Beauty and the Beast

32nd Anniversary 2019

Together Forever Volume III:

Blessed Are the Storytellers

TreasureChambers.com

September 25, 2019

*The 2019 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. Our only intention is to have fun.

**We hereby give permission for the readers to print, copy, or share this zine for personal use only and NOT for sale or resale.

All future rights to original materials herein are reserved to the individual authors and artists. Please contact them individually if you wish to use their work in any way.

Beauty and the Beast

32nd Anniversary 2019

Together Forever

Volume III

TreasureChambers.com

September 25, 2019

Featuring stories, art, and poetry, inspired by

the characters created by Ron Koslow and so beautifully brought to life by

Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman

from 1987-1990

A Treasure Chambers Publication

Acknowledgements

Online Convention Chair

Angie

OnZine Team

Allison Duggins

Barbara Anderson

Cindy Rae

Janet Rivenbark

Judith Nolan

Linda O’Leary

Contributing Authors

Angie

Allison Duggins

Anon E. Mouse

Anne Alden-France

Barbara Anderson

C.J. LaBelle

Cindy Rae

Janet Rivenbark

Judith Nolan

Katrina Relf

Nan Dibble

Contributing Artists

Angie

Deidre Lockyer

Judith Nolan

Lynette Parker

Once Upon a Time …

in the

City of New York …

Two worlds

became one.

Letter From the Editor

For the third year in a row, this fandom has produced not one, but two amazing zines. Pages upon pages of beautiful fan fiction, poetry and art.

Here at Treasure Chambers we celebrate and cheer for the resurgence of creativity throughout this still thriving fandom.

There was a time, a few years ago, when I wondered how much there could possibly be left to write about this singular TV series that aired for only two and a half seasons. By the time I discovered fandom in 2015, there had already been thousands of stories written. But every year the Dream Keepers and the Storytellers in this fandom keep answering my quandary. We don’t know what the limits are!

After 32 years, Ron Koslow’s sublimely beautiful vision still inspires people to dream. I can’t help but wonder, what he would think of our zine, if it fell into his hands? I can’t help but wonder what Ron Perlman or Linda Hamilton would think of where we have taken the characters they breathed life into.

But alas, they have all moved on with their lives… and their careers.

Happily, we don’t have to move on. We can keep dreaming the dream together, for as long as we wish.

Each year, along with fan fiction and poetry, we have highlighted the creations of one or more talented artists who have kept the dream alive over the years through their amazing paintings and drawings. This year we decided to put the spotlight on the endless possibilities of digital art and those who create it. Now, with the growth of digital technologies there are ever new and exciting ways for BATB fans to express their love for the show, by creating new and exciting digital art.

Congratulations and many thanks to all who have participated this year, as well as to those of you who have cheered us on and reached out to express your gratitude for posting our zine free of charge!

Isn't it an amazing thing we have discovered? That freely giving this zine, and all else we have created here, gives us so much in return. What a liberating feeling it is, not to be shackled by the concerns of the almighty dollar. We create this zine, and everything at Treasure Chambers, for love, and we have received so much in return.

So, without further ado, we here at Treasure Chambers, proudly present to you;

Together Forever Volume III- Blessed Are the Storytellers

We hope you enjoy reading it, as much as we enjoyed creating it.

-Barbara Anderson

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Letter From the Editor

Table of Contents

Storytellers by Angie

Wither Thou Goest by Judith Nolan

Invitation Two by Anon E. Mouse

Fate Drops a Hint by Angie

Before Once Upon a Time Happened…by Judith Nolan

Ancestress by Cindy Rae

Cooking Lessons by Judith Nolan

The Parting Veil by Cindy Rae

Solitude by Katrina Relf

Mouse’s Friend by Judith Nolan

The Monster You Seek by Cindy Rae

Do You Dance? by C.J. LaBelle

Worlds Upon Worlds…The Storyteller by Angie

Special Gift by Angie

Longing by Katrina Relf

Ending Drabbles Season 1 by C.J. LaBelle

Once Upon a Time ~ A Parting Beneath New York…

A Children’s Story ~ Into the Light…

Siege ~ Elliot’s Entrance

Terrible Savior ~ What a Heart Can Trust

No Way Down ~ “I Was Never Giving Up…”

The Beast Within ~That First Time…

Masques ~ Beauty in the World…

Nor Iron Bars a Cage ~ The Best Part of Being Human

Song of Orpheus ~ Moments of Eternity

Dark Spirit ~ The Spirit Within

An Impossible Silence ~ Love, Most of All

Shades of Grey ~ The Gift of Insight

China Moon ~ After the Ceremony…

The Alchemist ~ Paracelsus Rises…

Temptation ~ A Siren’s Song

Promises of Someday ~ An Honest Man

Down to a Sunless Sea ~ Past Regrets

Fever ~ All That Glitters…

Everything is Everything ~ Forgive the Child…

To Reign in Hell ~ Paracelsus Humbled…

Ozymandias ~ Forgive Elliot For Loving Her…

A Happy Life ~ Thereby Hangs a Tale…

“Hope is a Thing with Feathers…” by Judith Nolan

Lady May by Judith Nolan

Too Little, Too Late by Allison Duggins

We Are Part of Each Other Counted Cross Stitch by Angie

All The Fine Young Princes by Cindy Rae

Elliot’s Curiosity by Judith Nolan

Bowling For Vincent by Judith Nolan

Remember by Janet Rivenbark R-Sexual Content

Unrequited by Anne Alden-France

Father’s Memories by Judith Nolan

Once Upon a Time In New York City by Barbara Anderson

A Dream Made True by Allison Duggins

Welcome to the Time Tunnels

One Down and One Up by Nan Dibble Season 3/SND

Aftermath by Barbara Anderson

The Radcliffe Reunion Society by C.J. La Belle

Words of Light by Angie

Farewell Two by Anon E. Mouse

Storytellers

by Angie

Our Vincent and his Catherine,

For years they've both been gone.

Their serial trials, though bright are 'Fin.'

We watch, but Time has won.

But those who write these tales still

Tell stories deep and fair.

Though some are gone, their passion will

Bring joy to all who dare.

Whither Thou Goest…

by Judith Nolan

“You’re sure about this, Vincent?”

“You asked how I descend to your balcony, Catherine. This is the safest way.”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to show me. Telling me would’ve been fine.”

“Hold my hand and don’t look down. I’ve got you.”

“You might have me. But who’s got you?”

“Have faith. I won’t let you fall.”

“I should’ve worn more sensible shoes.”

“From here you can see the city. Catherine, open your eyes.”

“You look, and tell me what you see.”

“Coward…”

“Not fair… ohhh, I’ve never seen it looking so beautiful…”

“I think you are more beautiful…”

Invitation Two

by Anon E. Mouse

“A picture’s worth a thousand words,”

They say, (and it’s all true.)

A picture’s worth a thousand words;

Of me, or one of you.

A photograph, a chalk and ink,

A sketch done on the fly,

A montage; one that makes you think,

Or laugh, or makes you cry.

A subtle line will show you grace.

Red color show’s you “bold.”

A thoughtful look on Vincent’s face -

Or Catherine, never old

I think you’ll see a Sorceress.

I think you’ll see the sky.

I think you’ll see a Father,

And a Beast, all by-and-by.

All will tell a story,

If I only have the wit,

To match the image to the text

And then, remember it.

Pens or pixels, paint or chalk,

The artist loves to play.

In their silence, pictures talk –

No matter what they say.

Fate Drops a Hint

by Angie

Vincent gave due credit to Fate. How else to explain

finding Catherine, just when she needed him most?

How could he have imagined she would love him as much as he loved her? The reality exceeded his wildest dreams.

He was now wondering about their future. Would they have a happy life together? Could they? Vincent often mused on this as he roamed the tunnels, wishing that Fate would again take a hand.

Then one day, he found a metal button that had fallen through a grate. He read it in disbelief.* Then he pocketed it and hurried to Catherine.

Before Once Upon a Time Happened…

by Judith Nolan

“A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead…”

Graham Greene

“You know, when I was younger, getting invited to all these parties was a big thing for me.” Jay Coolidge shrugged, frowning at the mass of people milling about the exclusive Third Avenue restaurant. “Now, it’s just another excuse to woo the planning commission.” He huffed a rueful laugh. “Frankly, I’d rather be playing golf, but lately my handicap has been pitiful.”

He cocked his head inquiringly at his business partner. “What about you, Charles?”

“Sorry, but I never could get the hang of golf,” Charles Chandler replied ruefully, tugging at the black bow tie at his throat. “Or these black-tie events.” He shrugged. “But they serve a purpose.”

“It’s good for business, I’ll say that.” His partner looked back to the crowd. “But, maybe it’s time we made a start on turning these things over to the younger generation. Mark is really keen to take on some of my bigger clients. He has the ambition and drive to succeed. We both think it’s great to have your Catherine working with us. I’m sure she’d enjoy this sort of affair.”

“I’m sure she would.” Charles nodded quickly.

He was aware that Jay had already noted Catherine’s tardiness, of late, her increasingly frequent habit of arriving late to work and leaving early, on the flimsiest of excuses. It was as if she preferred to be anywhere but at her new place of employment.

Despite his best efforts, Charles was at a loss to know how to fix the issue. He knew Catherine would make a fine corporate lawyer, if she just applied herself. His late wife would have known what to do, how to amend the situation before it got any worse.

He shook his head. He missed his beloved Carolyn with a fresh shaft of keenly remembered pain.

He had hoped their daughter’s recent dating of Tom Gunther was a step in the right direction. Tom seemed to be everything he could wish for in a future son-in-law…and Charles wasn’t getting any younger…

“The younger generation…” Jay remarked sympathetically, watching his good friend’s frowning expression. “I’m sure things will turn out for the best. You just have to give her time to find her feet.”

“Yes…” Charles expelled his breath in a rush.

“Being a parent is the hardest job in the world...” Jay pressed a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “I should know, I’ve got five kids. In the meantime, there’s someone I want you to meet. You remember when we signed up Tom Gunther as our biggest new client last year, and how good it’s already been for us? Well, there’s another developer who’s making an even bigger name for himself in town. He said he was looking to enlarge his representation, if the right firm came along.”

With a lift of his chin, Jay indicated a handsome, younger man, across the room. “This guy’s going places, and we’ll want to be right there with him. Who knows where it might lead?”

He beckoned to the other man to join them. The younger man immediately crossed the room on quick strides, with the surety of a man who already knew his place in the world, and how to achieve his aims.

Jay introduced them with a wave of his hand. “Mr. Burch, I’d like you to meet my partner at the firm.”

“Elliot Burch,” the younger man announced confidently, extending his hand towards Charles with a quick smile that didn’t reach his watchful grey eyes.

“Charles Chandler.” Charles accepted the gesture, finding the handshake firm and cool, and himself under intense scrutiny. “Jay tells me you’re interested in becoming a client of ours.”

“If you believe in putting in the extra hours I’ll need,” Burch stated brusquely. “I don’t have the time for slackers. There’s so much to be done.” His watchful expression hardened. “No doubt you’re aware that I already have a cadre of lawyers working for me. Yet Jay here says I might need one more firm. I won’t consider working with anyone but the best. Are you the best?”

Charles studied him for a long moment. He was certainly forthright, and he possessed a dark handsomeness. That alone would open many doors to him.

The younger man withstood his close scrutiny without comment. Everything about him spoke of his confidence and charisma. It was a potent mix.

“I didn’t get where I am today by being counted as merely second best,” Charles finally replied evenly. He glanced at his business partner. “I’m sure we can put together a detailed plan that will suit your needs.”

“Good. Excellent. I have some pending contracts that need urgent attention.” Burch stepped back. “It’s Friday now. I’ll be in your office first thing Monday. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He was gone again, before Charles could draw breath.

“Quick, isn’t he?” Jay chuckled, lifting two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “But he knows exactly what he wants, and how to get it. I think we’ll be a good fit for him.” He passed one flute to Charles before raising his own. “To the future and our exciting new business…”

The two men clinked their glasses together even as Charles replied wryly, “And to clients who are just a little easier to get along with.”

“The younger generation.” Jay shrugged.

“Maybe I should take up golf after all…” Charles shook his head before swallowing a mouthful of champagne. He watched Elliot Burch circulate purposefully through the crowd as if he had always belonged in this elite group.

If only Catherine would find she possessed the same sense of drive… Charles compressed his lips, as he contemplated his immediate future. Hal Sherwood would be visiting New York from Atlanta in a few weeks. He knew he could unburden himself to one of his oldest friends.

He hoped Jay was right, and that Catherine would come to enjoy the endless rounds of parties they were required to attend. He wanted to rekindle her interest in corporate law. He needed to make some sense of what was happening with his daughter, and hopefully find a solution, before it was too late, and something more drastic was required.

He sighed, observing Elliot Burch working the room with practiced ease. He looked very much at home.

Charles shook his head. ‘You’re a go-getter, Burch, that’s for sure. I like that. wonder what my Cathy would think of you? Maybe I should arrange for you to meet my daughter and hope some of your ambition rubs off on her. Perhaps you’d be good for her…’

“The most important thing is this: to sacrifice what you are now for what you can become tomorrow...”

Shannon Alder

Ancestress

by Cindy Rae

I had a name, all lost to time,

Waltzing with the moon.

I had a name you couldn’t rhyme,

A rose-leaf, and a tune.

I had an oath I couldn’t break.

I had a ruby pin.

A cape that kept November out,

And kept sweet April in.

I had the kind of lovely face

Befits a cameo.

I even had a question

For an answer I don’t know.

I had a lambent, dark-eyed gaze.

I had a crescent crown.

I had a love; I had a loss.

The world turned upside-down.

I had a forest, stem and root.

I had a twisted tree.

I had a spell, things I can’t tell;

Or maybe they had me.

I had a book, I had an art.

I had my share of pain

I even had a handsome Beast

And wish I could, again.

Inspired completely and utterly by the incredible art of  Deidre Lockyer.

No matter where you are in your own family tree, I wish you love.~ Cindy

Cooking Lessons

By Judith Nolan

“Not so much flour,” William cautioned anxiously, watching Catherine’s movements.

There’d been many such warnings in the previous few hours.

“I’m wondering why you agreed to teach me to cook.” Catherine frowned.

“Masochism…” William stated baldly, before relenting. “You’re a quick learner.”

“It’s only pancakes,” Catherine deprecated, smiling.

“They’re also my reputation,” William grumbled.

“Fair point.” Catherine laughed, ladling batter onto the hot skillet with an unsteady hand. “Four down, five hundred to go.” She frowned. “I don’t know how you do this every morning.” Her face gleamed with perspiration.

“Lots of practice.” William wiped his brow on his sleeve.

The Parting Veil

By Cindy Rae

I’ve always thought that the aftermath of ‘Song of Orpheus’ might be as interesting as the episode itself. This little vignette is part of that impression.

~~~

Margaret Chase, for all her wealth, had been laid to rest. It had been a gentle thing, according to Catherine Chandler and Peter Alcott, the two people Father knew who had attended her services. For all of her prestige and fortune, she’d been a fairly private soul, and the private service afforded her had been lightly attended, as was her request.

A few servants, some scattered friends, a room full of yellow daffodils, artfully placed amongst soft candlelight, a dark, parting veil to cover Margaret’s face and give it an aura of peace… there had not been much more, Catherine had reported, solemnly.

Father, of course, was in a quiet kind of mourning, and so too, it seemed, were the Tunnels. The soft veil of sorrow lay over the halls, just as it had lain over Margaret’s features in repose. Pipe traffic was quieter. People seemed inclined more to contemplation than conversation, both on the metal pipes above their heads and in person with each other.

As they passed Father’s chambers, they knew to come in, offer what few words of comfort they could, and then leave, almost as silently as they’d entered. Though Margaret had not been someone well acquainted with any of them, they knew she’d been Father’s one deep love, and they respected his sorrow, and his loss. It was a somber time.

For Vincent, the quiet offered a chance to reflect on all he’d learned over the last few weeks. Father was now a widower, because at one time in his life, that same Father had been a married man.

A married man.

This wild, almost incomprehensible thought that had whispered in Vincent’s brain almost from the moment he first discovered who Margaret Chase was, and what she had once been to his only parent, now came full to the fore.

A married man. A husband. A bridegroom. A hopeful suitor, who’d gone from ‘alone’ to ‘engaged,’ to… wed.

It was a foundation-shaking revelation.

Vincent tried to picture Father (Jacob. His name is Jacob. She knew him as Jacob, and so he was.) as a nervous bridegroom, pacing some distant chapel the day of his wedding, anxiously fiddling with his tie and checking his cuffs, as he made sure he had the rings, secured within some vest pocket.

For the life of him, Vincent couldn’t do it. Not simply because Jacob’s erstwhile son hadn’t been there (No tunnel dweller had. This was a revelation to all of them.), but because Vincent’s image of Father had (until now) always been one of the perennial bachelor. To him, Jacob Wells represented a man who’d dedicated his life to service, to medicine, and to his community. He’d had no family of his own, having had a massive and extended one beneath the ground. He had been “Father” to all of them, not having been “husband” to anyone.

Or so we all thought, Vincent mused.

Jacob, mate-less as a sock kicked under the bed, was an unattached man, as far as they had all known. He was bound by duty, rather than by marriage. It was all part of who he was.

Or who he had been, Vincent amended mentally.

In so many ways, and for much of his life, Vincent felt as if he and Father were like two peas in pod, in some ways. Separated by their ages, and for Vincent, his obvious differences from other people, certainly, but similar, still, in their devotion to the Tunnel community, and in their willingness to forego certain measures of personal happiness, in order to maintain the whole. They were single men, together. It was as simple as that. Or it had been.

But… Father hadn’t foregone all that. That isn’t who he was. Wasn’t who he was. Not at all. Not… at all.

The understanding engendered no resentment inside Vincent. Just revelation. Father had been, (and for all Vincent knew, still was, in his heart), a married man. A husband. A man who’d courted a woman, won her heart, had been in her life, as her dearest mate, for some span of time. He’d had a love, a deep one, profoundly so. And he’d indulged himself in… well… he’d indulged himself in everything any married man indulges himself in… companionship, love, quiet nights by the fire, sex.

And while Vincent knew he couldn’t quite picture Father (Jacob. His name is Jacob Wells.) as any woman’s lover, he wondered how much that had to do with any child’s inability to come to grips with the fact that his parent was a sexual being.

It was not a thing he’d understood before. Even in adulthood, it was a thing he’d not had to grapple with on any level, until now.

To him, Father’s life was full of purpose. It was difficult to imagine that it had once been full of passion as well, passion of both a romantic and carnal kind.

You loved her. You loved her very much. Deeply. Tenderly. With… with all that you were. And when she left… it… broke you. Broke you in a way it took years to heal from.

Vincent glanced reflexively toward Catherine’s apartment, a direction he knew no matter where he was. It would be the same for me, if we ever parted for any reason. It would be the same.

It was a truth his heart knew with increasing certainty. One he was trying to guard against, as any sane man would, but one he understood just the same.

But Father was… or had been… a married man.

No matter where Vincent’s thoughts wandered, they always seemed to circle back around to that fact.

Catherine said that the sorrow of them was that they had a beginning, and an end, but no middle… he thought, as he pondered the significance of the seven days Jacob Wells and Margaret Chase had had.

If I had but seven days… If I knew that was all the time we had… What would I do?

It was a sad thought to contemplate. He pushed the dark imagining away, forcefully. It was too sorrowful a thing to ponder at any length. And it was unnecessary. Was Catherine not, right now, well? She was. He knew she was.

And yet…

Vincent’s mind lingered on his love, and out of sheer reflex, he reached for her, mentally.

She’s travelling. She’s in a taxi. She’s had a busy day, but she’s calm, in the ride. She’s coming home. It feels good to come home. It always does.

He closed his eyes over the sweet sensation of it, and let it fill him with peace. She was safe. She was well. She was near, and growing nearer. It was quitting time. Not dark, not yet, but… soon.

By unspoken accord, most of the picks and hammers were silent today, Father being the one who regularly posted the duty roster. There were no pressing needs. Tunnel excavation could resume when it would. Somehow, the quiet made it easier to think, and to sense his love.

The day was long, but you’re… happy. That’s good. That’s so good, Catherine, he thought, comforted by the mysterious connection they shared.

The softly enveloping silence of his chambers cradled him, and he idly glanced at the books closest to his hand as he sat at his table. In times like these, he often sought the comfort of reading, or writing in his journal. Vincent reached over and picked up a thin volume of Byron, then simply held it, leaving it unopened.

She walks in beauty… He knew the poem by heart, as he ran a thoughtful hand across the well-worn canvas cover. More than half the pages were dog-eared, and a long, thin crack bisected the binding.

And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect, and her eyes. He sighed at how much the old lines reminded him of Catherine.

Catherine. My Catherine.

There had been no chance to discuss Byron with his charges today. Vincent had kept his classes brief, and light. Today was not a day for deep delving with his students. Even the children felt that these were days best spent in quiet, and in contemplation.

They’d taken their cues from their elders. When it was all right to run and play tag in the Tunnel passages again, they would know. But now was not that time. Kipper’s skateboard was still and silent. The normally boisterous Mouse was fairly quiet as well, as he tinkered thoughtfully on this “gizmo” or that. Even Arthur was curled up contentedly in his cage, sensing that this was not the time to be stirring up mischief.

Even Arthur knows. And yet…

Vincent set the crack-bound volume back down, and considered the last line of his favorite poem in it.

A heart whose love is innocent.

Would that be Jacob? Or him? Or Catherine, or Margaret? All of them, perhaps? Wasn’t Father, who’d been found guilty in the world Above, innocent after all?

For all the good it did him.

Father loved a woman. As a young man, he met her, fell in love, and proposed. And she accepted him. He must have been so… happy that day.

What an amazing thing that was to contemplate. It was a side to Father Vincent had never seen, and never considered.

To Vincent, Jacob had always been a good father and a steady leader. He was intelligent, often insightful (when it came to his patients, at least), and firm. But while it was true that he’d been a “Father” to almost everyone in the tunnels over a certain age, he’d never been a “husband” to anyone. He’d played the paternal role to Mary’s often maternal one, but the two of them were not in love, and had never pretended to be… at least as far as Vincent knew.

To Vincent’s way of thinking, the Tunnels were filled with an odd assortment of unmarried people (even as it had its married ones), and they comprised a loving, gentle corps of “parents” (and teachers, and guides, and mentors) for those children who needed them.

Vincent doubted that Winslow had ever been in love, and he wasn’t sure about Pascal. He knew Mary had lost a child, but she never spoke of the child’s father, choosing to keep such things to herself. William, gruff and portly, hinted that he’d been married for a time, but it had been brief, and over long before he’d decided to come down.

But Father…

As far as Vincent knew, Father had been a bachelor all his life, and would probably die that way, much like Vincent always thought it would be for him.

Of course, meeting Catherine had caused certain ripples of doubt to creep through that conclusion.

He was nowhere near ready to conclude that being in love with Catherine might change that one day. In many ways, they were still learning about each other. Vincent knew that the wealthy attorney’s life simply didn’t “fit” with his, and he was determined that she not give up the potential of that life, to try and meld it with his own.

And yet… Hadn’t Jacob and Margaret fallen into that very trap? Hadn’t her life as a socialite not “fit” with his, a disgraced scientist, and medical man? Hadn’t they parted because Margaret was unable to accept her husband’s burdens as her own, and so she allowed her father to… annul them?

Annul. It means it never existed. It means it never happened. An annulment isn’t just a divorce. It’s an erasure of who you were, as a couple.

Vincent didn’t know much about this kind of law. But even he understood that much. Margaret’s abrupt entrance into all of their lives, and her sad departure, meant he had to.

You paid a high price for your innocence, Father, he mused. Annulment. To … unmake a once sacred thing… forever.

Vincent could think of nothing more horrible, for the young man Jacob must have been. He could think of nothing more horrible, for anyone.

To be told by the one you love, the one you married… that it didn’t happen, that it never existed… to have it all… cast away…

He stood up from the chair, not liking the feeling the thought gave him. He felt Catherine getting closer to home. And even though there was still light in the five-thirty sky, he longed to be near her. Something inside him felt fragile right now. Fragile, yet hopeful.

Hurry. Hurry, my Catherine. I long to see you, I long to watch the wind caress your hair, and lift it away from your cheek. Your scar remains, but it doesn’t matter to me. To me, it’s a sign of your victory. I love you.

He swallowed, on the last.

Please… hurry home.

~~~

Vincent was on her stones almost from the moment Catherine opened the doors to the balcony, just after sunset. It surprised her to see him there. His presence, just as darkness fell, meant that he must have been traveling in the park, earlier; at a time when it was less than prudent for him to do so.

“Vincent? I… I’m surprised to see you he--“

He swept her up into a rib-cracking hug, moving her backward as he claimed her. He leaned down to breathe in what was by now her familiar scent: good soap, a faintly floral-smelling shampoo, a touch of expensive cologne grown faint, thanks to having been applied that morning, and just plain “Catherine” underneath it all. On a deep inhale, he took her into his nose and further into himself.

Yes. There you are. Surprised to see me so early, yet happy for it as well. I missed you, today.

He realized he was holding her just a touch too tightly, and let loose, a little.

“Bad day?” she asked, as he let his head remain bent over hers a moment longer.

“No. No, not bad… just…”

He relaxed his hold and let her find steady footing again, as a cool night breeze invaded the high up space. “I… needed to be near you. The atmosphere Below was… somber,” Vincent offered, by way of explanation. He turned toward the darkening night, and took up his customary position, placing his hands on the capstones. “I just… wanted to be here,” he stated.

Catherine didn’t need to ask for the “why” of that. “I understand. Sometimes, after the initial shock, the aftermath can be very … pervasive,” Catherine offered. She knew a thing or two about being in a home where a loved one had just passed away, how solemn and heavy the atmosphere often was.

The soft breeze tugged at Vincent’s long hair, sending the golden silk to lifting off his broad shoulders, shoulders that looked as if they’d been carrying the weight of an invisible “something,” as he’d made his way to her.

“He’s well,” Vincent said, both of them knowing he was speaking of Father. “He has the articles about Margaret’s passing, the things about her life, in the papers, the magazines. Some of them even mention him, though not by name.”

Catherine lowered her gaze, sorrow for Jacob Wells in the gesture. “I think Margaret’s father’s money probably had something to do with that. It would be hard to find a record of the marriage … considering.” She came to stand beside him. The night wind caressed her cheek and teased at her soft, honey colored hair, like he knew it would.

Yes. Considering. Vincent looked away from her, and out at the brisk, spring night. Everywhere around them, “life” was blooming. It seemed so unfair to Margaret and Jacob, given what had happened.

Vincent brought his blue gaze back to his love. “Catherine… annulment. I … I understand what it means. But what does it mean to the law? To your world, Above?”

Catherine made a moue of regret, knowing Vincent probably wasn’t going to like anything she had to say. “Under the law, an annulment is more… sweeping than a divorce. A divorce means a once-married couple is no longer married. But an annulment… “ She grimaced. “It means that legally, it never happened at all.”

Vincent shook his head. “I know it was done. I know Margaret’s father made certain it was. But…” He shook his head again, a man seeking understanding.

“But how?” Catherine slid her hand next to his. “It’s an old law. Around for a long time. Meant to protect people against certain things… like bigamy, fraud, being forced into marriage, or married too young.”

“None of those things would have applied to Father and Margaret,” he stated. It was difficult enough to imagine that Jacob had been husband to one woman, much less two at the same time. Or any of the other items she’d listed.

Catherine settled her small hand on his much larger, gloved one, and gave it a squeeze. “I know. But the political climate at the time was very … charged. I don’t have the original documents, of course, but if I was Margaret’s father, I’d likely sue for an annulment on the grounds of fraud, that Margaret had no idea Father was a… traitor of some kind.”

“Would her father’s word be enough for such a claim?”

Catherine could only shrug and tell what she could divine from what little she knew. “Vincent, I think we’re talking about a man who helped presidents get elected. I’m sure his money and influence colored the outcome. That, and the HUAC’s judgment against Father. And Father didn’t fight the annulment, so there is that.”

“She asked him to accept it,” Vincent recalled.

“Yes. Likely so it wouldn’t all keep playing out in the papers.” Catherine knew that had likely been the reason. “After the annulment papers were filed, he was simply… gone, Below.”

“So a judge somewhere, granted her father’s request.”

Catherine nodded. “I’m sorry, Vincent. I know how deeply it must have hurt Father at the time.”

No doubt it had. Though that, like other things, seemed to have been forgiven by Jacob, in time.

“Is there a reason why you wondered?” Catherine asked.

Vincent released himself from her slight grasp and took a step away from her. He wasn’t quite sure how to express all he had been feeling about that. “I think it’s just… the totality of it. That the law has the power to say that … ‘that which was, was not.’ It’s an incredibly… sweeping claim.” He made a broad gesture with his hand to accompany the words. “The most important day in Father’s life… undone, washed away, made to be a thing that never was.”

Catherine tried to see what he was seeing, so she could know his feelings. “But it really did happen. He really did love her,” Catherine reminded him.

Vincent nodded. “Yes. Yes, he did… and very much.”

The great head shook, again. “To be told they’d never existed. How it must have… galled him.” Vincent rested his fists on the stone railing and leaned out over it, seeming to look into the park, below. “He must have felt so… helpless… so overwhelmed.”

Catherine moved closer, and simply let her gentle presence be felt. “He must have felt that his world had just come utterly crashing down on him. That there was nothing left. I’m glad he came Below. I’m glad he was helped, and that he found you, eventually.” There was a world of sincerity in her gently spoken words.

“As am I.” But that doesn’t change what happened to him. How… completely they tried to take away what he was.

Catherine kept her tone soothing, even as she told him what she knew. “Preston Chase, Margaret’s father, well, he was a … stern man by reputation,” Catherine stated. “He may have done what he did to keep Father from eventually inheriting anything of Margaret’s. Just in case,” she offered, realizing another motive Margaret’s father might have had for annulling the marriage of his only daughter.

A blonde eyebrow rose. “An annulment would do that?” Vincent asked, curious that somehow, “money” might have played into this, not just social position or embarrassment.

Catherine shrugged, and the soft white blouse she’d worn to work that morning moved on her shoulders. “Since it means the marriage never legally happened, yes. Under the law, a divorced spouse might be able to sue for assets. An annulled spouse cannot.”

Oh. Another part of your world I know almost nothing about. Laws of inheritance. “What will happen to Margaret’s money? Do you know?” he asked, curious, since protecting Margaret’s wealth might have had something to do with the decimation of Jacob Wells.

Catherine heaved a thoughtful sigh. “Alan Taft’s firm has control of most of it. With Henry Dutton in jail, I think it all stays there, attached to her original plans. She left most of it to charity, I believe.”

Vincent nodded at that. “Then it will do some good after all.”

“After years of bringing her little joy, it seems it might bring some joy to others,” Catherine agreed.

“Her father would likely be livid, if he knew.”

“Perhaps, yes,” Catherine answered, still sensing that something was niggling away at her love. Vincent rarely asked questions about the law, or finances. And up until now, he had seemed fairly at peace with Margaret’s passing.

“You don’t like something about the annulment. It’s bothering you?” she guessed correctly. It had been the only thing he’d really asked about, after the hard hug he’d given her in greeting.

Blue eyes cut her way, acknowledging how bright she was, and how well she knew him. “I think I don’t care for how completely it erases something that was very important, very precious to him. I suppose I didn’t realize… I didn’t stop to consider that there was something that could do that.” Or could… do that to us? No. We are not them. But still…

“Oh, Vincent, for whatever peace it gives you, I don’t think it did do that.” Catherine placed a reassuring hand on his huge arm. “I think it removed Father’s name from a legal document, yes, but it didn’t change what they were to each other, inside.

“In her heart, I think Margaret always considered him to be her only husband, and the time they finally spent together, that was when she was his wife. The legality of it couldn’t undo how they really felt about each other. The document didn’t deny that the marriage actually took place, just that it… legally happened.”

Vincent stared into the earnest green eyes that owned his soul. I love you. Just as he loved her. More, perhaps. I don’t know.

Dropping his gaze, he took in a steadying breath, and then looked back out into the spangled night, knowing that behind each light, a story was happening. Maybe one not so different from theirs. Who knew?

“I think, for his part, Father felt much the same. That the only time in his life he was ever a married man… it was Margaret who was his wife.”

Catherine gave him a wan smile. “I suppose the heart is a thing even the law can’t undo, can’t touch, in the end. They found their way back to each other, after all.”

“Thanks to you,” Vincent supplied, blessing her for the part she’d played in that.

He tugged her toward him for another embrace, and unlike the first one, this one was more gentle, and it lingered. With his head bent over hers, he whispered the fear of his heart: “I don’t want there to ever be a way that anyone can say we didn’t happen, Catherine. No matter what fate brings us, I don’t want that.”

Catherine gave him pressure for pressure, in his warm hug. “I don’t see how they could.”

“I know we are not… as Jacob and Margaret were, that such a thing isn’t even possible for us in your world. But it… grieves me to think that in some way, we could be … swept away by something… made to… not be.”

Catherine kept her head where it was, listening to the trip-hammer beat of his mighty heart. So that’s what this is about. Thank you. Thank you for coming to me with this. Thank you for trusting me with it.

“You’ve had time to think about how much Father regrets being caught up in forces he couldn’t control,” she said, knowing that to one degree or another “control” was what Vincent lived by.

Did Father tell you I told him I’d never hurt you? Did he tell you I told him I love you, right before he returned home to see Margaret again? Catherine wondered.

“Forces we can’t control. As we are all caught up in, from time to time,” Vincent said, realizing that that had been at the heart of what had been bothering him the last few days.

He kept her close. “Catherine, I have a foolish request.”

She smiled against his vest. “Then I have a foolish answer, I suppose.”

His large hand rubbed her back, reassuringly. “No matter what happens… don’t let them… annul us. Don’t let them say we didn’t happen… that it wasn’t real.”

In a way, yes, it was a foolish request. “They” had no name after all, and who would do such a thing? But in a way, the plea was utterly understandable. After all, at one time, Jacob too, had thought his love was inviolable. He’d been a husband, married to a beautiful, wealthy, wife.

And then, one day, he hadn’t been.

“I promise. I absolutely promise,” Catherine whispered, in the soft night. “I’ll never give up on us. No matter what.”

“Nor I. I will never stop fighting for our dream, for what we are.”

She lifted her head and looked up at his dear, moon-etched face. “You can’t lose me. And I refuse to lose you,” she said, placing one hand against his great cheek.

A decision came to him then, and just then. It had been something he’d dared not think about for months, and certainly not in the days since he’d found out about Jacob and his past life, and his disaster of a marriage. But it came then, and it came clearly, as he stood with Catherine, his cheek nestled against her delicate palm.

I’m going to marry you. One day. I don’t know when. I don’t even know how. I don’t think the world you live in will ever even acknowledge it. But I swear I’ll look down and see you in a white veil, one day. And it will be a veil I lift, and part. A parting veil, for a wedding kiss. I swear I will.

“I mean it, Vincent.” She sounded most adamant at her claim, thinking his silence perhaps meant he didn’t believe her. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He couldn’t help but smile, just a bit, at her determination. How steadfast you sound. How stubborn. There’s strength in you. I knew it from the first.

