfway back to the home tunnels with Winslow, by now.” Vincent indicated the path that snaked up through the rocks.

“Once Father has been alerted, he will send down a rescue team. But that will still take two days, if not more.”

Catherine’s heart quailed, and he felt it. He also felt her gathering her courage, and her strength.

“I will be with you. I will not let you come to harm again.”

He felt the effect his words had on her. She calmed immediately.

He surveyed the scene by the deceptively placid lake once more, but nothing moved. “We know there are others here who follow Paracelsus. I don’t know if they need his instructions to act, or if they are independent to some degree, or just plain vicious.”

Catherine realised he wanted them both up in the rocks, away from the exposed shoreline.

“That man is pure evil.” Catherine walked before Vincent, carefully picking her way. She blessed the fact that she’d been wearing good running shoes when she’d been taken.

“He is that,” Vincent agreed, shepherding her from behind.

She climbed with stubborn resilience as they approached the wall and the path that wound through it. The jagged tunnel opening revealed walls that were suffused with a blue kind of light. She gave her eyes a moment to adjust, as well as they were going to, and then kept going, plunging into what felt like a maw, more than anything else.

She picked her way slowly at first, but then realised that the ground was more even than she expected. Silt from the river had left a sandy kind of hard pack at her feet, and as long as she stayed near the centre of the tunnel, she could move fairly well. She felt his hand at her back and elbow, and sometimes he held her hand, though there were places where it was too narrow to travel that way.

Catherine trudged onward, feeling the endless repetition of putting one foot in front of the other a constant necessity. She knew he was near, and fingered the flashlight in her sweatpants pocket from time to time. They walked for what felt like miles, inside the indigo passageway. She knew if she looked back, she’d see darkness behind her, just as she saw it in front of her.

She wasn’t sure if they were supposed to talk to each other. But anxiety made her nervous, so she dropped her voice low. “He said he was trying to reclaim what was his. After so many years, he had finally decided to go home. He only needed to remove you and Father, to achieve that ambition.”

She shivered. “He was so sure of himself, and his ability to make it happen... as if it was his right to take everything away from you.” She was doing well, and he was relieved at her ability to balance over the uneven terrain. She moved as if she was clear of the narcotics at least, though fatigue was still dogging her.

“He almost succeeded,” Vincent acknowledged, meaning her, rather than his home. “If I had not reached you in time, or if his vicious, dumb creature had won the fight…” He let his voice trail.

Catherine knew he was remembering the struggle with Erlik, and its brutal conclusion. “We won’t think about that.” Catherine stopped and turned back to take his hand. “You did what needed to be done, Vincent. Never doubt that, not for a minute.”

He inclined his head, looking down at the tight linking of their fingers. His soft voice dropped lower still. “I felt you starting to slip away from me, Catherine. I sensed again all the loneliness and despair that had been my lot before I found you, and I could not bear it. Not again…”

“I am yours, now and always…” Catherine moved closer, and this time Vincent did not deny her the embrace she so obviously needed.

He drew her close against him, resting his chin on the top of her head, even as she huddled into him, her arms wrapping tight around his waist. He kept a watch, his eyes seeking any sign of life in the rocky shadows surrounding them.

He felt the sudden sag of Catherine’s slender body against his and he knew, despite her brave words, that she was desperately tired and needed to rest. He weighed the risk of pushing on against the possibility that she could stumble and fall on the torturously rocky path ahead.

“There is a place we used on the way down,” he offered. “But we will need to move above and behind it, into the rocks, to make sure we are not discovered.” He frowned. “Some of those who live down here, in the darkest places, seek their prey more by scent than sight, I think. I want us above the mist…”

“This is a malevolent place…” Catherine shivered as she drew back to stare about them. But her eyes were almost useless in the dark blue gloom of the passageway “Do you sense they are hunting for us now?”

“I feel nothing. Perhaps they are scattered, or fled.” Vincent lifted his face to the slight breeze that teased at his mane. “I think we are safe, for the moment. Paracelsus needs to regroup and plan his next move. He is not a man to make any decisions in haste.”

“Then if we could find a place to rest, I would be grateful.” Catherine looked up into his face. “But I will be ready to move on the moment you say so.”

Vincent studied her determined expression. Fatigue was vying with the desire not to hold him back, or let him down.

“We will be safe enough, for now.” He drew her to stand before him, facing her towards the path once more. “But we cannot risk making a fire.”

Catherine simply nodded, and followed him as he chose their shelter.

~ ~ ~

The cavern Vincent selected was small and sandy-floored. The entrance was narrow, barely room enough for him to turn sideways and squeeze through. The tight opening would make it easy to defend. It was their best protection against any attack.

Though it lacked much in the way of size or amenities, it was dry and thankfully uninhabited. It would have to do, for now. Catherine’s store of energy was almost spent. He knew that getting her up here wouldn’t be exactly “easy,” but it would be worth it.

They’d climbed the craggy rock face, moving away from the faint trail, and Catherine had clutched his arm, as they pushed through into the darkness below the cavern entrance.

“You climb by feel,” he had instructed, moving her hand so that it reached a secure hold. She nodded her understanding, hoping he could see it, knowing he wouldn’t ask her to do the impossible.

You do climb by feel, she realised, trusting her foot to go where her hand had just been. It was a strange sensation, and the higher up they moved, the deeper the shadows became. She moved from blue into black, with him right beside her, as they attained a higher pathway.

She held Vincent’s arm still, wishing they had been able to keep the lantern. The darkness pressed in on all sides. But she trusted him to keep them safe, and followed him blindly. Literally, in this case.

He turned her sideways to guide her through what she felt was a narrow opening in the wall. She sensed the ground change, as they attained the shelter he had chosen. The soft sand felt like a blessing, beneath her tired feet, though the darkness of the room felt all but complete to her.

“Can you see?” she asked.

“Shades of grey only, but yes. I can manage.” He slid his hand into hers. “It isn’t large.” He guided her hand until she touched the closest wall. He was right. The space wasn’t much more than fifteen feet square. “But it’s dry and safe. You can rest here.”

The words were incredibly welcome ones.

She heard her love drop his pack against the side wall, along with the small store of supplies that had been left at the campsite below them. It was scant comfort, but at least it was some.

She knew she was bone-weary and in need of a shower, but she kept silent. Those were small discomforts, compared to what she had just endured.

She was glad of the voluminous shelter of Vincent’s cloak. The chill of the surrounding rocks pervaded the small cavern. She longed to be in his arms again, and held close to his vital warmth. She wanted him to hold her while she slept, but she didn’t ask for that gift aloud. She wondered if they would have enough time to sleep decently, regardless of the space.

“You must eat.” Vincent came back to her, drawing her down to sit on the dry sand beside him.

From his pack he took another package that would suffice for their dinner, peanut butter with cheese and crackers. Dry rations, that wouldn’t spoil. Protein rich, and sticky, she washed it down with sips from a bottle of water.

As they shared the pedestrian meal, he told her the story of their rescue party.

Briefly, he outlined the details of the previous fight, where Winslow had been badly injured. He told her about the sham ‘funeral’ with Jamie crying, to make anyone listening believe that Winslow was really dead.

“I can’t believe you had to go through all that, to reach me.”

Vincent told of how he had mocked up Winslow’s sleeping bag, to make it look as if he was carrying a body. He spoke of the cairn they had built as a grave marker, before they’d parted company. How Jamie and Pascal had left with instructions to take Winslow back up to the home tunnels, and that he hoped they were not followed.

“Do you think they were?” Catherine asked.

“If they were, I trust Jamie to have handled it.” There was almost a touch of humour in his voice.

Vincent shook his head, though she couldn’t see the gesture. “But I don’t think they were followed. It was me Paracelsus wanted, not them. That’s why he took you. He knew I would follow him, into hell.”

Catherine absorbed it all in darkness, but her heart was sorely troubled by how much the tunnel folk had endured because of Paracelsus. Would his vileness ever end?

“How badly was Winslow hurt?” Catherine asked. He could hear the sound of concern in her voice.

“Badly enough so that he couldn’t continue. Father will care for him. And he’ll have to live with knowing Jamie saved him. The latter may hurt more than the injuries,” Vincent replied, taking a cautious sip of the water.

They would need to be careful with it, at least until tomorrow, when they were hopefully in better circumstances. But he wasn’t going to tell Catherine that. Not now, when she was exhausted, and probably needed more to drink than was prudent. He’d give her his share, as much as he could.

“To think he… Paracelsus… did all this…” Her voice trailed away, holding a sad kind of wonder. “He asked me if I found him complicated. I told him I thought he was tragic. Now I’m not sure if that description even fits.”

She took off her shoes, setting them away from her. He watched her carefully, not sure if she was aware how clearly he could see her, even in the gloom. She was graceful, even when she was exhausted.

“I’m not even sure if there is a description for him,” Catherine conceded.

“John is a man consumed by infinitely grand ideas and schemes.” Vincent sensed the trend of her thoughts. “He is both great and terrible. And he… loved me…once... in his own, twisted way.”

“I understand, Vincent. Truly I do.” Catherine moved closer to him, to see him better in the darkness. Her blown open pupils could make out his beloved shape at least. But barely. She took his hand, to anchor herself. “He was fascinated by you, cared for you even, perhaps saw you as… part of his family. That much was clear, even if it’s all wrong now.”

“Yes, he did…” Vincent sighed, raising her hand to his lips, and pressing a kiss to its back. “But something died within him when he was cast out of our community. And now all he seeks is revenge. He’s killed without thought, in your world, and threatens mine.  For all our sakes, he must be stopped. Permanently. And by whatever means necessary.”

He was quiet, knowing what the purposefully vague description would likely entail. Stopping John would likely fall to him. And the ‘permanent’ measure of that likely meant he would have to kill Father’s old friend, and one of the tunnel founders.

The fact that Paracelsus had threatened Catherine meant he might not even mind doing that.

“I wish my world could have dealt with him for you. He can still be linked to all those deaths. New York doesn’t deal kindly with such people.”

He shrugged, knowing New York had the death penalty for crimes deemed as homicides. He also knew John Pater would never see the inside of a jail cell, and that he’d give up the tunnel world in a second if he thought it was time to.

“Your world was not to blame for this. Mine was,” Vincent said with conviction. “All that has happened… this was my world, the evil that exists where I do. Perhaps even because I do, in some dark way.”

Catherine understood he was describing what an obsession he clearly was, on John Pater’s part. Neither of them was so foolish as to think they’d seen the last of him.

Vincent’s voice dropped half an octave. “There is much … risk, here… perhaps as much here as there is in your world... sometimes.”

“I agree…sometimes.” Catherine leaned against his shoulder, her forehead coming to rest against the side of his neck. She felt the sudden shiver that passed through him, and became aware she had his cloak.

She sat up, and moved even closer. “Please, let me share this with you. There’s room enough for us both.” She lifted the dark fabric, and held it out.

It isn’t the chill in the air, Catherine. It’s all the rest of it.

Vincent hesitated for a moment, then acquiesced, a rough sigh punctuating his acceptance.

Catherine smiled as she slid one arm around his waist, delighting in having her love so close in the darkness. She could feel him breathing, and the fall of his mane teased her cheek. He dropped a kiss into her hair.

The beloved patchwork fabric enfolded them, and warmth built between them. Devoid of any way to see, she could only feel him in the dark, next to her. The sensation of being ‘surrounded’ by him, thanks to his cloak, was pervasive. His scent was everywhere. She felt the rhythm of his breathing against her cheek, and heard it, with ears that suddenly seemed very sensitive.

The quilted cloth of his vest felt good, and different from the thinner muslin of his shirt. Every time he moved his head, his hair brushed against her shoulders, bare beneath their cloaked covering. His hand slid up her arm, keeping her close, and she heard his breath hitch, then sigh.

The trail of his palm left electricity in its wake, and her skin felt sensitized. The small space seemed intimate all of a sudden, and the mood within it continued to shift.

He planted another kiss on the top of her head, this time rubbing his cheek against her crown, the feeling both familiar, yet somehow, new.

Unbidden, Catherine thought sensual things which made her wonder and wish for things she’d never had.

Stop. You have to stop this.

Both were unaware they’d thought almost exactly the same thing, simultaneously.

But I don’t want to…again, together.

In the darkness some things suddenly seemed more possible than they ever had before.

“Vincent…?” She raised one hand, seeking and finding the stubbled curve of his cheek.

She felt the hiss and pull of his breath as she ran the ball of her thumb across the uniqueness of his mouth. She teased the cleft in his top lip and felt him tremble again.

He made to remove her hand, but she forestalled him by saying, “We have survived much, you and I. I know we almost lost each other, but I knew that you would find me and rescue me. I… waited for you. I will always wait for you. You are my life.”

“Your faith never ceases to humble me,” Vincent replied raggedly, against the continued teasing of her thumb. “I was so sure I had lost you, more than once.”

“I never doubted you, not for a moment.” She noticed he did not pull away, but allowed her to continue the unusual intimacy. “You could never lose me, Vincent. We are a part of each other.”

When he didn’t reply, she leaned around to look up into his face. A face she could not see, only sense, by her roving touch. She caught the sheen of his watching eyes.

She moved closer to him, shifting into the intimate space between his thighs, the tip of her nose almost resting against the end of his. They were now breathing the same air.

This close, her breasts pressed gently against the quilting of his grey vest. Her crystal became trapped between their bodies. She could feel the pounding of his heartbeat, as rapid as hers.

She continued to explore his upturned face with her fingertips. “You know, Einstein once said, ‘There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.’”

“Did he?” It was a puff of breath, across her palm, as it moved.

She smiled. “I have come to believe in miracles. Haven’t you, Vincent?”

“Each and every day, since you came into my life,” he whispered, his whole body was beginning to tremble, and neither of them thought it was from the cold.

“Our love is a constant reaffirmation that life goes on, abundantly. And it always will.” Catherine sighed. “Do you believe that, too?”

“With all my heart… I almost lost you. I did lose you…Catherine…?”

“Shhh…” She cupped his face, before brushing her lips back and forth, against his. “We don’t have much time…” She deepened the erotic contact. “This is a moment out of time. This is our moment, if you will only allow it to be that…”

“But, I…” Vincent didn’t finish, as her tongue pushed gently between his teeth, flicking over the length of one of his canines, before darting away again.

You can’t. I can’t… can we?

“I loved to climb trees in the park when I was young, but I was terrified of the dark. So you taught me to climb in the dark. What a miracle you are.” She whispered it against lips that wanted hers back again, pressed against his, and made that happen.

After a long moment, Catherine pulled back slightly from the kiss. “When I needed you, Vincent, you found me. And I need you, now. Hold me, and make me believe again, in the possibility of miracles. And our love…please?”

A second passed. Three. Five. They sat in silence, nose to nose, each feeling the other breathe. Vincent seemed not to have the power to deny her. Here in the darkness, it seemed that all things were truly possible. Things that may shrivel and die in the cold light of day seemed… reachable, here. They were beyond the need for words…

Catherine rose to her knees. Knowing he held her gaze with his, her hands fell first to his shoulders, then trailed down the front of his vest to the buckle of his belt. She did not ask, or receive permission, beyond his sharply-breathing stillness.

Working by feel, she managed to undo the belt, reach under the vest, and unfasten and draw aside the opening of his of his dark trousers. Her fingers flexed within the band, seeking and finding the hot flesh, beneath.

He surged into her palm, needing her to know him this way, and exactly this way. In the dark. Intimately, and in the dark.

“Your turn…” she whispered. She moved her hips suggestively.

Vincent’s broad hands settled on her waist, above the band of her sweatpants. There was no belt to impede his progress, only the tie of her sweats, and then the filmy barrier of her silk underwear, which did not survive the abrupt contact with his talons. The soft fabric gave almost instantly, following her pants down her thighs, to pool at her bent knees.

“It doesn’t matter…” Catherine murmured, as she felt him inhale in apology. “Nothing matters…” She tugged his vest upwards, taking his shirts with it.

“You are mine, now and always…”

She rocked back into the sand, taking Vincent with her, as she lay full-length on her back. “Love me…” she entreated.

“Catherine…” Vincent looked down at her.

He longed to say something else, anything else, but the words got jammed somewhere in his throat, and he could only whisper her name again. His rational mind was screaming for him to get up and put distance between them. But, here, in this small place, in the dark, his imagination expanded to include all the unseen possibilities of their relationship.

As Catherine had said, their love was the reaffirmation that life goes on, boundlessly. Loving her physically seemed so easy now, so right, and so longed for, he felt tears gather in his eyes, as he bent down to her.

With one hand he stripped away her pants and tattered underwear, leaving her open to his gaze. And he marvelled at all he had exposed.

She was spread beneath him like a willing sacrifice, waiting for him to make the next move. He could see her, but he was aware she could only sense him. She was going by touch alone, and the thrill of that knowledge allowed him the gift of studying her slenderness.

The rash impulse to strip them both as bare as their growing desires flared, and died in the same moment. There was no time to make this last, as he wished it could have, for their first time. Catherine needed him. Needed to feel him and know she lived, despite all John had done to her.

She wanted him, and he didn’t have the strength to deny her this one gift, this precious joining. This reaffirmation that they both lived and loved…

She was painted in tones of blue and grey, to his night-keen eyes. But for her, he was a dark cypher in the blackness. He felt her hands slide up his strong arms, memorizing his shape with her palms. She moved her fingers against the natural lay of his body hair, and he felt her fingertips brush bare skin. The sensation made his groin feel heavy with wanting. Her palms slid up the side of his neck and held him there. She felt the pounding of his heart.

She was ethereally beautiful, sweetly warm, and just a touch desperate.

She’s afraid I’m going to stop. She’s afraid this won’t happen. But then, I have been afraid of this very act, all my adult life. Face the fears with me, Catherine. Move through them …

He closed his eyes in denial that he would bring a halt to it, but the darkness behind his eyelids reminded him too much of the loneliness he had endured before he’d met her. His eyes flew open again, memorizing her rapt expression. One she wasn’t aware he was studying.

“Please…” She mouthed it, more than whispered it, and her fingers clung, around his strong neck.

Vincent responded to her almost silent cry of need, feeling it quiver along his own length, as it arced through hers. Catherine pushed her hips up against his and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to make them one. A shift and thrust of his lower body against hers and it was quickly done, so easily he wasn’t sure of anything, until the blinding explosion behind his eyelids assured him it was so. All the colours and reflections of their bond were there, impossible to deny.