The tension of the last few days melted away from his large frame, and he let it go into the soft night, carried away on the whispering breeze. “Then I’ll hold fast to you and your resolve, and trust that it will guide us where we need to go,” Vincent vowed, brushing her forehead with a soft kiss, thinking of a very different one to come.

Some day, he vowed.

And some day, he did.

~~~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love. ~ Cindy

SOLITUDE

by Katrina Relf

Tonight, Catherine, for the first time, you truly walked alone. I could not share my thoughts, even with you –this feeling of self-loathing and utter despair that will not leave me.

You came to me and I felt your love, but how could I look into your eyes when I was fearful of what I might see, and how could you bear to even look at me – knowing what that creature – my other self – is capable of? I sent you away, although every part of my being was crying out for the reassurance of your forgiveness, for the shelter of your arms.

I know that I am the protector of all who live Below and tonight I knew that they could live in fear no longer – the tunnels had to be safe again. The outsiders had to go. Their evil was destroying my family. But then, in that instant, I felt your fear. It tore through me like a knife.

Catherine – you could have died tonight. By what cruel twist of fate were you there – to witness the unspeakable carnage, to see for yourself the utter savagery of the beast that lives within me? The remembering of those moments fills me with a shame I cannot bear.

Tonight, I feel your tears, your sadness, and I know that I am the cause of that sadness. I long to hold you in my arms, closer than a heartbeat, to find the peace that only your nearness can bring, but my shame is such that I cannot come to you, cannot stay with those I love, until I have cleansed myself of the hatred that I feel towards this being who shares my every waking moment and haunts my dreams at night.

I must leave you, leave my world for the solitude of a place I know. A place of tranquillity where, perhaps in time, I will find a kind of peace, and even learn to forgive myself. It is a place of serenity where the deep waters will wash away the blood from my hands and the guilt from my heart. And, perhaps in the stillness of the night, sleep will come – a deep, untroubled sleep, where my only dreams will be of you.

I will return when the healing is complete. When I can once again look into your eyes and see only tenderness, when I can once again hold you close within my arms and feel your heart beating with love. When my only regret will be this parting from you.

Until then, my dearest Catherine, be well, and know that I love you.

- Vincent

Mouse’s Friend

by Judith Nolan

“You stay with Mouse?” The boy seized Vincent’s sleeve. “Always…”

He looked back to the people grouped at the far end of the tunnel. His thin body froze in fear. He tensed to run, despite all the reassurances spoken.

Vincent clasped the small hand. “I will never leave you. You must believe that.”

“Vincent, my friend....” The words trembled. Rushed words pregnant with meaning. It took a lot of trust just to say them.

“I am your friend. No matter what happens, or what comes. I will be with you.”

“Mouse can’t stay here?”

“No, Mouse...”

“Okay good… okay, fine…”

~~~

In the U.S., the original airing order of episodes had “The Beast Within” air right before “Nor Iron Bars a Cage.” With that in mind, an episode expansion between the two helps to explain Catherine’s tearful decision to leave New York – As well as her ultimate choice to stay.

It struck me that in “The Beast Within,” at the close of the episode, Catherine doesn’t yet know about the events of the warehouse. Of course, it’s something she’ll find out about later…

~~~

The Monster You Seek

by Cindy Rae

Chapter One

“Welcome Back, Radcliffe.”

The District Attorney’s Office, Manhattan,

Approximately 10:15 a.m.

Did I do this to you? Did I make you this? Did we? Tell me, Vincent, would there be a pile of bodies in a warehouse now, before April 12th happened to us both? A pile of bodies, and none of them Mitch Denton’s?

I’ve seen the pictures. I know you killed them.

Catherine shuffled her way through one grisly crime scene photo after another. Realization struck.

And I am literally the only person on the planet right now who does.

She looked around. Phones were ringing. People were moving all through her office. Monday mornings were always busy. Other than the fact that she was back, no one had noticed her, particularly.

Act normal. Do it. Rita Escobar walked by, clearly as overwhelmed as Catherine was, though for obviously different reasons. It was a hectic day in the office, Catherine’s first one after surgery to remove a bullet from her back.

“Hi, Cathy!” Rita got out hurriedly, before she dove for a ringing phone.

“Hi.” Catherine barely glanced up. Inside, some part of her went numb.

“Welcome back, Radcliffe.” Joe said it. I think it was the last thing I heard. The last thing I heard, the last cheerful thought I had… before I knew what I know now.

The photos were glossy and hurriedly taken. Chalk outlines in some, to show where the bodies had been found.

Some pictures, of course, were more detailed, and there was always the coroner’s report to read through. Severe lacerations across the neck and chest…

The files were on my desk when I came in this morning, and since it had been almost a week, they weren’t even on top. “Low priority, considering,” said Joe.

Because there’s a prejudice we have that we don’t even admit to, in law enforcement. Bad men are bad men after all, and who really cares if they kill each other? It’s a thing we think, but seldom say out loud. So, I got those files. Other people got the more “active” cases, the ones people actually care about solving. She rubbed a thoughtful hand across her mouth, willing her gorge not to rise.

That doesn’t mean we’re in the clear, and considering what I’m seeing, is that even the right word?

There was a bloodbath, in a warehouse. A bloodbath. My God.

She read the notes of the detective on the scene. More bad news. What else did she expect? A good detective, a cop she knew, Greg Hughes, had been assigned to the case. He’d even left a Post-it note on the file for her, so had Joe Maxwell. It was common to do that, since she hadn’t been around to discuss the case with.

Greg Hughes is a bit puzzled.

That’s never a good thing, never a good thing, Vincent. Puzzled cops… smart cops… they tend to put two and two together, eventually. After all, that’s what cops do. That’s their job. My job too.

My job…

But I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think about it, or like Scarlett O’Hara (another rich debutante you might know), if I think about it I’ll go crazy.

“Hey, Cathy. Feeling okay?” Ted asked, as he rushed by her desk. “We sure missed you.”

“Fine, Ted, fine. Looks like you all have been busy without me.” It’s always safe to say things like that.

“Sure, you know this place. If you need anything, holler, okay? I’ll dig out from under and try to give you a hand.” The fact that he was on the run didn’t mean he wasn’t sincere in his offer.

“Thanks, Ted. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Ted shuffled the files in his hand and put one on top. “I’ve gotta go take a deposition. Hold down the fort!”

Sure. I’ll do that. I’ll do that, Ted, Catherine thought to his retreating back. And then she found she wasn’t really doing that at all. Even though the damning file folder was stuffed back on the bottom of the pile, its images wouldn’t leave Catherine Chandler’s busy mind.

Do you know why Greg is puzzled, Vincent? Do you? Do you know why one of the best cops I know is calling this one “a bit of a head scratcher?”

Because in a room full of dead men, armed men, armed with guns, and even a few shell casings scattered on the ground indicating the guns were fired… not one, not one of the men died from a bullet wound; they weren’t even struck by one.

We both know what they were struck by. And it wasn’t a bullet.

Catherine realized her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together to make them stop. Seven files from the top of the stack, there was horror.

I didn’t have to look past the first picture to know, to realize what must have happened. I’m not sure if that’s sad to the point of tragic, or familiar to the point of horrible, but there it is.

The first picture… it was the big man. He died after a fall down a short set of stairs, but even the coroner knew that had nothing to do with what killed him. He ‘exsanguinated,’ according to the ME. That means he bled to death; that he bled until his heart had nothing much left to pump. Of course he did.

But of course, you know that. You know how he died. You know how they all died… don’t you? Of course you do.

I had a dream of ice cream.

You know that, too. Don’t you? You came to my room… You stood over my bed… I told you about it. I said, “The sky was blue.” I said, “You bought me ice cream, and no one looked twice.” And you said “Then it was a good dream.” That’s right, isn’t it? I didn’t… imagine that, somehow?

~~~

Well, they’re looking twice now. Or I am. Maybe just I am. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe the pictures won’t let me not do that, won’t let me just look away, won’t let me keep them on the bottom of the stack and pretend I don’t know. They’re unsolved case files, for now… nothing much for me to do.

No witness statements to take, since there aren’t any.

I know I’m supposed to think that’s a good thing, considering what we both know the victims, your victims, witnessed. What they… died, witnessing… You.

Every one of them had a rap sheet. None of them were good men. Not one. I don’t dispute that. Not at all. That’s not what this is about.

Catherine rubbed the tender skin at her right temple. She was getting a headache. She struggled to turn away from the day she was having, as she tried to remember the particulars about a more distant one.

When there was a vigilante in New York, I came to you. We both knew the question that was in my heart, and you… you were offended, I think. Do you remember that? You told me I had to trust. You said, “I am not the monster you seek.”

Catherine sat quietly, head down, pretending to search through her rolodex, as her office buzzed all around her.

“I am not the monster you seek.” Well, you are now, aren’t you?

The thought startled her. It was a terrible thing to think, she knew. A horrible thing to think. She just couldn’t decide if it was actually an unfair one, considering.

Three men dead. Were you ever going to tell me? She gave up on the Rolodex and opened a desk drawer, her mental conversation continuing all the while.

Greg is just a bit puzzled. Still.

Joe thinks Mitch Denton did it to them, that they had some kind of argument, or he was covering his tracks. Greg thinks no, maybe the mob killed them as a message. “Don’t fail. Don’t fail on the docks, don’t fail at giving us what we want. The penalty is heavy, if you do.”

Are the wages of sin death, Vincent?

They must be. They must be death. Because the men were sinners, and the warehouse looked like a… a morgue, with high vaulted ceilings.

She slammed the drawer shut and fished a pencil out of a cup. But she couldn’t stop her internal monologue.

According to the first officers on the scene, the room smelled of gunpowder, and contraband, and sweat, and urine. The Medical Examiner said it’s common for dying, terrified men to pee themselves. That nature kind of … voids the body, in some strange kind of attempt to live. Like weighing a few less ounces might make all the difference in fight or flight.

The shell casings say they fought, or at least they tried to. But I don’t think you gave them the choice to flee. I swear on my soul I’m glad you weren’t hit, weren’t shot, weren’t hurt. I’ve seen what a bullet from a rifle can do, and we both know I know what one from a handgun can do. They dug one out of my back.

It was Mitch’s. It was. Yet, we both know his body isn’t in that warehouse.

She opened the top file and pretended to “see” it.

So odd that my mind keeps turning to that fact, when there are so many others. Mitch wasn’t there… yet you were.

Isn’t it strange that if Mitch’s picture was in my files, that if the body count was just “one” higher than it is, that I’d almost understand all this? That I’d think “You went looking for him and found ‘them?’ That there was a fight, and you got caught in it, and they all died, because… because, well, that’s what happens to violent men sometimes?” Wouldn’t it be so strange that I could… cling to those thoughts, if only Mitch Denton’s body was somewhere among their number?

It isn’t. No one has seen him since that night.

This isn’t like other times. This isn’t like the men you killed at the brownstone, the ones who killed Carol Stabler and then came after me, or when we saved the Langers, or when we were fighting to free Eric and Ellie. We were fighting for our lives then, or fighting to save kids from God-knows-what. This isn’t like that. This isn’t like then.

You hunted these men.

Didn’t you?

I was having a dream about ice cream, and three men were dying, screaming. They did scream, didn’t they? Or were you so fast, they didn’t have time to? God, I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I was in a hospital. You know that. You carried me there. I’m only alive right now, because of it.

Did any of them beg? Would you have listened, if they had? Or no, were you past that, past all thoughts of mercy by then?

They were evil men. They were. I have to keep telling myself that, or I can’t function.

I pulled records, I’ve looked at rap sheets. Number running, strong-arm robbery, assault… All the things most men who live a life working for a mob enforcer have, in their file.

Number running is almost always the first thing, the thing they got picked up for, as juveniles. The mob uses kids as messengers. They go between one group of people and another. They get indoctrinated into the life of easy money, and after all, what does it hurt? It’s just delivering a message, in its way. Benny does that, when he delivers messages between Above and Below, and nobody thinks he should be in jail for it.

But numbers running leads to other things. It always does.

If the kid is picked up and doesn’t squeal, he’s deemed “reliable” and brought in deeper, into more business. If he’s sharp and hard, he’s brought up in the ranks. These men were Mitch’s men. They were. They were unscrupulous men. They made money off what they were doing, shaking down the docks.

Catherine’s desk phone rang. She picked it up, forwarded the call, and set the receiver down, praying it wouldn’t ring again.

So there they were. They moved high end merchandise, when the mob told them to. Two of them graduated from grand theft auto and chop shops, to the “easy” work of guarding merchandise in warehouses. Getting it passed through customs unchecked, so it could be distributed. No union on the docks means, no union inspectors, and nobody the men can go to, if they think they see something “funny.”

She closed the file in her hand, then tugged the hated one out and put it on top. She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to.

So, Mitch’s men were in a warehouse. It’s not the toughest job in the world, sitting around while a fortune in contraband stuffed in crates gets loaded on trucks and sent out. They found the “soft” job. Isn’t that funny? Guarding a warehouse on the docks is supposed to be easy work.

And then they found you. Or you found them.

Rado Jones pushed Charlie Flynn to his death, on the docks. He was shaking down the dockworkers, making them afraid. I know he killed at least one man. I know that. They called him Rado because he was from Colorado. He has a long rap sheet there. He was a murderer too. Maybe even in Colorado. Certainly, in New York.

I killed him. In that gunfight in the alley, we were trading shots. One got him. I killed him. That was me.

All the rest… that was you.

She tapped the manila folder with a freshly manicured nail.

Three armed men. And at least two of them were very, very violent ones. Ned Spinelli probably killed two men in Chicago, before he came here… before he came here to work for Mitch Denton. The victims worked on freight trains, in the Chicago rail yard. Big trains. One died under a train. The Chicago PD thinks that was Ned, sending a message. “Look the other way, or this is you.” The man was decapitated. But there wasn’t enough evidence to link Ned to the crime, so he came to New York. He came to Mitch. He came to the Sweeneys, and nobody thinks he intended anything good there.

And then he came to you.

Ned, George and Alex… those were their names. They all came to you. Or, like I said, you came to them.

George Latham was a criminal all his life. His juvenile records were sealed, and then re-opened after his first carjacking. I guess he got tired of stealing purses, and wallets, and used Fords, and decided to move on to bigger things, with Mitch. I guess he had nothing to lose. Two strikes as a violent criminal. The next one was going to be his last. He’d have gone away for life. They think he killed a warehouse guard last year. They think. But they don’t know.

I think he did, too.

But Alex…

Alex wasn’t exactly like the others, Vincent. Which was to say he was a “good” man? Not really, that’s a given. Birds of a feather, don’t you know? Or at least… I hope that’s the case…

Catherine’s desk phone rang again, and she answered it. It had nothing to do with the only case she was thinking about right now. She jotted down some information about a toxicology report, then hung up the phone.

Then she forced herself to open the file she didn’t want to open. It had an address in it. One she needed. She jotted it down, trying hard to look like she was concentrating on something vital, running down a lead on a case that could be solved, rather than on one that could never be, by her.

I have to go somewhere today. I have to speak to someone. I have to find out something. Because it might be important. It might be very, very important.

She picked up her purse. In the middle of the bedlam of her office, no one even noticed. She stuffed her briefcase like she was a woman on a mission. Which in a way, she was.

Alex Delgado was born Alejandro Luis Garcia Delgado. He ran numbers as a kid, and drove the getaway car in a bank robbery when he was seventeen. He was tried as a juvenile. When he got out, he went to work on the docks for the mob, standing guard as shipments came in. He liked rifles. He liked any large caliber gun. He was good with them, according to his brother.

And that’s it.

To the best of my knowledge, he never killed a man.

He was intimidating. He was probably evil. He was one of Mitch’s men, and that means more than a little.

But he was not a murderer. At least as far as I can tell.

There are people I have to speak to. There are things I have to know.

Catherine made sure the file she wanted was in her briefcase, double-checked an address, and headed for the door.

Things I have to know… if it’s possible to know them.

Always an honest woman, Catherine was hard pressed as to whether or not she truly wanted the answers she sought.

Chapter Two

Alex, Maggie, and Adam

The South Bronx,

Approximately 12:45 a.m.

“Magdalena Guerrero?” Catherine asked, flashing her identification at the crack in the triple-locked door. A brown eye stared back at her.

“Yeah?”

“My name is Catherine Chandler. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions? Perhaps try to understand what happened to Alejandro?”

The door shut, and for a moment, Catherine thought her quest was over before it had truly begun. And that might be a good thing, in the long run.

Catherine hated herself for thinking it. Then the sound of the chain scraping its bar reached her ears, and the door swung open.

“Maggie. You can call me Maggie,” the young woman replied, turning her back to Catherine, as the door swung inward.

A small, somewhat cluttered apartment came into view, not much different than most of the others on this side of town. A tan, berber rug, curling at the corners, covered the floor, while a nondescript grey couch sat on one end. A laundry basket sat in the couch’s middle, and a stack of towels were folded on the arm. Maggie moved both to one side.

“And he was Alex, not Alejandro. He said it sounded more white. Might even help him get a job, some day. Only his mom called him Alejandro.” She brushed the laundry lint off the sofa seat. “The cops already came by. I guess they didn’t tell you?”

Her English was clipped with the Spanish accent that was her birthright. A brown ponytail kept her hair off her neck, while the apartment’s dodgy heater tried to keep up with the November chill. She picked up a remote and turned off a newer-looking television, one with a VCR attached.

Catherine looked around, as she framed her reply. The apartment was a bit of a study in contrasts. While fashion magazines spilled out of a rack near the sofa, the coffee table, stereo, and other surfaces were free of dust and clutter, and the smell of furniture polish confirmed that things had been recently cleaned. An open doorway offered Catherine a peek into the kitchen. Clean dishes were stacked in the dish rack, and a dishtowel had been casually tossed on the small counter near the sink. Something was bubbling on the stove. Catherine’s nose told her it was most likely garbanzo bean soup, a staple in Hispanic cooking.

Though the apartment wasn’t neat-as-a-pin clean, it was clearly cared for. Catherine knew that even though the red brick apartment building sported some graffiti, it was rent controlled. Those were hard to get into in this part of town. She wondered if Alex Delgado, or maybe even Mitch Denton, had pulled some strings.

Catherine brought herself back to present concerns. “Yes, the police filed their report. I just thought I might try to see if there was something more you wanted to add?” She asked the question even as she mentally reviewed the details she’d gleaned from two police interviews and public records.

Magdalena Carmen Guerrero was Alejandro Delgado’s girlfriend, some said his common-law wife, since they’d spent some time living in Rhode Island. And while the police had informed his mother of his passing, they’d also been by to question Magdalena about his most recent activities. Her address was the last known one listed to him.

The dark-haired woman raised a brown eyebrow. “Something to add? Just that when the rent comes due, it’s gonna be a lot harder to pay it,” the woman who wanted to be called “Maggie” replied, tugging a washcloth out of the laundry basket and folding it into a small rectangle. Her hands worked, as her brown eyes measured Catherine. “I work as a cashier down at the food mart. Looks like I’m going to be asking for some extra hours. I’m not a putana.”

Catherine well knew it was the Spanish word for “prostitute.”

“It’s funny how I don’t speak Spanish, but you always pick up the swear words first,” Catherine replied, trying to draw out the conversation a bit, as she scanned the room some more, seeing if she could use it to pick up on any hint of what Alex Delgado was like. There wasn’t even a picture of him on the wall, though there was one of Jesus.

Maybe in her bedroom…

Catherine truly had no idea what she wanted to ask this woman. Questions like “Was Alejandro really a decent man, even though he was a criminal?” seemed a bit abrupt.

“Swear words, yeah. I bet you heard a few of them in this neighborhood,” Maggie said, grabbing another washcloth. Gold hoops swung in her ears. Her fingers were ringless.

Catherine sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, while she worked. “So… Aleja-Alex used to help you pay the rent? Did that… happen often?” And does it matter so much, if it did?

Dark eyes seemed to take stock of Catherine’s business suit and chic hairstyle, before Maggie answered. “Sometimes. When business was good. When he thought about it. He came and went. I know what he was, Miss Chandler.”

Her brown hand swept the room, mostly indicating the electronics. “None of this is stolen. He didn’t bring it by with a story about how it fell of the truck. He knew better. I bought it all. But I bought it with the money he gave me sometimes, I admit that. I didn’t ask where it come from. I knew better. Me and Alex been hanging out since I was fifteen.”

“So you… you were aware of how he made a living…” Catherine verified, letting the statement hang.

“I knew he ran numbers for Charlie Sharps over on Broome Street, back in the day, yeah,” Maggie answered, slapping another folded washcloth down. “That was when we were kids. It didn’t mean nothing to me. Other than he always had money for a Coke, and thought I was pretty.”

She was pretty, Catherine realized. Or at least she surely had been, once. There were dark circles under the lovely brown eyes now, and her mouth had a firm, almost hard set to it. A tough life was aging her, and setting lines across her broad forehead.

Maggie shrugged. “He did time in Juvie when he was seventeen. When he came out, some guy Sharps knew said he had a bright future. Showed him how to strip cars and move gun, look the other way when certain things came off a truck, or a ship. Other stuff.” She shook her head in the negative. “It’s not like I ever thought he was Prince Charming.”

Okay, so not Prince Charming. And violent maybe, if he was running guns. That’s not a peaceful business.

Then Catherine saw Maggie do something unexpected. She saw her fish a tee-shirt out of the middle of the laundry basket. It had a race car design on it. And it was child-sized.

Oh, no…

“Adam! Come get your shirt!” Maggie called.

A previously closed bedroom door opened, and Catherine watched as a young boy sauntered out, sounds of a video game continuing to play in his room. He was dressed in faded jeans and a Spiderman tee-shirt.

“Si’, Mama,” he replied, taking the offering. He was perhaps eight or nine years old, and as dark-haired and eyed as his mother.

Or his father. Catherine thought. Did Vincent kill a man with a little boy? A man who, while he was definitely a criminal, perhaps didn’t deserve to die?

“Put it in the middle drawer, and set it in right,” Maggie instructed her son, tersely. The boy just looked at Catherine, nodded to his mother and left to do as he was told.

The bedroom door closed behind him. Catherine had to ask: “Is he… is Alex his father?”

Maggie’s look became closed. “Maybe.” She shrugged again. “I said I wasn’t a putana. I didn’t say I was Snow White.”

Catherine took in the incredibly personal information, offered so casually.

“Alex was good to him,” Maggie defended. “Not mean. Didn’t blame him, or anything. We talked about getting a test, maybe. Someday. Looks like that ain’t gonna happen.”

Catherine watched Maggie finish with her menial chore, and stow the folded linens in the tiny closet, inside the bathroom.

Catherine, left on the sofa, wasn’t sure what to wish for. Should she hope that Alex Delgado had a child, so there was someone to carry on for him, now that he was gone? Or should she hope that he was childless, so Vincent’s sin would be somehow “less?”

She had no idea what to think. Oh, Vincent. Oh, no. She looked toward where Maggie was putting away the washcloths, and schooled her expression into one of professional detachment.

Maggie’s voice came from the bathroom doorway. “Tell you what, though, whoever cut Alex was sneaky. And quiet. And big. Alex had ears like a bat, and he always kept a gun on him when he worked, always. If he had his rifle out? That meant he was scared. And that meant Mitch was scared. And that Mitch Denton don’t scare easy.” Maggie closed the linen closet door and kept talking.

“I told Alex that Mitch was bad news. I told him to stay away, maybe go back to working for Charlie Sharps, but he didn’t listen.”

Catherine watched her as she re-entered the small space, and began stacking the magazines that had fallen out of the bin that stored them. Many were fashion magazines, bought off the rack, no sticker to indicate she had a subscription. She liked Vogue, from the looks of things.

Catherine wondered about her. What life did you picture for yourself before you ended up with this one? Did you want to be a fashion model? Long limbed and slender, she had the figure for it, even as time and circumstances were taking their toll on the rest of her.

“Do you… do you know if Alex ever… ever actually shot anybody?” Catherine asked. “It might help us find out who did this,” she added hastily.

Maggie glanced up, and again, the brown eyes gave Catherine a steady look. “Got no idea. Alex never talked about his business. That was a rule. I only knew about Mitch because he came around to get Alex one day. Said they had to go down to the docks. Nothing good ever happens down there. Everybody knows that.”

She rose from her chore. “The mob did it. Everybody says. Three guys dead and Mitch Denton missing, probably in the East River, with chains around his ankles.”

“Why do you think it was a mob killing?” Catherine asked.

Maggie shrugged. “Who else gets the drop on four armed men? And Ned? Ned was big. Nobody takes him down easy. And Mitch? Mitch had already done hard time, and he was poison mean. Trouble. Everybody knew that too.”

Yes. Everybody knew that. Mitch Denton was trouble. And most of the people who worked for him had dodged a murder charge. There’s no reason to think Alex Delgado was any less violent. He liked guns, after all.

“I got lunch to fix for Adam and my shift to get ready for,” Maggie said, indicating their interview needed to draw to a close.

Catherine rose from the sofa. “Will you… will you and Alex be all right?” Catherine asked. She really wanted to know, though she had little idea what she would do if the answer was “no.”

Either Maggie chose to misunderstand the question or she actually did. “I take him to my sister’s to watch while I work, so yeah. We’ll be okay,” the woman answered, going to the door.

Catherine knew she was being dismissed. She slid her purse up her arm, went through the open door, turned, and stood on the mat.

“I… I hope things get better for you, Maggie. Really. For you and your son,” she said sincerely.

“Gracias. Yeah, it wasn’t the best life. But we was making it. You know?” Maggie asked. It was the only time she’d ever asked for anything remotely resembling Catherine’s approval.

Not the best life, but we were making it. I get it. I do. So am I. Maybe. “I do. I do know. Good luck. I’ll… I’ll let you know if we find out anything.”

That last, Catherine knew, was a lie. That there would be no way she would tell Maggie anything she was about to “find out.”

“Sure. Vaya con Dios.” Maggie’s tone indicated she had no hope of such an outcome.

Vaya con Dios. Go with God. The other thing you learn, besides the swear words. The prayer inside “good-bye.”

Catherine adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. “Stay safe. You and Adam. I… I wish you well. Vaya con Dios,” she tacked on hastily, knowing the words sounded odd, coming from her.

The door shut in her face, and the sound of the locks sliding back into place could be heard through it. After another moment, the muted sound of the television coming back on could be heard through the thin door. It was a commercial. Someone was selling Tide.

“Vaya con Dios, Maggie,” Catherine repeated in a whisper voice, staring at the faded green paint on the door. She had no idea what she should do next, or where she should go to do it.

Whatever it is, it can’t be here, Catherine thought, looking around the dimly lit hallway. Here, there’s only heartache… the kind that comes with every missed chance for a happy ending.

--

Catherine returned to her desk, made multiple phone calls on her other cases, and sat there until the subtle ache in her back let her know her injury wasn’t going to let her play “desk jockey” any more, for the time being. And she did indeed develop the headache she’d been courting off and on all day.

Finally, she gave up.

“Punching the clock, Radcliffe?” Joe asked, as she abandoned her desk and picked up her briefcase. It was nearing five o’clock, but not quite there.

“Mm. Getting a little stiff,” she admitted, playing a bit of a sympathy card. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Maggie or her son all day.

Joe’s brown eyes flickered over her lithe form, his concern evident. She’d lost some weight while she’d been convalescing. He didn’t like the reason why.

“Go home. You taking anything for it?”

“Just aspirin,” she replied, waving away his concern. “It’s not bad. A warm soak will take care of it.” She collected her handbag and headed for the door.

“Okay. Take another day if you need it. I mean it, Cathy.”

She sent a wan smile back his way. “I’ve already taken too many. I’ll be fine, Joe. Thanks.”

The briefcase was lighter than normal. She wasn’t taking very much home with her. But she knew what was in there, and she knew why she’d chosen the file she had.

The glass and steel door swung closed behind her, as she waited for the elevator. Outside, daylight still streamed through the office building windows. Sunset was yet over an hour away.

Will you come to my balcony, Vincent? She wondered, as she pushed the elevator button. And if you do, what will we say to each other?

Chapter Three

What Weight can Bend

The Eastern Tunnels, Early Afternoon

She knows.

It was foolish of me to wonder when she would discover it. Her first day back at work. Obviously.

Do you hate me yet, Catherine? Are there pictures? Of course there are. The police always take photographs of a… crime scene.

And what a scene I left them with.

The pictures… Do they make you afraid of me, afraid of what I’m capable of? Do they, Catherine?

Which one would be worse, I wonder? Your fear? Or your hatred?

Not that “hatred” would be an obvious thing between us. I know you have deep feelings for me, and that those are good. I sense them, inside our bond. I sense them, inside of you.

We both… struggle against those sometimes, but I know that they are there.

How hard it would be to feel those beautiful emotions slip away from me, as they slipped away from you. How hard it would be to feel them… change into something else. Change from hoping I come to your balcony to thinking it might be for the best if I didn’t. That lives might be saved if we… dissolve. That kind of hate. Not the burning fury… the steady decline.

That would be what “hate” is like between us.

Or would it be your fear I despise the most? That sensation of … recoiling? The one I know so well? The one I know I… engender in other people? The fear I’ve… felt from you already, when you first saw my face, and then later, when you were chasing Jason Walker, and were beset with nightmares? Your fear. The cringing, wondering, drawing back, of all you are… from all I am? Wouldn’t that be the more painful sensation?

All I am… and even as I ask “And what is that, precisely?” I think both of us know, each in our own way. For good and ill, we both know.

Or at least, we do now.

You had a long day at work. And I think I knew the moment you knew.

At just after ten o’clock, I was helping Winslow create a false wall. It’s to disguise the entrance near Sam Denton’s place, to disguise the entrance near where Mitch Denton came down. I hate him.

And that, I can assure you, is not a steady, declining thing. It is a furious thing.

I hate him for all he is. I hate him for all he isn’t. I hate him for what he should have been and failed to become, as a man. I hate him because he hurt you. I hate him because hurting people became so very, very easy for him. And I hate that I feel the emotion “hate.”

I know I shouldn’t. Father says we aren’t supposed to hold onto such negative emotions, that such feelings can consume us.

I don’t think it bothers me that Father is so often right about such things. I think it bothers me that even knowing he’s right, I hate Mitch Denton still. Mitch is a killer. In his head. In his heart. In his soul.  It’s who he is. He knows it; it’s what defines him. Mitch, with his guns, is a killer. I know I am different than that. My heart tells me that truth.

And yet… as I sit here… I realize it was just as easy for me as it ever was for him, to take a life. Easier, perhaps. Mitch needs his guns, sometimes. It’s why he carries them.

I only need… myself.

I… wanted to tell you. I wanted the words to come from me. No, that isn’t completely true. I wanted them to never have to come, at all. But… They kept you in the hospital for days, and I dared not return. Your father remained near, and then your friend stayed with you, when you returned to your apartment… stayed, until you returned to your work.

Your work…

It was after ten this morning, and Winslow was saying the hinge we’d brought wasn’t strong enough to hold the weight of the frame. That the wood was too heavy, and the metal would bend. The hinge has to be built to hold the weight of the task, you see, just like you and I have to “be built” for the “weight” of the other.

If the door is too heavy, or the hinge too small, it will bend. It will give way. Any carpenter worth his apron knows it. It’s a simple fact.

You and I could do that. We could be that thing that tries to fit together, yet ultimately… bends, under the weight of all we are.

Winslow… We were both thinking we’d have to get something different to complete our task, and he had just left to go bring what we needed when… I felt you.

I think I felt the moment you opened the file. I just don’t know which one of the men you were looking at, when you did it. Isn’t it sad that I killed so many, that I don’t know which one you saw?

You were at your work. You were… concentrating… and then you were dismayed. “No. Oh… no.” It was a feeling from you, as much as it was the words themselves. You thought “No,” and then you thought of me. And then you thought it again. And again.

And then… puzzlement, just a bit. Just that small flavor of “I don’t understand?” Was that when you realized Mitch Denton, the man I hate, the man who shot you… wasn’t in the pictures, wasn’t in their number? Did it make you wonder? Did you … want to see him in those ugly photographs, as well?

Would that have made more sense to you, rather than less? Would one more loss, one more life taken have made the whole thing… better, rather than worse, somehow?

I don’t know the answers, Catherine. I don’t think I ever have.

Are we… imploding? Does my love for you bring up something we both fear I can’t control?