Now is aloneness gone. Now is it banished, Vincent thought, with a satisfied shift of his pelvis. He aligned her beneath him, and he felt her move, as he kissed tears from the corners of her eyelids.

Salt, he thought, a moment before he returned it to her, in a kiss.

Catherine felt like warm velvet and the deep secrets of womanhood, as she welcomed him, artlessly. It was easy. So easy.

So easy. So… right. This was what I feared, for us? This… bliss? he wondered, feeling her shift, seeing her shimmer, inside their bond.

She barely had time to think it before their mutual tension rose to fever pitch. She called his name, long and low, and it burned a path right through him.

Yes. Yes, that’s the way I want to hear you say my name. Not in fear, not in panic. In wanting. In… living…

She moved, a subtle shift and flex, tightening her intimate muscles to embrace him completely. Vincent froze, but only for a moment. A rhythm older than time itself drove him to react to her femininity, and he rose high over her, and then back down again, quickly attaining a rhythm that tore Catherine’s shattered breath from her. She clung to him as he surged again, his movements gathering pace and determination.

He had a goal in sight. Somewhere out there in the darkness waited a place he had never seen. And she went with him, matching him stroke for stroke, until the inevitable happened, and everything within them exploded, into a star-studded world of unbelievable pleasure.

The growl from Vincent’s lips echoed into the darkness, and he surged one last time, everything he was, and could ever be, emptying into Catherine.

She took it all, the physical and spiritual gifts together, and wept, as she gave him back so much more.

Finally, Vincent leaned away from her, but only far enough to rearrange his own clothing, before helping her with hers. The hands that had embraced her now helped cover her, against the chill in the cavern air. The intimacy was not lost on Catherine. She still could not see a thing, in the darkness. But she could feel his beloved hands, tending her. Everywhere.

“You need to rest,” he whispered intimately, as he lay next to her. Vincent pulled her against him. “Sleep, and I will keep watch.”

“Are you sure?” Catherine’s anxiety was all for him. “What if someone comes?”

“Then I will wake you, and we will face it together,” he reassured her, drawing his cloak up around her. “Sleep, now.”

Catherine settled into his embrace and closed her eyes. Behind her lids everything seemed to shimmer and float…

Chapter Three

I Fear Not the Thorns

~ ~ ~

March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection. March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life’s path.

Khalil Gibran

~ ~ ~

Vincent held her while she dreamed, both astonished at what had just happened and wondering at it. Not for the world, would he wish it undone. But there were dozens of ways he’d pictured this moment, and none of them were here, or under these circumstances.

Perhaps it’s best, this way. Perhaps this was never going to be something either of us could plan.

He replayed every word, every touch, in his mind, until the result on his body, became predictable.

No more of that, he thought regretfully, keeping Catherine near. She needed rest. For that matter, so did he.

He watched her sleep, remembering the first time he’d ever done that, and being just as fascinated by her now, as he had been then.

Just over a year ago, the fact that a young woman was sleeping in his bed was a marvel to him. Bandaged, injured, convalescing… She’d been afraid, and fighting it.

Much like she had been when Paracelsus had held her. Afraid, and fighting it. Not allowing herself to feel that fear. Supressing her panic so that she could find her way through.

Is that why this happened? he wondered. Because this was so much like that first time? I begged you not to be afraid then. Shouldn’t I have done that now?

He shifted so that her head was in a more comfortable position, and pondered their fate. He had no idea what the last hour had meant for them, or even if it meant anything. Their situation was no better than it had ever been, and indeed, it might have just gotten worse. It was not lost on him that she was still at risk, especially while John Pater still lived; that she could be used to hurt him, by his enemies. People like Mitch Denton also still roamed the streets, and there were always others.

I love you. Did we do the right thing, Catherine? Would I feel better if this had happened in your bedroom, with clean linens and comfort, rather than here? Will you… regret this, when the dark is no longer there to conceal me from your eyes? Was I a coward for wanting it that way?

He wasn’t certain. But there was one thing he did know: Yet… within the bond… we were so… beautiful together.

For the first time in his life, Vincent felt he now fully understood the expression “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” One round of exquisite lovemaking had left him with more questions than answers, and there was no one to ask, and no way to find out any of them.

He chased the questions around in his mind, and then gave up, just for the pleasure of watching her rest.

A few hours later, sleep helped them both, as he managed to catch some, while she traded sentry duties with him.

When he rose, he packed up their gear and began what would be another long walk. He wanted to get her up past the rope climb, before nightfall. Then he knew, they’d both rest better.

~ ~ ~

They’d been walking for about an hour when she finally stopped him, with a tug on his hand.

“Vincent?” she asked. He stopped, and stayed near.

“Yes?” It still felt odd, to barely be able to see him. His large shape was a different black than the black surrounding him, surrounding them.

“We’re… not going to talk about it?” She sounded hesitant, and unsure, and like she’d give half her fortune for a well-lit lantern right now. The flashlight wouldn’t do for this. That would make this seem like an interrogation.

He closed his eyes and sighed, but of course she knew only about the latter gesture.

“I’m… awash, in thoughts. It was completely perfect. And completely… imperfect. Can you understand?”

He felt it, when the tears pricked behind her eyelids. “I’m not sure I do,” she said honestly. “But I understand you’re not the first person to have morning-after regret…“

“Never say I regret something so… sublime,” he whispered the last word low, as if he barely had a right to use it.

“I… for me, too.”

He kept her hand in his and pulled her to him. “I want to do this. I want to speak with you. Someplace where you’re safe, where I’m not trying to watch every shadow, and… fight not to spend every minute daydreaming, about last night.”

She rubbed the back of his hand with her free palm. “I’m sorry. I understand.”

He lifted their joined hands and placed a kiss on the back of hers. “No, you very likely don’t. And neither do I. This was not a plan, Catherine. I’m not sure I know how to behave. What to say. What is… right, here.” He kissed her hand again, then let it drop.

Were you disappointed? She was dying to ask it. In some way, were you? Was I selfish, for giving in to the need of you? For asking, before I knew you were ready? She pushed the fear of that away. There was no time for this.

Sleep had revitalized them both, and the amazing tingling sensation in her nether regions reminded her that she’d made love, just a few hours ago. She wondered if he felt the same pleasant sensation, and had no way to ask him if he did, or if he’d like to revisit the experience again later.

“We should keep moving,” she said, dropping back behind him, keeping his hand locked with hers.

“When we reach the chasm, there’s a rope to the higher levels. Once we’re up there, we’ll be more comfortable. I know where there is clean water, and there are candles in a pack. Torches, we left behind. We’ll be able to have some light.”

The promise of no longer having to stumble through the darkness sounded like a godsend.

“Lead on, then,” she said, hoping she projected the right amount of enthusiasm.

Their progress seemed slow, and Catherine had no idea how long they’d been walking before he called a halt, fed them both, then continued on again. The trek seemed both too long and too frustrating, with Vincent’s silent back in front of her on the long journey.

An experience that had once seemed life-affirming, and lovely, now felt hastily conceived, and ill-advised to Catherine. Probably to both of us, she admitted.

Light fell through a hole in the ceiling ahead of them. A rope dangled down.

Eureka.

He preceded her up the rope and then pulled her up behind him.  When she reached the sandy ground, she was aware of the difference the climb had made.

The rock here was reddish brown, rather than the blue black of below. And he’d already lit a torch, and driven it into the sand. It gave a welcome light.

Green eyes searched his blue ones. Did she expect them to look different? She wasn’t sure.

“I still don’t know this area, other than what we passed when we came down. We are still away from the pipes. But if you will go a bit farther, I think we can at least pass the night more … comfortably.” He stumbled on the last word, not sure how anything could be both more comfortable than last night had been, and less so. They’d had no bedding, no fire, and no amenities. And on the other hand, the bed of sand had seemed softer than the deepest feather mattress, there’d been enough heat in the room to start a bonfire, and the pleasure he’d experienced had rivalled any other comfort he’d ever known.

“That will be lovely,” Catherine replied gamely, picking up the torch, waiting for him.

~ ~ ~

They walked throughout the rest of the long day, and Vincent felt certain they were not being followed. The closer he got to home, the better he felt.

Or, he should have.

Catherine was trudging doggedly on, either beside, behind or in front of him, as the uneven ground warranted. It was the same way he, Winslow and Pascal had come down.

After twenty straight minutes of staring at her back, as she walked in front of him, he began to sense the distance of her... the mental kind, not the physical.

She is confused. Uncertain. She does not want me to know all that she is feeling so she is… withdrawing from me.

Vincent processed the sensation, aware that it left a taste like bile in his throat. She wasn’t shutting him out, not completely. But she wasn’t letting him in either.

This was a mental reflex, nothing more. A bid for privacy, while she sorted through her feelings. But they weren’t in a place where those could be sorted out. So she was concentrating on the path, so she wouldn’t have to concentrate on what had happened between them last night.

Normally, he might have been inclined to allow her such an act. It was hardly the first time he had touched her inside their bond, when her emotions were roiled, hardly the first time he’d felt “storms within her.”

But this was different, and this storm was the kind she was keeping at bay, rather than letting it rage. Considering how he’d spent most of the last week, he knew he would prefer her anger, or even her sorrow, to this steady kind of silence, the kind that was “heard” both on his inside, and his outside.