It was just after ten. And I think a piece of my world fell away.

~~~

Catherine’s Balcony, later that evening

A cool, evening breeze rustled the sheer curtains. This high up, the breeze often did that.

This high up. Is that part of our problem? Is that part of why we’re so… separated? Catherine thought, watching the diaphanous hems dance. Even though she’d been home from the hospital for a couple of days, the apartment still felt stuffy to her.

She’d left the balcony doors open on purpose, the sign of invitation obvious. The doors are open. Come if you want to. Or don’t.

Night air filled her apartment, and seemed to help wash away the day. It was late autumn, and the crisp scent of changing leaves in the park swept thoroughly into the room. This high up, she was above the normal smells of traffic and street vendors. This high up, she knew she was above the smells eight million people could make.

Catherine knew she wasn’t actually a princess in a tower. But she was canny enough to know how much she resembled one, sometimes.

She put a hand to the back of her neck and tried to massage away the tension headache that two aspirin hadn’t quite gotten rid of.  Do princesses get headaches? It was a random thing to think. She caught her tired-looking reflection in the mirror on her wall.

I would be a princess, if princesses carried scars. She eyed the one on her cheek. Doctor Sanderle was already booked to remove the one on her back. Her father, livid that she’d been shot and trying not to show it, had insisted. Catherine knew better than to fight Charles Chandler on that one.

Yet, the scar just in front of her ear, the one prone to infection, the one that had given Dr. Sanderle fits, that one, remained, looking just a touch more stark to Catherine than it usually did.

She sighed, and dropped her hand from her neck, allowing her hair to fall so that it partly concealed the raised ridge of skin she was destined to carry. She knew it was still there. And it didn’t bother her, the way it once had.

“Princess” was what I used to be, she thought, turning her face from her reflection to watch the night breeze stir the sheer curtains. She stepped toward them, but didn’t go all the way out onto the balcony. It’s not what I am, now. I’m better than that, now. I’m more. I’m trying to be…

A terrible thought assaulted her newfound sense of self. Was that a mistake?

She worried the question silently, in her mind. What I’m trying to become: braver, better, stronger… is that what… what ultimately caused this? Vincent tried to tell me I needed to step back from the case. I said I couldn’t, because of what we both might think of me if I did. Was that right? Did we both just kill three men? Four, if you count the one I shot in the alley?

She puzzled over the questions for several long moments, then rejected the premise. Yes, Vincent had come there because she had been in danger. But his history with Mitch Denton stretched back much farther than a dockside confrontation, and the decision to pursue Mitch and his men to a hideout had been Vincent’s own. Completely.

But that brought up a question all its own. Is this what I do to you? The beast inside you, the one we’ve both seen, the one I first saw the night you killed the men who killed Carole Stabler, who attacked me… Is this what I bring to the surface, inside of you? A mindless, vicious part of yourself you can’t control?

What does that say about us, if that’s true?

Catherine hugged herself, knowing she didn’t have an answer, as the room became more chill.

“It’s all true,” Vincent’s voice whispered in her brain. They’d been the words he’d given her in the tunnels, the first day she’d awakened in his bed, beaten, blind and battered. She pushed her mind back to that distant day.

Her face wrapped in bandages, she’d had only his voice for comfort. He’d told her of a good place, an almost magical-seeming place. A place where people helped each other, where they stayed warm, and took care of each other as best they could. “It’s all true,” he’d said. And she’d clung to the words, and believed, even while, sightless and savaged, she’d told him she didn’t know what to believe at all.

“It’s all true.” The short phrase persisted.

Were they “all true” as well? Both for good and ill? Were they both each other’s saving grace and each other’s harshest damnation?

Was she his love, his passion, … yet the reason he had killed three people in cold blood? For that’s what it was, and Catherine knew there was no mistaking it. This wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even in defense of her. The fight was over. She’d lost. Bravely, but badly.

And he had…

He had given into his darkest impulse, and meted out a terrible, animalistic kind of vengeance. The pictures from the file came back to her mind’s eye. They’d been gory. And he’d been efficient.

The little boy from Maggie’s apartment came back to her mind, as well. Fatherless now, maybe, though truth to tell, he’d perhaps only had not much of a one of those to begin with. Catherine crossed to her briefcase on the table, and she tugged out the file on Alex Delgado once again, and skimmed the particulars she now knew by heart. Height, weight, age, ethnicity, rap sheet…

She had no idea how long Vincent had been standing there in the doorway when she looked up toward the balcony. She only knew he filled the open space like a huge shadow, as she closed the file and set it on the table.

She turned to him as he stayed where he was. “Vincent! I… I wasn’t sure if I would see you tonight.”

His blue eyes followed her movements, but she swore no muscle he owned moved.

“Do you… wish that I would go?” he asked quietly, no hint of censure in his voice. It sounded like a simple inquiry, one asking a preference; not one intended to imply they were both standing on the edge of a knife.

Yet, they both knew they were. His very stillness telegraphed the tension in his large frame.

“No. Do you want to go?” she asked, not sure if he did or not. His body remained stiff, even as the breeze tugged at the hem of his cape.

“No,” he admitted. “But neither do I want what’s coming between us, Catherine.” She walked toward him, and he stepped out onto her balcony.

There was no way to pretend she didn’t know what he was referring to, and she didn’t even want to do that. Whatever was going to save them, obfuscation wasn’t it. “I guess you know I had quite the first day back at work,” she offered.

His eyes followed hers, as she glanced back toward the manila folder, on her table. It looks so… innocuous, he thought. “Is that the thing you had in your hand, at nearly ten o’clock? I … felt you read it, I think. Then… there was more, after.”

She nodded toward the damning file, now closed where it lay. Her eyes, when they met his, were bleak. “Vincent, I know no other way to say this but to say it outright: Alejandro Guerrero was a bad man. He worked for Mitch. He ran numbers from when he was a kid, and worked in a chop shop for a while. He sold guns. There are gang wars in almost every borough of New York, and lives are lost almost daily, thanks to those guns. Kids die. Cops die. I will not tell you he was a good man.”

But? He didn’t need to ask the word aloud.

There was no way for Catherine to pull this punch. “He has a young son with a woman. Maybe. Which is to say there is a little boy whom he may or may not have acknowledged as his. He was, in his way, a father. And near as I’ve been able to tell… he never killed anyone.”

The blue eyes blinked at the information, but the rest of his expression remained nearly inscrutable. “You are telling me that I may have killed a man who didn’t deserve to die.”

“I’m telling you his punishment was for a court to decide, yes. And that even if someone did die after he sold them a gun, that’s not a capital offense.” She stepped toward him and he stepped back, making room for her to come farther out onto the balcony. Quite a lot of that, actually. Rather than standing near her, he kept several feet between them, even as she moved out to the edge of the nightswept terrace.

“And if I… disagree, that a court should have decided this?” Vincent asked.

Catherine looked up at him, helplessly. “Do you?”

He had the good grace to look down and away. “I… think the time for me to second-guess my actions isn’t now. Or even a week ago. It was years ago. Back when Mitch Denton was a teenager.” Memory drew his gaze inward. “Even then, his heart was hard. Even then, I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That his life would be one of pain. That he would make others suffer. He knew I was coming for him, Catherine. He put the others in my way, but… he knew.”

“Vincent…” Catherine kept her voice soft. “I know that… sometimes… you’re enraged, and the … the more primal part of you takes over. I’ve seen that happen. I’ve seen how you… lose yourself in those moments, how you’re… stunned for a few seconds afterward.”

He turned his back to her. For a terrible moment, Catherine thought he was simply going to leave. His voice, when it reached her, was almost deceptively soft.

“So if this is the beast in me… the same one that saved you from the men who killed Carole Stabler, all is well between us?” Though it was posed as a question, it wasn’t really. His tone was a shade off sardonic. He knew that things were far from “well” between them.

Before she could answer, he continued: “Mitch has known enough to be terrified of me since we were teenagers together. And I won’t lie and tell you we both… we all don’t understand that there is a … beast inside me. Mitch Denton has seen it. You have seen it.”

He walked a few paces more distant, not sure if he should continue to stand even as close to her as he already was. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. They could both read his body language.

“Don’t.” Her voice stopped him. “Please don’t. Vincent… whatever this is… no matter how bad. Please, don’t separate yourself from me. I think that’s the only thing that makes me truly terrified… the thought that you’ll do that… the thought that you’ll… need to.”

Fear was climbing through her. He sensed it. She believed every word she said.

“I don’t want to need to,” he replied softly. “I don’t want you to need to either.”

“I’ve… tried so hard to become a better person, to face my fears. Right now, I think the one thing I’m most afraid of isn’t what either of us has done, it’s the distance it could cause between us.” She stepped closer as she said it, trying to close the gap, the gulf that seemed as much physical as it was spiritual.

“For me as well,” he answered, holding out his arms. Come to me. Please, come to me. Don’t be afraid to.

She rushed into them, and he closed his eyes in blessing as she crashed into his mighty chest. The huge arms came around her, and held her close.

“That night… I thought I’d lost you. My world went… black.” He brushed a kiss across her crown, as he felt her small arms squeeze his sides. “I thought I’d lost you,” he repeated. “That I’d never see you again… That you’d be taken from me… by him. Gone. Forever. Forever, Catherine.”

He inhaled her scent, and kept his hand against her back. The thick gauze pad that had covered her stitches was replaced by a smaller one. He could feel it through her clothes. “Catherine…” he said the word and let it fill him, let it wash through him, with all that she was. Not gone. Not dead. Here. Here with me. Here and… struggling.

The embrace lingered, then ended. When they separated, each turned to look out at the lights below, somehow knowing that whatever needed to be said here, at least some of it, might be best said while facing outward. Vincent knew each light had a story. And he had one, though it was not about himself.

“When I was a youth, we had a Helper… an old man, even then. Older than Elizabeth. Older than Narcissa. He was… wizened, and withered, and it looked like his skin had been baked in the sun. A gentle man. Quiet. He’d been through the war. Captured in it. One day, we were bringing him medicine and he told a story, a story about how for punishment, his captors would put him in a metal box in the yard, with no shade, under the blazing sun, for days.”

Catherine closed her eyes over the story, one many POW’s had told over the years. “I’ve heard those stories. They break your heart.”

“Yes. And the man said he didn’t even remember what it was he’d done to deserve such a punishment; whether he’d spoken when he should have been silent, or… or offered aid to someone who was supposed to be left alone, but… but he said that the thing he remembered when they let him out of the box wasn’t the water they brought him when he was dying of thirst, wasn’t the sight of the night sky again, after not being able to see the stars… it was… the sweet rush of evening air. How it … bathed him as it blew across his skin. The water was secondary. The stars, the comfort of a friend… it was all secondary. It was the rush of air he remembered, the cool feel of it, the sensation of being able to breathe comfortably again.”

Catherine watched him as he watched the lights, wondering what this story had to do with anything they were currently going through. They both felt the soft, cool rush of evening air. “Vincent, I-”

“Finding you… meeting you… was like that for me. Like some cage door had opened and in rushed… sweet air.” He breathed in, deeply on the memory.

Oh, Vincent.

“It was like I was in that box. Like I was… being punished for some transgression I couldn’t remember. Failing. Fading. Knowing that the things that helped the others, the companionship, the books, the comforts I had… they weren’t working anymore.” He gripped the edge of the stones, and she saw him lean forward a little.

“By bits and small pieces, by degrees, I was coming to know the limits of my life. Coming to face them and understand…” The grip grew tighter for a moment, and then it lessened.

“And then… you. A sweet, sweet rush of air, and suddenly I could breathe again, really breathe. I could draw a deep breath without pain. It was… amazing. It amazes me, still.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and Catherine felt him remember; remember the first, poignant rush of “them” as it had passed through him. Then the blue eyes opened, as he still kept his gaze outward.

“Then, Mitch shot you. And I carried you through the streets to the hospital, bleeding. Even as I set you down, I could smell your blood on my hands, on my arms. I knew I was losing you. I knew I was… failing again.”

“But you saved me. You had to know that you saved me,” she said.

The great head shook. “I didn’t. I knew you were bleeding… dying. I only knew I’d taken you to where you might get help, even as what I am made sure I couldn’t stay and help you myself.” His hands clenched into fists on the stones. “I was losing you. I was losing… everything. The… box yawned open again in front of me. And I knew I’d have to go back inside.”

Catherine placed a hand on his arm. “You didn’t lose me. You won’t. You couldn’t.”

Vincent shook his head. “That is a thing people say. But I know only too well how untrue it is, as do you.” Catherine couldn’t refute him entirely. She didn’t know exactly who he’d “lost” in life, but she knew her mother’s passing had been beyond devastating for her and her father. Not all promises to stay could be kept.

“Mitch Denton destroys things… destroys people. I knew it. The world knows it. For a few black hours, I thought he’d destroyed you. And me.” He gently moved her hand away from his arm.

“It wasn’t the animal in me who obliterated those men, Catherine. I must tell you the truth of that, no matter what the consequences.  I don’t know if that makes it all better or worse, but it wasn’t. I was in full possession of who I am when I made my way to Mitch.”

Catherine blinked and took in the words. You mean that…

“Don’t die. Don’t die, Catherine. If you die… I die, too.” They were whispered words, and she remembered hearing them for the first time as he faced her, awaiting some form of judgment. He didn’t expect her next question.

“Did you… lean over me and tell me not to die? Say that you would die, too? Did you say that to me? Or did I… imagine it?”

He shook his blonde head, and the breeze tugged at his tresses. “You didn’t imagine it. And the words, they were not… hyperbole. The best part of me… the most human part… would die, if you did. I killed to get to Mitch Denton. Not because the beast in me was uncontained. But because the man was.”

He moved away from her again, clearly wanting the space. He put his hand on her fire escape ladder, indicating he was about to go. “I don’t know what that… sends to you, what it makes you feel. I don’t know how it… colors our dream, or what we mean to each other. But I know it’s true. And I know the only reason I stopped short of killing Mitch was that I felt you pull back from the edge, I felt you… pull through your surgery, I felt you… searching for me, inside the dream you were having.”

She had. She had done that. She remembered the oblivion of the drugs wearing off, then the dream of searching for him. She’d found him standing on 5th Avenue. And he’d bought her ice cream.

Then, she’d opened her eyes to see him in the flesh, so impossibly, standing by her bedside in the hospital. “I remember,” she said.

“You had a good dream. And I was glad for it,” he replied.

I did. I had a dream where you could walk with me in daylight; where you could… be part of my world… where no one would look twice.

Sorrow claimed her heart. That isn’t going to happen. That isn’t… ever going to happen.

“I remember. I remember that dream,” she replied, unable to keep the wistful tone out of her voice.

A dream that could never be realized lay between them, that and the images from the warehouse. They both realized at the same time that there really wasn’t much else to say.

“Be well, Catherine.” It was a softly spoken prayer, as much as it was a farewell.

“And you be well, Vincent,” she replied.

In a swirl of dark cape and late autumn night, he was gone.

Chapter Four

Nor Iron Bars…

Over the next few days, Catherine had no real idea whether or not either one of them was “well.” She only knew that she was still horrifically busy, and that he was gone. She worked her way through the stack of file folders on her desk, grateful that for every two she closed out, only one seemed to appear to replace it. She tried to help direct a beaten prostitute towards a women’s shelter, hoping she’d take the opportunity to start a new life. She got an 18-year-old first offender off with time served and a stern warning.

She was back to being a foot soldier for the city, and she knew it. She negotiated more plea deals than she could count, and won two cases that went to court. She ate little and tried to think about her and Vincent even less, since there now seemed no solution for all that lay between them.

The last was only so successful.

Compartmentalizing. She knew she was doing that. She was thinking about her job, and throwing herself into that, so she could avoid thinking about what Alex Delgado’s death… and the death of the other men meant, for her and Vincent.

Vincent came to her balcony just as the fifth day slid into the sixth. Things were still uncomfortable between them. She was happy he was there. She was pleased to see his unique face, and knew that their relationship was trying to deepen, even as it was struggling against all they both knew.

After he left, Catherine stared out through her bedroom sheers, remembering the stilted conversation they’d just had.

“Your work. It’s… going well?”

“Yes, pretty well. I’m helping people. I won two cases this week.”

“That is… good… Would you… like to read for a while?”

“No… not really. It’s getting cold. It’s getting late.”

Was this stumbling, awkward couple really them? A month ago, they’d spent all night in each other’s company, on Halloween. It had been a night when they couldn’t say enough to each other, couldn’t see enough of New York, and all its treasures.

Now… now there was a gulf between them, one wider than the drainage ditch he’d once encouraged her to leap over, when he’d guided her out of his home the first time. This one felt twice as wide. And no jump to bridge the gap seemed possible.

He had wished her well, as he always did. Then, he’d gone.

Catherine went inside and glanced at the clock, confirming that the fatigue she felt was due to the time of night it was, and not due to the awkward, stilted few moments she’d just shared with Vincent.

It was getting late. Late for me. Late for the day. Late for us, maybe.

Catherine pulled the covers back on her bed, having no idea how true that was.

~~~

“… so that’s it, Radcliffe. Providence. It’s your dream shot. And we both know if you stay here, you’ll just be another foot soldier.”

Catherine stared at Joe Maxwell, half-unbelieving. A job… a good job. One that would mean more than negotiating plea deals with purse snatchers and sending drunks to court-ordered rehab. One that might have more impact than trying to track down criminals who knew enough not to get caught, or even more impact than trying to clean up the docks.

A woman’s advocate. My own division. With me in charge.

“Can I get back to you?”

“Sure. As long as you do it by tomorrow. These people won’t wait, Cathy.”

No. No they won’t. And neither is something else I have to do.

The thought weighed heavily on her mind. Vincent. I need to speak with Vincent.

~~~

“Vincent… I’ve been unhappy. We both know why.”

Even as she was saying it, she couldn’t believe she was saying it. His ultimate reply was no less momentous.

“You must go. You must … see. You must … do everything you were meant to do, for me, for both of us. And then, I can truly be with you. Always.”

“There’s no other way?” She’d had to ask it. His reply had been heart-achingly simple… and final.

“No. Not for us.”

Catherine carried the words home with her, then told Joe Maxwell she would accept the job in Providence. In a way, it felt like she was sleep-walking through her own life. Boxes she wasn’t sure she remembered packing sat in her living room, awaiting the call for pick up. She was moving forward. She was moving on.

It’s the right thing. Isn’t it?

The incredible year she had endured, the one that had been both terrible and magical, was drawing to some sort of close. She could all but feel it doing that.

Maybe this is what all of that was always bringing me toward. Maybe this is the way we become something… positive for each other, without becoming something negative for each other. Perhaps this helps… helps a lot of people. Victims, him … and me.

She struggled with the words, not sure she believed them all herself.

This will help… won’t it?

Catherine returned Alex Delgado’s file to the DA’s office, and cleared out her desk. What had happened to him and the other men in the warehouse was now no longer her concern, officially. She knew it would land in the “unsolved case” files, technically with the heavy presumption that what had happened in the warehouse had been mob related somehow. Considering the victims, the case probably wouldn’t be resurrected without cause.

Rest in peace, she thought, dropping that file, along with several others back on Joe Maxwell’s desk. There was really not so much more to say. She had no way to know any more about Alejandro Delgado. Maggie herself only knew so much. And local law enforcement had its own view, which it couldn’t prove. Greg Hughes was inclined to link all the men in the warehouse to other crimes. He wanted to know more. But without leading evidence…

Please rest in peace, she repeated mentally, heading out the door for what she thought would be the last time. It was all she knew to think.

Her apartment was the thing that now required her attention, and her efforts. Boxes stood piled on top of each other. Providence (“when something is meant to be”) was waiting for her, and she knew it wouldn’t wait for long.

And then… disaster struck. Father, of all people, sent a message, asking to see her. And it was about Vincent. He was missing.

“We’ve searched everywhere. He’s nowhere Below. Vincent was not himself after he spoke with you.”

No, she hadn’t seen him, and yes, she was sure. She had no idea where he was.

“Why did you come to tell me?” she’d asked Jacob.

“Because I know you care.”

Catherine’s heart clenched at the fear and sorrow she heard in the old man’s voice, knowing he had to be desperate indeed to come to her.

Missing. No. No, he can’t be…

But he was.

Chilled to her soul, Jacob’s words changed her trajectory. People from Below and Helpers from Above were all searching. And this wasn’t like other times when he’d gone away to think, or clear his head. He hadn’t disappeared in the world Below. He’d disappeared in the world Above. Sentries had seen him leave for the park. They just hadn’t seen him return.

You’re an investigator… investigate! Her lawyer’s brain forgot about Providence and zeroed in on Vincent.

Where was the missing person last seen? It was standard practice in her line of work. It led her to a newspaper article, and to Anna Lausch; to the investigation of the area around drainage tunnel, and the remains of tranquilizer darts, and eventually, to the office of Dr. Edward Hughes.

And then… the cage. The cage where they’d kept him. The cage where they’d held him, and treated him like the animal they thought he was… the cage where he was dying.

Dying.

Catherine knew it the minute she entered the room. Knew it the minute she saw him laying in the bottom of the steel, pitiless enclosure, hair matted, eyes dull, from both the drugs they’d pumped him full of and the treatment he’d received.

He’s dying. No! He was. She could see it. His life force was leaving him.

Hughes and Gould exchanged words. Words she could barely hear. Her ears had a buzzing sound in them, and she knew a fight was coming even before Jonathan Gould stabbed Edward Hughes, even before she reached for her keys and began to use every trick Isaac Stubbs had ever taught her.

Nothing matters but you. You saved me. I will save you!

Words Vincent had given her on her balcony came back to her. “The best part of me… the most human part… would die if you did. I killed to get to Mitch Denton. Not because the beast in me was uncontained. But because the man was.”

Quick as lightning, a black thought darkened her mind, and in it, there came perfect understanding of Vincent’s actions the night she’d been shot… I will save you. No matter what I have to do… No matter what.

The woman in me is uncontained… And demands no less.

Catherine jabbed the keys toward Gould, willing to blind him, to kill him with her own bare hands if she had to, to secure Vincent’s release. She knew she would either save Vincent or avenge him. There was no question of that.

She backed Gould into the bars of the cage. In another ugly moment, it was over.

~~~

Earlier--

“Let me go.”

Vincent knew the plea had been useless, even as he’d uttered it. Hughes didn’t have the strength to resist Gould’s particular brand of evil. And as it turned out, neither did he. They were both caught. Hughes by his needs and Vincent by a locked cage door.

Even with a cushion beneath him, the kind that might be used for a large dog, the steel floor was hard.

Vincent knew one thing. Dying was harder.

But both, it seemed, were inevitable; as if every choice, every path he had ever taken in his life, seemed destined to lead him to this place. It was like he had always been bound to end up here… Here, in the situation he’d tried to avoid for so long.

Caught. Caged. Poked with needles. Scanned with machines. Talked about, as if he were no more than a mindless beast and a scientific curiosity.

“Do you know what they’d do to you, if they caught you up there? Best not to even think about it.” Father’s words, and for that matter, all of his fears, were turning out to be prescient.

Vincent knew his life force was waning. And though he wanted desperately to live, he wasn’t entirely sure he was sorry to feel it go, considering. The pain of the cage was unbearable. The pain of being… stripped of all he was, all he’d ever tried to become… intolerable. The feeling of losing Catherine… well. There was no pain that compared to that one.

The drugs made him feel like he was drowning, like he was sinking down. He couldn’t feel the bond he’d once shared with Catherine. He couldn’t feel anything but anguish. Oblivion was better than this.

Anything… anything, was better than this.

“Let me go.” But of course, no one would. Hughes looked at him and saw redemption. Gould looked at him and saw fame. He was lost, and he knew it. He had no choice but to know it.

And then, like a miracle, like salvation, like a last-second gallows reprieve… she was there, reaching through the bars to touch him.

Catherine. Beautiful Catherine. His Catherine. Catherine who should be somewhere else. Catherine, who should be… gone? How can you be here?

Soft fingers touched his hair.

Surely, this is another dream of her?

But her sweet, white hand was truly there, barely able to reach.

Catherine?

“Let him out of here. Now!” Her voice sounded strange in his ears. Strange, and far away, like she should be. But she was here. She was. His Catherine… impossibly… was here.

Gould stabbed Hughes, a mortal strike. Vincent, summoning what little strength he could grasp, grabbed Gould as he crashed backward into the bars, and ended his narrow, greedy life.

Catherine. “Catherine.” He could barely strangle out the word, past vocal chords that felt closed, felt locked.

And then, like the sweet night air in a long-ago prison camp, the cage door swung open, and he was in her arms. He smelled her cologne, and felt the warmth of her, the support of soft limbs that should be fragile, yet weren’t. There was strength in her. There always had been.

Door open. Bliss. Catherine. I love you.

“Vincent? Vincent!” Her voice was in his ear and her scent was in his nose. He was far from safe where he was, yet it was the best he’d felt in more days than he could count.

“Catherine.” His throat was dry, and his voice showed it. Yet he hated the moment she let him go to bring him water.

“Don’t leave.” It was a simple request, when she returned. One accompanied with a desperate grip to her wrist. One he had to moderate, even in his weakness. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me. Not for anything. Not for water, or for Providence, or… for anything. “Please,” he tacked on, taking the proffered cup.

“I won’t,” she answered, knowing she was answering for much more than just their present concerns. “I won’t. Not for anything,” she assured, as if she’d just read his mind.

The woman in me demands no less.

Chapter five

Surprised by Joy

“But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss!-- That thought’s return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.”

Catherine closed her eyes as she closed the book, setting the Wordsworth poem aside, for the moment. It had been harrowing to get him out of the room unseen, and necessary to loot all the tapes and notes Gould and Hughes had made of him.

Their deaths were being treated as a double homicide, with Hughes’ associates more than willing to paint him as a nervous, unstable man. No one could say exactly what had happened, other than the knowledge that it was Gould who had killed Hughes. Fingerprints on the murder weapon told them that much.

It had been several days since she’d freed him from the cage, found an access tunnel beneath the university, and brought him to safety. Several days since she’d banged on the closest overhead pipe, calling for help for him.

Help had come. And it had taken him away… away to aid and care, away to safety, away to his home.

He’d healed, well enough. And now… this moment. He wondered at her choice in poetry, and if it meant something. She was silent, for a long minute.

“We haven’t talked,” Catherine said, knowing there were things that needed saying between them. “I suppose you figured out I didn’t go to Providence. That I’m… not going.”

Vincent studied her, solemnly. “There will be other… opportunities. Will you… “

“No. No, I won’t take them,” she interrupted.

Vincent let the words, and the incredible blessing of them, wash through his large frame.

Yes. Yes, thank you. God, thank you. And… no. No, Catherine, you can’t circumscribe your life by grasping hold of mine. You’d grow to hate me. We both would. But for now… just… thank you.

Catherine could read his face as clearly as she could read any poem. He was relieved. And conflicted. It was as obvious as the worn cover of the book they’d just been sharing.

“I nearly lost you,” she said. “We… we nearly lost each other.” He knew she was talking about more than his capture.

He moved to the edge of the bed, and rose carefully from it. “That was happening before Dr. Hughes came into our lives,” he replied, referring to their difficulties before he had turned up missing.

“I know. I don’t… blame you, for Alex Delgado’s life. If that’s what you’re thinking. His… his choices were his own. And yours were yours.”

“And yours were yours,” he replied, referring to her decision to leave for Providence.

Catherine looked down. “I… It wasn’t because I blamed you. It was because…” She looked back up, needing to face him with it. She rose from the bed as well. This was a thing that, if it was going to be said at all, needed to be said while standing on two good feet.

“I’m afraid of us, sometimes,” she confessed. “Not of you. Of us. Afraid of… “ She looked to the side, then back at him, needing to say it. “Afraid of the almost awful power we have, with each other. I’m not used to it. I’m not… sure how to… control it. Or wield it. Or even if I can. Or should.”

“And do you think I am so certain?” He asked it in his softest voice. “Catherine, to this day, I am content that I did what was right. But I cannot explain to you what it is I feel when I sense another man. I cannot ask you to simply… trust me that all the men in that warehouse were just as evil as Mitch was. And that Mitch himself is a… monster of special caliber.”

“You could. You could ask me to just trust it.” Catherine refuted him. “We’ve… trusted each other before.”

Vincent shook his great head, subtly. “The law does not accept ‘a feeling’ as a fact. And you are a lawyer.”

Catherine took him in. “The law might not, but I do. If you say to me you are certain that these were deeply evil men, then that must be enough …” Her voice softened to match his. “I killed one of them too, you know.” And I would have killed more, to get you out of that cage.

He did understand. But there was a difference between a gunfight in an alley and a slaughter in a warehouse. And suddenly, he was very tired of splitting that particular hair with her. If she ever wanted to leave, she should leave. She had every right to.

She stepped closer to him and reached for his hand, taking it in her own, nerveless fingers. Soft candlelight gleamed all around them. “I… I’ve been fighting us. Because I don’t know what it all means.” The princess I used to be is getting replaced by the woman I’m becoming. The uncontained woman I’m becoming. That’s going to have consequences for us.

“Does it have to have a meaning?” he asked, not sure if it did. Or ever would, beyond what each of them took from it, each and every single day.

“I don’t know. Does it?” she returned. “Vincent, I’m terrified that I cause you to take too many risks, to go too far. If that’s our meaning… I’m not sure what to do with that, or if I can even live with it. Especially since it could hurt y—“

“Then we will have many meanings,” he interrupted. “And if one of them is that we push the other to go ‘too far,’ I will accept that charge, gladly.” He was beyond convinced of the truth of it. You’ve already gone farther than you ever thought to, and in a good way. Can you not see that it is that way for me, as well?

“You don’t know what it is you’ve given me, Catherine. You don’t know the light you shine here.” He indicated the candlelit confines of his chamber, but with a sweep of his hand, she knew he meant farther.

“Or here.” He indicated his own heart, drawing his hand in, and placing a closed fist over his chest. If I die loving you, I’ll accept it as the best bargain I ever made. Will you? He thought, but couldn’t say.  “Not all cages are made of steel,” he concluded, dropping his hand.

Catherine took him in. No. Not all cages are made of steel. Some are made of corporate law offices. Some are made of bad bargains we make when we’re young. Some are made when we run numbers as a kid, or … I don’t know. ‘Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage,’ she quoted internally.

“You have no idea how much I feel the same way. That not all cages are made of steel,” she replied. Her eyes flickered with… something, as she gave him the words. Something he couldn’t quite name.

Were you in one, too? Were you … trapped, somehow, by what you were? It was a startling realization, and a bit of a new one for him. Thanks to it, another thought crossed his mind.

Perhaps you do know what it is to be trapped by what you are. Perhaps we are better suited than I thought. Time will tell. Time always does.

“I’m glad we’re home then,” he said, opening his arms for a longed-for embrace.

She came to him, and melted into his chest, not wanting to crash into it, for the sake of his convalescence, but wanting desperately to be there, and as close as she could just the same. She had not missed his use of the plural pronoun.

“’I’m glad we’re home.’”. I think home is where you are. Home is where there are no bars between us… of any kind.

His huge arms wrapped around her, as she cradled the thought. He felt her own it… own both it, and its peace.

I love you.

I love you.

Neither said it aloud, to the other. But they both thought it hard, and felt its gift.

~~~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love. ~ Cindy

~~~

Do You Dance?

by C.J. LaBelle

Because every picture tells a story…

Author’s note: The character of Shannon O’Neill first appears in fan fiction in “To Dream a Dream,” by Judith Nolan. That zine, and the 7 zine arc that accompanies it, can be found here, under the heading B&B Zine Library:

https://treasurechambers.com/Features.html

Grateful thanks is given for allowing that character to be borrowed for this story.

Chapter One

Sir Elliot

“You’ll have to learn how to dance, Sir Elliot, at least passably,” Cleon said to his frowning superior. The Mannings had served nobility for generations, both as men-at-arms and as valets, depending on whether it was a time of peace or a time of war. Cleon eyed his current employer dubiously.

Past and current efforts were nothing, compared to the glare he was getting back.

Elliot was thorough in his refusal. “No. No to dancing, no to turning and bowing, no to counting steps and prancing about like a mincing fop, no to … ”

“It’s something all highborn men are practically born knowing. Do you seriously mean to tell me that you’re going to attend the ball where Lady Catherine Chandler chooses her groom, and you’re not going to ask her to dance?” Cleon knew he was going to win the argument. But he also knew it was going to take some time.

Elliot’s reply was a sardonic one. “I think we’ve both deduced that I’m not exactly… highborn.”

Cleon had, and he was comfortable with the knowledge, because Elliot was rich, and generous with those who were loyal to him. How he’d acquired his fortune and title were at least somewhat immaterial to Cleon. The big black man knew all he needed to know. What he knew right now was that Elliot Burch needed to learn how to dance like a gentleman, in order to woo the lady of his choice.

He tried a little cajoling. “It isn’t actually hard. My wife and I … ”

“If there is a topic that doesn’t interest me right now, it might be yet another story about how you and Clara met and fell in love,” Elliot snapped. He was annoyed, and it showed.

Cleon knew when to let an uncomfortable silence engulf the room. He did so now, as Elliot paced and stared out the window, as if the answer was lurking on Lord Charles Chandler’s vast estates somewhere. Cleon could afford his patience. He knew the other man was turning over the problem in his mind.

“We’d need music. The musicians would see,” Sir Elliot finally muttered.

Cleon knew reluctant near-capitulation when he heard it. “You could swear them to secrecy, or bribe them well. I can strum up a few notes on a mandolin as a replacement, or you could even use a windup music box,” Cleon returned.

Elliot shot him a look. “And who’s to teach me the steps? You?” Elliot’s tone was still derisive. “Clara will wonder at your intentions, if she sees us dancing together. Forget it.” He shook his head and his long, dark hair moved across his broad shoulders.

Cleon, as usual, was at least one step ahead. “I was thinking of Lady Shannon, actually. She’s very discreet. And as a widow, she needs the money such lessons might provide. Enough to know she doesn’t dare tell anyone…” Cleon let the sentence trail off. Elliot would do with the information what he would.

“Shannon… Dark hair, big eyes, quiet?” Elliot was very good at matching people with whether or not they were reliable, and doing so quickly. It was part of how he’d made his fortune. He frowned at the reference to her widowhood.

“The same,” Cleon replied. “Shall I tune up my mandolin?” He couldn’t quite hide a smile behind his upraised hand, knowing that Elliot was about to agree.

Elliot’s glare was unceasing. “If she breathes a word of this… on your head be it, Cleon.”

The servant gave his master a perfect half-bow. “On my head be it.”

Chapter Two

Lady Shannon

“ They’ll begin with a Basse because it’s easy, and spritely, and they pair up the couples nicely, standing in circles,” Shannon explained, dubiously taking in her newest source of income. His handsome jaw was set and his firm, bearded chin was lifted just a touch higher than it needed to be.

“Fine,” he answered shortly.

You don’t like to feel like you’re not the most able person in the room, Shannon correctly assessed.

It was certainly true that Sir Elliot did not want to be here. For that matter, he didn’t even want to learn how to dance, particularly. Shannon didn’t need to be told as much to know it.

Blue eyes cut Cleon’s way. “So. We’ll do something… spritely, then.” Elliot glared at the black man, who was deftly tuning an old mandolin. After a moment, the long fingers strummed and plucked out a tune.

“We begin like so.” Shannon instructed, showing him the opening posture of the dance. Elliot imitated her pose.

But standing and posing were not the same as ‘moving.’ They’d barely begun the lesson, before Shannon called a halt. Her vivid green eyes held her censure. “Are you dancing with me, or about to knock me down, Sir Elliot?” she chided. “You don’t come at me straight on. You take half a step to your left, as do I. When we meet, we touch fingertips, like this.” She demonstrated, holding two fingers put together aloft.

Elliot imitated her again, finding the entire thing ludicrous. Knocking you on your pretty derrière isn’t the worst idea I’ve had today, he sulked, not actually meaning it.

Oblivious to his distracted train of thought, Shannon nodded, backing toward the room’s only musician. One who knew better than to speak out of turn. “Now, turn… we circle each other… three steps, then back the other way… now.”

She was light on her feet and a pair of dark-colored shoes protected her toes from the chill afternoon air, sneaking beneath the door to the room to ruffle the candle flames. Elliot wasn’t sure he liked her. He was certain he didn’t like being told what to do by her.

The skirt of her tan dress swished as she turned. She was nimble and deft. He copied her movements as best he could. “That’s it… you’re getting it,” she said, a few minutes later.

He was. This wasn’t brain surgery. Years on the deck of a ship had taught him a certain measure of how to keep his balance, and being able to pass himself off as above the class he was born to was a mark of his good memory.

He circled her again. “I believe I am.” Elliot accepted her compliment. He noted that as she danced, her lithe body relaxed a little, and flowed with the up-tempo music. Her turns were graceful, as she pivoted lightly on the balls of her small feet (feet Elliot was at least a little worried about stepping on, in spite of his innate grace). When they passed each other once more, they were very close.

“Count to three. Everything is in three. One-two-three, one-two-three,” she instructed, moving him where she wanted him to go, with either a deft touch or by example. It was a simple enough dance, and one he’d seen done in countless ballrooms. The hem of her gown flared out, revealing a new distraction of trim, stocking-clad ankles.

“If I count, how can I make conversati- by God’s bones!” Elliot moved the wrong way, and stepped on her foot. His cheeks reddened, realizing he’d spoken an ill curse in front of a lady. In that moment his base origins were obvious.

“My apologies, Madame,” he tacked on grudgingly, giving her a stiff bow.

“I have heard worse. Save your blushes until you know the steps by heart, Sir Elliot,” Shannon scolded a little, nursing her instep for a moment. The music stopped.

Shannon gestured to Cleon. “Play on,” she ordered. “We’re done when your knight calls a halt, not before.” Stepping close to Elliot again, she set her fingers to his. It wasn’t meant as an intimate gesture. It was simply one meant to keep him near her, as part of the dance. Still, Elliot couldn’t help reacting to her nearness on some level. She was after all, a beautiful woman.

One who was clearly bent on teaching him this ridiculous dance.

“One-two-three. One-two-three,” she instructed. “As I look at you, you look at me. We’re a mirror image. Turn.”

Her eyes were bold and a beautifully deep shade of green. Her raven-colored hair, tucked beneath her widow’s cap, was barely out of place, though a fine, silky tress had escaped its beaded confines.

“Turn again,” she directed, helping him get back to the count. “Everything happens in… ”

“In three. Yes, I heard you.” Elliot didn’t like being treated like a simpleton. He didn’t like it at all.

“You’re annoyed,” Shannon stated correctly, as she passed by him, hitching her skirt a little as she moved.

“Let’s just say Lady Catherine Chandler better be worth the trouble,” Elliot returned, mentally keeping the count, forcing his feet to obey his iron will.

Chapter Three

Lady Catherine

At very nearly that moment, Lady Catherine Chandler had no idea of “trouble” of any particular kind. These were the last evenings of her life as a free woman, she knew that much. There was to be a banquet, and then dancing. After the ball, she’d be promised to some suitor. Someone her father chose, though he’d promised to talk with her about his decision. It was the best a woman in Catherine’s position might hope for, considering her station in life.

Her list of serious suitors had been lengthening of late. Tom Gunther was shrewd, and loved the cold buildings he designed. Stephen Bass loved antiquities, and longed to spend her father’s money restoring his estate to its former grandeur. Elliot Burch promised Lord Charles a new and mighty castle, and perhaps the promise of more to come, in exchange for his only daughter’s hand.

All three were “builders” in their own way, though Catherine well knew they were hardly interchangeable, personality-wise. Gunther had a tendency toward snobbery, while Bass was exacting, and sometimes short-tempered. Elliot was the most charismatic among them, but also the least forthright. His claims of a noble birthright were shaky at times, though no one doubted his fortune. How he’d acquired it was another matter. But self-made men had been known to do well under the patronage of a mightier kinsman.

But all of these, and some more besides, were considerations best left to the daylight hours. Evening, Catherine knew, was “her time.” And this was one of the few evenings she’d have left.

She padded her way across the courtyard on quiet feet. The vast stables snug against the castle’s strong walls drew her like a familiar friend, and it was there she went, unerringly. It was warm inside, and smelled of animal dander, hay, and saddle grease. A pair of four-legged friends greeted her.

“Hello, White Rose,” she said to the closest one. A soft, grey-white nose nudged her outstretched palm, searching for a treat.

“No, I didn’t bring you anything,” she apologized, stroking the soft forehead. “Do you forgive me?” She asked it with a smile, then got bumped from her other side.

“Red Thorn. No, I have nothing for you either, boy,” she said to the big bay gelding her friend Jenny sometimes rode. She scratched his great cheek. “If I keep treating you like this, you’ll not even be sad to see me go, will you?” she inquired. The larger of the two horses gave his big head a shake, as if to negate the claim.

Catherine had left one of the great barn doors open, and after a moment, a gentle sound reached her ear from the tiny village far below. Someone was playing the lute from down below where the great castle and its attendant outbuildings stood, grouped together on the hill above, girt all around with high walls twenty feet thick and massive.

As she listened, entranced by the music, the lute player upped the tempo and a piper joined in. Merry laughter echoed up to reach her. Someone in town was having a party, or at the very least, it sounded like they were having a good time.

It had always seemed as if the common folk had the easier life, even though their days were filled with hard and onerous work for their master’s benefit. Constant wars and back-breaking labor was their lot… and yet…

“I envy them…” Catherine could not stop her foot from tapping out the beat.

The music was too tempting to ignore. Giving in to baser instincts she lifted the broad hem of her riding skirt and began to dance a little, by herself, letting her feet take up the rhythm of the country tune. She twirled, finding her lack of a partner no hindrance to her enjoyment.

“I wonder if they’ll play any country dances at the ball,” she said aloud, turning in a wide circle as her skirt flared out.

“That would be… exceedingly unusual for a formal ball,” came a familiar, answering voice.

“Vincent!” Catherine smiled broadly as she said his name.

He’d worked in the stables since the day her father had purchased her first pony. A pretty little thing, it looked like it could have come straight off a carousel. Vincent had tended it, and had a special rapport with it, as he did with many animals.

“Lady.” Vincent inclined his leonine head, and set the saddle he was about to work with aside. “You must have dismissed all the court minstrels for the night, to be listening to the music they make from Below,” he observed, not trying to hide that he’d seen her dancing alone to the tune.

Her smile hardly dimmed. “I was just coming out to visit with the horses. I didn’t really feel like a ride, but when I heard the music, I thought I’d take advantage,” she said, lifting her skirts again. She took a few steps to the left. “So… do stable boys know how to do a ronde?” she asked, circling him prettily.

His blue eyes followed her every move. They do when the dance partner is as lovely as you, he thought, but knew he dared not say it aloud. She was promised to another, a richer fellow than him, or would be before the month was out. Even if that were not true, he wasn’t on her list of possible grooms, for anything other than her horses, that is. He had nothing to offer a woman such as her…

“I believe I’ve seen it done,” he demurred politely, deftly stepping away from the horses’ stalls with her so they’d have room. She was delighted by his easy answer. He, in turn, was delighted by her. Not everyone treated those who were different with such easy acceptance.

“My tutors say we have to count to three, but that we must do it in our heads only, and not let anyone see our lips moving.” She instructed in a familiar way, assuming he hadn’t been formally schooled in such things.

The leonine head inclined, slowly. “I’ll let the music keep my count,” Vincent answered, facing her as he stood just a bit away. The long hallway that divided the barn in half by its stables made a perfect dance space.

She put her folded hands before her and squared her shoulders, as she’d been taught. This was a formal dance, and required a certain posture be maintained.

The fiddler below drew a long bow across the string, indicating a new measure was about to begin. By mutual consent, they took three steps toward each other, stepped to the side, and raised their hands to touch two fingers together as they turned. Catherine maintained her smile. Even Vincent sported one of those. He’d known her for years. And though he knew her engagement was imminent, he too knew the significance of this time. Soon, she’d be a great man’s fiancé. Inside a year…

Inside a year. Inside a year she’ll be a great man’s wife. Perhaps even a queen one day, or her children will be. The world is opening for her… even as this one closes.

He knew that great ladies didn’t dance in the barn with the help. That was a thing only children did, and very few of those. I can’t be sad for you, he thought, even if I am a little for myself.

“Do you remember when we were children together?” she asked, keeping her posture erect as she moved to the left.

I do. “I taught you how to saddle a horse, even though it was a skill you’d never have to use,” he answered. Ah, so you’re thinking about our childhood too.

“We went riding to the low parts of the village. I fell off my horse, and your father bandaged my knee,” she recalled.

“I wanted you to see Below. I wanted you to know the people you’d be ruling over… one day. All the people.”

She turned, switched hands, and continued to circle him. “They’re good people, Vincent. Not noble, but… still. They’re kind. I’ll… I’ll miss them when I go.” The sad thought caused her to miss a step, and for the first time, she lost count.

Vincent stopped moving, as she regained her balance. “Must it be thus? Must you… go elsewhere?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t. Some sorrows were better faced by degrees, rather than all at once. Catherine stopped moving as well. She dropped her hand.

“It’s half the point of the marriage, that I’ll represent my father’s interests on some distant shore and that my husband will have an ally here. Our children will claim both lands one day, by the grace of our good king’s hand.” She looked sad as she said it. They both knew she was. Like him, it was a sorrow she’d been confronting by degrees. Necessity was often like that.

Her shoulders lifted. “My father will not marry again, not even to gain a son. He has sworn that oath to me. I am to be his only heir.”

And therefore a prize beyond price… Vincent sighed. What do I have to offer such a woman?

Catherine stilled, watching his shadowed face closely. “I don’t suppose… I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me?” she asked. The lute player was strumming what were clearly the closing bars of the song. “You could still serve me in my new lands.”

Vincent dropped his blue eyes at her sudden request for his continued service. He didn’t need to refuse her aloud. They both knew leaving this place was a thing he couldn’t do. He was her father’s man, sworn and true. But the greater truth loomed between them. Among her closest family members and those who lived in the town Below, Vincent was safe. The world at large, however, was a different thing. Any distant shore would not treat him kindly.

Elliot, and most of the others who were visiting the castle, had never seen Vincent’s face. To Elliot, or even to Tom, the man who ran the stables was a bastard young man named Devin, whose family occasionally pitched in. Vincent only came into the stables to tend his charges at night. He knew enough to hide in his special place, if strangers came in.

“I’ll miss you, Vincent,” Catherine said, dropping a small curtsey, to indicate the dance was over.

I know you will. I… sense it within you. “As I will miss you, Lady,” he said, offering her a slight bow. “What you endure… it will make you stronger.” Even if it breaks my heart.

She nodded, in acceptance of his poignant wisdom. There simply wasn’t much more he could say.

Chapter Four

Shannon and Cleon

“He’s never danced a true measure in his life,” Shannon complained to Cleon, later. They were alone. “You told me he just wanted to brush up on his skills, maybe learn a Basse. That’s absurd.”

Cleon ducked her gaze, fiddling with the tuning of his mandolin. “He’s just… out of practice. It takes time to build a territory from the ground up. Not much time for an Estampie or any social dancing, with that as a giv-”

She rose, and her temper rose with her. “Fine! Lie,” she snapped, cutting him off. “As long as the silver spends, I’ll teach him some skills.” She sat back down and nursed her sore instep. “But he tries my temper sorely.”

Cleon shifted on the long bench beside her, putting aside his mandolin to pour her a cup of hard cider. They understood each other, as people beholden to the purses of their betters often did. “So… How hopeless is he?” Cleon asked.

Shannon shrugged. “He moves well for a tall man, if an unsmiling one. Does your lord have no friends to soften his disposition?” Shannon asked, setting her foot back down on the ground and accepting the cup.

“I have attended my master at all hours of the night.” Cleon drank from his own cup, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “He sleeps little, claiming it is a waste of precious time. Friends are counted as… inconvenient.”

Shannon almost snorted, as she sipped the spicy drink. “He’ll find a wife … convenient?” She raised a dark eyebrow. “Lady Catherine isn’t the type to be ignored, Cleon.”

“She’s the most… convenient way to claim the territory he desires. He won’t treat her badly, if that’s what you’re asking. He is a man of some honor.”

A dark shadow of memory passed across Shannon’s face. In it, Cleon knew something. But someone treated you badly, didn’t they? He thought.

“It isn’t any concern of mine.” She sighed. “Your master’s marriage is his problem. My problem is getting him passable on at least a couple versions of the rince fada, the Basse, at least one or two others, and God help my toes, a country dance or two. We don’t have much time for this.”

“Seems it’s easier to build fortresses than charm a noblewoman,” Cleon replied, clinking his cup with hers before he took a large swallow. “I can think of no one better suited for the task, Lady.”

No one more needing of coin, you mean, Shannon thought, but didn’t say. They both knew her circumstances. It was how Cleon knew he could approach her.

She finished her drink and rose from the bench. “Tell him we’ll need to start earlier, if we’re going to manage this. He really is hard to teach.”

Self-made men often are. He’s not used to being told what to do. By anyone, Cleon thought, glad to have her cooperation. “He isn’t used to taking orders,” Cleon replied, collecting her cup.

She brushed at the skirt of her gown. “I’m not giving him orders. I’m giving him instructions. There is a difference. We start earlier. And perhaps end later. There’s no other way. Don’t worry about hiring minstrels. Until he at least learns the steps, they’re useless anyway.”

Cleon watched her regally held, retreating back. She left a room like a woman who expected to be obeyed. Which was fine, since she was about to be.

“I’ll let him know, Mistress Shannon. I’ll let him know.”

Chapter Five

Devin

Belle-fleur Castle was a hub of frantic activity. Like busy bees in springtime, liveried servants hurried to and fro, quick-stepping their way through the chill stone halls and chambers.

Anyone who could put needle to thread was busy embroidering the linens with the initials of the bridal couple. (At this point, only the letter “C” was known. The other would be added, later.) Groaning wagons arrived with delicacies destined for the great kitchens.

The pots seemed to never stop simmering, nor the ovens producing all manner of breads and cakes. The huge hearths where great cuts of meat were roasted to feed almost one thousand souls, were attended day and night in shifts of sweating menfolk, who swilled constantly from an endless stream of barrels of beer.

The Captain of the guard, Joe Maxwell, joked that they were felling half the great forest to keep the big ovens baking and roasting to capacity. Which was to say that all was going as it should, in the land where Catherine was a prize to be won.

In the World Below, however…

“You’re brooding. You have your brooding face on,” Devin told Vincent, as the former untangled a set of reins. They were assessing what needed to be taken for repair to the village leather-smith. It was a monthly task.

“I do not, as you so indelicately put it, have my ‘brooding face’ on,” Vincent replied. His gruff tone belied the claim.

“Costume ball is in a few days. Did she go for a moonlit ride?”

“Did who go for a—?”

“Oh, Vincent, for pity’s sake! Stop deflecting and remember who you’re talking to. Lady Catherine. Did she go to the barn, have you saddle up White Rose and go for a moonlit ride?”

Vincent regarded his only brother. “She… came to the barn. She did not… take out one of the horses.” Vincent applied saddle grease to a leather seat with unnecessary force, making the carriage frame groan. The noble vehicle was getting a stern refurbishing, one not to its liking.

“Hmmm. I figured she would go for a ride. Last week of freedom and all that.”

Vincent tossed the cloth aside. “So it is,” he replied glumly.

Devin regarded his younger brother compassionately. “You could tell her, you know.”

Vincent froze, defeat in every line of his huge frame. “Tell her what? That I know her heart is good, because I sense it inside her? That she’s the most beautiful woman in all the land? That –”

“I was thinking more of telling her you’re in love with her, and letting the chips fall where they may.”

Vincent scoffed openly at the idea. “You know better.” The entire idea was impossible. “Where she is going… I cannot go.”

“Then ask her to stay here… with you.”

Vincent’s gloved hand swept the air in front of him, casting the advice aside as useless. “And accept every limit my life has to offer, while giving up the wealth of a great—”

“It’s a better idea than just letting her go,” Devin interrupted.

Vincent looked up toward where he knew the great castle stood, Catherine secure inside it. The place he lived had nothing to offer her by comparison, and little potential to ever change that. He claimed a small chamber in his father’s ramshackle hovel.

“If things were different… perhaps. But as they are…” Vincent shook his head. “Inside… I think Catherine and I always knew this day would come. No matter how we felt. No matter what we… confessed.”

God, you’re stubborn. No wonder Father loves you so much. You have so much in common. Devin gave up his task. The reins were hopelessly fouled. “So you’re going to just… let her go? Leave it all unsaid? Pretend you don’t love her?” he said pointedly.

Vincent cut him a blue-eyed glare. “I’m going to tell her that… no matter what happens, no matter where she goes, that I hope we remain… connected somehow, and that I will always be her friend.”

Devin gave a low whistle. “And I thought I was the good fraud.”

Chapter Six

Gossip and Suitors

Elliot had met with Lord Charles Chandler, and the two of them had discussed their favorite topic, Catherine. Elliot couldn’t decide if Lord Charles was crazy like a fox, or just plain crazy, but he refused to use any undue influence when it came to his daughter’s choice in a groom. It was her only right, as a highborn lady.

Elliot left the High Chambers disappointed in that, since he knew he could outspend his rivals, but not necessarily win Catherine’s hand for doing so. And he passed Sir Stephen Bass coming in, as he headed out. The two glared at each other, just a bit. She’s going to be mine. It was in each masculine stare.

It was in going down one of the castle’s long hallways that Elliot found Shannon, embroidering, comfortably arrayed on a window seat, as the springtime daylight streamed through the window. She looked radiant, in a fine blue gown. A silver thimble covered her elegant finger.

“You’re very industrious, for someone who was kept up late last night,” Elliot observed, motioning for her to scoot over, so he could sit. She was stitching a table runner with red and white roses, Catherine’s favorites.

“As are you.” She nodded toward the direction he had come. “I wasn’t sure we were going to admit we knew each other, outside your man’s chambers,” she whispered, shifting her green gaze back to her work. The noonday sun caused soft highlights to shift through her carefully tamed, dark hair. She still wore it covered, as a widow was required to do, but the lace cap could not conceal all of the glory beneath.

“I think it’s a bit ludicrous to pretend we aren’t acquainted, considering,” Elliot countered, watching her as her needle caused a green leaf to come into view. She was good at what she did. He hoped Lord Charles was paying her well for her talents.

She set the needle down and lifted her head, rubbing a sore spot from the back of her neck. She glanced down the hallway, back the way he’d just come. “As you will. Stephen Bass was pacing the hall like an already impatient bridegroom. He’ll give you some competition.”

Elliot followed her gaze. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he assured her grimly.

Upon their mutual arrival at the castle there had been brief clashes between their attendant men-at-arms. Elliot had been forced to break a few stubborn heads to settle the matter. He did not need word of any brawling to threaten his chances of securing Lady Catherine’s hand.

As they watched, the large doors at the other end opened, and Shannon saw Nancy Tucker and her brother, Buddy, coming in, three servants and Nancy’s husband carrying their luggage. The huge castle was filling up and Shannon was grateful she had a place outside with her elderly mother, and not in some cramped, cold, tower chamber high in the battlements. Such was the lot of a widow without income.

Buddy glanced their way. He was handsome, young, and as rumor had it, also here to plead for Catherine’s hand. He’d known her since the lady and his sister had become fast friends as children, at the great tourney held every year in the king’s honor.

Shannon scoffed at the entourage. “Lords, builders, barristers, tradesmen and probably a few country nobles thrown in the works, all vying for one little hand.” She picked up her needle. “Most of you, my lords, are going to have to learn to live with disappointment.”

“It won’t be me,” Elliot said with the supreme confidence that marked his days. Shannon simply shrugged at that. A red rose began to appear on the cloth.

“Why roses?” he asked. “Chandler’s sigil is the scales of justice. Shouldn’t you be stitching those, here and there?”

Shannon spared him a glance, then returned to her work. “Her mother favored them. She keeps an ivory one on her bedside table. She even named her horse after them.” Elliot watched a lovely red rose come into bloom. This was art. It was like watching someone paint, with needle and thread.

“You have a gift, Shannon,” he said honestly. Shannon knew Sir Elliot Burch would never pay a compliment he didn’t mean.

She couldn’t help a small smile. “My mother taught me. Before arthritis took her fingers, her skill was unparalleled. I wish I had her help now.”

Still, the smile lingered, and Elliot realized it was the first time he’d ever seen her do that. It made her look younger. Less… widowed, somehow. “She lives nearby?” Elliot asked.

“She lives with me. Or I live with her, if you want to look at it that way. We rent a small house in the village. It’s enough for us.”

Elliot was puzzled at such news. “Why don’t you stay in the castle?”

Shannon’s needle paused. “My… late husband… he… became friends with some… less than savory people. They cost him… everything. And he also played cards… badly. One day, when he was hunting, his horse threw him and he died… from a broken neck.”

Elliot could tell the confession cost her something, in pride. Also, that the finger covered by the thimble trembled, betraying a nervous twitch. This wasn’t something she enjoyed discussing.

“Unsavory as in… criminals?” Elliot pressed. He was curious.

Shannon heaved a sigh. “Criminals and… traitors. You may as well know, before someone else spreads it as gossip. Justin died for his trouble. In debt and… desperate. It left my mother and me without so much as a hearth.”

“Surely Lord Charles could—”

“Lord Charles is busy arranging the nuptials of his only daughter. And he is kind enough to let me earn my own way here. He could have had me jailed for my husband’s treason.”

“Did you commit treason?” Elliot doubted if such a thing was even in her. She very much did not seem the type. And he was sorry to see her smile leave, so thoroughly.

“No.” She stabbed the fabric just a little too hard with the needle. “But my husband may have. I’m lucky not to be painted by his brush.”

She rose from the seat, clearly uncomfortable enough with the conversation to want to leave it. “I’ll bid you good day, Sir Elliot.”

He rose with her, sorry that the conversation had taken such an unfortunate turn. “And to you, Lady Shannon,” he said, covering up his disappointment at seeing her go. “We can meet after the trenchers are cleared,” he said, referring to the evening repast.

“Right after,” she instructed pointedly, re-establishing a certain amount of “pecking order” between them. He needed her help. She had no intention of letting him know how much she needed his. It would give him power over her. “You still have much to learn,” she added.

Buddy and Nancy came arm-in-arm down the hall, clearly meaning to pay their respects to the master of the castle. As they passed Shannon and Elliot, Stephen Bass came out of Lord Charles’ chambers, looking somewhat less than pleased.

At least the playing field is a level one. That should be enough, Elliot thought. He took Buddy’s measure. No real competition there, he concluded.

“I’ll be there,” Elliot promised Shannon, already making plans.

Chapter Seven

The Noble Father

“ I’m worried about her, Joe,” Lord Charles confided to his Captain. “She’s not… happy about any of this.” He studied the family signet, the one that would sit on his grandson’s finger one day, more than likely. Everything happening now was supposed to ensure that. “I wish I knew what to do for the best.”

“She doesn’t seem… unhappy.” Joe answered, knowing that wasn’t the same thing as being ‘happy.’ “She’s received everyone who’s declared for her politely enough, if only briefly, as protocol dictates. She seems… accepting of it all.”

Perhaps she thinks she has no other choice but to be accepting of it, Charles thought.

“She went out last night,” Charles confirmed what both men already knew.

“Bridal jitters,” Joe offered, relaxing his ‘at attention’ pose. “Cathy’s always been a little, well, rebellious, if you don’t mind my saying so, Milord.” It was said with the love and caring of a years-long friend. One who could address Lady Catherine in the diminutive. And no, Lord Charles didn’t mind.

“I’m not sure if that was rebellion or if she was just… lost, after Caroline’s passing,” Charles defended his only child, gently. “Either way…” He let the thought drift, and shook his noble head.

“Sir Gregory of Brentwood has arrived. And there are half a dozen more behind him,” Joe informed his ruler, after it became apparent Lord Charles wasn’t going to add anything more. “Their men-at-arms will take some controlling. They bristle at each other already like bad-tempered dogs of war.”

Charles scoffed, lightly. “He’s coming for the wine then. Cathy never had any… chemistry with him.” He frowned direfully. “Controlling the men is your responsibility. I will not tolerate any fighting. Make that very clear. Any such will be sent packing.”

“Yes, Milord.” Joe touched his forelock.

Charles templed his fingers. “In a way, that’s my problem, Joe. As near as I can tell, Cathy has never really fallen in love with any of them, and not for their lack of wooing.” He studied the ring.

It was worth a fortune. In more ways than one. Aside from the precious stones encrusted in it, it represented all he’d managed to build, over a long life of steady work and crafting. He’d built up a strong barony, and not an inconsiderable one. Catherine was his only heir. And it could all be taken away by one false move, or a change in the kingship of the land. A man needed to know on which side of the river he stood, and must not look to the other shore for any help.

He unlaced his hands, and let them drop into his lap. “She seems… restless and unsure. Not the kind of thing I want my daughter to feel the week before her betrothal.”

Joe offered what comfort he could. “She did go to the stables last night. But she didn’t take out a horse. I think she probably just wanted the peace and quiet. And to be near White Rose.”

“Your men kept an eye on her?” Charles confirmed.

“They did. And their distance. You know Cathy doesn’t like to be watched,” Joe said, aware he was only following Lord Charles’ instructions.

Charles rubbed a thoughtful hand over his clean-shaven chin. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, he thought. “Pull them back. Perhaps it’s the added security that’s wearing on her. Not too far, but… back. Keep them to their regular posts.”

Joe wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. But he also knew his employer. “You’re sure that’s wise?” He had to say it. Lord Charles paid him to second-guess the decisions made in the Great Hall, when it came to matters of security.

“I think a woman who’s afraid she might be walking into a gilded cage deserves a last few days of freedom,” Lord Charles replied, nodding to Joe.

Joe Maxwell, Captain of the Guard, longtime family friend, and man who was at least a little in love with Catherine himself – though that had softened to a warm kind of friendship – inclined his head, indicating the order had been received, and would be obeyed.

“As you will, Milord. For as long as we can… we’ll give her what freedom we can.” He left the room to make sure the guards had their new orders.

Charles touched a covered locket, one he was rarely without, as it hung around his neck. It stayed over his heart, and held an image of his beloved wife inside. An image Catherine more closely resembled every day. He clicked it open and beheld the image of the woman he’d loved and married.

“Help me know what to do, Caroline,” he said aloud to it. “Help me know what to do for our girl.”

Chapter Eight

Hard Lessons

Stop looking down at your feet,” Shannon instructed, as Elliot tried the steps of the carola.

“It’s complicated,” Elliot complained, crossing his left foot over his right, as he sidled by her.

“Then be confused while you’re looking at me. Lady Catherine isn’t going to fall in love with the view of your scalp. This is a group dance, so your missteps can be lost in the movements of the circle. It is important to be always looking at your partner, to guide her steps, Elliot.”

Elliot looked up only to shoot her a glare, thinking to reprimand her for her familiarity with using his first name sans his title. But when his eyes took in her fair face, he saw something he didn’t like. Something he hadn’t noticed before now.

It was something he’d missed earlier. Something he hadn’t really seen until just that moment, when the left side of her face was close to the candelabra that sat on a nearby table. She’d turned, and an artfully placed curl had lifted, just a bit.

“Stop,” he ordered, planting his two feet right where they were. Still moving, Shannon nearly collided with him.

“Elliot, you can’t just stop in the middle of a—”

“I said ‘stop,’” he repeated, holding her arm, helping to steady her before she stumbled.

Shannon did so, and blue eyes clashed with green. His gaze was uncompromising, as usual.

“What are you-”

“Who hit you?” he asked without preamble, studying her left cheek.

She’d tried to hide it with cosmetics, and a softer hair style, though most of that was still under her cap. But Elliot had spent too much time with women both highborn and low not to recognize the mark a man’s ring left, when it made contact with a woman’s cheekbone. She’d been backhanded. And the rouge she’d tried to use wasn’t quite working to cover it.

The green eyes, usually so full of confidence, looked down and away. “This isn’t going to win you a wedding night in Lady Catherine’s bed chamber.” She didn’t answer his question, as she yanked her arm away.

“I don’t care if it doesn’t get me the combination to Lord Charles’ secret vault, the one in which he keeps the diamonds, his deeds, and his business contracts,” Elliot replied, letting her go but not letting an inch of space come between them. “I asked ‘Who hit you,’ Shannon?”

Gently, very gently, he turned her cheek toward the light of the candle. “Left-handed… with a ring on his finger… probably about your height.” His voice was soft, as he pronounced it. “And sometime after you left me this afternoon. That wasn’t there when we were sitting in the hall together.”

The green eyes sparked just a bit of anger still, but then, he saw it abate. “How can you tell?” she asked, curious.

He dropped his hand, but held her arm, lightly. “At the window, the light was good. It was why you picked the spot to sew. I’d have seen the mark then.”

“No. I mean… how could you tell he’s as tall as I am?”

Of all the things he expected her to say, that was nowhere on the list.

“He cut you below the cheekbone, not above it.”

“Maybe it was just the motion of his hand.”

“Maybe it was just a lucky guess,” he countered, though both of them knew it probably wasn’t. He had no desire to discuss why he knew what he did: to reveal that his father had been a drunk, and had also had a mean streak; that he’d seen his mother with a cold compress on her face more than once.

“I’ll be all right.”

He knew the mark wasn’t left by a husband. She didn’t have one. That left a jealous lover, but Elliot sensed she didn’t have one of those either. That she’d probably not taken anyone to her bed – much less her heart – since her husband had died… before that, probably.

That left only so many options, and none of them were good. He kept his voice deceptively soft. “I hate men who do this to women, Shannon.”

It was an intimate thing to say, and one that had little place, between them.

“Are you so much better, then?” It was softly delivered, and more of a statement than a question. And she shrugged off the touch of his hand, and stepped back to where the injury to her cheek was left in shadow.

He watched her move away from him, not liking the sensation. “I like to think I am.”

She turned. “So… you’ll lie to Cathy Chandler, lie to all of them… but never lie to me?” A dark eyebrow lifted, at the gently delivered charge.

“I’m not lying to—”

“You were not always a nobleman,” she interrupted, lifting her chin a notch. “Or at least you weren’t born to it. You hide it well. It’s only little things that give you away. Like the dancing. And sometimes your manners are not quite right…”

“My manners are adequate enough.” He folded his arms across his chest, hiding the coat of arms stitched on his doublet; it was a lone wolf, set against the moon. “What else?” he asked, not missing her use of the plural.

She gestured to a nearby chair, grateful that they were no longer discussing the injury to her face. “When you first arrived and sat at a table, you looked up and down the board, checking your place. Nobles don’t do that. They know where to sit, as per their right. They know which glass is for water and which for wine, without looking. They summon a servant with a glance or a raised hand. They don’t ask for anything. You checked where the salt was, and who’s above it, and who’s below. Gentry doesn’t do that. Gentry knows. They are born, knowing.”

Elliot took in her words, knowing it was true.

“Anything else?”

She looked him square in the eye, like she usually did, and took a step toward him for emphasis. “It’s not a game, Elliot. If they catch you, they just might kill you. At best, Lord Charles would have to have you banished. He’s a kind man. But not all of them are.”

Is that… actual concern for me, I see in your eyes? No. It can’t be. Elliot disabused himself of the notion.

“No one with money is kind, Shannon. Didn’t life teach you that yet?” He uncrossed his arms and moved to where a pitcher of water sat near two goblets, next to the bag of silver she was to take with her after their lesson. He poured them both a drink and took hers to her. They hadn’t been working long enough to need the break. But he decided to take one, just the same.

He let the question of who struck her lay, for the moment, but it was a ploy just the same. Get her to relax, and perhaps she’d tell him. If not, there were ways to find out. There were only so many places she’d likely gone after she sat with him, and he knew Charles Chandler wouldn’t tolerate such treatment of one of his household guests by another.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the pewter goblet. “And yes, I think if I learned one lesson, I learned that one.” She drank deeply, letting the water calm her.

For a moment, she wished it was wine, but then banished the thought. She’d have to stay on her toes, both literally and figuratively, if she were to remain around Sir Elliot Burch. She needed his silver. And something told her she didn’t dare be out of control any time he was in the room.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. He stepped away from her, giving her the illusion of space. Never press for information too hard, when soft will get it for you. It was a rule he’d made a small fortune by… before he’d parlayed that into a larger one.

“I think we should skip this dance. It has too many steps, and it will take too long to learn it. I’m not going to propose to her while quick-stepping away to her left.”

Shannon welcomed the obvious change of subject, and tapped the goblet with a thoughtful nail. “You may be right. But that leaves you with only a few dances you’ll actually know.”

“But time enough to learn to waltz,” he declared.

Shannon was a bit taken aback by his pronouncement. “The waltz is considered a scandal, Elliot, and one only country folk abide. It is judged to be too common.”

“One of us knows the sheet music the musicians will be carrying the night of the ball, Shannon,” he replied, draining his cup.

“That’s a rumor. Lord Charles wouldn’t permit—”

“Lord Charles has had very little luck forbidding his only daughter, Catherine, anything. She says she wants to waltz. So we’re going to. Do you know how, or don’t you?” There was just a hint of a challenge in it.

“Everybody knows how. They just don’t confess it,” she returned, her cheeks pinking prettily beneath her rouge. “It is a dance that requires… a certain intimacy… it is certainly not one to be practiced by children and girls.” Her color deepened. “But since I have been a married woman, it is permitted…”

She stood in the middle of the floor, and raised her arms in the scandalous waltz pose. She wasn’t wrong about the notoriety of the dance. Men and women didn’t dance front to front in noble circles. It was considered rebellious at best, and common, at worst. Hands were permitted to touch, not hips and other parts that warmed at the thought of it all.

Which, of course, was what Lady Catherine wanted. And when Catherine ordered something, others must follow.

“You’re sure about this?” Shannon asked, as Elliot placed one hand on her tiny waist, and another in her hand.

“For the coin I spent, yes,” he answered, as a shock of awareness raced up his arm. He pretended to ignore it, even as he watched her feel the same thing.

So you do feel me, he realized.

“We… perhaps we need the minstrels for this,” she faltered.

“It’s a simple three count. Heavy on the one,” he replied, starting to move her to the unheard rhythm he remembered.

He was an able lead, and she followed, gracefully. “You’ve seen this done,” she charged, moving with him. He waltzed better than he did almost anything else.

“A time or three. You’d be amazed at some of the things they’re doing in France.”

“The French are said to be scandalous libertines bent on nothing but their own pleasures.”

“I’ve heard it said,” he replied easily, gliding her across the floor. Why do you feel so right in my arms?

He wasn’t perfect at it, not at first, but Shannon had to admit that was probably due to the fact that there was no music in the room. She wondered who he’d waltzed with, and if it had cost the young lady her heart.

“She was a merry bawd. She liked music, and she used parties to work the men,” Elliot said, as if he’d read her mind. “We did… business together. That’s all.”

“A fallen woman only has one business,” Shannon replied, reddening some more.

Elliot nearly chuckled at her pronouncement. “Spoken like someone who’s never actually been in a brothel,” he stated, teasing her just a little.

She blushed further. But she found herself relaxing, as well. For the first time in his arms, she didn’t have to worry about what she was teaching him. She could just relax, and enjoy the swaying movements of the dance.

“What… other business?” She wasn’t sure she should be asking. But curiosity had the better of her.

You have a bright mind, and a beautiful face. And you feel like you belong… right where you are. Elliot thought. He decided to indulge her question, as he continued to spin her around the open floor.

“All of her clients have… preferences. Brandy rather than cognac, French milled soap over English. Blondes over redheads. And… Illegal trade over legal,” he tacked on. “It helps me to know who can be bribed over who can’t. Or who’s working with whom. People talk, when they’re drunk. Men, especially. There is much coin to be made from secrets carelessly spilled over the cups.”

Shannon processed what he was telling her. “So… you used her for information?” she asked.

Elliot looked down at her, and wondered if the color of her eyes had a name, other than simply “green.” They looked deep, like a forest. And he still didn’t like the mark her detected on her left cheek.

“I’d say we both did that,” Elliot replied. “But I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She was startled that he would think she wondered such a thing about him. Then embarrassed to admit she had. “Would you tell me if you had?” she asked, still curious.

Elliot slowed their dancing, until they were moving at a much more somber version of three-quarter time. His tone was utterly sincere. “I’ve never lied to you, Shannon. And I never will. About my being a knight… I am one, now… a rich one. I have paid my dues in the seedier side of life. I now have the ear of the king, and I don’t ever plan on going back to what I was. But no matter what, I’ll never lie to you.”

He kept his hand steady at her waist, his voice never wavering. “If I say there’s twenty silver pieces in the bag, then you don’t need to count it. If I say I was raised near the docks, and I don’t plan on setting foot on another ship unless I own it, then that’s the truth, too. I don’t sleep with whores. Only a fool does that. And I am not a fool.”

“But you’ll bribe a man? If a bawd tells you he can be bribed?” she asked, letting him know she still found him uncomfortably familiar with such dealings. “You, the keeper of other men’s secrets.”