No. Stop. It was a mental command, rather than a physical one. And even though he hadn’t said it, she stumbled a little, and slowed.

Then she resumed her pace.

Never as sensitive to their bond as he’d always been, she knew he could “read” her far better than she could read him. Aside from the incredible moment last night, when they’d climaxed bare seconds apart, and felt each other… everywhere, the bond had always been stronger on his side, than hers.

Except now they both knew she could withhold herself from him, if she so chose.

That was new, and like every other new thing that had passed between them, Vincent knew it would have to be dealt with.

Remember the aloneness? Remember? You do, don’t you.

It was a statement, more than a question, and for no reason he could name, an ancient song lyric from a concert he’d once heard in the park, came back to him.

‘Hello darkness, my old friend…’

He wondered if Paul Simon had ever shared a bond with someone.

Either way, he knew he didn’t like this… awkwardness, between them. This ‘morning after’ awareness that felt both uncertain and unwanted.

He reached forward to steady her elbow, just for the need to touch her, as she staggered again.

“Thank you. I’ve got it,” she said, keeping her eyes down, watching her feet move. He’d felt her startle a bit, at the touch of his hand. Not “recoil,” just… surprised to find it there, while she’d been concentrating on the road.

“I can carry the torch, if you like,” he offered, knowing part of her trouble was being off balance, thanks to having to manage the torch.

“You’ve already got the pack. And I like having control of the light. I need it.”

I think we both do, right now, he thought wryly.

“It isn’t much farther,” he tried to comfort her, knowing it was true. “We can rest for a few moments, if you like.” He kept his hand where it was, but she shook her head, a touch of her stubborn streak showing.

“If we’re close, I’d rather keep going than stop. Oh!”

She cried out as her sneakered foot slipped on an algae covered rock, and sent her skidding. The torch teetered, and hit the wall, sending sparks out, before his hand on her elbow righted her.

“Catherine, stop. You need to stop.” He steadied her off-balance form, and guided her to a cluster of dry stones. They would do, for a place to sit.

“I can keep…“

“Your shoelace is untied. Sit. Please,” he added, trying to keep the sound of command out of his voice.

She realised he was right, as she gave over control of the torch. He planted it in the ground and eased the pack off his shoulders, kneeling in front of her while she sat.

Before she could reach for the laces, his hands were already there. His motions were purposefully slow, as he re-tied her shoe.

“Are you… all right?” He completed the simple chore but kept his hand on her foot, holding her there. His eyes stayed trained on her sweat pant-clad leg. Legs he’d seen naked, the night before.

She knew he was talking about more than the stumble.

“I… don’t know. I think I am… if you are,” she replied.

He reached up to grip the curve of her calf. “I… I don’t know what I am. It’s all… too new, and I’m still… I don’t know. Are you angry with me?”

“No,” she denied. “Are you… angry with me? Last night was more my idea than yours.”

He shook his head as he raised his blue eyes to her green ones. “I would not be so…certain you bear more credit,” he replied.

She leaned forward and grasped his neck, drawing their foreheads together so that they were touching. “I suppose it seemed like the right thing to do, at the time,”

She reached out to him, inside their bond, and he felt the warmth of her, and the acceptance.

Ah… there you are. Thank you. There you are, my Catherine.

“I refuse to say this happened because of Paracelsus.” Catherine declared.

They both knew that intense times often brought forth intense reactions, from those involved. They would hardly be the first two people to decide to sleep together, after a time of extreme, life threatening turmoil.

But Vincent didn’t want them to be part of a statistic, that way, and the idea rankled.

We should have waited. I should have waited.

Then: But haven’t we spent enough time doing that?

“I love you.” They said it nearly together. Perhaps because that was all either one of them knew to say.

He planted a kiss on her forehead, and she returned it.

“It’s not much farther.” He switched to the topic to the journey, since it was the safe one. “There’s a small stream. Just a little thing, but you’ll be able to wash up in it. We’ll have a fire and a hot meal.”

“That sounds like… paradise,” she said. Then again, so did last night, and we had none of that. “You’ve been polite to not point out that my clothes smell like smoke.”

You’ve been polite to not point out it is at least partly my fault that they do. They took you because of me, Catherine.

“That is a thing we may be able to remedy,” he said, standing. He shouldered the pack and offered her his hand. He picked up the torch with the other one.

“It’s wide enough for us to walk side by side,” he declared. It was, but only just. It was why they’d been walking single file before.

“All right,” she said, slipping her hand in his, trustingly.

He felt better, as they continued up.

Chapter Four

All I’ve Done for Recompense

Sanctify the heart as a sacrifice to love; love recompenses the adorers.

Khalil Gibran

~ ~ ~

They lapsed back into silence again, as they concentrated on the path, each still wrapped up in their own concerns. He could feel her tiring, and not complaining about it.

The chamber, when they came to it, was as welcome as a suite at the Waldorf Astoria to Catherine.

The promised stream did indeed trickle down a gently graded slope. Not so much more than the flow from a decent faucet, Catherine still wanted to stick her head under it, and get the smell out of her hair.

A fire pit had already been made with a circle of stones, a cooking trivet left over it.

“People come here? I thought this entire area was too remote?” Catherine asked.

“These items are ours, left behind on the way down for the return journey. It makes no sense to constantly carry everything. We move more lightly as we go,” he explained, tugging a metal pan out of an army surplus knapsack. It also contained soap, a towel, and canned soup. Not much, but not something that needed to be lugged all the way down and back up.

“It seems Pascal left us something,” Vincent observed, tugging a book out of the bottom of the bag. It looked hand-bound.

“What is it?” Catherine asked, hoping for a book of poetry. Perhaps they could read together, and smooth over all that had happened before, by retreating to something familiar.

“Tunnel Code, and Communication Modalities, And Other Concerns.” Vincent recited the title, flipping open the cover. “Written by John Pater.”

Catherine extended her hand, and he gave it to her. Very little was handwritten. Most of it looked like it had been created on a manual typewriter.

“So odd to remember he… he had a name, once. And used it,” Catherine mused, looking at the ideas that would one day become a system of communication and survival, for those below. The foundation for the tapping code they used. Drawings of filtration systems, sentry posts, false walls, the tube and bottle system that brought messages to them from up Above… Catherine recognized the round door, and the gate; the eye slits, and a rough sketch of the Great Hall Doors marked “My Chamber,” in a sharp, close-lettered scrawl.

“He was always brilliant,” Vincent allowed. “I believe Aristotle once said, that no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

“Yes…” Catherine realised how true that was. The ideas were brilliant. “It makes you wonder when that… changed into something else,” she replied, handing the book back.

Are we changing into something else? He wondered it, but like so many thoughts he’d had, he didn’t say it aloud.

“Go and wash,” he said, indicating the soap and towel. “I’ll start the fire and make the soup.”

She collected the bathing things and went over to the trickle of water, glad for its spritely sound on the rocks, until she interrupted the flow with her hands. She noticed he kept his back to her, allowing her whatever privacy she needed.

Catherine scrubbed her hair and exposed skin clean, with the only bar of soap they had. It was a welcome relief.

“I’d pay good money for an extra set of clothes in that bag,” Catherine declared. Rinsing her sweatshirt had helped, but the rest of her clothes still smelled of smoke and perspiration.

Vincent turned and tossed her a man’s button down shirt. Judging by the size, it belonged to Winslow.

“You’ll be in damp clothing if you wash yours, but at least that will keep you covered. And you can still use my cloak.”

She nodded, and waited until he gave her his back again.

So odd that we’re so self-conscious with each other, she thought, peeling out of her tops.

Laundering them was a simple chore, and it kept her hands busy.

He’s used to being alone, after something intense happens. Especially after he… kills, she realised. Maybe that’s part of why he’s so… tense.

She thought of Erlik’s violent death, and Vincent felt the tremor of it.

She’s remembering… That much, he knew. And it was not a pleasant memory.

He listened to her as she scrubbed, and didn’t dare turn, not knowing if she was half nude, or covered by the voluminous fabric of his friend’s extra shirt.

Vincent saw that Pascal and Jamie had used most of the medical supplies on Winslow, but had left some behind for him. A partial roll of gauze and scissors sat in one of the side pockets of the knapsack. He wouldn’t need it. But he was sorry that Winslow had. The painkillers were gone, as was the antiseptic cream. He expected as much.

Considering that Winslow had been seriously disabled by a bad shoulder and questionable ribs, it must have been interesting for Jamie and Pascal to get him up the rope. He’d have to ask them later how they managed it.

He knew that by occupying himself with such concerns, he was distracting himself from other ones, so he wouldn’t have to run the gauntlet of questions, which now plagued his usually nimble mind: Was he supposed to be asking her if she wanted help getting washed? Was he supposed to be helping her launder her pants, the ones he’d taken down her soft limbs, the night before? Should he apologize for ruining her underwear? Should he just… pretend none of it had happened for the moment, and fix them something to eat?

He didn’t know the answer to any of it, so he stuck with the safest option. He started a fire and boiled soup.

She was done fairly quickly, there being little to clean, besides the clothes she’d been walking and sleeping in, for several days. She wrung them out as best she could and arranged them on the nearby stones, hoping they’d dry soon. Especially the soft sweat pants. The thing she’d removed last night, now felt like it was something she needed, for some reason.

“Your turn,” she said.  The long tails of Winslow’s shirt skimmed her thighs nearly to her knees. She was decently covered. Yet ‘vulnerable’ didn’t seem like a word that began to cover it.

Her hair was damp and dark streaked. He offered her a pocket comb which she took, gratefully. Free of the dirt and grime of Paracelsus’ lair, her skin had a young, clean, open look which tugged at his heartstrings. She was long free of any cosmetics, and the makeshift bath had rid her hair of any styling products she’d had in it. Her eyes looked overly large, in her soft face, and her mouth looked eminently kissable.

He forgot that she looked several years younger than she was, without the soft cosmetics which gave her an aura of sophistication. Until some circumstance or other reminded him of that very fact.

What did I take from you last night, Catherine? And what do I have to give? Whatever it is, is that enough? Should it be?

Like the other lists he’d run that day, he had no answers for the questions.

“I won’t be long,” he said, handing her the wooden spoon, as canned beef and barley began to simmer. She nodded, and squatted near the fire, indicating she’d take care of things.

She watched the crackling flames lick the wood, and wondered where it had come from. Did they haul it down with them, or find it laying around down here? Neither answer seemed very likely. The former was heavy, and the latter seemed impossible. Perhaps she’d ask him about it later.

It was then that Catherine became aware she’d been doing much the same thing he had: Occupying her mind with trifles, when there were larger issues at hand, between them.

What do we do now? Where do we take this? For a while, I wondered if this would even happen for us, and wished it could. But I didn’t think it through. Now what? What does he want, even? What happens when we return home? Do we just… pretend it didn’t happen? Go back to how things were?

She sensed his disquiet, even from the distance between them.

Like he had done, she could give him no more privacy than to keep her back turned, so she did that.

I’ve never seen you undressed. Yet I swear my fingers now know you in the dark.

She heard his belt drop to the stones, remembering it had been she who had prompted that to happen last night. When his vest hit, it was an unaccustomed sound.

She tugged his cloak over, in spite of the fire. She felt… cold, with him not near.

Catherine shook herself, mentally. Don’t. Don’t make demands, and don’t cling. He’s a private person. Perhaps we made a mistake. Too late to fix that now.  He’s used to far more privacy than we can give each other right now. Especially after he’s had to kill. Draw in. Draw back. Leave him be. He’ll come to me when he’s ready.

The logic of that seemed sound, and Catherine did just that. Just as she’d done when she’d refused to feel fear, she refused to feel all that she wanted or hoped for… for now.

Vincent, washing his face and arms underneath the small flow of water, felt her mental “departure.” He scrubbed the hair on his forearms and took them back and forth, under the flow, watching the soapy water get carried away, down the stones.

He sensed her mental withdrawal.

Is she afraid I’ll … want that again? Afraid I’ll ask? He had no idea. But the ‘alone’ feeling reared its head again, almost immediately. He braced his palms against the stone wall, to counteract the feeling of falling into something black.

I would fall forever, without you. I would starve. I would die. I don’t think I could even breathe. I’m sure I wouldn’t want to.

His thoughts were in turmoil, and the room was both too large and too small. Too small, to contain the chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. Too large, because he wanted her no farther away than a whisper.

Except for the part of him that knew she should be running from him, as fast as she could go.

Save yourself. No. Don’t. Save me.

He made a fist and hit the stones with the side of it, an impotent gesture, from a potent man.

Save me. Save me so I can keep my life tied to yours, and risk you with it. Maybe even damn you with it.

The sleeve of his top shirt caught water, and he yanked it off, impatient to have it gone. He knew he wouldn’t strip. This was as far as he’d go. He didn’t want to frighten her, and didn’t want to assume.

Except for the part of him that wanted to assume… everything.

Even with his eyes open, he saw the obsidian depths. It reminded him of the abyss, only impossibly deeper.

Remember this? Remember this aloneness? This was yours. It was all yours.

Too raw. Too close. The feelings are too hard to deal with, too painful.

Too full of memory.

He felt like a man who had been blind all his life, fumbling in his isolated, alone world, only to be given sight, then have it snatched away again. And he felt that on too many levels.

I was alone, and knew it. I lived with it, and I dealt with it. But then there was you, Catherine. The end of my aloneness. And it was like I could look at the sun, and truly see it for the first time in my life. And then… last night… everything…

But then… darkness again.

He finished with his ablutions as he heard her pour the soup.

Which fate was more cruel? he wondered, drying himself with his soiled top shirt. To never have sight at all, or to have it restored for a time, before it was taken away?

He didn’t know. But the question felt like a metal screw, tightening in his gut.

Ah, but I thought I was done with that. Done with that “alone” feeling. Since the day I first saw you, first felt our bond. It was the end of my aloneness. I know it was. I rejoiced for it.

He knew that the joy of having her had been both an overt and a subtle thing. Something that both filled his heart and quelled the empty space that had taken up its dark residence inside his soul. She’d been the end of his aloneness.

Well, not quite, as it turns out.

She was still squatting down, steadying herself as she divided the meal. He turned and watched her stooped form, as she worked. Her back was still to him, the only way she could give him what she thought he craved… privacy.

You have no idea what I crave, he realised, knowing that like everything else, that wasn’t her fault. Nor was it his, exactly. He hadn’t loosed this emptiness, this ‘alone’ emptiness, between them.

He knew whose fault it was, however.

Paracelsus. And he’d gotten away.

Your time will come, old man. And I will happily gut you, for reminding me of this pain.

He knew he shouldn’t think it. He also knew he couldn’t help it.

Vincent crossed back over to where she sat, just for the comfort of the nearness. He dropped down a few feet away from her, kept his eyes trained on the small fire, and picked up a stick. He kept his head slightly turned, as he jabbed at the flames, pretending to stir the small blaze to life. It reminded him of the fire Paracelsus had ordered Erlik to set.

Erlik had touched her. And so he was dead.

Good.

He knew he shouldn’t think that either. And that he very much shouldn’t feel it.

Raw. I feel raw inside.

It had been Erlik who had dropped the torch onto the combustibles.

So of course he had to die. Would that he’d had company in that.

Vincent stood and paced, as Catherine rummaged through his pack.

They’d made love. She was safe. The bond was restored between them, and it should be calming him.

It wasn’t. Nothing was. Not when she was withdrawing from him again.

Catherine didn’t need to be as sensitive as he was to know something was bothering him.

“Vincent? What is it?”

“Nothing.” How to even explain all that Paracelsus had wrought within him? And that it was still happening, and he couldn’t hope to explain it?

“Your… ‘nothing’ is… very loud. Are you still upset about earlier?”

Yes. Earlier. When I couldn’t feel you, no matter how hard I tried, how far I reached. For days.

“When you… Erlik, I mean,” she clarified.

Oh. That. Yes. He’d done something very savage yesterday, hadn’t he? And yes, truth to tell that was bothering him, and doing that more than a little. Just not the way she thought it was.

“Some,” he admitted, trying to deflect her.

“I know… other times, when… when that happens,” she said carefully, using the euphemism for him killing someone. “I know you can … slip away, for a while. Be by yourself. I’m… I’m sorry you can’t do that, this time.”

Vincent pondered her words. No matter how counter-intuitive it felt, was that what he needed? Solitude? A quiet place to clear his head and think? Or not think, in this case?

No. That didn’t seem right. If anything he was restraining the urge to grab her hand and keep hold of it, forcing her to stay near. He didn’t want to be alone. As a matter of fact, he was desperately trying to avoid the sensation of it.

Calm. Calm. You have to. We have a long night in front of us.

“I will manage,” he replied after a moment, realising he hadn’t answered her concerns. He took in her rather bedraggled form. Her hair was slicked back from her face, thanks to his comb. Winslow’s plaid shirt hung off her shoulders, and her feet were bare. He pulled over the bowl of soup he didn’t want toward himself, making as if he intended to eat it.

She copied his motions and watched him out of the corner of her eye. The thermal undershirt he wore moulded itself to his titan’s chest, looking like an off-white second skin. The sleeves rode up this arms, almost to the elbow, frayed at the hems.

He’s beautiful. Mon belle homme…she frowned at her inaccurate use of her limited French. But it fitted. Mon belle homme was always how she would think of him now…

She remembered running her hands up those arms, pushing against the natural lay of the hair, feeling the muscles beneath. Catherine knew that while Vincent might not be a “man,” by definition, he was definitely male.

She dropped her eyes as the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘male’ crossed her mind, trying to keep them from crossing her eyes.

Her view shifted from his face to his chest. Another mistake.

Blonde hair peeked above his tattered collar, near his throat, and she was sorry she couldn’t study it, and more of it. Last night’s splendours had been accomplished in what was for her, near total darkness. She knew how he felt more than she knew how he looked.

She inhaled, set her mind to not thinking about it, and drew herself inward, some more.

“Don’t. Don’t do that… please.” His voice sounded hoarse, almost… strained.

“Don’t…” she wasn’t sure what he was referencing. Don’t look away? Don’t think of you, that way? Don’t remember? What?

He stood up abruptly, leaving his bowl untouched. He walked away, putting distance between them.

“Vincent?” she asked, stepping carefully behind him. What have I done now?