He admitted it, not liking the sensation that it might cost him, with her. “Sometimes,” he qualified. “If it gets me a measure of land I want, or passage through to where I need the materials to build on it, yes.” Her gaze remained steady on him. “I won’t tell you I’m a saint. But I will tell you I’m only a certain kind of sinner,” he finished.

Her heartbeat was rapid, and causing a tiny flutter in her throat. He wondered what kissing it would taste like. He knew the thought was folly, considering what they were both there for.

“You’re a strange man, Elliot Burch,” she said, sensing the honor in him, even as she sensed the contradictions.

“I’d say that’s true enough,” he replied easily. They didn’t need to practice the waltz. He was clearly very good at it.  “If I promise not to beat him to death, will you tell me?” He slid the prompt in, knowing she was as relaxed with him as she was going to be.

He felt her tense at the question, but then felt her soften. She was tired. And her guard was down, at least a little, thanks to him letting his fall.

“You can’t beat him at all,” she stated. A second passed. Two. Five.  “He’s my landlord, Elliot. I… fell a bit behind. My mother was sick, we needed medicine, and… well. I fell a bit behind. Your silver helped fix that,” she added. “It was just a warning not to be late next time. That’s all.”

‘Just a warning.’ Spoken like a woman who knew what it was like to be hit before. Elliot filed the information away.

The sensation of wanting to protect her welled up inside him. He let it come, even as he knew that there was no future in it. He was here to try for the lady of the castle. Not the widow of a disgraced man. One who was barely making ends meet. Still, he let the protective feeling come. I’d keep you safe, if I could. Keep you safe. Keep you… more. He didn’t pursue what the last word meant.

His hand on her waist confirmed how small she was. Though her dress was laced firmly up her back, and the stays in it outlined her frame, he could tell she needed no constraining girdle to create her slender figure. If anything, she was underweight, probably as a condition of her poverty. Poverty she was trying to hide from others, as she wore the gowns her husband had bought for her, prior to his passing.

What lucky idiot had you and broke faith with you? He wondered, realizing anew how beautiful she was. Her dark eyebrows were fine, and well-shaped, and her legs were long, beneath her dark blue gown. She was tall for a woman, though not as tall as he was. He wondered what her hair looked like, unbound, and pushed the thought away, knowing that such a thing was something only her husband had a right to know.

“You should have someone to adore you. Not to vex you,” he said, unable to call the words back, once they’d been uttered.

She shook her head and broke them apart. “If there’s one thing I never want again, it’s a man,” she replied. “You’re all too full of plots and plans, for me. I am content with my lot.”

He knew he fit that description as much as any man, and better than most, probably. “You don’t wish to be loved?” he asked, surprised at her anyway. He thought all women wanted that. They did, didn’t they?

“Love isn’t real.” The bluntness with which she said it shocked him. “It’s just a thing we say to get what we want.” She stepped back from him as if she’d been burned, or just remembered a time when she had.

“Shannon—”

“All of you will tell Catherine Chandler you love her. But… that’s not what you’re feeling. Not really. You love her wealth, or her charm, or the idea of her. But none of you know her. Not really. Yet here you all are, willing to swear your undying love.”

“That’s how the game is played,” Elliot defended himself.

“It isn’t a game, Elliot! Even if you win. Maybe especially if you win.” It was the sharpest tone she’d ever used with him. And he couldn’t refute her wisdom.

Before he could frame a reply, she ended their session, and put even more distance between them. “Goodnight, Sir Elliot. I find I’m very tired. You’ll forgive me if I retire.”

She gave him no opportunity to either refute her or agree before she left the room, leaving his bag of silver near the water pitcher, right where it was.

Chapter Nine

Shall we Waltz?

Vincent wound up the music box carefully, and set its lid open. Either she would hear it and come out, or she wouldn’t. Either way, he knew Catherine would find it waiting for her the next time she came out onto her balcony.

The now familiar, tinny, sound tinkled its way over his awareness. He’d heard the tune a dozen times. His friend Mouse had found the little wooden box, and restored its once-broken gears to usability, changing it from refuse to treasure.

“I… what’s this?” she asked, as she stepped onto her balcony. She looked gorgeous, in a deep red gown, trimmed with gold braid and pearls, and a matching French hood, minus the veil, thanks to her still unmarried status.

Vincent thought she looked like a queen of hearts. One who’s looking for a king, he added mentally.

“You look… beautiful. Like you’re already a queen,” he complimented, backing away. “I only meant to bring you something. To… thank you, for the other night.”

“What a pretty song!” She smiled her delight, then realized he meant to leave her with his simple gift.

“You don’t have to go. It’s dark yet!” she urged, tugging on his hand. She settled them down on her balcony stones. “We still have time.”

They did. But for how much longer? He knew what the elaborate gown meant. It was her betrothal gown, and she’d probably just taken her final fitting for it. Tomorrow, she’d wear it at a grand dinner. After that, there would be dancing.

And after that…

“I… perhaps I shouldn’t have come.” He knew it was true. Yet, he also knew how … compelled he felt, to be near her.

“No! No, it’s all right. I’m so glad you did,” she replied, listening to the lovely song. It was set in three-quarter time.

“I … I came because I wanted to leave you this… no. That’s not it. I came because… because I wanted to see you… one last time.” She could tell the confession cost him much.

She squeezed his hands. Beautiful hands. Beautiful and terrible. Hands that had always helped her. “Vincent… I’ve been changing. It’s been —”

“Been hard. I know.” The transition from one life into another was never an easy one.

She looked to one side. “Sometimes… I wonder if I’ll have the strength.”

He had faith in her. Always. “You do. You will. There is strength in you, Catherine.” Strength, to go with the love you have to give.

She accepted his compliment, and let it pass. “And what of you?”

What of me, indeed? What was the fate of any outcast? “I’ve seen your world. There is no… place for me in it.”

She closed her storm-colored eyes over the pronouncement. They both knew it was true. That every moment that had ever passed between them had been, in some way, a stolen one. They were never meant to be together. But for his willingness to work the most menial of jobs, they’d never have known each other at all.

“I only remind them of what they’re most afraid of, Catherine.” He tried to offer her the comfort of his understanding, even though the lesson was a sad one.

“Their own ignorance,” she stated.

“Their aloneness,” he replied.

“Yes…” She let the word trail away, softly.

He sighed. “I came because… well… because I wanted to see that you were well… and… to begin to forget… ” He heard the music from his gift as it wound down, and he knew it wasn’t for him; it could never be for him.

“Forget me?” She sounded alarmed at the thought.

“Not you. I could never forget you.” He traced her lovely cheek with the back of a softly furred finger. “But… I have to forget the dream of being a part of you.”

She closed her eyes over the poignancy of the pronouncement. Her sigh, when it came, was a deep one.

“Tomorrow… do you know which one you’ll choose?” he asked.

She sighed again. “My father likes Tom Gunther. Stephen and I… well. We share a history. But it didn’t end well. I’m not even sure why he’s here. But if Stephen is my past, Elliot Burch might be my future. He’s wealthier than the rest. More ambitious. And yet…”

“And yet you do not love him.”

It was true, and they both knew it. Vincent knew what she felt, in her heart of hearts. He could run the list of how she felt when she was in a room with them. Buddy had been a longtime acquaintance, her best friend’s brother. When Catherine looked at him, she saw only another friend. For Sir Greg, she had, as Charles had said, no chemistry. And while she did have a certain chemistry with Elliot, she had questions and doubts. Ambitious men were sometimes poor husbands. It depended on the man.

“I… I think I’m supposed to learn to love them. One of them, at least,” she confessed, rising, as the music tinkled away. “But what does love have to do with marriage for someone like me?” She moved over to it and rewound the box.

“Careful. That is… not new. It has been… repaired.” She had to know he could only offer her the leavings of others. Refurbished leavings, at that.

“I like it,” she said sincerely, listening to the gaily shimmering notes. She set her other cares aside. This might be the last night she could ever truly do that.

“It’s a waltz.” She smiled, holding the box. It was lovely.

“I believe you’re correct,” he replied, aware that his gift was just a bit inappropriate. Wellborn ladies didn’t waltz. It was a village dance and considered far too scandalous.

“I’ve had the minstrels practicing,” she revealed. “I think I’m going to turn the room just a bit on its ear.” She grinned at the thought. “My father protested, at first. Of course.”

“Of course,” he demurred.

She set the music box carefully down, and extended one hand. “Do you… dance, Vincent? Not the usual kind. But this kind?”

He didn’t answer with words. He simply extended his own hand and stepped forward, placing it in hers. “Why don’t you show me?” he replied, not actually answering her question.

She took his great hand in hers and pulled it toward her tiny waist. Holding the white sleeve of his cotton shirt, she guided him until his hand settled where she wanted it.

“There. Now… like this.” She raised her arm, and nestled her other hand in his.

Moonlight cast its silvery light upon her balcony stones, and a soft April breeze blew through the trees. Springtime was exploding everywhere below them. Her rooms looked out over a large park, and the blossoms the castle gardeners had planted there were in full bloom. It was a gorgeous night, even if it was a stolen one, for both of them.

He moved easily, with her in his arms. We were made for this, he thought.

“You’ve done this before,” she accused gently. “You need no lessons from me.”

You have no idea how true that isn’t, he thought, addressing her last comment, rather than the first one. I think I need… everything from you.  “I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” he replied, bending his neck so that his forehead touched hers. She wore a higher heel, thanks to the hem of the dress, and in anticipation of dancing with tall men. Waltzing with them, specifically.

His comment required no reply, so she gave none. The music continued weaving its charming spell, and he felt his palm grow warm, as it nestled against the red velvet of her beautiful gown. I have this moment. It has to be enough. This moment, to fulfill every dream I’ll ever have of you. No matter which man waltzes with you tomorrow… I will be your first.

“What do you dream of, Catherine? Would you tell me, if I asked?” He queried, the question a bare whisper.

Dreams had been a thing they’d often discussed in their youth, but almost never as adulthood had overtaken both of them.

I dream of you, with me. Meeting at night. Walking in the sunshine. Being together. Riding White Rose and Red, going anywhere we want. I dream… so many things.

“A life with no limits, I suppose,” she said, trying to encapsulate all of it in the shortest sentence, and perhaps one which obscured her fantasies, just a bit. She didn’t want to hurt him. And though she’d never told him she loved him, she knew she never could. It would only make things harder for them both, under the circumstances. “But I suppose there’s no such thing as that; a life with no limits.”

He lifted his noble head. “Perhaps. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve one, however,” he replied, turning her so that they moved through the open doors of her chamber. The room was lit by candlelight and the open floor gave them more room for dancing. The music seemed farther away. It didn’t matter. They both already carried the tune, in their heads.

The dance was working its magic, as they faced each other. There was an intimacy between them that had never been there before. “What about you?” she asked, knowing this was probably the last time they’d ever dance together. “What are your dreams?” she asked. One good truth deserved another.

His answer was immediate. “No shadow of another parting from you,” he answered, closing his eyes as he once more lowered his great head, so that his forehead touched hers again.

I love you. And since his guard was down, he said it, a bare whisper of sound against her skin. “I love you.”

The declaration brought tears to her eyes. It was destined to.

“Oh, Vincent. What will we do?”

Vincent knew she didn’t have to return the declaration aloud. He already knew how she felt. He’d known for a long time. But it had been a thing neither one of them knew how to deal with. So they hadn’t.

“I feel what you feel. Almost as if we are one,” he confessed, having no answer for her question.

She stopped moving her feet. You… what? “What… what do you mean?”

He looked down into eyes the color of new spring leaves. Eyes that owned him, body and soul. “Just know that it’s true.”

He brushed her forehead with a parting kiss. One he desperately wished could be more. It was time to go. Dawn was going to chase him down, if nothing else did.

The song stopped. Then, so did they. All wound down, the music box was a silent thing on her terrace, and he moved through the gauzy curtains, knowing he had to leave her. She followed him as far as the doorway and stood there, framed by it, her long hair falling forward, over one beautiful shoulder.

He couldn’t resist looking back at her. The next time I see you, your hair will be hidden by a veil. The glory of it a thing only your husband should know, he mourned. He remembered it flying behind her, the first day he’d ever taught her to ride at a gallop. Now, those days were drawing to a close for them… rapidly.

She came forward and picked up his lovely gift. Then, she returned it.

“Take this with you,” she said.

“You don’t want it?” he asked.

Her green eyes implored his. “More than anything. But… but I want you to keep it. To… wind it up, sometimes…” she had to look away. “So you… so you don’t forget.”

He tucked the gift gently away. “I’ll never forget. You know that. I never could. I never want to.” Even if it brings me pain. I never want to.

“Be well, Vincent,” she said, wishing him farewell. One of the tears escaped, and it tracked a shimmering line down her fair cheek. She was trying to be strong, for both of them. He felt it from her. You’ll make a magnificent queen, Catherine. For… someone. Someone else.

“And you be well, Catherine,” he returned, wishing it sincerely.

In a moment, he was gone.

Chapter Eleven

Deeds and Discontent

“Is he in?” Shannon demanded of Cleon, as she barged right past him. The ornate double doors flew open, as she charged into Elliot’s private room, blood in her eye.

“He’s in a meet… ing,” Cleon said too late, trailing in behind her. Before her, Tom Gunther was hastily pocketing a bag of gold. Elliot was pouring brandy into two glasses, looking unfazed.

“My dance instructor seems to be early,” Elliot quipped, nodding to Gunther that he should leave. “And I’m going to need to speak to Lord Charles about castle protocol.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Cleon apologized. “She’s… fast, when she’s angry.”

Gunther eyed the odd scene and left the way he’d come, patting a very heavy pocket.

“Good afternoon, Shannon,” Elliot deadpanned. “Done embroidering the pillowcases?”

“Don’t you ‘good afternoon’ me, Elliot Burch!” she exclaimed, full of ire. “You… you bought my house!”

He gave her a level stare. “If it had been your house, I’d have paid you money for it. And it’s ‘Sir Elliot.’ You’ve become too familiar.” He nodded to Cleon. “Lock the door behind you. I don’t feel like being interrupted again.”

Cleon, glad to be clear of the two of them, quickly complied.

“You bought my house,” she repeated, still glaring at him.

“I bought your landlord’s house. Which you were living in… are living in, technically.” He offered her the brandy he’d poured for Gunther. When she didn’t take it, he simply set in on the table in front of him.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Maybe I wanted to become a landlord.”

“In a small village you don’t even live in? It’s going to be hard to collect the rent from your castle, Elliot.”

“From what I understand, the tenant isn’t on time that often anyway,” Elliot returned, sipping from his glass.

She couldn’t believe his temerity. “This is preposterous!”

“I don’t know why you’re upset. I’m lowering your rent.”

This time she did pick up the glass. It was too early in the day to need a drink. Yet she very much did. She took too large a sip and sputtered a cough. He stood behind a writing desk, looking very smug, while she collected herself.

She wiped the corners of her mouth with her lace handkerchief, and cleared her throat. “You’re not going to lower my rent. I forbid you to make a sick game of this. I never should have told you—”

He was every inch the wealthy knight. One who’d taken down larger foes than her, and won. He let her know it. “It’s amazing how little you can actually dictate to me, Shannon.”

“Lady Shannon, since we’re back to using our good manners,” she jibed.

“You left this behind last night, Lady Shannon,” he returned, taking out the silver she’d neglected to collect for their lesson.

“I left before the lesson was over. The money is yours.”

God, she is stubborn. Magnificently so. “And I say a debt is a debt, and I always pay mine. Pick it up or don’t. I’ll just take it off your rent.”

If she thought she could strangle him, she would have. As it was, she sorely wanted to throw a shoe at him, and wipe that overly controlling, self-righteous expression right off his handsome face.

She decided to change tack. “Are you lowering Tom Gunther’s rent too?” She smiled sweetly. “Or did you just pay him to withdraw his suit?”

Elliot’s blue eyes narrowed. “He’ll be at the ball tonight, with all the rest of them.”

Shannon liked that her barb hit a nerve. “Of course he will. But he won’t press her. He’ll ask her for a dance, play his part, and fade back into the rest of the crowd, probably chasing some other noblewoman for her fortune before the night is through.” Shannon was no fool. She knew a bribe when she stumbled upon one. Gunther looked too guilty for it to be anything else.

“Perhaps we were just conducting business,” Elliot tried smoothly.

“Oh. Then no one will mind if I bring it up tonight, at the ball? ‘Sir Tom, how did your business with Sir Elliot go today? My, that certainly was a lot of gold.’”

She was too angry to be prudent, and too stubborn to realize she’d just threatened him. Still, his blue eyes narrowed, just a little more. Temper, he warned himself.

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, and I haven’t. This is a business deal. Gunther wants money. He wants money so he can bribe officials. He wants to bribe officials so he can… well. So he can get done whatever he wants to get done. Neither one of us thinks he’s the best choice for Lady Catherine. I’m getting him out of the way. That’s just smart. Sorry, if you don’t approve.”

Neither one of them thought he was actually sorry. But he did pour water into a pewter goblet for her, and traded her for the brandy. “Shannon, you’re not always going to like the way I do things. But I promise you, I have a good reason.”

What could she do? Argue with him about bribing Tom? No one had twisted Gunther’s arm to take the money. And this was far and away not what she’d come here to talk about.

“I… I’m sorry for sounding like a … I don’t know what. But you can’t do this. Please. You’re not helping me, if you do.”

He sipped from the still half-full glass of brandy, begging to differ with her. “I don’t think you heard the part about ‘lower rent.’ The house is small. You were paying too much anyway.”

He was using his ‘cajoling’ tone of voice. The one that had gotten him his first title, more than likely. He was a man with the ear of the king, after all.

Shannon was having none of it. “The house is small, the chimney flue sticks sometimes. It took me six months to get a leak in the roof repaired, and the yard is barely enough to keep chickens in,” she replied, setting down the water. “I can’t stay there, not if you own it.”

She stepped away from him and kept her hands clasped in front of her, folded on the skirt of her green dress. “I… Elliot… Sir Elliot, I’ve known… too many men who let themselves do the wrong thing and said it was for the right reason.” She turned away, slightly. “I was married to one. He’s dead now.”

Elliot tracked her movements as she paced a ways away, then turned back to him. The green eyes looked hunted. “I won’t be your mistress, Sir. Please give my landlord back the deed.”

He was shocked at her conclusion, then realized he shouldn’t have been. Of course. When a wealthy man buys a beautiful widow a house, he’s thinking of…

“I’ve worked so hard to remain independent,” she continued. “I sold everything we had left, save for a pearl ring. I need that to avoid looking impoverished, as I go about my business. I’ve done needlework, while my mother tats lace… when she can sit up long enough to complete a row. I’ve tutored children in French, and… given dance lessons.” She raised a perfect eyebrow at that. “Don’t… don’t take that from me. I was humiliated enough when my husband died. And… more frightened than I can ever remember being.”

She had been. Elliot had no doubt she was telling him the truth. And no doubt that it had marked her. No wonder she no longer believed in love, or anything really, besides her own will. We’re so much alike, Shannon. You don’t even know.

Elliot knew the story of her husband and his connection to a shadowy underworld figure who was sometimes an assassin. Elliot had sent Cleon to find out, and Cleon had. Getting information was the black man’s forte’. Knowing what to do with it was Elliot’s.

Now, everyone involved was dead. And Shannon, innocent that she was, hadn’t known how weak a man her husband truly had been. She’d lost everything in the aftermath.

“I would never… ever do anything to take away your dignity,” Elliot said, his tone so steady she couldn’t help but believe him. I’m falling in love with you. And God help us both for it. “I was going to tuck the deed to the house in your last payment for the lessons,” he confessed. “Or… I don’t know. Have it delivered by messenger, after I’m gone. Sort of a ‘Thank you for putting up with me, while I needed to learn how to dance,’ present. I know I’m hardly the easiest student.”

Shannon was stunned. “That’s an… extravagant gesture,” she replied, trying to catch up with him mentally.

“It would be… if it was an extravagant house,” he replied smoothly.

Shannon defended her choice. “The neighbors are nice. There’s a parson on one side of me, and a baker on the other. Some days, he brings us extra.”

Elliot shook his head at her. “You should ask Lord Charles to let you stay in the castle. You’d be safer here.”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll not live under a roof I don’t pay for again. I’m … safe enough where I am.”

Of course you are. As long as you’re not late with the rent. Or the chimney flue doesn’t stick and asphyxiate you… or plague doesn’t sweep through the town… or a dozen other things.

“Cleon says the bucket to your well needs a new rope.” He deftly inserted that detail.

“My new landlord should get right on that,” Shannon replied tartly. “Before he becomes entangled with… other concerns.” She swept by him, making for the door.

“What other concerns?” Elliot asked raising a dark eyebrow at her.

She turned. Standing in morning light, she looked like a beautiful, dark Venus. Sunlight set her nearly black hair to gleaming. “Like a new wife. It is what you’re hoping for.” Her sarcasm was thinly veiled.

More and more. Just… perhaps not with the woman I originally intended. Do you know how few women have the courage to stand up to me?

He kept his reply short. “I hope for many things, Shannon. And it’s too early for our lesson. I’ll see you later?” They both knew he was dismissing her, as he extracted a key from his doublet and opened the lock.

“Other people to bribe?” She needled, unable to resist.

He didn’t like her charge. “Sir Greg is no competition and if she was interested in marrying Stephen Bass, she could have done it years ago.”

You’re angry with me, but you aren’t yelling. “There will be others there,” she pressed. But none so handsome as you. Wait. Where did that thought come from?

“None of any real caliber. Shall we say four-thirty? I really do have other things to attend to.” He opened the door for her, indicating they were well and truly done, for now.

She nodded, calmer, now that they at least had a few things settled between them. She could always move out of the house and return the deed, if she found the situation untenable. In the meantime, she vowed to keep sending him the rent money… somehow.

“That will be fine, Sir,” she replied, showing him she was tractable again. She dropped him a parting curtsy. Neither one of them believed it indicated submission.

I like it so much better when you say my name, he thought, as she departed.

Chapter Twelve

The Best Laid Plans of Beasts and Men

“So. Tonight’s the big night. Dinner, then dancing. And when the clock strikes midnight or so, the princess chooses a prince,” Devin said, using a pitchfork to move fresh hay into the stalls.

“Catherine is… not a princess,” Vincent replied shortly, brushing Red Thorn. The sturdy bay liked the feeling of the currycomb.

“Not yet. But between her father’s money and her new husband’s, I imagine she will be.” He checked to see Vincent’s reaction. The big jaw tightened, more than a little.

Vincent made no reply. Are you trying to anger me? The last time you did that, I scarred your cheek. He was immediately shamed by the thought.

“Did you tell her how you feel?” Devin prompted.

“She knows how I feel. There’s no place for me where she lives.” The motion of the comb was a bit too hard. Red whickered and moved back a step. “Sorry, boy,” Vincent apologized.

“Maybe. But maybe there’s a place for her with you. Home isn’t so bad. Even if it is a hole in the ground. And it’s not like she’d have to stay there forever. It’s not a prison, Vincent.”

Isn’t it? He thought. He swiped a bit too hard again. This time, Red snorted and pranced a little.

“Here. Give me that, before he decides to kick you in the teeth.” Devin handed Vincent the pitchfork, and took the currycomb out of his brother’s hand.

“I’ve been watching her, little brother,” Devin stated. They both knew he was better at reading people than almost anyone. It was how he sometimes ran a successful scam. “I’ve seen how she looks at the ones who are lining up to claim her, at her father, and at her friends, at the captain of the guard… and at the barn, when she thinks no one is looking.”

He continued brushing Red, then gave the big gelding a calming pat on the back. “She has love in her eyes, for some of it, and none at all for others. And she has a lot, when she looks this way. I’d do something about that, if I were you… just because.”

Vincent set aside the pitchfork, not sure he should be holding a sharp object right now. “What? What would you do in my place, Devin? Beg her to come away with you? Profess your undying love again, when you know it will bring you both nothing but pain?” His voice rose. Red didn’t like it.

Devin gentled the larger of the two horses and calmed him once more, with a few gentle strokes of the brush. “Nothing so melodramatic,” he stated.

Vincent raised an interested eyebrow. “What would you do?”

Ah. Now, at least, you’re listening. “I’d saddle up Rose and leave her in the barn, just in case. Then… then I’d write a certain lady a note, telling her where you’ll be this evening.” He gave Vincent an interested look. “Is there a place you two like to ride to, at night?”

Don’t. Don’t give me hope, Devin. It’s all I can do to make it through this day.

“There is,” Vincent confessed. “Out in the park. Beyond the bridge.”

“What do you leave her, so she knows the message is from you?” They both knew he wouldn’t dare sign his name to a secret invitation to Catherine, one any servant might stumble across.

“A red rose. One from the garden in the park.”

“Then after you saddle the mare and leave her tied, I’d go get a red rose, little brother,” Devin advised.

~~~

Late afternoon’s light slanted into the small cottage where Shannon lived.

“There have been men in and out of here all afternoon,” her mother stated. “Not that I’m complaining. One of them fixed the chimney flue, and another, the rope to the well. The door hinges have all been greased.”

Shannon entered the small house the two women shared. The normally squeaky door swung in, silently. “I’d say they did more than that,” Shannon replied, noting the difference.

“He said he’d be back to fix that crooked area on the flagstones, so I wouldn’t trip. Wasn’t that nice?” Bronwyn O’Neill asked.

Shannon looked around, noticing the subtle changes in their living quarters. “Who brought the bread?” The basket was full. It smelled wonderful, and suspiciously fresh. “Did the baker have extra?” That would be odd, for midafternoon. When that happened, it was usually after sundown.

“It was the baker’s boy, all right, but not extras. This is fresh-made,” Bronwyn stated. “I tried to give him a copper for his trouble, but he said they’d been paid enough. I thought you sent it over… ” Her greying brows were knit in confusion. Hair that had once been the shade of Shannon’s own was now full of silver.

“No. No, I didn’t send it,” Shannon replied. She could have bitten her tongue for the slip. It would have been easier to lie, than to explain all this. She realized that Elliot was addressing every offhanded complaint she’d made to him, hours ago.

A grey eyebrow rose, changing from puzzled to curious. “Well if you didn’t, then…?”

Shannon decided to brave her way through. “Sir Elliot Burch. I’ve been giving him dancing lessons. I told you about it.”

She had. But that didn’t mean the older woman was a fool. “Are there any other… lessons he’s after?” she asked.

Shannon set down her basket of needlework. “No,” she answered softly. “No, and that’s what’s so… strange about him. He isn’t after me. He’s one of Lady Catherine’s suitors. He’s… the lessons are for her.”

Bronwyn took in her daughter’s amazed expression. If her pretty Shannon didn’t know why a handsome man like Elliot Burch was suddenly trying to make an old mother comfortable, there was no help for it but to tell her. “Oh. So he’s falling in love with you, then. You’re a beauty. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

The old woman set herself near the now very comfortable fire, and took up her lace. She knew Shannon would explain more.

“Mother. Elliot Burch isn’t—”

“If you keep talking like a fool, I’m going to call your education a waste, daughter,” Bronwyn stated. “I like this spot now. Much warmer. My hands don’t feel so stiff.”

Are we really talking about how a seat closer to the fire makes your arthritis not so bad? She knew they weren’t. Not really.

“Mama… what should I do?” She doesn’t even know about the deed.

Bronwyn finished a ruffled row, then looked up. “Do you think he’s a good man?” she asked. After all, there were only so many likely explanations, at this point.

“I think so. I… I don’t really even know how to answer that. He’s a … complicated one. That’s for certain,” Shannon confessed, coming to sit near. The fire was indeed more comfortable, now that they didn’t have to keep it burning low, thanks to the dodgy flue. The cauldron bubbled with the smell of cabbage and potato soup.

“Complicated man. Hmm. Sounds… like he’d keep you on your toes,” Bronwyn said simply.

Considering I’ve been teaching him how to dance, I’d say that’s appropriate. “He’s not going to ‘keep me’ anything. He’s vying for Catherine. I told you.”

“It’s an odd man who comes to fix an old woman’s door when he’s trying to win a fresh title.”

“He came himself?!” Shannon was amazed. But… he’s got Catherine to worry about. And all the competition… doesn’t he?

Bronwyn was pleased with herself. “He did indeed. In plain clothes, maybe trying to pass himself off as a tradesman, but he was giving orders to the others. He said his name was Elliot. Dark hair? Beard? Voice meant to charm?”

Shannon rubbed her forehead. “That’s him. I have… one more lesson to give him, before he has to go to dinner, then to the ball. What in the world?” It seems Elliot was intent on surprising her. Repeatedly.

“He made sure the hinge was oiled. He said he liked the smell of my soup.” Bronwyn set down her needlework. “Shannon, I’ve known a knight or two like Elliot. He wasn’t born to his station… was he?”

“How did you know?” Shannon asked, surprised anew. Her mother was obviously a clever one.

“No one to the castle born would grease a length of rope and run the bucket up and down an old well, to make sure it worked properly, or move my chair closer to the fire, to make sure I was comfortable! He probably loved his mother.” She sniffed. “And he’s mean with a hammer; done an honest day’s work in his time. Like your father.” And no. I don’t know everything he’s thinking. But I know he did all this to please you.

“And you loved Papa,” Shannon said gently.

“Enough that he gave me you.” Bronwyn smiled. She missed her late husband every day.

“Do you love him?” Bronwyn asked. “I must tell you, I don’t advise it. Men can treat you badly when they know you love them.”

“Did Papa ever treat you badly?” Shannon asked, knowing he hadn’t.

A subtle smile graced her mother’s lips. “Only by dying first. I can’t much hold that against him.” Dark brown eyes took Shannon’s measure. “So? Do you?”

Shannon thought about it. She knew that Elliot could be infuriating. But he was very direct, and in his way, he was probably the most honest man she’d ever met. “I… I’m not sure,” she hedged. “I… I think I could be. That is… I can feel myself guarding against it, considering.”

“That’s probably wise, considering.” You don’t want to be a rich man’s doxy, daughter.

“So… do you have any advice for me?” Shannon asked, knowing that setting her cap for Elliot Burch would make both her and her mother comfortable financially. But… was such a thing wise? And when he was already half-betrothed to Catherine Chandler?

“Not a word,” Bronwyn said, smoothing out her lace. “Only…”

“Only?” Shannon prompted.

Bronwyn sighed. “Your Justin was a fool. I liked him. But he was a fool, Shannon, to get tangled up in what he was. You know that. I know that.”

Shannon nodded. “Yes… and… so?”

Bronwyn began tatting the next row. “So… not every man is out to betray you. Nothing is decided with Catherine Chandler. And whatever else your Sir Elliot Burch is, ‘fool’ doesn’t seem like it’s on his list.”

~~~

Vincent stood in the garden, searching. Searching for one perfect rose.

Many of the pink ones had already been gathered for the banquet. The white ones were positively plundered… not that he thought of leaving her a white rose.

In spite of it being the name of her horse, (and they both knew they had her deceased mother to thank for that) there had only been one kind of rose he’d ever used to send a message to her. A red one. They both knew it meant “love”, even back when he had yet not given her the words.

The first time they ever did this, she was seventeen years old, more than a bit of a rebel, and eager to try her wings. He taught her to ride her first horse, at a gentle canter.

Then, he taught her to run.

She flew across the open grass, all billowing skirts and laughter. Moonlight silvered her normally sun-kissed hair. She galloped through the night like a brigand being chased by the law. Odd, considering she was the law, or at least her father was.

Vincent kept a statue of Lady Justice in his quarters. He never told her. In a way, it made him feel closer to her.

He considered the image of a blind woman, meting out justice and deciding what was fair. Am I being blind, too? He wondered, as he searched for a red bloom. Blind to our reality?

He knew his place in her world, and it was far beneath hers. He knew that the people who’d tolerate a misfit in her nighttime stables would never tolerate one at her table, during the day.

That was all right. He didn’t plan on eating with her. At least not unless it was a midnight picnic in the park, while the horses grazed nearby.

You were fearless, the first time I taught you to run, he remembered… she had coaxed her mount into a canter, then a trot, then a full gallop. You were afraid, at first. But you overcame it. You faced your fears, and moved through them.

Highborn ladies didn’t mount like a man and gallop across an open field. They sat sidesaddle and meandered along, arraying their skirts to their best advantage. Or better still, rode in a carriage with good springs, and prayed the bumpy journey wouldn’t take too long, or that they wouldn’t encounter too many ruts in the road.

Is that what I am? A rut in her road? An unwelcome hole that she can hardly avoid, even if she needs to?

Vincent knew it wasn’t so. But he also knew that Catherine wasn’t the only one who had fears to work through. No. I’m better than that. We’re better than that.

He checked the simple note in his pocket, praying it would be enough. Perhaps it would have to be. The red roses, like the white ones, were now all gone.

Just when he was about to give up, he spotted it. One red rose, hiding among the thorny bushes. Deep red. Deep as rubies. Deep as blood. He reached in for it, carefully, and extracted it, knowing he’d gotten the last one of the season.

What’s this? He spotted a white one beneath it, and gathered it as well. White Rose… the name of the horse that was going to bring her to him... or not.

Maybe it meant something. Maybe it didn’t. He had no idea.

He tucked the note under the red rose and put the white one in his pocket. Be brave for me, Catherine. Be brave for me… one more time, he prayed.

Chapter Thirteen

Last Lesson

Elliot moved easily through the Basse. Then through the Black Almain. If he wasn’t in love with dancing, neither did he seem to hate it as he once had. Cleon, seated nearby, strummed ably on the mandolin, as candlelight pushed back the darkness all around the room. They’d been at it for almost two hours. It was nearly time to get ready for a late dinner. The dancing would come after.

“You’ve gotten better. And just in time,” Shannon said, as Elliot passed by her. He was no longer looking at his feet, and his movements were more natural. Both were a plus.

“I had a good teacher,” he replied.

“And I had a benefactor visit my… your house, today,” she returned, lifting her green-gold skirts as she spun around and faced him. “You didn’t have to do that, Sir Knight.”

Ah. So she was still calling him that. Elliot didn’t like it.

Cleon raised an interested eyebrow at the conversation, and knew he should just keep strumming, if he knew what was best for him. And Cleon certainly did.

“The property was a bit… neglected,” Elliot replied smoothly. “As the current owner, it was my duty to see it fixed.”

Was it your duty to fill our bread basket? Or make sure my mother’s chair was moved closer to the fire? Or compliment her on her soup? Shannon knew better than to needle him by asking it aloud.

“My mother says you fixed the rope on the well, and had the door hinge oiled, and said that the flagstones will be repaired.” And you charmed her, Shannon thought.

“It needed doing.” He brushed away her compliment, as a poker faced Cleon finished the song.

“You may leave us, Cleon. You have a dinner to dress for,” Elliot said.

Don’t you? Cleon thought. “So it please you, Sir,” Cleon nodded, setting down the instrument and making his escape. He and his wife would both be attending in their finest clothes, as everyone would. And at the moment, Cleon knew it wouldn’t exactly surprise him to see that Elliot didn’t attend. The dark skinned man closed the door softly behind him.