“I know you can,” he said cryptically. “I know why you thought you had to. For all I know, perhaps you even … should,” he said, holding up his hand, palm open, then letting it drop, next to his side. He kept his body turned from her, and his head a little down. “I just… ask you not to. Please. Some days… it feels like all I have, Catherine.”

What in the world?

He sensed her confusion, since she’d dropped her guard.

“Don’t keep yourself from me,” he clarified, realising she had no idea what he was talking about. She came around him as he turned, and this time, faced her fully. The need in his eyes was naked, and severe. And, Catherine realised, terrified.

“It’s the … emptiest feeling I’ve ever had. Empty in a way I’ve not felt since I met you. Not even then. Not even then, was it this bad.” He was struggling to explain what was for him, almost unexplainable, in its power to terrify him.

His voice was ragged, to match the look in his eyes. “I know you discovered how to withhold yourself from me, inside our bond. I know you needed to. Just… I beg you. Don’t.”

She placed a calming hand on his arm. “Vincent… I wasn’t trying to … to leave you. I was only trying to give you whatever privacy I could.”

“Don’t. Not that way.” He was half afraid to draw her close, worried that he’d crush her to him to the point of robbing her of wind.

“It feels like before. It feels like… ‘alone.’ Loss. Lost. I can explain it no better than that.”

“Oh, Vincent.” She reached up her arms and drew him down into an awkward hug. Winslow’s shirt rode up, and she didn’t much care. The difference in their height caused him to flex his knees, positioning her between his thighs, as he tried to tame the arms that automatically wrapped around her.

Don’t hurt her. If Vincent had a First Commandment, that was it. Then: Hold on to me. Keep holding on to me. Don’t stop.

“You have to know I’d never want to make you feel that way,” she tried to reassure him.  “Is that what’s been bothering you? Even yesterday I felt it. I just … I didn’t realise.”

She tightened her grip as his arms crept up her back, finding purchase. He pulled her close. He’d have pulled her through him, if he could have.

“That... and other things.” He knew he had to say what they were… later. “But for now, that. There is a darkness that was consuming me, before you. When you… set yourself away, I … feel it again. Feel like it’s devouring me, from the inside.”

“Shhhh. No, I’m here. I’m here. You know I’m here. I’ve been with you every minute, since yesterday.” She squeezed.

“You have. And you haven’t,” he brushed a kiss on her cheek, to soften the accusation. “If you tell me I must grow accustomed to feeling that way again… all I can tell you is… I would try. I would hate it, but I would try. I beg you not to.”

She returned the soft kiss. “I thought you were uncomfortable because of… well. Because of what happened last night.

He shook his head, subtly. “That is a completely different subject. But not why I was feeling so… bereft.”

“So when I shut myself away from you…”

“It… hurts.” It was the simplest word he knew to use, and one that was woefully inadequate to describe the loss of her. “It feels like every hopeless, lonely, isolated day I’ve ever spent. I am without you. I am… bereft.”

Oh, Vincent.

His neck was warm, and his grip was tight. And though she knew he wasn’t aroused, she also knew there was more than one way to “need” a person.

She buried her mouth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and kissed the skin there, open mouthed. I’m here. I’m right here. And I love you, so much.

It was an impulse, and one she tried to call back, considering she’d been the instigator of their lovemaking last night.

“Don’t you dare stop.” It was a ragged sigh, as if he could sense her attempt at restraint.

“No?” she asked, tugging him out of his shirt.

“No,” he replied, helping her out of Winslow’s.

~ ~ ~

It was the voices that awakened them both. Familiar voices speaking low and hurriedly. Vincent sat up abruptly, startling Catherine to her knees. They’d both dressed, in deference to the cool cavern air, though she was still in Winslow’s shirt.

“Who is it?” she whispered anxiously, tugging on her shoes. “Have they discovered us?”

“It’s all right,” Vincent soothed her, turning his head to listen as he pulled on his boots. He got to his feet. “Come, before they continue down the passage, and we end up behind them.”

Catherine needed no extra bidding, as she followed him out into the cavern and saw the cluster of armed tunnel folk below them, making their way forward, steadily. Their rescue party had arrived.

Her hand crept into Vincent’s and she closed her fingers tightly around his.

“Let’s go down and meet them,” he said.

Vincent pulled her close against his side, and together they emerged from their trysting place.

“Let’s go home…” Catherine amended, as she followed his lead.

~ ~ ~

Light shimmered down from her threshold. Standing near the tumbledown brick wall, he knew they were close to parting.

Parting. Not separating. There was a difference. ‘Separate’ was what he felt when she withdrew herself from him.

“Nothing will ever separate us again, now. Vincent. You must believe that,” she said.

“I believe it…” Vincent took her by the shoulders, before leaning down to gently salute her open mouth with a kiss. “But we must go with care, in this new world of ours. There are still so many obstacles, and barriers to our being together.”

“I will see you tomorrow,” she said, choosing to ignore all of those, for the moment. “Come to my balcony as soon as you can. We will discuss it then,” Catherine promised, dropping her head to glance up at him through her lashes. “It’s Sunday. So I have the whole day, before I finally have to go back to work. And we will have the night.”

“It hardly seems fair that you have to return so soon, considering.”

She sighed roughly. “It has been a vacation I would rather forget. But there is one thing I will always remember…” she smiled an almost demure smile, and he didn’t need her to spell out what that was.

“Thank you, Catherine…” Vincent whispered humbly.

“I love you.” She reached up to kiss him lingeringly, before hugging him goodbye. “Tomorrow. Don’t forget. I will be waiting…”

“I won’t forget,” Vincent promised throatily. His heart felt like it was beating hard enough to crack his ribs.

“Good.” She turned and walked away, and was soon swallowed by the beam of light shining down from the sub-basement of her apartment building.

Vincent leaned on the broken brickwork and watched until he could no longer hear her. Then he turned and retreated back into his own world.

Tomorrow, she had promised she would see him tomorrow. Everything within him sang with anticipation as he retraced his steps towards Father’s chamber.

Chapter 5

Ozymandias Advances

Progress lies not in what is, but in advancing toward what will be.

Khalil Gibran

~ ~ ~

Elliot Burch stood alone in his darkened office. It was Saturday night, and the hour was very late. There was a planning commission party he should have been attending. Wining and dining the people who expected that was all part of how he operated. Greasing the wheels of compliance had become almost second nature to him now.

But he couldn’t tear himself away from his new project. The very thing he needed to secure the necessary planning permission for.

He leaned on the back of his chair, unable to sit for the excitement fizzing through him. He gazed at the office wall, and its projection of the Manhattan skyline, with the majestic Burch Tower climbing far above everything else. It was the future, and he was impatient to begin construction.

He looked down at the blueprints spread across his desk. It was beyond time he truly stamped his mark on the city that had made him who he was today.

He rolled the blueprints up and pushed them into a tube. He reached for his telephone, picked up the receiver and dialed a number. “Get Jack for me, pronto. There’s a new project I want to get started on, right away.”

He cut the connection, and looked again at the projection on the office wall. He smiled, running a hand over his chin.

There was only one more thing he needed, or one person.

He knew Cathy would look so lovely at the dedication, standing by the indoor waterfall with him. Showing everyone they were a power couple. With her family connections and his money, how could they lose?

Next time they crossed paths, he would not take no for an answer. She was his, or soon would be again, and it was time to make her aware of it.

The megalithic structure beckoned, and excited his imagination. Impatience began to eat at him. He couldn’t wait to begin digging the foundations. God, the amount of earth they’d have to move. They would need to go far down into the earth, further down than anything else he had ever built. Such accommodations (and the costs that accompanied those) were needed, because his tower would rise halfway to the stars.

He’d need to order dynamite, to blast through the bedrock. Quite a lot of it, actually.

He smiled with quiet satisfaction. If anything, or anyone, got in his way this time, he would not be responsible for his actions.

It was time to show everyone that Elliot Burch had finally arrived…

~ ~ ~

“One day you will ask me, which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life…”

Kahlil Gibran

Endearment

by Jodie Boyle

~ ~ ~

Silvery moon

There is no need to shine

Sun of fire

Do not burn, or warm

For there is light shining in my Love's eyes

And her love for me

Blazes through every fibre of my being

Shimmers in my soul

Angels, stay in Heaven

Demons, make no move from your fiery pit

Looking at my Love's face

Brings me closer to ethereal plains

The most evil of people

Would be changed for good

By the gift that is her smile

Melodies, symphonies, harmonies

Harps, violins and cellos

There is no sweeter music

Nor lovelier song

Than the bell-like laugh

Soft whispers

Dreamy sighs

Of my Love

Poets!  Authors!

Songwriters!

Sonnets, stories, every book that has been written

All of these are forgotten

When she speaks three beautiful words...

"I love you"

Pain, despair, unhappiness

Do not touch me

For she is everything...

Joy, passion

A lark's song

The coolest breeze on a summer day

Candlelight

Breaking dawn

An owls' wings in flight

Her arms

Her touch upon my hand

A blessing

Forever and always...

I will love her

A Dedication

By Judith Nolan

“Always…” Vincent read the dedication Catherine had placed upon the Central Park bench.

“Yes, always.” Catherine nodded, sliding her fingers between his and gripping tightly.

The bench wasn’t far from the spot where Vincent had found her, bleeding and close to death, thirty years before. Much had changed in their lives since that fateful night.

Moonlight silvered everything into white and black. It gleamed through the trees, marking their path across the snowy ground. They often walked this way in the late evening.

Catherine leaned her cheek against her husband’s arm. “While I live, you live...with me... in me... always…”

~ ~ ~

The Best of Times

by Judith Nolan

~ ~ ~

“Be the one who nurtures and builds. Be the one who has an understanding and a forgiving heart. The one who looks for the best in people. Leave people better than you found them...”

Marvin J. Ashton

~ ~ ~

“I truly do not know where the last thirty years have gone…” Father looked up from the chess board to frown at his son seated across the table from him. His unsteady hand hovered above a knight, before he changed his mind and settled on his queen. “It seems like only yesterday when you found Catherine up in the park that night. In a time when I had begun to despair of you ever finding happiness. And now, here we are…”

He shook his grey head in wonder. “We have come a very long way, you and I, and it has been an incredible journey. Now, looking back, I know I would not have missed it for anything.”

“It has indeed, and today we are taking the time to celebrate.” Vincent leaned forward to frown at the chess pieces, searching for the trap he was certain his parent had set. “But not just yet…”

He was aware Jacob might have slowed considerably in his body but even at ninety-four years of age, the old man’s mind was still as sharp as a razor, and almost as deadly, given half an opening by an inattentive player.

Vincent concentrated his gaze and then nodded. “Ah, I see you have learned how Carlsen finally defeated Karjakin to retain the World Championship of 2016 when they were tied at six games each. Now I wonder who shared that valuable information with you…”

“As if you didn’t know.” Father smiled gleefully. “And this time my boy was actually there to watch the games. He’s a good lad.”

“Jacob wishes only to please you,” Vincent replied, reaching to make his move. “You know he loves you deeply. The world up there is so different now.”

Jacob sighed. “My grandson knows how much this old man wished he could have been there with him. He knows how to look after me. He keeps me informed of all the important goings-on Above. Though that recently updated cellphone he gave me the last time he came home, still frightens the dickens out of me every time it rings.”

He toyed with moving his queen. “I can’t believe even Pascal has one now, though he once swore he’d never sacrifice his sticks for the perils of modern technology. Of course, Mouse is always saying it’s the way of the future, and we’d better get used to it. I guess the digital age has well and truly reached us down here, whether we like it or not.”

He shrugged. “But, sometimes I miss the old days.”

“What you miss is having your finger on every pulse,” Vincent smiled, “Finding out all the gossip before anyone else.”

“One has to move with the times, or be left behind.” Father’s gaze narrowed with intent. “Ah, I see what you’re doing… Now, if I remember rightly…” He moved his queen slowly forward. “I believe that is check…” He sat back with a satisfied smile to watch his son’s reaction.

“Are you two at it, still?” a feminine voice asked from the entrance to Father’s chamber. “It is almost midday, you know. The guests will be arriving before long, and neither of you is making any attempt to be ready.”

“Your husband has yet to admit defeat.” Father shrugged, smiling up at Catherine as she came down the short flight of steps to the lower level of the room. “And I am winning for a change. At my age, I can’t afford to ignore a winning streak. You never know when it will be my last.”

“You are indestructible.” She kissed the top of Jacob’s head. “And you two will never learn…” She moved to perch on the side of Vincent’s chair, placing an arm around his shoulders before leaning down to kiss his temple.

“Thirty years ago today…” she whispered softly, for Vincent’s ears alone. “I remember it well…” She shook her head as she sat up.

“It was the end of my aloneness.” Vincent traced the scar before her ear with the ball of his thumb.

Shaking his head, he reached up to draw Catherine down to sit across his lap. “So much has changed. So many wonderful things have come to pass and to be.”

“And yet some things have remained the same…” Catherine turned to thread her fingers up through the still tawny fall of her husband’s mane, smiling into the sapphire depths of his eyes where the dancing flame of their abiding love burned brighter than ever. “But Jacob will be here soon, and you two do need to change. We have a celebration to attend, and we mustn’t be late.”

Vincent didn’t immediately reply as he studied the picture she made in the flickering candlelight. She was the love of his life, and she looked as beautiful now as she did that long ago night on her balcony when he had finally surrendered to the inevitable, and allowed himself to be drawn towards the beauty and acceptance of her love.

A life together had seemed utterly impossible then…and yet now…

He leaned close to kiss her gently before he whispered, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. It was the season of light, it was the season of darkness. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us…” [2]

He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. “I love you, Mrs. Wells.” The rich, unbreakable bond between them flowed and rippled with the strength of their love and the sense of their mutual need, one for the other…

“I know…” Catherine breathed. “I love you too. But how about you save some of those deliciously distracting thoughts until after the party…?”

~ ~ ~

“You know, my father threw me out when I refused to buckle to his demands.” Elliot lowered himself onto the settee beside Vincent and handed him a mug of ale.

He turned from watching the dancers in the middle of the Great Hall to survey his good friend. His mouth tightened. “Of course, I made it easy for him. I told him I didn’t want the same things he did and I was leaving anyway. He threw a wad of money at me, money my mother had saved for me, and told me never to darken his doorstep again. He was ashamed of me.”

He shrugged, looking down into the mug of William’s fine brew he held in his hand. “He also said I was dead to him. But the money was enough to give me the start I needed. I never got to thank him for that.”

He gave a regretful laugh. “Somehow I doubt he would have listened anyway. We were always poles apart, and he detested me for, as he saw it, killing his only son.”

“Do not be too hard on yourself, Elliot.” Vincent clasped his shoulder. “Perhaps your father understood you more than you knew. Perhaps he knew that you needed to go your own way, and leave Stosh behind. He just couldn’t admit it. Our parents only want what is best for us, as they see it.”

“Perhaps…” Elliot sighed, turning back to watch the dancing. “It was all so long ago. And now, here we are, fathers and grandfathers, in our turn. Do you think we have done a better job?”

“There certainly have been challenges…” Vincent followed his friend’s gaze to where Jacob was dancing with Rebecca, Elliot’s twenty-five-year-old daughter. They had been married now for seven years and had two young children.

They were laughing together as they circled the floor, obviously at ease with one another, and deeply in love.

“And yet…” Vincent smiled. “There is no manual to tell us what to do. Maybe we were just as blind.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Elliot shook his head. “Jacob is doing well in Catherine’s law practice?”

“Very well,” Vincent acknowledged. “He has his mother’s talent for the law. Her father was thrilled when Jacob decided to follow the family tradition. Charles said they can always find a use for a fresh, young brain in their practice.”

He sipped his ale. “But lately, Jacob has not been so sure corporate law is for him. He rather fancies taking up Joe’s offer of a place in the DA’s office. Catherine is still of two minds whether to allow him. She worries about the inherent dangers. But Jacob is a grown man with responsibilities. He will have his own way in this, if it is what he wants.”

“Good luck there. I don’t envy you,” Elliot sympathised. “Rebecca was convinced she was going to be the next great architect. For now, motherhood has her whole focus. I understand something of what my own father must have felt. But we cannot control our children’s futures. We can only bless them with love and guidance, and send them forth into the world, praying they will not fall.”

“Are you finally turning into a philosopher after all these years, Elliot Burch?” Vincent teased lightly. “Or is Shannon finally educating you in the finer arts?”

“Possibly…” Elliot grinned. “Or maybe it’s too much of William’s fine ale. It does muddle your thinking and make you see things you know are not real. But I do know that once upon a time I was a different man.”

He shrugged. “Back then, if I could not see it, measure it, weigh or understand something, then I preferred to ignore it. Perhaps I was more like my father than I knew. I had no room in my life for sentiment. I was far too busy becoming the great Elliot Burch.”

He flicked a dismissing hand. “Then, one night, Cathy brought you into my life and you both showed me what really matters in this world. Family is everything.”

He reached to clink his mug against Vincent’s. “To good friends and all fathers…”

“To understanding them…” His good friend accepted the toast and they were both silent for some time.

Then Vincent said reflectively, “Perhaps that is all we are in the end… simply a reflection of our fathers. The men who have gone before us and shown us the way tried to make a difference for us. Good or bad, we are what they have made us.”

“Maybe…” Elliot nodded, looking across the hall to where Father was trying to interest Mouse in a game of chess. Mouse appeared torn between Jamie’s insistent hand on his arm, trying to tug her unwilling husband back to the dancing, and Father’s earnest entreaty for just one game.

“Maybe some things will never change…” Elliot shook his head. “Thank you Vincent, for everything.”

“No, some things do not change…” Vincent was watching Catherine threading her way towards them through the dancers, and the glorious colours and endless rhythms of their deep, mutual love reached out to enfold him, making him aware of her on every level of his being. “And for that, we must be eternally grateful…”

~ ~ ~

“Ends are not bad things, they just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don't really end, anyway, they just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren't really an ending; some things are neverending...”

C. Joybell C.

Chamber of Remembrance

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies . . . Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die . . . and when people look at that … you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.”   ― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

~ ~ ~

An actor named Constantin Stanislavski once said, “There are no small parts, only small actors.”

When it comes to Beauty and the Beast there certainly were no “small” actors, no small players, and no small people who took part in bringing the production to life. Everyone who participated in the creation of that beautiful show, became forever an irreplaceable part of the magic and romance that captivated us from the beginning. Though the show only aired for three seasons, it has taken up residence in the hearts and minds of fans around the world for much, much longer.