“Don’t you need to change, also?” Shannon asked, taking in his maille shirt. He’d been sparring in the yard before their lesson. An untrained eye might think Elliot Burch had been trying to work out his frustrations on his opponents. “Or do you plan to fight for Lady Catherine… literally?” she asked.

“I came back in a mood, and didn’t have time to change before you arrived,” he defended, knowing time was indeed running out for them. “Besides, your time isn’t up, yet. I paid for the entire hour.”

He had. They had at least a few minutes left with each other. The thought made Shannon sad. “And Sir Elliot Burch always gets what he pays for,” she rejoined, just a touch of melancholy in her voice.

His own voice softened, as well. “Sometimes. Not always. Wind up the music box.”

She glanced toward it. “It plays a waltz. You already know how.” It was useless to do this, as a dance lesson.

“Waltz with me, then,” he encouraged, gesturing to where the music box sat on the table. “Go ahead. Wind it up.”

She did as he instructed. Nerveless fingers wound the metal key. She could feel him standing behind her.

Close behind. When Shannon turned around, she nearly collided with his broad chest. He was standing too close. And somehow, she wasn’t entirely surprised, and she didn’t mind. He raised his arms into waltz position.

Shannon slipped her hand into his, and immediately felt the change in him. Without changing position, his arm relaxed, just slightly, happy to have her hand in his. His other hand settled at her trim waist, and through her satin gown, his touch communicated his feelings.

Shannon didn’t consider herself a psychic of any kind. But she knew she was no fool, either. You’re in love with me. It’s what Mama said. In love and… you don’t know what to do about it. Is it because you love Catherine Chandler?

They were but a few steps into the dance, when he answered her unspoken question. “I don’t love Catherine Chandler. I may have thought I did, once. Or at least that I could. But… I don’t.” Please, Shannon. Give me something. Just a little something. I swear I’ll love you all your life, if you do.

“Love is… difficult. Sometimes it changes you.” She looked up at him. Into eyes so blue, she knew her soul could drown there, and not mind. “And sometimes it sneaks up on you, unawares. Even… even when you think you don’t believe in it anymore.” she said honestly.

Elliot knew she wasn’t playing him false, and closed his eyes over her confession. “A mercenary man would think you just told me you loved me. So would a hopeful one.”

She didn’t bat a lash, and her soft, lovely voice adopted an almost playful tone. “And which one are you?”

The smile he sent her was devastating. Cleon and Clara were about to find him absent from the evening’s proceedings. He knew he wasn’t going to go upstairs and change for the banquet, nor appear at the ball. He knew that wherever he was, he was now in her small, delicate hands. Hands that embroidered silk roses. Hands that were beyond gentle, and would never betray him.

“Why don’t we spend the rest of our lives finding out?” He asked, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Why don’t we?” she breathed, closing her eyes in gratitude.

Yes. Then, the blue eyes opened. “I’m asking you to marry me. Just so we’re clear. This is a proper wooing.”

He stopped moving his feet and drew her into a soft embrace. She went, as willing as she’d ever been to do anything in her life.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” she queried, keeping her eyes closed, loving the moment.

He was aware she hadn’t answered him. He was also aware he wasn’t about to let that stand. Her dead husband had frightened her. But he wasn’t going to let that interfere with his good intentions.

“Yes. Marriage. And nothing less. I’m not a man to trifle, or be trifled with,” he insisted, keeping her near. Right where she was. Right where she belonged…

The soft strains of the waltz tinkled all around them, as the candlelight flickered. She breathed him in, and knew she’d found home, after a long and unexpected absence from it.

Marriage. Yes. Of course. You’d want nothing less. And neither would I. On a pure leap of faith, Shannon faced her fears, and moved through them.

A soft smile played around her kissable lips. “I think nothing else will do, Elliot,” she replied. “I am yours to command…always…”

Chapter Fourteen

Beyond the Bridge

“Cathy? Honey? It’s time to go down. Make a ‘grand entrance’ with the old ma-” Lord Charles stopped short in his assessment. Catherine sat in her chambers, her dinner gown resplendent, the tears on her cheeks shimmering almost as much as the diamonds in her ears.

“Cathy?” he asked, crossing to her.

She grabbed a silk handkerchief. “In a minute,” she replied, trying to pull herself together. She knew they were supposed to be heading down the main stairs… that guests were gathering, waiting for them to arrive.

“Do I need to even ask what’s wrong?” Charles queried. They both knew it was a bit of a rhetorical question. “You don’t… love any of them. Is that it?”

Catherine sighed, and waited for what should be the ensuing lecture. About how this was part of her duty, and love - or at least a certain kind of love – would come, between her and her future husband. How future children would fill a void in her life, and how, though her father loved her, this was expected of her. It was high time. It was for the good of many, and so on. Catherine knew it was what she would have said, if she were in his noble shoes.

Charles sat down with her at the edge of her bed and gave her knee a fatherly pat. The locket that held Caroline’s image swung against his chest. “Did I ever tell you how your mother and I met?” he asked.

He had. Even her mother had, back before her passing. It was a time that felt like a thousand years ago to Catherine, rather than the nearly twenty it had been. “You met her in a garden,” Catherine’s voice was just above a whisper.

“Yes. In a garden. Surrounded by roses, white and red. She was… beautiful.”

“It sounds very romantic,” Catherine sniffed, wishing she too was in a garden, right now. Or at least a stable.

“She was a vision,” Charles continued. “Like you. You’re her image, you know,” he said fondly.  He stood up, and bid her do the same. Then interestingly, he began turning back the covers on her bed.

Is he about to tell me I can skip all this, and just go to sleep? Or… take a quick nap, then come down later? Catherine wondered. Daddy, what are you--

“Did I ever tell you I wasn’t supposed to be there?” Charles asked. “Get the sheet, will you?”

“I… I don’t think you did,” Catherine replied, turning down the linens with him. This was normally servant’s work. What in the world…?

“No, not like that, clean off the bed. Might want to hurry. I don’t think we have all that much time.”

She looked up at him, amazed. Time for…?

“So anyway,” he continued, stripping off a fitted coverlet. “Her parents had come from an artist’s studio, and they’d had a small likeness painted of her.” He stopped to pat his chest, or more precisely, to pat the locket that still hung around his neck, then he resumed his work.  “Beautiful thing. Locket sized. Her mother took it out of the silk wrap   to admire it, when she got bumped. The locket fell out of her hand, but I caught it before it could go into the mud and be ruined forever.” He lifted one corner of her mattress. “Tug a little harder, angel. We don’t have all night.”

Catherine had stopped removing the sheet to hear Charles’ story. It was one she’d never heard before. To her, the locket portrait of her mother had simply been something he’d always worn. She continued tugging on the rich, ivory linen.

“Wouldn’t you know it? The portrait fell right into my hand. The most… beautiful woman I’d ever seen, of course.” He gave her a wink. “I returned it. And then… I followed her mother’s carriage all the way to her house.” Catherine’s sheets were now a pile on the floor.

Charles walked around her bed. “Later that afternoon, I climbed right over the garden wall,” he said, tying a corner of one sheet to the bedpost. “I’m afraid your mother thought I was quite mad. You might want to change into some riding clothes. Oh, never mind. We’ve no time for it.”

“Daddy… what are you doing?” she asked. He was calmly twisting and knotting the bed sheet, at intervals.

“I climbed a garden wall. You’re climbing down from a balcony. Your mother thought I was quite mad, at first. But at the end of an hour, we were very much in love. I can’t help but think she’d approve of this.”

“I’m… climbing down from my balcony? You… you had fits when I climbed a tree! You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m helping you escape a life you don’t want, so you can find the one you do. A happy life. Happier than this one. Feeling strong?” He asked, tugging on the knot. Her bed linens were about to become her lifeline.

Catherine’s green eyes lit up with understanding. You’re helping me to… “You… you mean to do this. You’re really trying to help me escape all of this…” She looked out her window. Out to where a piece of paper sat fluttering, on a table. One held down by a red rose. Vincent.

“I’d hardly be a good father if I didn’t. And before anything else… anything… I’m your father, Catherine. Toss this over the edge, will you?” He handed her a bundle of knotted cloth. “Don’t trip now.”

She carried the sheet to the edge of the balcony, and tossed it over the side. The yards and yards of fabric fell to the ground. I can’t believe I’m doing this…

She drew closer to the note Vincent had left on her table, right where he usually placed it. In her state of upset, she’d missed it entirely. The dark red rose beckoned, as did his familiar, left-handed writing. Please don’t let it be a goodbye note. Please let it be… something else. Something … that accepts no limits.

She picked up his missive and closed her eyes over the words Vincent had left for her. Yes. Oh, yes. Yes, my love. My Vincent. She tucked the red rose up her sleeve, as she turned back to Charles. Her smile was brilliant.

“I love you, Daddy. Thank you.”

He planted a fatherly kiss on her forehead. “I have you. And I have my memories. There’s a happy life waiting for you, Catherine. I have to believe that. And you have to fight for it. Or nothing I’ve done, nothing I’ve made… well, it doesn’t have much of a purpose at all, does it?”

“I… I love you,” she repeated. “And mother. I love you both. So much.”

He opened the locket and showed it to her. An image of her younger self looked back at her, framed by the oval. Lovingly, Charles snapped it closed, and tucked it inside his velvet doublet.

“I’m leaving you with a mess. A hundred guests to apologize to… more.”

He batted aside her concern as if it were nothing. “You leave that to me. A happy life is the only thing your mother ever wanted for you.” He went to the balcony and tugged on the makeshift rope, making sure it was secure. “And I never denied that woman anything.”

Catherine caught him in the fiercest embrace she’d ever given him. “Oh, Daddy… you’re… amazing. I… I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’d say you have a garden wall of your own to climb,” he replied, all his love in his voice. “Or… perhaps your love is in a stable. Or out in the park.”

So he knows about Vincent, and how I feel. Oh, Daddy.

“The park. I think he’s in the park, just past one of the bridges. It doesn’t matter. He’ll find me. He always does.” It was an uncanny thing between them. Something neither of them understood, entirely.

“Sounds like it’s time for a moonlight ride in the park, then. Ready?” He asked, all the fatherly love in the world in his eyes.

She looked at her destroyed bed, and at the unlikely rope her father had made to take her to freedom. “I am. I think I always have been,” she replied. “I just… I just didn’t know how to be the person the world expects of me, and… the other one.” Vincent’s one.

“Be both, then. You’re Lady Catherine Chandler. You can do anything,” he assured, a father’s pride in his pronouncement. “I have faith in you.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his faith in her. “What will you tell them?” She asked, hiking her skirts and swinging her legs over the stone railing.

“Whatever I wish to. It’s my castle and I command all who dwell here. You’re my daughter. Your wishes are mine.”

“That’s very lawyerly of you.” She smiled, then brushed his smooth cheek with a parting kiss.

“I’m a very lawyerly sort of man. Down you go. Think you can make it all right? This is a bit like that time with you and the tree, when you were little. You always were a climber.”

She held onto the sturdy rope, knowing nothing was going to let her fall. The way she felt right now, she thought she could fly.

“I’m… it’s fine. I love you, Daddy,” she repeated.

“And I love you. Now get started, before I have guests and attendants knocking down your door.”

Catherine took tight hold of the rope, and lowered herself quickly to the ground. As soon as her foot touched the earth, she was a mass of flying skirts, as she raced her way to the stables.

When she got there, Red Thorn was gone. But White Rose stood patiently in the barn, fully saddled. “Let’s go for a ride, girl,” Catherine said, hoisting herself up. “A ride to change your life. And a love to change your life, forever.” She kicked her heels and the beautiful white mare jumped forward, and raced out into the April night.

~~~

Back inside the castle, Elliot heard the white mare’s hooves clatter over the stones. But, since he was busy kissing Shannon, he hardly noticed, nor cared what it meant.

A love to change your life… forever, he thought, holding his Beauty even closer.

~~~

Catherine flew across the grass, as White Rose’s beautiful body stretched and gathered under her. Rose was a ‘light runner,’ unlike Red, her counterpart, who dug in hard, and chewed up the course. Rose ran with an almost feathery grace, seeming to barely touch the ground, as she propelled them along. It was something Catherine had always loved about the pretty mare – the one Vincent had taught her to ride, fearlessly.

Something else she loved waited for her, just beyond the bridge. Catherine raced to him, urging White Rose to greater speed. The shod hooves clattered for a moment, as they crossed the bridge, then resumed their almost silent trek, as the bridge gave way to the greensward again.

She saw him. Right where she knew he’d be.

Breathless, Catherine reined the beautiful white horse in and swung down, leaving the reins to trail.

Vincent stood at the crest of a rise, several yards from where he’d left Red tied. Hood drawn up, there was patience in his form, as one who’d known she was coming, yet also knew he couldn’t run out to meet her. This had to be her choice. It had always and ever been so, between them.

Catherine ran across the nighttime grass much as her horse had, full of strength, yet also possessing a lightness of being. Her velvet skirts were long, and Catherine knew she should have stopped to trade the beautiful red gown for her much more practical riding clothes. But there’d been no stopping her… then, or now.

There was joy in her stride. Joy that stretched, and lengthened, even as she bid her stride to do the same.

Drawing closer, she flung her arms open wide, longing to be in Vincent’s embrace. She didn’t slow a half-step as she barreled into his huge, waiting form, falling into him as much as tackling him, as the hem of her gown got in the way. Vincent went backward with a surprised grunt, and cradled her, as they both fell onto the soft, fragrant springtime grass.

He chuckled at their unexpected position, with him sprawled on his back, her arrayed gorgeously over him.

“Vincent.” She smiled.

“Catherine. My Catherine,” he returned, lifting a hand to caress her cheek. He knew what her being here meant. Or at least, he hoped he did.

Her tone grew more serious. “I… I didn’t know what to do. Forgive me for doubting. What we have… it’s worth everything,” she proclaimed, lying atop his gratefully startled form.

You’re home. You’re home. With me. At last. “Everything?” He asked, knowing she had to be sure.

Green eyes locked with blue in answer, and she lowered her mouth fractionally down to his, preparing to kiss him.

Then, she paused. Wait. We’ve never kissed before. Perhaps it’s a thing he doesn’t want? What if he—

Before she could complete the thought, Vincent reached up his great hands and took gentle possession of her head, bringing her down for his kiss, even as he raised his own head to meet her.

The sweetness of her lips on his owned his very being. There was honey in her fire, and sweetness with her tang. Perfect. You are perfect for me. Even if you aren’t, you are. I love you, I love you forever, he thought.

The kiss continued, and lingered; two souls coming together as much as their lips were. When the kiss finally broke, Vincent held her to him, beneath the moon.

She nestled against his chest, thinking she might never move. “You left her saddled,” Catherine said, eyeing where White Rose had wandered over to stand near Red.

“I… prayed you might have need of her,” Vincent replied, holding her head against his chest as the smell of crushed grass filled his nose. His woman was in his arms, and the moon was shining down on them. No matter how she’d gotten here, she was here, and not in a castle banquet room, or in the great ballroom, declaring her choice. Nothing else mattered.

“Father helped,” Catherine said.

“Your father?” Vincent asked, amazed. He lifted his head again to say it.

Catherine chuckled as she nodded. “He all but threw me out. It was a… a gift… from him and my mother. He told me that she said she only ever wanted a happy life for me.” Catherine slid off his large form as if she were only now aware that they were in the unlikeliest of positions. They both sat up. “I knew where that was. My father understood, I think. As much as he could, anyway. He loved my mother very much. I think he wanted me to have that, too.”

Oh, Catherine. He rose to his feet as she did, offering her his unusual hand, to help her stand. A gown that was the price of a small farm, now had grass stains on it, and was covered with the smells of the greensward… and him.

He took her into his sure embrace, holding her under the still-rising moon. “I bless him for his wisdom, then. And you, for your beauty, your strength, and your courage.” He planted a loving kiss on the crown of her head.

She held him close, knowing she would love him all of her days. “No more than I bless you for yours,” she replied.

He considered her words. Was there a greater lady in all the world than this one? Vincent knew there wasn’t. “This choice… it will cost you much, my Catherine,” he said, willing to accept it if she was.

She shook her head in denial of the claim. “I think the opposite. I think going to the ball would have cost me much. All I missed was a little music. And the chance to dance.” Her love for him shone in her green eyes.

He raised her beautiful hand and planted a soft kiss on its back. “I think we can fix that,” he replied, going over to Red. Flipping a saddlebag open, he removed the music box they had used when they’d danced on her balcony together.

“You brought it!” Her smile couldn’t dim.

“Another thing I prayed we might have a use for.” He returned her smile with a subtle one of his own, as he turned the key.

“It plays a waltz. You know that. Waltzes are scandalous.” They both knew she was teasing.

“Nice customs curtsey to great queens,” he replied, paraphrasing Shakespeare. She couldn’t love him more if she tried.

She curtseyed to him, spreading her red skirts wide, as he gave her a slight and formal bow.

She raised a perfect brow. “Do you dance, Vincent?” She asked, knowing full well he did.

“Only with you,” he replied earnestly, all his love in his voice. “Only and forever…with you.”

He reached inside his cape and extracted a beautiful white rose. “For you, and the blessing that brought you to me,” he said, extending it to her.

She produced his red one from up her sleeve. “You found a white rose! I thought they’d all been gathered for the banquet hall!”

“There was still one, among the deepest thorns. Sometimes… you have to look hard, to find the beauty you seek.” He placed it in her hand, gently. The two roses looked perfect together. “Shall we waltz, then?”

“Yes… always… with you,” she assured him, stepping into his strong embrace. He held the hand that held her roses. Their fragrance was heady, and full of promise. The fragrance engulfed them both, and caused her to dream. Waltz with me, Vincent. Be a rebel. Take a chance. Cause a scandal even. Waltz with me all of our lives together, she thought.

I will. I will waltz with you, he thought, not knowing all her thoughts, but sensing their intention. The waltz is a scandal. And it’s one you don’t mind.

And so it was that just beyond a certain bridge, a certain couple waltzed in the soft grass of the park, as a fitful moon spilled silver onto the emerald lawn under their feet. The music box made an intimate, tinkling sound, and it seemed to them that the rest of the world fell away around them.

“I love you,” she breathed, giving him the words he didn’t need, yet also longed for.

“No more than I love you,” he assured her. They continued to dance.

I want to do this with you until we’re old and grey. Fifty years, at least. Perhaps a hundred, he thought, squiring her across the open park.

~~~

And fifty or a hundred years later, they did…

~~~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love. ~

C.J .LaBelle

Worlds Upon Worlds

The Storyteller

by Angie

" ..(It) is a stern, melancholy country ... indescribably silent and lonesome…"

- Washington Irving

~~~

Vincent was reading quietly in his chamber, at his favourite time of night; those wee hours when the tunnel residents were asleep, the trains above were waiting for dawn, and the only disturbance was the quiet half-hourly "all okay" signals of the sentries. He could be sure not to be interrupted.

He was reading Tales of the Alhambra, by Washington Irving, stunned again at how a man that was best known for stories like the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, could have so beautifully captured the essence of the 14th century Moorish palace he visited in 1829. The man had become enamoured of Spain, had done research in the noble libraries of his day, yet The Alhambra was a remnant of another world. So much so that it apparently oozed legends from every stone. Many years after his book was published (1832) Irving became Ambassador to Spain (1842 to 1846).

However, Irving was a native New Yorker, and thus held a special place in Vincent's heart. Residents of his city were far greater thinkers and explorers than others would credit. After all, those who visited this great city seldom left unchanged, if they left at all. Irving had even written a history, under the pseudonym 'Knickerbocker' in 1809. It gained considerable renown. Sir Walter Scott described it as a 'jocose history'. For a man in his 20s, it was a considerable accomplishment, and it was definitely tongue-in-cheek, making fun of the early Dutch settlers

There were many images Vincent loved in Tales of the Alhambra, but one made his heart sing...

Such is the Alhambra - a Moslem pile in a Christian land, an Oriental palace amidst the Gothic edifices of the West, an elegant memento of a brave, intelligent, and graceful people who conquered, ruled and passed away."

Vincent could not help but compare his own world with that seen by Irving, and wondered, not for the first time, what the famous man would have thought of the tunnel world, had he known about it when he wrote A History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrich Knickerbocker (1809).

Here too, they were a people apart, separated from the rest of humankind by creed and distance, although commerce did take place, as it had even in Moorish Spain and early New York.

The Alhambra's rich tapestry of tales and histories was not unlike the tunnel world either, although taking place over centuries, rather than the mere handful of decades his own world could boast.

Yet, the stories which Irving expounded in the book could have happened anywhere, and in fact, the tunnel world had them too.

As he thought about it, Vincent realized that no one had written down the stories of his world, at least not officially with the thought of future generations. Oh, of course, everyone knew his own story (a baby cast out in an alley on the coldest night of the year), and that of many other residents, but what of the places here below? Surely they deserved their position in recorded history too? They were known only because of the people who lived in the tunnels. If others had known them before, they had chosen not to record them.

The more Vincent thought about it, the more he wanted to be the one to try to record a history of this place he called home, just as the Moors had of The Alhambra, and Irving had of New York. Having been caught up in history, and then gone, had given Irving's writing poignancy, but their community was not without stories.

He cast his mind back to the early days, the ones when the tunnel community consisted of Father, John Pater, Pascal Sr, Winslow's father, Narcissa, Anna and Grace. There were others, but some had left for one reason or another, or died… no few of those.

Winslow's father, Warnick, had been a large man. His origin was unknown, but he had arrived in the tunnels with Narcissa and the others. Vincent suspected that some of the tales Warnick told were hers, since she seemed to know a great deal, although how she knew them was a puzzle. Narcissa seemed to listen to the stones, or people perhaps, or various oracles, but to Vincent they had the ring of truth and, in fact, no one ever questioned their veracity.

Nevertheless, Warnick had been a superb teller of tales and had kept Vincent, Devin, Winslow, and others, spellbound with his tales of the places below. He also swore the tales were all true. Father had never said otherwise, but had declined to elaborate. There were, he said, many tales told about every community; theirs was no different. Warnick's tales, as did the best, often served as moral lessons and warnings too, especially to irrepressible children. Father no doubt, was glad of that.

Warnick, of course, had died some time ago, even before Devin left. Winslow had given his life years past. Therefore, Vincent felt that he was almost the only one, other than Father and Pascal, who had been much younger, who were present to hear and remember all the tales as originally told. And who else but he had the time or inclination to record them before they were lost forever?

Vincent found a blank journal with a few pages scribbled upon, scavenged from somewhere above, and ripped out the used leaves. He thought a while and then decided on a title. Yes, that was what it had to be, he decided and smiled to himself. He regarded the first blank page opposite the cover, the obvious place for a title, but he hesitated, pondering his plan.

How interesting that Warnick's last name was the same as the first of that earlier historian. Irving had been named after George Washington, and had been introduced to the great man as a child (and he had also created a painting of that meeting, Vincent recalled). Perhaps it was a fortuitous coincidence. Warnick loved 'Knickerbocker's History', and claimed to have carried it around with him in those early days, to read in daylight when he could, on some park bench.

Vincent reached for the tattered hardcover that rested respectfully next to Tales of the Alhambra. He opened it and regarded the carefully written name 'Warnick Washington' on the inside cover, and a date, '1930'.

Where to begin? Perhaps he should write this as if someone were visiting their world for the first time. Not all the current passages were known to the tunnel community from the start. The first explorers, the founders of their community, had come a different way, so he must tell the tale as Warnick had done, from the beginning.

Vincent considered how he could present the story, really a series of stories. Could he record them just as Warnick had told them? Should he? His memory was very good, but he quailed at the thought of trying to render the big black man's resonant voice, with its slight southern accent, into print. Should he borrow the mantle of Rudyard Kipling, and begin his tales “Oh Dearly Beloved”? That seemed too indulgent, to say nothing of disrespectful.

Then he remembered how he had told the children of the story of Catherine's abduction by Paracelsus. Yes, that would make a good beginning.

He would use Warnick's words as closely as he could, but it would be his own voice which gave them meaning, and it would be told in the third person. That was best.

Under the title, Vincent thought it appropriate to use a quote from Knickerbocker's History, an ironic statement (as were so many in the book), but nevertheless accurate for their community as well. He regarded the blank page and sighed. Now he must begin. He could pause no longer. He began to write.

~~~

'World Upon Worlds - A Special History of the World Below

(As told to Vincent Wells and others by Warnick Washington)

“The first source of right by which property is acquired in a country is discovery.”

Tale 1

The Beginning

We must never forget what has happened or why, so that the story will live always, so that one day, you can tell your own children.

A long time ago, before our world existed, a small group of people were huddled around a fire deep in Central Park, in a place almost surrounded by a high rocky outcrop. They were relatively protected from the worst of the howling winds and rain of autumn, but their refuge was still open to the sky.

There were a number of stony places in Central Park, if one knew where to look, Anna explained. The rock was left when the last of the glaciers retreated, 12,000 years previously. They were called 'erratics'. A suitable name also for those who sheltered under them, Warnick thought to himself.

No one bothered them, not even the park police, because they were quiet and the place secluded and almost forgotten. Park- goers knew enough not to be adventurous and stayed to well-trafficked areas, especially at night.

There were seven of them in those days.

John and Anna were married, and their clothes while worn, had once been good. John wore oxfords, while Anna wore good but battered leather boots under her long wool skirt and heavy coat with its fur collar. John was a bit taciturn, but Anna was a warm, friendly woman who never hesitated to help or do what needed to be done in their little camp.

Pascal (Sr) was a short man, almost bald. He wore a pea jacket with metal buttons whose shine had long gone, baggy pants and heavy shoes. A former seaman, perhaps, Warnick guessed. New York had many who had given up the maritime life, but could not make a living on land.

Grace was a plain woman who wore trousers under her long skirts and a man's coat. She spoke plainly too, a woman with a practical sense. She often found food when there rest of them failed to. She found Jacob wandering around the docks one night and brought him back with her.

Jacob was the least tattered of all of them. He wore a good wool coat and carried a leather satchel, but his eyes told them all that the tragedy that had befallen him was recent. They did not pry. He did tell them he was a doctor, something that astonished them. He proved to be a good man when anyone ailed, and with Narcissa, served them well and without complaint.

Narcissa was a bulky black woman, not very tall. She wore a bright headscarf and sash belt where she tied bags of various kinds. Her clothing was unmatched, colourful, but warm and wool, obviously found piecemeal. Her voice had the lilt of the Caribbean. Of all of them, she seemed least bothered by their circumstances and she often told them that they would do better one day. She never complained and often cooked their simple meal in the soup kettle Warnick found some weeks previously, behind a restaurant. It was dented but whole.

He, Warnick, a black man, had been a labourer and handyman, but had finished high school and loved to read. He found few jobs and ended up on the street, unable to afford an apartment. He had wandered the park for many days before finding their small group, back in the spring. They welcomed him and he turned his hand and strength to whatever he could. He built their fire pit from rocks in the area.

No one revealed much about themselves. They had come together by accident mostly, but they were not derelicts. All had some education, some quite a lot of it. The fact couldn't be hidden when they talked. How they had come to be 'living rough' was something none shared. It didn't matter.

So they sat around their careful fire, all of them, warm on their fronts but now feeling the chill of the autumn night on their backs. Winter was coming and they were concerned about surviving it. It would be cold, very cold, as only New York could boast, and damp with it. They worried about keeping themselves warm enough in their retreat, which for all its advantages, was still outside. They needed to find a place less open to the elements – but no one had a suggestion as to where to go. They did not wish to take their chances with the motley collection of ruffians who lived under bridges. They were a good team and knew they stood a better chance of survival together.

They eyed the set of little stone stairs going down below ground more than once. Warnick went down to look and reported it a dead end, and the bottom landing too small to accommodate them and their fire. It was just a smaller version of where they were, still exposed to whatever fell from the sky. Anna called the place 'The Ramble', and remarked that there was an underground cave at the end of it, but the City had bricked it up many years ago because some men had used its relative isolation to accost women.

In the meantime, the cooler nights had seen them collecting discarded blankets and cushions, wearing more layers of heavy clothing, and keeping their feet well padded in old but sturdy shoes and boots they had found. They even wore fingerless gloves, which Anna had adapted from ones discarded. Few had two that matched, but they were warm and left their fingers free to do the small jobs and read books if they wished. John and Warnick were seldom without a book. John's seemed to be scientific in nature. He kept them in a large burlap sack under an overhang. Warnick's only book was his old copy of Knickerbocker's History.

They found a charity that gave away old sleeping bags, and they kept all these treasures protected from the weather in the small, shallow overhang. They hoarded food that would keep well – dried vegetables and fruit, dented canned foods (carefully examined by John to make sure the seal was intact) and even some vegetables not too far past their prime to eat. What could be cooked went into their soup kettle, which was kept going, feeding them a slightly different meal every day, extended with some clean water from a nearby spring. They had also collected old backpacks, dented tin cups and a number of utensils; nothing valuable or large, but all essential to their life, for survival.

They were all in reasonable health, fortunately, but spoke little. Silence was not unwelcome. They all had their own thoughts. They sat as close to each other as they could, to keep warm, until it was time to sleep, then they laid their sleeping bags close together under the overhang.

Then one evening, as they sat mute around the fire, Narcissa arrived, as she often did, quietly and seemingly out of nowhere. She often left them for a day or two, but always returned, usually with something interesting.

“You must pack now. Quickly. It is time.” She lit a lantern no one had seen before.

They did not hesitate and quickly bundled up everything. The nights were now quite chilly and the mornings often brought frost. They put out their fire and spread out the ashes to cool.

“You will need your hands. Carry nothing in them,” Narcissa told them, so they filled their backpacks and tied their cups and utensils and tools to the outside, or crammed them in pockets. Anna took charge of the cooking kettle and what food they had left and put it into a large striped bag, when put her arms through the handles. It looked unwieldy, but she tied a rope around it and then around her waist to stop it bouncing. John tied up the sack of books and attached it awkwardly to a backpack with their other belongings. Then each of them picked up firewood and kindling, as much as they could, and roped or stuffed it wherever it would fit, each helping the others to get it into place on their packs.

“We look like tinkers,” John commented wryly, but nothing rattled, everything being padded with blankets or sleeping bags. They had done that automatically, knowing too well how noise travelled at night and not wanting to attract attention.

Jacob saw what the rest were doing and managed to get his arms through the handles of his satchel but then struggled to get his sleeping bag pulled in next to his body from the top. Warnick helped him, draping what he could over the top of the satchel, even fitting in some firewood. He received a soft 'thank you' in response.

Perhaps to no one's surprise, Narcissa pointed to The Ramble.

“This we will use carefully,” she had explained of the lantern. “The way is long in the deep dark. We will need it there.”

She turned the flame down, so low it did not cast any light, but was enough to show them where she was. Fortunately, there was a moon, so some white eerie light did illuminate the uneven stone steps that were almost hidden by the growth on one side. The other side was a rock cliff.

So they carefully trod behind her; dark, bulky shapes that the moon did not illuminate. They braced themselves against the stone wall and the sound of their careful shuffling was the only comfort. They might have been descending into hell, Warnick thought.

They reached the bottom and halted behind Narcissa, trying not to bump each other in the small dark bowl topped by a velvet sky and the crescent moon.

Narcissa whispered for them to wait, and moved away. They soon lost sight of her, even the lantern, but they heard her, mumbling, and saw a candle lit. Then suddenly they felt a blast of less chilly air and they sensed something had changed. The smell of wet stone wafted over them, yet there had been no rain for days. The candle had been extinguished.

Narcissa spoke, her stage whisper sounding uncommonly loud in that enclosed place. “Come.”

Her lantern, dim as it was, let everyone see a dark hole in the rock, one everyone knew had not been there before. They said nothing however, trusting to their guide, and keeping their curiosity in check.

“Follow closely and do not linger. Do not look back.”

Warnick, always the one to comment, if only soto voce (so like his son later), hesitated at the entry, being last in line. He found it difficult to cross the threshold into the unknown.

“How does she know this is the way? I hope she knows what she's doing,” he grumbled to himself, not at all liking the dark hole in front of them. He almost turned to take one last look behind, as if they were leaving that world forever, but harkened to Narcissa's warning and merely grunted.

With a sigh, he followed the rest and the dim light of Narcissa's lantern, now some way ahead. He hurried to catch up. Jacob was in front of him and had stopped to make sure he caught up. Warnick touched his arm, not trusting himself to speak, and they moved on.

The way was indeed long. They went through caverns, some of which smelled damp, passed tunnels and holes smelling of worse things. They must be near the main sewers, Warnick guessed. Sometimes Warnick's hand felt brick, or stone, even concrete. He guessed they were still under the Park since they seemed to be heading generally north. Their camping space had been nearer the south end.

For some time the way seemed relatively level, then it began to descend and then to twist and turn. Warnick quickly lost all sense of direction. There was no sound except from the group, the occasional shuffle on an uneven patch of floor. Every so often they would near an opening and dry, stale air blew over them. It was warmer in this underworld and the stone under their feet was dry. There were no smells but that of old rock, dust and sometimes wet rock, for now and then water ran down the walls, shocking Warnick, who walked near enough to touch it. The floors seemed to be sand, occasionally stone. How did Narcissa know about this ... underworld?

Then they came to signs of civilization, smaller brick-lined passages, and long curved ceiling tunnels, thick with dust, with ragged piles of old broken bricks, and miracle of miracles to their dark-adapted eyes, occasionally a swinging light bulb, still lit, albeit dimly.

Service tunnels for the subway perhaps, Warnick decided. There was no sound of trains, as it must be still the middle of the night. What night, though, Warnick had no idea. He had lost track of the days long ago, and frankly did not care to know. Each day was just another struggle. Only his book kept him sane and often made him chuckle when he found time to read a page or two in daylight.

At least the air was moving, just old and stale, he reflected, and their relatively swift pace meant he was actually feeling warm for the first time in many days.

Suddenly, Jacob in front of him stopped and Warnick almost barrelled into him. He peered around and saw that Narcissa stood at a railing. She had opened the lantern to show them what was before them. It was a spiral metal staircase, he realized, attached to the roof of the small rock chamber in which they stood. There was nowhere else to go.

The staircase, when he reached it, seemed to go down forever. He could see Narcissa far below and hear the clumps of everyone's heavy shoes on the metal steps. The whole thing seemed almost too fragile, and it certainly creaked and shook a little under their collective weight. But it held and it was the only way to wherever they were going, he was sure.

Warnick moved a little quicker, anxious to be off the thing, in case it had rusted in places. He held onto the railing on both sides and took deep breaths. He had always hated staircases he could see through, and this one seemed interminable. He was grateful for the dark, although there was some dim light from the walls.

'Phosphorescence', he heard John mutter, beneath him somewhere. The word echoed for a long time. Narcissa hissed a warning and there was no more comment.

They passed a few landings, and what were probably other tunnel openings, forcing Warnick to move carefully until he found the railing again. They could not be completely silent on this quivering metal thing and Warnick felt very alone, even though he could hear the others, below him.

What if someone tripped? Would anyone know until it was too late? The thought made him slow down, but a curve later, he saw Jacob looking up at him, and was amazed to realize there was some light now. Oh joy, another light bulb hung from a wall nearby. He wanted to stay where this remnant of civilization brightened the dark world. He fancied he could even feel the heat from the dim thing. But the rest of the group was getting distant. He could not linger.

He nodded at Jacob, who took a deep breath and continued. The staircase was obviously old and very dusty, but the railings were still painted and not rough. The stairs themselves were ornate, he saw now, in the light from another bulb, and the clanging of their shoes made a cacophony that seemed to build in the shaft, getting louder and louder.

“Who put this here?” he muttered to himself.

Narcissa heard him from the front of their plodding, obviously now somewhat tired group, and whispered loudly enough for all to hear.

“It was built long ago, when men put in pipes for steam or water, so they could get in and out. It is safe. Soon we come to the end. Then we go to a place, a good place.”

“And how would she know that?” Warnick muttered, softly enough that she couldn't hear him. He shook his head, as if that would clear the sounds they were making on the staircase. It was hard to think over the racket.

He knew almost nothing about Narcissa. She had strange ways but they were grateful for her knowledge of herbs on occasion. She found plants to improve their stews, settle upset stomachs, and for infusions to treat blisters and other minor injuries, helped by Jacob, who had a first aid kit in his satchel. Narcissa was not always with them when their soup kettle meals were ready, and she said nothing about where she went. Occasionally, she brought them welcome additions to their kettle, no one asked from where. They had all learned not to be squeamish. Food was food and necessary for life.

At last, the staircase did end, and they all stopped for a few minutes to let their legs adjust to flat ground again. Everyone was wobbly and several leaned against a nearby wall.

“We are almost there,” Narcissa said approvingly. “Soon we can rest and sleep.”

She moved on and they followed wearily, some distance down another rough tunnel, one that now was anything but silent. Above them somewhere, they could hear the subway trains.

It must be almost morning, Warnick realized, amazed. They had obviously travelled all night and into morning, although he had no idea what time they had started. What was the date, anyhow? He thought back as he trudged wearily, still bringing up the rear. He had seen Halloween decorations here and there in the shop windows. Halloween! Was that what last night had been? He didn't want to think about what that meant, that Narcissa had somehow tapped into earlier at the bottom of The Ramble, but on the other hand, he would not be at all surprised if she had. He decided he didn't care. They had escaped another cold, frosty morning, and that was all that mattered.

His legs still felt like rubber after all those stairs, and he could tell the others were dragging their feet as well. Jacob, the newcomer, was breathing heavily. He would be unused to this much exercise, Warnick guessed. The rest of them walked a great deal, scavenging, but they had now been walking for many hours, up and down, and mostly without being able to see anything, or have any sense of how far they had to go. They had not eaten for some time either. The not knowing where they were going was frightening, something they were unused to. The city did not have such mysteries. He had no idea where they were in relation to the world they had left. He hoped they could get back to it more easily than this tortured route.

Finally, the tunnel made a turn and Narcissa led them into an echoing darkness. She turned up the lantern to illuminate a large cavern. It was oddly-shaped, on at least two levels, but the walls were smooth, like melted wax. Some underground river had carved it long ago, Warnick was sure. This might have been a whirlpool once. He had read about such places, but never thought to find one under New York. He had however, read of one near New York, a whirlpool that captured an early Dutch sailing ship and spun it about so much that the men on it were rendered senseless until they miraculously beached on the shore of Long Island.

Narcissa broke the silence. “Here we stay for now. It will be our meeting place, to cook and to sleep for tonight. There are other caverns nearby, smaller, which we can use. There is water… I can smell it. We can live here.”

“And how will we live? We will need to go back above to find food. It is such a long way. How can we?” John asked petulantly, his voice cracked and breathless.

“The way we came is only one way, but that is closed to us now. There are others, one into the park, far from where we were living, but not so far from here. I will show you. Now you must sleep. There is much to do tomorrow.”

Rest! Warnick could hardly find the energy to unroll his sleeping bag. He eased himself into it, not even bothering to remove his shoes. He was feeling chilly now, shivering from the unaccustomed effort. He used his pack as a pillow and closed his eyes with a sigh. He heard the others making their own preparation noises, but was asleep before they finished.

He awakened to the smell of a fire and the sound of water bubbling in their pot. He was not the first awake. Narcissa was watching the kettle and mumbling something. Anna sat on the opposite side of the fire, slumped as if dozing, obviously still tired.

Warnick wrenched himself out of bed, groaned at the stiffness of his muscles, extracted his tin mug from a pocket in his pack, and crawled to the fire, which Narcissa had built into a dip in the floor. He held his mug out for some of the fragrant tea he could smell. She gave him a large pinch and nodded to him.

“It is dry here. We are lucky. This will be home. You will see.” She poured some water into his cup and sat back on her haunches.

“How did you know this was here?” Warnick couldn't resist asking as he sipped the tea, welcoming the warmth on his hands and feeling it travel down his insides.

Narcissa chuckled. “I listen to the talk of old men, under bridges, in soup kitchens. No one minds an old black woman. Workmen always talk, talk. Sometimes they leave things.” She nodded at the lantern.

“Here, there are also spirits from long ago. They have been dead a long time. But their memories of this place can be read in the bones.” She shook a bag attached to the belt around her waist and Warnick heard it rattle. He said nothing more. He didn't want to know more.

A short while later, the others rose one after another and each had a cup of tea. Narcissa put some dried fruit and beans into the remaining water and then a few herbs and carefully broke up a celery stalk and carrot. From somewhere else, she produced a large soup bone and added it. The smell was now making stomachs rumble and she chuckled.

“This will take time to cook. Come, I will show you the water.”

“And the way out?” John asked. Narcissa nodded. “It is not so far as yesterday, and easier to walk. There is time for all things now.”

When they were all upright, albeit with some groans, Narcissa led them by narrow stone tunnels up and down, carrying the lantern blazing in front of her. There was a roaring that was getting closer, and in a short while, she moved out of sight around a bend. The rest followed and stood carefully on a wide ledge, their mouths hanging open at the view.

A huge waterfall was pouring down a cliff face some distance away, easily seen because of the light above it, a kind of opening from who knew where. The roar was deafening, for the water fell at least 100 feet to a rocky pool below.

“Is that our water supply?” John asked, sarcastically.

“It's beautiful,” Anna added, frowning at her husband.

Narcissa chuckled. “It is. Behind me is a spring, running down the rock. Good, clean water. Enough for cooking. I can sense also that there is a hot spring nearby. In the old days New York tapped such places to heat buildings. We may be able to bathe, if there is room. It is not much further.”

“You've been here before!” Warnick blurted out, the realization hitting him hard.

Narcissa looked at him, and then the others, and nodded. “Yes. I have a place deeper, away, where I can cast my bones and make my medicines. You have been kind to a crazy old black woman, so I found this place and brought you here. There is much to see that even I do not know. I did not explore, but it is a good place, a safe place.”

She led them along the ledge, up a small incline and along another passage, which also opened into an echoing, indistinct chamber. As she held up the lantern, Warnick could see that there was a lot of steam rising from a pool. It was very warm in here, stuffy almost, but there was also the sound of water running, so the pool must have a source and an outlet. The roar from the falls could still be heard.

There was a sigh from Jacob, who obviously desired a bath above all else. Warnick felt the same way. He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to have one. He had some soap, even an old towel, but they would need more, much more, to make a life here. He made a list in his head of what they would have to find above – old metal barrels, firewood, gas for the lantern, something to make more lanterns, perhaps wax for candles… and food. They would need that above all.

Narcissa turned to them and spoke quietly. “I will show you other caves here, and then after we eat, I will lead you to the world above. We will mark the way.

“It will be night soon. We have all slept well. We must not go out in daylight, as we may be seen leaving. The door I show you must be kept closed, secret, perhaps guarded, if we are to be safe. We will find other ways that can be used in daylight. There are many such. So I have been told.”

Pascal Sr. had been looking around and tapping on the pipes with a stick. They were attached to walls, disappearing here and there, dusty, some rusty, unused. He spoke now.

“These pipes… they are from the old days. They go everywhere we have been. They could be useful.”

Narcissa looked at him and smiled. “There is a place where all pipes meet I will show you later.”

Pascal’s eyes were unfocused as he thought about the implications. John also seemed interested, rare for him. Warnick could not think of any use for old pipes, but declined to say so.

Warnick lost track of time in the darkness as Narcissa showed them the places she had found. Amazement seemed the order of the day (or was it night again?). There were many caverns, all different sizes, including one that was deeper and much larger. John eyed it speculatively, but it was of little interest to the others. They each picked out a smaller cave, close to the main chamber they had slept in, and moved their belongings into it. Privacy and safety were valuable commodities in their vagabond life, and they didn't hesitate to take advantage of it.

There were many other caves unused. Perhaps others would join them. They would need more people if they were to live here, Warnick realized. There was so much they would need to do, just to survive. It was warmer here than outside, but still chilly. Some heat would be needed. How were they to get that?

Then she led them to a place where it seemed every pipe under New York met. It was on several levels. There were many valves with large wheels to open and close them, large pipes, small ones, all making a spaghetti junction in a place that made Warnick's jaw sag. Pascal felt along some of the larger ones eagerly, carefully. Some were obviously hot. He tapped here and there and put his ear to others. He nodded to himself, obviously satisfied. He smiled as he looked around at the rest of them, who did not know what to make of the mass of pipes.

“I have an idea, one that will make our lives easier,” he remarked. “I will need a helper, though.”

Warnick offered immediately and Pascal nodded his gratitude.

They returned to the central cave, and sat down to eat the soup Narcissa had prepared. The chamber was warmer now, Warnick noticed. Perhaps heat was not so impossible in this place.

It was Jacob who spoke up about what was bothering all of them.

“This is a good, safe place, but it's a long way from the world above, where we must get our food and other things we need. How can we do this? How can we survive here, so far from that world?”

Narcissa nodded and spoke slowly. “You have taken from that world only what you needed, what you could carry or keep with you. Now you must take other things too, to make this place better, a place for everyone. There is much that the world throws away, waiting. You know the places. Bring it all here. Tools, clothing, food, furniture ... so many things. You will make this place better. I will show you another place that is of much use and a place to leave.”

There was some conversation after that, each person telling of where they had seen this or that, even books, much else discarded by the world they had left. Warnick was encouraged. He too had seen much in alleys he could not use at the time. Now he would find it and bring it here. Yes, that was a good plan. It would take a long time, but this place was dry and safe and it had fresh water. It was better than anywhere he had been for a long time. He began to relax, not even realizing until then how tense he had been. He saw relief on the faces of his friends too. This thing could be done. They all knew it.

They put their cups into a bucket for washing later. There would have to be duties organized, Warnick realized, if they were to live together. They needed more buckets, something to sit on, something to cook on, basic supplies like soap, towels, more pots. And braziers to make some heat in the caves. And something to burn in them. There was good airflow here, because of the channels built for the pipes. They would not have to worry about fumes building up.

“Now I will show you a way out, then another hidden place where you can see what the world above throws away.”

She got up and led them through tunnels beyond the caves they had chosen, along more tunnels, and then up another stairway, this one was a stone spiral, long, but not as long as the other. They emerged into a partially-lit tunnel of concrete and stone, and then Narcissa turned left and they were looking at a very heavy metal door. She went to a lever on the wall and pulled it. The door ground along the floor and into a slot in the wall revealing an old city park gate, rusty and padlocked. Beyond it was night, but a streetlight shone passed what was obviously a culvert. It was the Park! They could smell green things and they all sighed. After so long underground, they welcomed that smell, even though it also meant rain and frost ... and cold.

“This is an old workman's gate. Not used now. You can fix the gate to be used, but appear locked. There is another lever outside to open this big door. A workman told of it.”

Warnick approached the metal gate and rattled it a little. It was solid, but a few chisel blows would sever the link just enough to free the latch, yet allow it to close solidly. The heavy chain would discourage the curious.

“Now I will take you to a better entrance, a place I heard had many things, long forgotten.”

She went back down the short corridor and turned left onto the main tunnel. They followed her down larger and larger tunnels, then to something Warnick had never expected to see – a freight elevator. It was dusty around it, no sign it had been used for a long time, and the door was rusting, but it moved when he yanked on it and opened with protesting screeches.

“Does it work?” Warnick asked.

“Yes. Goes to an old warehouse basement, not used, boarded up from outside. But there are ways. You will make them. Come.”

They all crowded into the elevator and Warnick pushed the up button. There was a violent groan and the elevator shuddered and moved slowly upwards. It stopped after a minute or so of creaky progress and Warnick yanked open the cage door. It was dim beyond, but their night-adjusted eyes saw some light seeping through a dirty window. The basement was not empty. They could see the silhouettes of old wardrobes, chairs, stacks of crumpled cardboard boxes. Not junk anymore, Warnick thought, amazed. This was stuff they could fix and use.

“How did it get here?” Warnick asked, of no one in particular.

John cackled. “It's obvious. This is what the world calls wastage. Items damaged in shipping, or from water or fire, nothing that can be sold, and therefore worthless.”

Warnick gave a sniff and realized there was a slight burnt odour, and the place smelled damp too.

They walked around the basement, trying to see into boxes, touching this and that. They needed more lanterns and flashlights, Warnick reminded himself. His foot hit something and he reached down to find a dented Coleman lantern. He shook it. Empty of course, but it seemed intact. More wastage, he supposed. Nearby were some lumpy, musty-smelling bundles… old canvas tents, he guessed from their weight and shape and smell, when he prodded them. There was no mistaking that! Then he spotted something more important… a Coleman stove with two burners, also battered. He picked it up, grunted at the weight, and carried it to the elevator. The others were also filling it with finds. He returned to the pile of equipment and found a rusty tool box with a broken lid. Carrying it to the dim light of the window, he found a broken chisel and the head of a ball-peen hammer, along with other things he couldn't identify without better light. There were some wooden handles too, probably warped, but they would serve. He tied the toolbox shut with some rope he found and carried it to the elevator.

“A good start to our home-making,” John commented, his voice loud in the silence. He whispered then, letting them know what he had found; chemicals, beakers, a Bunsen burner, a microscope; neatly in a wooden box, part of a set for children, apparently. He hoped for more. Jacob looked interested and moved to talk to him.

After that, no one said anything aloud, afraid of attracting attention. The place echoed somewhat, so they moved things carefully, as quietly as they could. They filled the elevator and then took it down, unloading everything into the tunnel, then returning for more. Pascal found an old wooden dolly with a bent axle. They piled as much on it as they dared, then hauled it using some thick rock Warnick found, to the spiral stone staircase. Warnick, Jacob and John, the largest of their group, picked up the heavier items and they wound their way back to the main cave. Pascal, Narcissa and Anna returned with more by the time they finished. Hours passed this way, and they were all very tired by the time the last item was piled in the shadows of the cave where their cooking fire still smouldered.

Anna took the bucket to the water and filled it, returning with clean cups for all of them. They gratefully took more of the soup and sat back with tired sighs, sitting on the canvas tents Warnick had found; better than sitting on the cold floor.

“Tomorrow we must find food,” Anna commented as they returned their cups to the bucket, too tired to think much.

Warnick nodded and produced the toolbox. “I'll fix the park gate so we can use that entrance.”

“Tomorrow is soon enough,” Narcissa told them. “We have eaten and we are all tired. Sleep now.”

~~~

And that dear friends, was the beginning of our world, this place in which we live and love.

There are more stories to tell, and you will hear them all in time.

Special Gift

by Angie

“Vincent!” Samantha addressed him as she walked into his chamber, brandishing something in dark greens and blues.

Vincent greeted her and waited for enlightenment.

“I made this bag. Mary showed me how.”

“It looks... very sturdy, Samantha.”

He hoped it wasn't for him. The pen holder she'd made him still sat on the middle of his table.

“It's strong, Vincent. Catherine could carry something heavy in it.”

“Ah, I see,” Vincent replied, relieved.

“Would you take it to her?”

“Certainly.”

He would enjoy helping Catherine find a home for it.

He smiled.

Longing

by Katrina Relf

“I wished that it was you ------”

Those words made all the horror of the past hours become almost bearable.  The hatred, the cruelty that exists in your world – man’s inhumanity to man – so many wasted lives.  Why does this have to be?  When will it end?  Yet through it all I sensed the closeness, the tenderness that you shared with Elliott, the dangers that you faced together, the love that he feels for you ---- the moment when you kissed.  I feared that tonight, as you knelt beside me, you would read my thoughts – feel my aloneness --- perhaps you did ---

“I wished that it was you ------“

Those words brought me such joy and such pain.  The pain of knowing that I must not dwell upon them for too long, lest they take me in their hands and will not let me go.  But, oh, the joy of knowing that you could love me, if only I could let you.  Oh, Catherine, if only I could let you.

I would give every part of who I am, every thought of love that I possess – but to what purpose?  To merely speak of love – to tell of longings that heighten with every touch –is but a timeless yearning, a voice lost in the wind.  For what comfort can be found in feelings only spoken, and what power is there in a love that can only exist through words?  For love is beyond definition – it needs expression.  Or are we forever bound to accept a reflection for a sunrise, and a poem for a kiss?

This life we share, this love we share, is always circumscribed by what I am.  I know that ours can never be a life without limits, nor a love without limits.  To wish for more can only be a dream, a beautiful dream, that once dreamt, can only live within my imagining, like touching stars upon the mirror pool, or chasing after the wind.  Just to hold you close, closer than a heartbeat, to smell the softness of your hair, to feel your arms around me, is a wonderment I thought I would never know, and this must be enough, for only in dreams can there be more.

And yet tonight, just for a moment, I saw in your eyes a longing that made my heart believe that, even for us, anything is possible, and I remembered, all too clearly, how only hours before, before all the fear and bloodshed, without thought, I had kissed your hand.  Catherine, were your lips so far away?

-Another excerpt from Vincent’s journal

Ending Drabbles – Season One

(Every episode has an ending.  And perhaps just a little more…)

By C.J. LaBelle

~~~

“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…”

Albert Einstein

~~~

In Fanfiction, Drabbles are a quick kiss of a thing: few words, to convey a moment, a part of a scene, or a particular thought. They add colour to what we already know, or sometimes show things we already know, or sometimes show things we never saw, onscreen. They can be deep and distinct, or fantasy and fun… Anything goes- in 100 words…

This series portrays a set of drabbles framed around the ending of every episode from the first season. They appear in the original airing order.

~~~

Once Upon a Time ~ A Parting Beneath New York…

“Goodbye…” Vincent sighed. ‘I think the saddest thing in the world must be to know the person you love is walking away from you…’

“For now,” Catherine avowed. ‘He’s in my life again. Momentum carries me forward, even as… something draws me back…’

Both minds cried, ‘Don’t let this be the last time we see each other!’

Vincent paused. ‘I don’t know what’s coming next. But something inside tells me, everything’s about to change. Forever…’

Catherine blinked. ‘I’m not sure what happens now. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s anything that’s ever happened before…’

Turning to smile, they part…

~~~

A Children’s Story ~ Into the Light…

“Vincent, I’ve been all over the world, met people, done things. I’ve lived in luxury most people could never imagine. But I can’t remember a time when I felt as good, or complete, as I do right now.”

“Hmmm… I feel it in you, through you…”

“You really can…”

“It’s very beautiful.”

“Sort of… like a dream?”

“Better…”

Catherine moved slowly away, turning to enter the bright beam of light from Above. ‘Farewell, my love…’ her heart whispered.

‘Farewell, Beloved…’ Vincent turned to leave, but paused. He remained, watching the light for some time, before the surrounding shadows consumed him…

Siege ~ Elliot’s Entrance

Catherine walked onto her balcony. She vividly remembered Elliot’s claration… there’d been a terrible misunderstanding between them over his building project.

She blew a frustrated sigh. The only misunderstanding was that she had believed in his lies.

“The building stays!” she’d declared hotly.

Elliot had departed angrily.

In that moment she noticed a book lying on her table. She found it was the sonnets of William Shakespeare. Inside Vincent had written: ‘Shakespeare knew everything’.

A red rose was pressed to the page of the twenty-ninth sonnet. Catherine traced a finger across the words, her mind imagining Vincent’s incredible voice reading to her…

Terrible Savior ~ What a Heart Can Trust

Catherine: “How can one man have so much courage, and

empathy, and passion… and so little mercy?”

Vincent: “Perhaps he lost it somewhere. But he found it again, in the end.”

~~~

I ’ll close my eyes and make a wish. One wish, to last one lifetime.

A wish to be holding you…

A wish to be holding you, as dawn takes the sky.

A wish to be as I am right now.

I know your heart.

I know the words you don’t say are the truest. All the words. All your truths. And mine.

I feel you. I feel… everything.

Whatever it is we both have lost in this life… I think we’re finding it again.

Let Jason Walker be King Arthur. Right now, being “Vincent” is more than enough for me…

No Way Down ~ “I Was Never Giving Up…”

“ I was never giving up.’” I said it. I knew it.

Catherine closed her door and tossed her keys, exhaustion in the gesture. She felt like she’d travelled across the city, after the bomb blast.

She’d travelled. But Vincent had crawled, limped, hid, and fought his way to safety. He’d had to.

They’d beaten him. Badly.

“I could sense you near...”

“I was never giving up.”

She sighed. But perhaps you should. My job… nearly killed us this evening.

Fatigue owned her soul.

You keep wondering if I’m afraid of you. Perhaps it’s you, who should be afraid of me.

The Beast Within ~That First Time…

“Catherine…” Vincent frowned. “This isn’t how I imagined it would be.”

“What did you imagine?”

“Just… different…”

“Saltier… sweeter… what?”

Vincent licked the overloaded spoon she held to his lips. “There’s a strangeness...”

“I find it marvellous that you haven’t done this before.”

“Look at me. How could I?”

“I understand. But I thought someone would’ve--”

“No. The first time should be with you.”

“Because of my incredible dream in the hospital…”

“Yes…”

“We were walking down Fifth Avenue, the sky was blue, and…”

“And then?”

“Then… I bought you your first ice cream, and no one looked twice…”

Masques ~ Beauty in the World…

Vincent tugged the gate open and slipped inside. Behind him, New York was being painted in shades of sunrise, as November’s sun climbed into the sky.

“I wanted you to know there was beauty, as well.”

“I knew that… since I found you.”

The quiet passageway was devoid of company. He was home again, in the shadowy stillness. Yet, it wasn’t the walls he saw. He saw Catherine, in his mind’s eye.

He smiled. If I live a hundred years, that’s how I’ll remember you. Sitting on a bench near the river, while the morning sun drapes you in gold...

Nor Iron Bars a Cage ~ The Best Part of Being Human

‘But how could I forget thee? —Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour…’ ~ William Wordsworth.

~~~

I changed my life. I tried to stay, and thought I wouldn’t. Then I tried to leave, and found I couldn’t. Between leaving and staying, what is there?

They put you in a cage. The last place, the very last place you belong, and they locked you in.

What is freedom, Vincent? Is it not being in a cage? Is that what ‘freedom’ is?

We both know it’s more.

I was trapped in a cage once. You showed me I had the strength to get out, to be more.

Is it iron bars that hold us? Or is it love?

Song of Orpheus ~ Moments of Eternity

“It’s so sad. To have had a beginning and an end and all the time in the middle, empty.”

“They had seven days, Catherine. Seven days.”

“Hold infinity in the palm of your hand…” Catherine stared up at Vincent. “Is that how it must be… for us?”

“How can it be anything else?” Vincent shrugged, drawing her close. “We can make an eternity out of a single moment. You only have to believe.”

“I believe in you.”

“We have our beginning, and who knows how we will end. So we must make the most of our time between the two.”

Dark Spirit ~ The Spirit Within

“I couldn’t allow Ross to possess you.” Vincent rested his cheek against Catherine’s hair. “No matter the cost.”

“I knew you would come for me. Just as you did the first time. I have faith in you. I wish--”

“You must have faith in yourself, Catherine. I have told you how strong you are. You must believe that.”

“I’m strong, when I’m with you.”

“As I become weak, every time I see your face.”

Catherine pulled back to look up at him. “Then, together, we make each other strong.”

“Always…” Vincent sighed, before drawing her back into his embrace.

An Impossible Silence ~ Love, Most of All

“She feels everything… deeply. It’s how she survives… Her strength is her vulnerability.” – Vincent, as Laura leaves the Tunnels.

~~~

“You’re worried about Laura. I understand, Vincent,” Catherine said, as she stood with him. “It’s a great thing she’s doing. Also a great chance she’s taking.”

“It is a chance. And yet… part of me knows there’s nothing I’d rather see her have, than that.”

Catherine hugged him close. “What do you hope she’ll find, with her chance?” she asked, focusing on the positives.

Adventure. Risk. New things and old. Pushing limits. Realizing those… don’t exist, sometimes… And love. Love, most of all.

A smile teased the corners of his unusual mouth. “The very same thing I found,” he replied.

Shades of Grey ~ The Gift of Insight

Vincent watched Catherine vanish into the beam of light from Above.

Turning away, his whole body shuddered. He’d wanted to detain her, snatch her from that light and draw her back into the shadows; the dark places that kept all his secrets. He remembered her last words, so softly spoken.

‘I would have done anything … it wasn’t courage Vincent, it was love...’

He couldn’t reply. He’d wanted to. But his mouth had dried, his poetic tongue, silenced.

‘Coward…’ his dark self gloated… ‘Three simple words... She needs a lover, not a mute fool...’

“I know that!” Vincent’s fists tightened.

China Moon ~ After the Ceremony

Vincent gazed into Catherine’s eyes. “You looked… so beautiful. For a moment… I allowed myself to dream.” He ached to hold her and never let her go. Illicit…

Catherine sighed. “So did I…” She yearned to be held. Impetuous…

“They have a lifetime together. Our time together is always measured in minutes… seconds...”

“Then we must learn to measure our lifetime in another way.”

Vincent sighed deeply. “Yes...” Reckless…

“It’s cold out here. We could go inside… where it’s warm…” Catherine moved closer. Imprudent…

“Could we…?” Irresponsible…

“If we both want it, then it is...” Undeniable…

“Perchance to dream…” Irrefutable...

The Alchemist ~ Paracelsus Rises…

Vincent watched Catherine leave him. Time lost its meaning. It seemed as if eons passed before he finally moved to close the grilled gate behind him and roll the steel door back into place.

“Paracelsus…” He sighed over the name, as it echoed back to him from the shadows.

Walking slowly down the tunnel towards home, his parting words echoed through his mind. ‘There are some things worth risking everything for…’

He knew the truth now. There is no *some* thing. There is only *someone*… He understood that in the marrow of his bones. That someone would always be, Catherine…

Temptation ~ A Siren’s Son

Catherine felt it rising within her. A temptation, an idea, a dream of doing something magical on this very special night.

Vincent sensed her sudden excitement, the feel of her within his arms beginning to change. A frisson, a sensation of purpose.

“Vincent…?” She raised her head from his shoulder, smiling up at him.

“Yes, Catherine?” Love emboldened each syllable.

Whatever his love wants, surely tonight he could fulfil it…

“How do you feel about… I mean, have you ever…?”

“What is it that you find so hard to say?”

“Um, how do you feel about us ordering a pizza?”

Promises of Someday ~ An Honest Man

“You’re now free to move about the cabin…”

As New York slid beneath the wings of the plane, Devin

noticed the pretty brunette next to him.

“I’m Sherry,” she announced, hand extended.

“Devin,” he returned, accepting her handshake. The name ‘Devin’ was already becoming easier to use. He gave her his most winning smile. “Ever been to Anchorage before?”

“First time.” Her brown eyes looked friendly. And interested. “You?”

What to say? Sure, I’m a bush pilot? Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief? Why not find out who ‘just Devin’ is? Try honesty.

“Mine, too. I think we’re going to love it.”

Down to a Sunless Sea ~ Past Regrets

So, they wouldn’t let Catherine see Stephen. After what I did to him, I suppose that’s more of a blessing than a curse… for me.

Vincent set his cloak aside. Midnight scents clung to it.

Last night, blood had lingered there… Stephen’s blood. It had taken a day’s scrubbing to remove it.

Not tired enough for sleep, and too wired to read, Vincent opened his journal, and gripped his pen.

He stared at the blank page for a long minute, then wrote the only honest words he knew at that moment:

I’d have killed him if you’d have let me…

Fever ~ All That Glitters…

“I  wonder what they must think.”

“That it was a miracle.”

“It seems my life has become full of miracles, since you found me, Vincent.”

“The true miracle is that you didn’t scream when you first saw me.”

“Um, I did throw that reflector at you.”

“Yes, but only because I startled you. You didn’t throw it because you were frightened at the sight of me.”

“I never thought of it that way before. I’ve always felt so bad about injuring you.”

“Nothing you could do, Catherine, could ever injure me. Save one thing.”

“I will never leave you. Never...”

Everything is Everything ~ Forgive the Child…

“I owe ya. And a gypsy never forgets.” – Tony Ramos

Catherine eyed the rectangular package with some suspicion.

“I didn’t expect a gift, Tony.”

Tony Ramos smiled. “I told ya. A gypsy never forgets. Open it!”

Catherine set a fingernail to the paper, then paused. “You didn’t… steal it, did you?”

“I never steal!”

Catherine rolled her eyes.

“And I never lie,” he insisted, before she accused him.

Catherine shook her head and tore open the wrapping. A gorgeous picture of a lion stared back at her, gold under black glass.

“Tony. This is… stunning,” Catherine breathed.

“I kinda thought it looked a little like someone you know.” Tony beamed.

To Reign in Hell ~ Paracelsus Humbled…

Vincent leaned closer, while poling the skiff across the misty waters. So you see, Winslow knew the truth all along. He valued love enough to die for it. There’s something worth protecting at any cost. He knew it as the force that binds us together. And in the end, his death allowed our love to live.”

His voice echoed into the shadows, and to any listening ears. He sensed the reverberations of feet hurrying the still-breathing Winslow towards home, and Father’s care.

“Thank you, my friend…” he whispered, watching Catherine bow her head to hide her knowing smile from view.

Ozymandias ~ Forgive Elliot For Loving Her…

Elliot closed his eyes in anguish and regret. He’d gambled and lost. He knew that. But it was the nature of the beast within that drove him to succeed. It would always be so….

Another tower to build, another skyline to conquer. Another woman to love… His heart contracted. No! He felt stymied, immeasurably bound by an emotion he had no time for. And yet…

Her perfume lingered, her soft curves, the shape of her warm mouth when he’d kissed her. He could feel everything, but… it was becoming like smoke within his hands; slipping inexorably through his grasp… Ozymandias…

A Happy Life ~ Thereby Hangs a Tale…

Catherine ran full-tilt across the park toward the culvert. Vincent sprinted out of the tunnel entrance, skidding to a halt. Catherine ran headlong into his open arms and…

They fell together into a tangled heap, as her small body hit Vincent with unexpected force, knocking him flat onto his butt!

Clutching his chest, Catherine gasped, “Oh, forgive me… forgive me for doubting! What we have is all that matters. It’s worth everything!”

“Everything!” Vincent gasped, his strong arms pulling her closer.

Captured, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and then… he kissed her!

And she kissed him right back!

“Yesterday is only a dream.

And tomorrow is only a vision.

But today, well lived,

Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness.

And every tomorrow a vision of hope…”

Sanskrit quote

~~~

“Hope is a Thing with Feathers…”

by Judith Nolan

“We should’ve closed this up.” Winslow scowled at the hole he’d help create in the tunnel brickwork.

“It remains open,” Vincent replied firmly.

“Suit yourself…” Winslow shrugged, watching his friend. “You’re still hoping she’ll find her way back through here.”

“Catherine does not belong in my world. Nor I in hers.”

“But, still you hope…” Winslow persisted.

Vincent sighed deeply. “If you can make dreams a reality, then yes, I still hope...”

“Better not tell Father.” Winslow pulled a face. “He’s likely to have a coronary.”

“Father believes he understands the situation. I must tell him that he does not…”

Lady May

by Judith Nolan

“Attitude is a choice. Happiness is a choice. Optimism is a choice. Kindness is a choice. Giving is a choice. Respect is a choice. Whatever choice you make makes you. Choose wisely.”

Roy T. Bennett

~~~

In the BATB episodes we meet so few of the many helpers from Above. I first introduced the character of Lady May in Dancing Light, the 4th story in my arc of 8 zines. From there, she seemed to command her own backstory be told, so I decided to write it for her… I know she is pleased…

~~~

“I’m trying to decide exactly how angry I am with you.” Seated beside the marble fireplace of her huge drawing room, Lady May Heathcote-Smythe held her diminutive frame rigidly erect, her clasped hands resting on the ornate, gold head of the ebony cane, grounded between her feet.

The elderly widow of an aristocratic English industrialist who had settled in New York several decades before, May was still a formidable force in the city’s social scene. Her society parties were legendary, and she had an opinion on everything… which she never failed to express, at every opportunity.

She stared frostily at her unwelcome visitor. “To make you come all the way to the surface on the slight matter of a trifling chest pain. It is insupportable, Jacob. I thought you knew me better after all these years. When I wish to avail myself of your medical advice, I will ask for it.”

“Olivia and Mary are deeply worried about you.” Father stood in the middle of the room leaning heavily on his cane. He held his medical bag in one hand. The journey to the surface had been long and tiring, but he dared not sit until he received permission.

He gave May a surreptitious once over, but detected nothing obviously amiss, beyond a slight hitch in her speech when she moved. This told of some hidden cause of pain.

He’d already noted the fire burning cheerily in the grate. On a clear summer’s day it made the huge room overly stuffy and warm. He frowned at the glass of whisky on the small table at her elbow. It was barely one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Medicinal purposes,” May snapped, catching the direction of his worried frown. “I have contracted a slight chill. It’s nothing that need concern you.”

“It’s more than a slight cold. Any fool can see that. Mary was right,” Jacob asserted.

Despite his years, he felt like an errant schoolboy, being grilled by a stern headmistress and found wanting. “The last time they visited, you were unwell, too. Your young charges have said you haven’t been yourself lately. And they also told Olivia you haven’t seen a doctor in months. The last time you managed to come and see us Below was for Vincent’s birthday party. That was nearly three years ago. I well remember a time when I had to force you to return Above to keep us all safe. You were young and wild then.”

“Well, they all should know better than to gossip about me now I’m old and crotchety,” Lady May snapped. “It was simply a small matter of my foolish doctor choosing to die before me. Since then, I’ve not found anyone suitable to my requirements. I may be old, but I’m not a fool nor am I senile. I will not be treated as such by some young shavetail just out of short pants with the ink still wet on his medical degree!” Her chin rose, daring Jacob to disagree.

Father’s lips twitched at the all too accurate description, but he managed to maintain his grave expression. “So you choose to ignore your ongoing symptoms rather than ask for help. You know how vital you are to us… to our world.”

“You simply cannot do without me to keep and train those among your young girls who wish to have a life Above. I am well aware of that.” Lady May sighed roughly. “Oh, sit down, for heaven’s sake! You’re giving me a stiff neck, making me look up at you standing there like some homeless penitent begging for alms.”

“Thank you.” Father grimaced as he subsided thankfully into a nearby chair. “You simply must learn to take better care of yourself, May. That’s all we ask. We care very deeply for you. I wish you could come Below more often. We miss your visits.”

“I am well aware of the passage of time, Jacob.” Lady May’s lips tightened as she inclined her head. “I must tell you, Shannon brought her young man to visit with me last week. Elliot Burch is an interesting choice for our little songbird, but a good one. At least, from what they told me, he cares about her and is well able to protect her from the dangers of any unwanted attention. Not like that ghastly beast of a man she married, putting her on show like some exhibit. God rest his foolish soul. Of course, Burch once tried to buy my house, for some awful development or other he was planning. The audacity of the man!” She thumped the end of her cane on the floor.

Her eyes lit up with triumph. “I wasn’t so nice to him in that encounter. I sent him on his way with a very large flea in his ear, and I swore he would never darken my doorsill again. But, for Shannon’s sake, I consented to receive him. And this time he paid his respects with just the right amount of civility and proper courtesy. Therefore, you will be pleased to know, the match has my blessing.”

“Thank you, May.” A relieved smile curved Father’s lips. Of course, it had been under his advice that Elliot and Shannon made a point of visiting May, to make peace and amends. The old lady hated to be left out of anything, despite her recent, self-imposed isolation.

He knew very well the obstinate rod of pure steel that ran through one of his oldest friends and most valued helpers to his world. He had also come to know Elliot Burch. The man could charm the birds from the trees, if he chose to do so, and one offended old lady would not be immune to his considerable address and deft handling.

“And you must tell Vincent to bring those lovely children of his to visit me, as soon as Catherine is well enough to travel,” May commanded. “You know how much I love the little ones. It has been too long since I’ve had babies here.”

“I know you do. And so does Vincent. He’s more pleased than anyone right now. As am I.”

She shook her head. “A grandfather three times over now, Jacob. It is a true miracle. I wish I could attend the naming ceremony, but it is a long way down to the home tunnels, and I’m not so young anymore. Now that Vincent is well settled and happy, all we need to do is find a suitable wife for Devin. Where in the world is my naughty boy, by the way?”

Father knew a delaying tactic when he heard one, but he decided against pushing the issue for the moment. “The most recent letter I received was from New Zealand. The last time he was there, I believe he tried his hand at adventure tourism, with some considerable success. This time, he writes of taking over an island vineyard and making a go of it. He does talk of coming home again, soon. I’ll believe that when it happens.”

“Excellent.” May nodded. “Then you must tell my boy I wish to place an order for ten cases of his first vintage. I know his taste will be exquisite. I will not be disappointed, and I will also make sure the good word gets around. He can count on me to ensure his success.” She spoke without conceit.

Jacob watched her hand clench on the head of her cane, as a sudden shaft of pain made her breath hitch. Despite the heat of the fire she was overly-dressed in layers of clothing.

“Thank you, May. I shall tell him. However, discussing my family will not allow you to escape the purpose of my visit. I will not leave until you change your mind and allow me to examine you.”

“And even if I asked you to respect my wishes, you will not consent to go away until I give in.” May lifted one shoulder dismissively. “You do like to try my patience to its limits, and it’s simply unwarranted. I am, after all, just a frail, old lady. You are taking unfair advantage.” Her firm chin might have trembled and her face become pensive, but her blue eyes glinted with a deeply rebellious look.

Father watched her with resignation. “It is only because I love you very much, May. You know that. And you are not as frail as you like to make out. Please save that line for those who do not know you so well.”

“Oh, very well. Give me your arm then, young man.” May stood, extending one hand imperiously. “Afterwards, when you have decided I will live for a few more years, you will take tea with me and tell me all about the latest happenings in your world down there. I wish I could be that young woman once more and open to such wonderful adventures as you and I once had.”

“Tea it is, then. After I have examined you. A fair trade.”

“You do try my patience.” May sighed. “But, that day I accidentally discovered the entrance to your world right down there in my own wine cellar was the happiest moment of my life. In those times I could be truly free in the tunnels. And Lord knows there were never many of those happy moments back then.”

She smiled sadly, wiping away a tear with an impatient hand. “But I do have my memories. And what times we did have together, when the whole underground world was ours and we thought we could never grow old.”

“You will always be young to me, May.” Father kissed her soft, wrinkled cheek as they left the room arm in arm. “And very beautiful…”

“You, sirrah, are an incorrigible flatterer.” May tapped his arm warningly, but her eyes twinkled with delight. “To sweeten your plans for me, we shall talk of old times and tell outrageous lies to each other, just as we once did…”

~~~

Thirty-five years ago…

“Face it, May Elizabeth Jane, you’re bored. Totally, utterly, discontent with your sorry lot,” Lady May Heathcote-Smythe addressed herself severely, as she sorted through the dusty bottles of wine in the dark recesses of her husband’s extensive wine cellar.

“Well, actually, it’s my wine cellar,” she corrected herself, on a sigh. “Arthur married me for my father’s fortune, not my company. That, he chooses to find elsewhere.” Her lips twisted in dissatisfaction.

The damp, musty cellar room had become her sanctuary. No one else came here unless by necessity. Here, in the darkest, cobweb-strewn corner, she found a measure of peace, and had begun cataloguing the vast collection that was included in the purchase price of the huge, gloomy mansion above her head.

She sighed, as she moodily rearranged the old bottles of wine, imagining her errant husband enjoying himself on another of his extended business trips, accompanied by the latest in a long line of leggy, blonde secretaries he liked to flaunt. May knew her childless, ten-year-old marriage was a gilded prison, but she was powerless to change anything for the better. Her genteel upbringing forbade such a thing. There had never been a divorce in her family. She wasn’t about to be the first.

“I bet those vapid women can’t even take dictation or type sixty-five words a minute!” She scowled at the vintage bottle of 1929 Dom Perignon in her hands. She wanted to hurl it, and the rest of the rack, to the stone floor in a fit of frustrated rage.

But she knew the household servants gossiped, and May was aware her husband was looking for any excuse to put her aside. Wanton destruction spoke of the possibility of a broken mind. He would delight in having her committed to a mental asylum, for her own safety.

“That, I cannot allow…” Her chin firmed.

May would not give him any reason to sue for divorce. Her stiff, English pride, which had carried her through many terrible moments in her young life, might be tattered and torn, but she would not be humbled in the critical eyes of the only world she knew.

She moved to replace the bottle of champagne in its wooden cradle. It was then that she saw the faintest flicker of light showing through a long, thin crack in the stone wall behind the wine rack. She frowned and blinked, passing a hand over her eyes. But when she looked again the light remained, softly flickering. It seemed to beckon to her.

“What on earth…?” She leaned closer for a better look. She moved several bottles aside to get a clearer view.

The crack resolved itself into a haphazard rectangular pattern, almost as if someone had tried to conceal some kind of opening in the damp stonework by bricking it up.

“Impossible…” May frowned.

She had heard stories of underground passageways and bricked up tunnels running beneath the city. People were said to live far beneath the skyscrapers. But New York was full of such old wives tales.

Still, she decided, what do I have, but time…? She reached for the wooden shelving, testing its movability. It gave slightly under her hands, grating on the dusty floor. The wine bottles it contained rattled alarmingly.

In the same moment, a telephone’s strident ring sounded in the mansion above her head. Footsteps hurried to answer it. May sighed. She knew she would soon be summoned back to the stark emptiness of her daily life. Mentally she marked the place where she’d seen the door, knowing she would return soon, when she would not be disturbed…

~~~

The next morning, May decided to give all of her servants the day off. None of them questioned her motives, and she was soon alone in the mansion. She dressed in old clothes and armed with a bag of food, and a powerful torch, she retreated quickly to the cellar.

After much pushing and heaving, discovering muscles she didn’t know she had, she finally uncovered the opening. It had once been mortared into the stone wall, but years of moisture had dislodged some of the concealment. The flickering light intensified as May worked to dislodge enough of the rough stones to effect an entrance into the mysterious place behind the wall. At last, she chipped away an opening just wide enough for her slight frame to squeeze through.

She had no idea what to expect, as she wriggled her way through the hole in the wall. At worst, it was simply yet another cellar room, long-ago bricked up and forgotten. Please let it be something much more exciting… Keen anticipation prickled along her senses.

May straightened into a long, narrow, rock-cut tunnel that ran away into darkness in both directions. At wide intervals, someone had hung old oil lamps that flickered in the damp air, but gave away little of what lay beyond their intermittent illumination. There was a hush, and a faint sense of unseen menace.

“Now what…?” May looked up and down the tunnel, seeking any inspiration about which way to go. The sweeping beam of her torch was next to useless in the near darkness.

The rational thing would be to retreat back through the wall and return the stones to their place. Forget the madness of roaming the fetid darkness, seeking who knows what…

“Be sensible, May! For God’s sake!” May jumped as her husband’s exasperated voice sounded in the back of her mind. “You’re my wife! Not some hooligan child who can do, or say, as she pleases! Don’t make me beat some good sense into you, again…”

May’s lips tightened with displeasure. Her spine stiffened. The rebellious child within her would not be beaten into submission.

She glanced at her wristwatch and decided to forge ahead. She eased her way along the tunnel, moving from light to light, trying to pierce the gloom ahead of her. Her journey finally terminated in a jumbled barrier, a mass of tangled wire and sheets of rusted iron that seemed to have been there, forever. There didn’t appear to be any way around or over.

“Just when I thought I was getting somewhere…” She pushed against the barrier, but it appeared to be cemented in place.

From beyond where she stood, she could hear a faint tapping, almost as if someone was drumming a tune on the metal pipes that ran along the damp stone wall on her side of the barrier, before disappearing beyond. Impossible! Nothing makes any sense…

May turned to look back the way she’d come, reluctant to retrace her steps and admit defeat. Not when she had come so far. She turned her attention back to the barrier. Perhaps there is some way to climb the thing, or go around it. I’ve just got to find it…

She spent some time assessing her options. She didn’t intend to go home until she had solved the mystery. She approached the barrier again with renewed determination.

All the time May stood there, trying to decide what to do next, she was completely unaware that she was being observed through a narrow slit in the brickwork beside her. One of the outer sentries from the world Below watched her for some time, before hurrying away to tap out a message of alarm to the home tunnels.

Alert! Intruder seen at barrier in section six…outer tunnel…northeast quadrant…

~~~

Vincent looked up when Father limped into his chamber. “You have been away a very long time and you look very tired. How is Lady May, or should I not ask?”

“Oh, May is as stubborn as ever.” Jacob shook his head wearily. “And just as hardy. A little indigestion from eating too much rich food coupled with a decided unwillingness to slow down or compromise her lifestyle. I cannot believe she’s nearly seventy. I remember a young woman who could run the legs off any of us, once upon a time. She virtually lived in the tunnels whenever her husband was away overseas on business.”

He sighed. “Many a time I had to force her to go back Above, and put in an appearance in her own life. She only went because she knew her presence here compromised our safety. I know she would rather have stayed. She said we made her feel alive, and loved. We are viewed as the family she never had.”

“I am relieved to know she is well. I don’t think I remember a time when she wasn’t offering to help us. She is a force of nature.”

“She is, indeed.” The old man shook his head at memories he’d just revisited. “May came into her own only after her husband was killed in a car crash in Monte Carlo back in `62. It was then she decided she would house any of our girls who wished to return Above. She never looked back, and she refuses to mention her husband again. I know theirs was not a happy marriage.” He set his bag down on the table with a grateful sigh.

He moved closer to his son, placing a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “She loved all the tunnel children like they were her own. You, in particular — she couldn’t get enough of you when you were a baby. She and Mary often disagreed over your care…” He shook his head. “May won more times than not. She often aided and abetted Devin in some of his more outrageous schemes, too. It is a shame she never had any children of her own. She was a natural mother. Now she looks after those of our girls who choose the life up there.”

He crossed the chamber to look down at Vincent’s three-week-old twin daughters, sleeping in their adjacent cribs. “She insisted I stay to take tea with her and regale her with the tales of all our doings. But at least, before I left, I managed to secure her agreement allowing Peter to take over as her physician. She is not happy with me for telling her a few home truths about her condition.”

“I can well imagine. And I wonder if Peter will still be speaking to you at next month’s Summerfest.” Vincent chuckled as he came to stand beside his parent, placing a comforting arm around his slumped shoulders. “You have succeeded in a very difficult task. May is not the easiest of people to deal with.”

“She requested… no, make that, commanded… that you and Catherine must visit as soon as you are all well enough to travel. May said your children are a true miracle.” Jacob stroked one of the sleeping babies softly, on the cheek. “And I agree with her. Have you and Catherine decided on names yet?”

“We have.” Vincent nodded. “We were waiting to talk to you about the naming ceremony.”

Jacob took a firmer grip on his cane, to ease the pain of his hip. “Of course, when you are ready. Everyone is looking forward to it. It was such a shame Jacob’s ceremony had to be so private, and held under such impossible circumstances, with us all in hiding and afraid of our own shadows. I cannot tell you how glad I am for all that to be behind us now. We are finally free of the past, so we are going to celebrate in style. And, despite my misgivings over her state of health, I think we should do our best to see if May can attend this one. She expressed a wish to revisit her youth, and I’ve a mind to help her realize the dream.” Father looked around the chamber. “Where is Catherine? I hope she is resting, as I ordered?”

“Yes, Father.” Vincent laughed and nodded. “Shannon has gone Above to spend the weekend with Elliot. She insisted Catherine must use her chamber whenever she needs to do so. Last time I checked on her, she was asleep. Mary is reading a bedtime story to Jacob in her chamber.”

“Good. I’m pleased. At least one of my patients has listened to my advice.” Father picked up his medical bag. “So now I must go and write a referral to Peter on May’s behalf, before she has time to reflect, and change her mind. She will not escape this time. I’ll send Geoffrey Above with it, first thing in the morning. Good night, Vincent. I can only hope you will sleep better than I will, tonight.”

“Good luck, Father.” Vincent kissed his forehead before the older man left the chamber, shaking his head and talking to himself about long-ago things, and how it was once the best of times...

~~~

“Live your truth. Express your love. Share your enthusiasm. Take action towards your dreams. Walk your talk. Dance and sing to your music. Embrace your blessings. Make today worth remembering.”

Steve Maraboli

Too Little Too Late

by Allison Duggins

*Credit given to Abby Laboy for story idea.

~~~

"Fate has given Vincent another chance. The life I thought could never be is now a reality… thanks to dear Catherine. I was so wrong about her. I can finally correct my mistake and try to make amends at the same time."

After much soul searching, sleepless nights and wandering the tunnels, Father had finally decided to discuss with Vincent a possible future with Diana.

"Vincent, there is something I've been meaning to speak to you about, but I've been holding back because... because I believe it will be... difficult.

"Difficult?"

"Yes. Very, I'm afraid."

"Why so?"

"Because I'm afraid it's about something you're very much not going to want to do."

"Sounds... foreboding."

"For you, yes. Vincent... I want you to learn to accept the idea that you might just be... happy again, someday.''

"Happy again?"

"Yes, happy again. Learning that some 'good' things can and will come for you, and not be brutally taken away."

"I don't think so, Father."

"You shouldn't allow your life to be a monument to mourning and regret over what was lost."

"I lost the only 'good' thing that ever came into my life and I doubt anything or anyone could replace that."

"What about Diana?"

"Diana is a friend... "

"But she could be more."

"It won't be the same. It can't be."

"You just have to give it a chance, Vincent."

"You never wanted to give Catherine a chance and now all of a sudden you're all accepting of Diana when you were never accepting of Catherine spending her life with me.

"You told me when I first brought Catherine here that she could only bring me unhappiness… that you always dreaded that moment when my heart would lead me to long for a life that could never be."

"I discovered I was wrong to believe that."

"Catherine also told me what you said to her when I was lost Above... 'I have warned him, pleaded with him. Your relationship with my son is a tragic mistake… for both of you'."

"I regretted saying that to her as soon as I said it."

"She saved me, Father. And now... I don't know if I can continue... "

"I once asked you if you have nothing of Catherine inside you."

"Of course I have."

"Then ask her to help you make the right choice and think of those who love you now."

"How can you ask this of me?"

"She was so much a part of our lives, Vincent, her not being here has caused us all a great deal of heartache."

"I know that, Father."

"We just want you to be happy, Vincent, and I believe that there is that possibiltiy with Diana. Are you angry with me?"

"In a way."

"Why?"

"I'm angry with myself that I never told her how much I loved her and that ultimately I couldn't keep her safe. I am angry that you never believed in Catherine and now all of a sudden you're believing in Diana."

"Then you should take this as a blessing… that maybe Diana was meant to be instead of Catherine."

Vincent exploded with a roar and turned on Father with all the anger and rage he was feeling.

"How can you say that? Hell, yes, I'm mad at you, Father. How much more might Catherine and I have had, how much more time, how much more loving, how many more chances… had you been more supportive of the idea.

"You never believed in us. NEVER! And now you believe in this? Are you mad, Father? Or is that Paracelsus in there again, goading me into ill action.

"Father, when Snow invaded our world, and I wanted to go after him, you told me, and I quote 'She's gone, Vincent. You can't buy her back with your own blood. You won't find her again by embracing death.'  You asked me if I wanted to die. I did, Father, I did. Now you want me to consider a life with Diana.''

"I'm sorry, Vincent. I didn't mean… "

"Didn't mean what, Father? Any harm in the idea of my being with Diana? Any harm in not believing Catherine was good enough for me or me good enough for her? Any harm while you interfered in my life regarding Catherine. Dammit, Father, I loved her!"

"I know you did and I regret my actions regarding Catherine but that shouldn't stop you from considering a possibility with Diana."

Vincent’s laugh was one wrought with bitterness.

"The great Jacob Wells finally admits that he was wrong. You had seven days with Margaret, SEVEN days, Father, after thirty years of misery and you wouldn't even allow Catherine and me the same amount of time together."

"She spent time with you... "

"Not like you and Margaret. And now you want me to make a life with Diana… To give Jacob a mother… as Catherine should have lived to be."

"Vincent... "

"Father, I asked you once if we were forever bound to accept a poem for a sunset when Catherine wanted to take me to her lake in Connecticut. I was unable to fulfill even Catherine's slightest wish. Yet you now urge me to try to do with Diana the things that I so desperately wanted to do with Catherine, but you never thought were in any way possible."

Father just stood there, unable to utter a sound.

"Catherine once told me 'I love you with all my heart and I want to walk through life leaning against you, so that neither one of us falls'."

"Everything you've said is too little, too late, Father. Damn you, for finally coming to your senses about Catherine… after she is gone."

Vincent stormed off, leaving Father wondering when his son might return. Would he ever be forgiven? He prayed that in time, this wound he caused would heal.

******

All the Fine

Young Princes

By Cindy Rae

I always wanted to know what would happen if Catherine ever met the “perfect man” for her. Someone without Elliot’s complications or Tom Gunther’s vanity, or Stephen Bass’ illness. What effect would it have on Cathy? What, on Vincent? What effect would it have on this “new character,” as he steps, unknowing, into their love story?

Whenever I ask myself questions like this, I never quite get the tale I originally bargained for. Which is to say I think I know where it’s going to go, but it trots off someplace else, just a bit anyway. The narrative just seems to take over, and takes me where it will, as the characters we create want to be treated like the “real people” we’ve made them. As do Vincent and Catherine.

To that end, please enjoy:

Chapter One

New Recruit

The day had been a long one; the week, even longer. But that’s just the natural progression of days and weeks, Catherine reasoned, as she shouldered the purse that also served as a briefcase. She was finishing up a witness interview on a robbery case. She’d been out of the office more than in it this week. And she’d had company, in both places.

Her new companion had longer legs than she did, and she got the feeling he was shortening his stride to match hers, out of either habit or politeness.

"So, Joe Maxwell’s a good guy who won't eat me if I don't dot my i’s and cross my t’s, and he's a baseball fan who looks out for his people as long as they're strictly legit." Philip Blair recited Joe Maxwell's virtues to Catherine, as they walked out of Murray's Liquor Store, and into the New York evening. Greenwich Village bustled all around them. “Anything else I should know?” he asked.

Philip was the “new kid” at the DA's office, though at twenty-nine, “kid” was a bit of a misnomer. He was friendly, efficient, and eager to prove himself. He liked to please, but wasn’t ingratiating about that. He listened, and had a quick mind. It went beyond saying that the DA’s office could use him.

Catherine answered him, as they moved down the sidewalk together. “That’s Joe in a nutshell. There’s more to know, of course. But you’ll get there, in time.”

There were worse new hires to get stuck with, Catherine thought, as they came from questioning the store owner about a robbery. Philip had been helpful, politely steady, and had known instinctively when to step back and let her take the lead. He hefted his own leather briefcase and matched her stride, as they wove through pedestrian traffic.

He drew a few stares, mostly from admiring women. Philip was GQ handsome, in a sandy blonde-haired, blue-eyed kind of way. Catherine smiled to herself. Much worse, she added mentally, not caring about his looks as much as she cared about his work ethic. So far, all had gone well.

Gratefully, this was their last task of the day. Quitting time buzzed on the street everywhere. The five o’clock rush was about to commence in earnest.

This was the third time he’d accompanied her to learn how to do a witness interview. Her new companion was learning the ropes, ropes Catherine had been tasked with showing him. So far, Joe had been pleased with Philip’s progress. They’d be cutting him loose to handle things on his own, as soon as it was feasible.

“Oh, and Joe is lead prosecutor on the big ones. Like the Taylor conviction,” Philip added.

"Yes. Highest profile cases go to Joe, unless there’s a reason not to,” she answered genially.  “He's a good man, Philip. I promise you there are worse bosses.” She moved with him through the flow of bustling New Yorkers.

"Nothing wrong with fighting the good fight, when you know you're doing it for a good man, as well as a good reason,” Philip returned, subtly turning a broad shoulder to help clear a path for them. She accepted his help… nimbly.

He was handsome, Catherine decided, and carried both his looks and his better-than-average size well. That wasn’t a statement regarding any attraction she might have for him, of course, it was just a solid fact.

He had an athletic build, which had been at least somewhat bought at a gym, not to mention due to the gift of being nearly six foot two.  His tan meant he spent time in the sun. The pattern of callouses across his palm meant he spent time boating, and that meant he came by the sun-streaked blonde hair and the even tan honestly.  His blonde hair had a natural wave that made it a little unruly. She liked him on instinct. She had no reason not to.

He’d been following her lead, and asking the right questions. He came in early. He worked hard, and he was bright. All were good things, for everyone concerned.

In the short time Catherine had been “training him up,” as Joe put it, she knew he’d been a good hire. Witnesses responded well to him, and he maintained a steady kind of eye contact during interviews.

Natural charisma went a long way in this job, both with witnesses and with juries. Philip seemed to have that. He’ll do just fine, if he keeps it up, Catherine thought.

He’d learned quickly over the last two days, and was very professional. He listened closely to her advice, wasn’t afraid to offer an opinion of his own, and was content to be the student, not letting ego or sexism get in the way of his education. He acknowledged her as his teacher and mentor, and wasn’t afraid to pitch in.

He looked like he would perhaps be more at home at Chandler and Coolidge, than he was at the District Attorney’s Office. There was just something about him that gave Catherine that impression.

"Is that what you're here to do?  Fight the good fight?" she asked. She realized that with all the questions he’d asked her about the job, they’d had very little time to swap personal information.

He nodded, and the motion caused a sandy lock of hair to fall over his forehead a little, something that happened regularly, despite his best efforts to keep it back and tamed.

Philip shifted their position so that it was he who walked closer to the street, keeping her on the inside.  He moved his briefcase to the outside hand, so it wouldn’t bump her leg as they strolled.

"Sure. Fight the good fight. Catch the bad guys. Make a difference," he answered, as he shrugged at the trite sayings. The decently broad shoulders lifted his tailored blue blazer.

He sounds like me over a year ago, Catherine realized, with a subtle smile. And much the same as any starry-eyed optimist, though for some reason, she didn’t think he was one of those. There was a certain worldliness about him she couldn’t miss.

But if he said he wanted the job so he could do good in the world, that was good enough for her.  If he kept up like he had been, he’d manage it. He was good with people, and a smooth interviewer. He had a gift for putting strangers at ease. He had a sharp memory, a head for details, and the easy kind of charm that most people reacted well to.

Once he got some experience under his belt, Catherine didn't doubt he'd be just fine on his own.   Her perennially short-staffed office could always use more foot soldiers in the war on crime.  That was a constant given where she worked. So far, he’d been a welcome addition to the team.

"Joe will help you do all of that, then,” she said. “And we can file these statements in the morning. Just make sure… ”

“That I file the witness statements after the police report, but before the forensics report or anything sent in by ballistics or toxicology. Gotcha.” He was learning. Quickly.

“And?” Catherine asked, raising a soft eyebrow.

He searched his memory. “And keep Joe apprised.  Especially as long as I’m new.  No running off on my own to take down organized crime, single-handedly.”  He gave a soft chuckle at the image.

“Right. Oh, and if the Met lose a home game, don’t bring it up.” She smiled back at him, and he nodded again.

“We’re in the thick of it,” he said, noting the size of the crowd.

Catherine could only silently agree that they were. Every cab pulling up to the curb was being wrestled over by multiple potential customers. They’d have to wait at least a few minutes more to grab one. Cathy knew the drill. Every New Yorker did.

They stopped at a crosswalk, as the cars’ engines made revving noises, even though the light was firmly red. Humanity crowded itself to the edge of the curb.  New York. There was no other place like it.

“Oh… and Joe’s a sucker for good lasagna,” Catherine tacked on. “But I wouldn't bring him in one of those just yet," she joked.

"Bit too much of a brown nose?"  Philip chided.

The light changed. Traffic bolted through the intersection like a herd of metal racehorses out of the gate, while in the other direction, it came to a screeching halt, indicating they could cross. He moved smoothly with the crowd, his hand in a protective position at the small of Catherine’s back, both shielding her and keeping them together as they moved.

Catherine glanced over, as they walked. His blonde hair was a few shades lighter than her own.  His strong chin and the crow’s feet that framed his blue eyes indicated he was one of those men who would probably age well. The bottom of his Armani tie fluttered a little, as they hustled.

Catherine measured what she’d learned about him over the course of the last few hectic days, as they reached the other side of the crosswalk and stepped up onto the safety of the curb together.  Though nearing thirty, he was possessed of a certain boyish demeanor. Much worse people to be stuck with, she thought again.

He dropped the hand from her back the minute her feet hit the opposite pavement, aware that touching her any longer would have been perceived as improper, or forward. He knew to walk on the street side, an indication of old-fashioned manners.

So far, he’d been the perfect gentleman and a willing student. He’ll be ready to go on his own, soon, Catherine thought. Joe will be happy. And I can get at least a couple files off my desk.

The question in his blue eyes made her realize she hadn’t answered him about being a “brown nose,” before the light had changed… but he hadn’t forgotten that the teasing inquiry about bribing Joe still stood between them.

"Just a bit of a brown nose, yes," she returned, beginning to enjoy the walk back from the interview.  They'd file the statements later. For now, she declared them both off the clock. “It’s officially after five. Quitting time,” she stated.

Philip nodded at that and stayed near, stopping to eye a silver thimble in a shop window, before they moved on. Window shopping: The preferred activity of half of New York. Cathy couldn't resist the urge to look at a piece of tatted lace. They were in the area near several antique stores, Mr. Smythe's bookstore, and a few upscale (or at least eclectic) retailers and salons.

"Maybe I'll just suggest lunch at Luigi's." Philip planned. "And for the record, the designated hitter rule really does suck."

Catherine smiled at him. "You two will get along fine. Luigi's is a little out of Joe's price range, however. But the cannoli is to die for," she added, indicating that it wasn't out of hers. They walked a few more paces and she took in, not just what she already knew about her companion, but what else her sharp mind could discern.

Philip Blair was dressed in the conservative uniform of the downtown attorney. Which was to say, navy blue slacks and a matching blazer, white dress shirt, and dark patterned tie. But Catherine had been raised with a certain amount of wealth, and recognized it, to a particular extent, when she saw it. It wasn’t just evident in his wardrobe. It was evident in almost everything about him.

He held doors open for women out of both training and reflex. He walked behind them going up a flight of stairs, and ahead of them going down, able to catch one if they stumbled, either way. He never interrupted a sentence no matter who was speaking, and never sat in the chair first, if there was a woman at the table.  He kept a steadying hand at the small of her back when they crossed the bustling New York streets, but never touched more than very lightly, and only when the crowd was thick. When a group of them had gone to lunch, he stood when any of the women left the table, or returned to it. Whenever he took off his jacket, he checked his collar with a subtle swipe of his broad hand. When he put it on, he took a second to make sure his cuffs were even before he moved. He inclined his head when he listened, a gesture so much like Vincent's own, that Catherine had to smile. His thick, sandy hair had been styled at an expensive men’s salon, not just cut at a barber shop. His nails were a little uneven from racket ball and sailing, but still well kept and gleaming white. His ring was of heirloom quality, a signet in an antique setting. He favored Armani ties. His watch was from Switzerland. His loafers were from Saks 5th Avenue. His briefcase was too. She’d gifted her father its twin, for Charles’ birthday.

Catherine finally began to add it all together, and in that moment, she knew why he would fit right in at Chandler and Coolidge. "Blair.  Blair…"  Catherine recited the name, as they walked.  "There's a state representative named Blair. Forth district." Cathy ventured.

His long body tensed, just for a second. Then, he let it pass. "There's a senator named Kennedy, in Massachusetts, too," Philip tossed out the nonsense sentence, his eyes growing wary. He slowed down his pace.

"Are you related to the senator from Massachusetts?" Catherine asked politely.

"No. And please don't ask if I'm related to the state representative named ‘Blair.’ I'd see it as a personal favor,” Philip responded, telling her pretty much what she had already guessed. Philip Blair came from not just “money” but “old money.” And lots of it.  He even looked like his relative, a little.

"They won't hear it from me. But you do resemble her, you know," Catherine informed him.

"You can tell that from grainy newspaper photographs?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can tell it because Marjorie Blair and my father used to sit on the same charity board together, once upon a time. She's nice, Philip. You should be proud of her."

Philip cocked his head to the side again. "Catherine, I've known Marjorie Blair since I was old enough to touch her Faberge eggs. And she's got three of them, though to be fair, one is small.  'Nice' isn't a word I would have used for her.  But she is amazingly focused and talented. And we are never going to get a cab," he said, scanning the busy street.

He was right. It was no sense trying to hail a cab here, either, Catherine realized. Though the crowd was finally starting to dissipate a little, it was still too large to compete with. They’d need to walk a bit more and wait for the mob to thin some.

She stayed in step beside him, fascinated by his lineage. Marjorie Blair was indeed all those things. Catherine had voted for her… twice.

"Seems like being focused and talented might run in the family," she complimented.  “You’ve done very well this week.”

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, strolling next to her more easily, his hands in his pockets, while the wide leather strap that was attached to his briefcase rode his shoulder.

Then, he looked at her very much the same way she’d just looked at him. Charity board, huh? Well, isn’t that interesting.

"Chandler… Chandler…  Charles Chandler? Like, Chandler and Coolidge?" If her father and Marjorie had known each other on a charity board, that put Catherine in a certain level of company as well, Philip reasoned.  He rapidly put two and two together.

She smiled. "The same," Catherine answered. "But Joe knows about that, and hired me anyway."

"Ahhh.  So that's why he calls you 'Radcliffe,'" Philip remarked. He eyed a Meissen teacup in one of the store windows. His mother would probably love it.

"Is Marjorie your mother?" Catherine asked.

"My aunt. Aunt Mags, though we've all been sworn to never call her that in public. Even the babies have to take the pledge. And she's been photographed with all of those." He gave her a smile that revealed he either had great genes or had spent several years in braces. It was a sincere smile, for all its perfection.

Catherine laughed at his easy charm. So he, like she, had been born with a silver spoon and every privilege, and was now working at the DA's office.

She admitted to being curious. "So, you're working for not enough money to pay for your law degree, dipping into your trust fund to pay the rent, and dealing with some of the most irredeemable people on the planet because....?”  she asked.

A soft, low voice that would serve him well in the courtroom gave an immediate answer. "Let's just say I believe in redemption more than I believe in most things. What about you?" He tossed the question back at her.

That question was not so easily answered by Catherine. Unless you omitted some key details, which she did naturally.

"I was attacked a couple of years ago." She lifted her hair to show the scar. "It kind of changes your perception of things."

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrian traffic flowed around them, thanks to his size.  She expected the reaction she received.

"I'm so sorry." His tone, like his earlier smile, was sincere. Then, a memory flickered across his eyes, a connection. "Oh, now I remember. You hit the papers for a while." He searched his lawyer’s mind for the particulars.

She watched his blue eyes as they hunted for something, then found it.

"Something about the length of time you were missing."

Very good. She would have to be careful. He did indeed have a keen mind.

Then, his reaction to his own statement surprised her a bit.

"I apologize. That was an unforgivably rude thing to say." His blue eyes were deep with meaning.  "The thing I should have said was," he touched the hair that covered her scar gently, "No one should ever have done that to you.  I hope that the men who did paid dearly." The look on his face was beyond genuine.  She was touched.

"They did.” She didn’t want to say more than that, for obvious reasons. “And it's water under the bridge now." She smiled at him, letting him know it was okay. He accepted her understanding, and strolled with her down the wide block a little further.

The atmosphere between them became distant, as each of them dealt with separate memories and individual concerns.

“Remind me to never get caught in this part of town at quitting time again,” Philip said, scanning the sidewalk. Though less crowded than it had been, it was still packed.

“Midtown isn’t much better, but yeah. It’s a zoo,” she replied.

Then, they crossed in front of number 777, Mr. Smythe's booksellers. Philip glanced up at the display window. "Well. Would you look at that." His voice contained just a touch of amazement.

She stopped with him, to see what he was seeing.

A book display crowded the space in the shop window. Of course, children's books, since a late Easter was coming. A large woven basket and scattered plastic eggs were the backdrop for some excellent children's literature.  Eric Carle, Doctor Seuss and others stood colorfully amid the display, with some stuffed animals thrown in for good measure.  Catherine saw The Little Engine That Could along with The Little Red Hen, and Jemimah Puddle Duck among others.

"Excuse me.  But do you mind if we stop in?  There's something there I need to get for my niece."

"Sure. What do you see that you like?" Catherine was curious.

"In the back. There's a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, and it looks to be the same edition my sister used to read to us when we were kids. I bet she'd love to have it for her daughter."

Catherine turned toward the window again, surprised she'd missed a copy of her favorite children's book.

Small wonder. It was buried deep in the back of the display, all but obscured by Beatrix Potter books.  The Tale of Peter Rabbit and The Tale of Benjamin Bunny nearly covered it.  Rabbit books.  Of course.  Philip was already on the other side of the window, and Mr. Smythe was extracting the book her companion had noticed.

Catherine went inside the first place she’d ever seen Kristopher Gentian. The bell over the door jangled, as Philip conducted a quick transaction.

"Did you want that wrapped, sir?" The portly bookseller asked the attorney.

"Not right now, thank you." Philip paid for it with a gold card. "I want to look at it for a while first."

“Very good, sir.”

Philip handled the heavy spine with care. "This has seen some love," he said about the book. Smythe sold both new and used editions of nearly everything. This was clearly the latter.

Mr. Smythe’s soft voice spoke up, as he conducted the transaction. “A book waits until it finds its way back home again. That one has been out of print for many years. I’m pleased to see it found by someone who holds it in such high regard.” His bespectacled eyes fell on Catherine.

“Oh