Sadly, many of the actors, and creators who contributed to the enchantment that has held us captive for the last thirty years, have passed away. But they have left something of themselves behind, in the countless videos and DVD’s that have been distributed throughout the world. Whether the parts they played were large or small, good or evil, pivotal or minor, though gone from us, their echoes linger on not only in characters of the original episodes, but some of the characters they played have found new life, in fanfiction and fan art. There, some of those characters have found new choices, and sometimes even redemption, at the hand and pen of fan fiction writers and artists.

To the original writers, musicians, actors, make-up artists, and wardrobe people, the ones who breathed life into the characters, the ones who teased our imagination, and inspired us to keep telling stories, to take the work they did and extend it, allowing the characters to breathe with new life, and new lines, we thank you. We all owe you a debt we can never repay. We try to honor your performance and contribution, by staying true to the characters you created. We try to honor you.

If there is a better tribute to the skill of a writer, director or actor, I’m not sure I know what it is. If there’s a higher compliment paid to the ones who helped bring magic to a screen, I’m not sure I know what form it takes.

We remember you. And we remember the work of your hands, the mark you left on the world, with love.

To all who helped create the beautiful dream that was Beauty and the Beast, you have inspired us to keep the dream alive. For that, we thank you.

And especially for those who are no longer with us… You may be gone, but you are never forgotten.

Warren Frost 1925-2017 Played Paul Malloy in Though Lovers Be Lost

John McMartin 1929-2016 Played Charles Chandler, Catherine’s Father

John Mansbridge 1917-2016 Production Designer and Art Director

Barbara Allyne Bennett 1940-2016 Played the Receptionist in the Pilot

Ellen Albertini Dow 1913-2015 Played Anna Lausch in Nor Iron Bars a Cage

Diana Douglas 1923-2015 Played Margaret in  Song of Orpheus

Theodore Bikel              1924-2015 Played Eli in Chamber Music

Ritch Brinkley                1944-2015 Played William

Scott Wells                    1961– 2015 Played Tyler in  A Kingdom By the Sea

Tony Longo                    1958-2015 Played Howie in No Way Down

Aubrey Morris         1926-2015    Played Sean O’Reilley Bridget O’Donnell’s

father in Masques

Kate Williamson             1930-2013 Played Marilyn in Orphans

James Avery                  1945-2013 Played Winslow

Milo O Shea                  1926-2013 Played Evan Brannigan in Temptation

Ed Morgan                   1926-2013 Played the Store Owner in In The Forests of the

Night

R. G. Armstrong             1917-2012 Played Stanley Kazmarek  in A Kingdom By the

Sea

Nick LaTour                   1928-2011      Played Clarence the Sax Player in Beggars Comet

Sam Vlahos                   1935-  2011 Played Sgt. Jesse Martinez in What Rough Beast

Janet MacLachlan       1933-2010 Played Miss Kendrick in Chamber Music

David Dario                  1954-2010 Played the Jogger in Masques

Dave Cadiente              1937-2010 Played Ramon in A Kingdom By the Sea

Thomas H. Middleton          1926–2010 Played Newspaperman in Ceremony of

Innocence

Fred Lerner   1935-2009 Stunt Coordinator and Played Mounted Cop in

Promises of Someday

Sue Rihr                         1954-2009 Played Maggie in An Impossible Silence

John David Conti          1938-2009 Played the Doorman in Masques

Dale Swann                   1948-2009 Played Peter Rundler in Trial

Steven Gilborn             1936-2009 Played Martin the Jeweler in Chimes at

Midnight

Preston Hanson             1921-2008 Played Frank in Arabesque

Paul Greco                      1955-2008 Played Joe in Everything is Everything

David Hooks                  1920-2008 Played the Priest in Though Lovers Be Lost

Stanley Kamel               1943-2008 Played George Walker in Beggars Comet and

Nevermore

Patricia Place                    1924- 2008 Played Deborah in The Reckoning

Al Mancini                    1932-2007 Played the cab driver in No Way Down

Robert Symonds            1926-2007 Played Alan Taft in Song of Orpheus

Phil Chong                      1936-2007 Played Kuo in China Moon

John Lehne   1925-2007 Played Jonathan Pope in Invictus, Beggars

Comet, The Chimes at Midnight

Edward Albert Jr.         1951-2006 Played Elliot Burch

David Peckinpah          1951-2006 Producer of 16 episodes, and wrote three

episodes

Gisella Caldwell            1943-2006 Played Mrs. Sweeney in The Beast Within

Tony Jay                        1933-2006 Played Paracelcus

Paul Gleason                 1939-2006 Played Henry Dutton in Song of Orpheus

Robert Cornthwaite      1917-2006 Played Morrison in Down to a Sunless Sea,  and

Old Man in Labyrinths

Byron Morrow             1911-2006 Played Judge Swenson in Trial

Russ Marin                    1934-2005 Played Red in No Way Down

Jack Jozefson                1931-2005 Played a Cabbie in No Way Down

Barbara Pilavin            1923-2005 Played Female Gyspy Lady in Everything is

Everything

Herta Ware                      1917-2005 Played Sylvia in Siege

Irvin Mosely Jr.                  1924-2005 Played Old Man on the subway in Terrible

Savior

Ron O’Neal                    1937-2004 Played Isaac Stubbs in Once Upon a Time

Robert Pastorelli         1954-2004 Played Tony Perotta in An Impossible Silence

and Vick Ramos Everything is Everything

Richard Biggs                1960-2004 Played a reporter in Siege

Stan Kamber                 1935-2004 Played Jack Sweeney in The Beast Within

Buff Brady                    1918-2004 Played Old Man #2 in Siege

Renata Vanni 1909-2004 Played Eva Ramos is Everything is Everything

Iggie Wolfington          1919-2004 Played Librarian in     Snow

Ed White                        1947-2004 Played Jury Foreman in Trial

Dustyn Taylor                      ? -2004 Played Waitress in Chimes at Midnight

Hal England 1932-2003 Played Mr. Benson in Hollow Men

Kay E. Kuter                   1925-2003 Played Alain Viso in Fever

Jeff Corey                      1914-2002 Played Winston Burke in The Reckoning

Victor Wong                 1927-2001 Played Dr. Wong in China Moon

Albert Hague                 1920-2001 Played Micha Langer in Siege

Martin Garner              1927-2001 Played Moe  in Masques

Tony Steedman              1927-2001 Played Sebastian in Dead of Winter

Ann Haney                     1934-2001 Played Tamara in Dead of Winter

Leigh C. Kim                     1950-2001 Played Tommy in China Moon

Scott Marlowe               1932-2001 Played Richard Nolan in Trial

David Graf                    1950-2001 Played Gregory Cole in Legacies and Reckoning

Beah Richards              1920-2000 Played Narcissa

Wally Rose                  1911-2000 Played an Old Man in Siege

Ralph Manza                 1921-2000 Played Old Man #1 in Siege

Merritt Butrick             1959-1999 Played Shake in No Way Down

Eda Reiss Merin           1913-1998 Played Sophie Langer in Siege

Michael Alldredge        1941-1997 Played Nat in The Beast Within

Anthony Peck                1947-1996 Played Red in Terrible Savior

Bernie Pock                   1963- 1996 Played Sco in No Way Down

Jason Bernard                1938-1996 Played Jack Davis in  An Impossible Silence

Herb Edelman              1933-1996 Played Harold Levinson in Temptations

Severn Darden              1929-1995 Played Mr. Smythe in When the Blue Bird Sings

Big John Studd             1948-1995 Played Erlick in To Reign in Hell

Benny Baker                 1907-1994 Played Herman in Siege

Orwin C. Harvey          1926-1994 Played Transit Cop in Terrible Savior

John McLiam               1918-1994 Played Sam Denton in   The Beast Within

Ron Marquette             1964-1994 Played Laura`s Boyfriend Jerry in Sticks and

Stones

William C. Byrd            1966-1993 Played Miguel in Sticks and Stones

Key Luke 1904-1991 Played Master in            China Moon

Bob Maroff                      1934- 1991 Played a gypsy in Everything is Everything

William De Acutis            1957-1991 Played the Gallery Owner in When the Bluebird

Sings

Teddy Wilson 1943-1991 Played Raymond Ensign  in Legacies

Ben Piazza                     1933-1991 Played Elliot Burch’s defense lawyer in Beggar’s

Comet

Will Kuluva                1917-1990 Played Tony’s Grandfather in Everything is

Everything

~ ~ ~

“I believe that when we leave a place, a part of it goes with us…and a part of us remains. Go anywhere in the Tunnels, when it’s quiet and just listen.

After a while, you will hear the echoes of all our conversations, every thought and word we’ve exchanged. Long after we are gone, our voices will linger in the walls for as long as this place remains…”      - Paraphrase: G’Kar, Babylon 5

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

Thank you to all of the authors and artists who have so lovingly and selflessly shared their talents to make this anniversary conzine so special.

~ ~ ~

Notes

[←1 ]

*Note from the author: This story is based on an unproduced scene from the original script of the pilot episode of Beauty and the Beast, “Once Upon a Time,” which was written by Ron Koslow. No copyright infringement is intended … only fun.

**Special thanks to Cindy Rae who brought this unproduced scene to my attention.

[←2 ]

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities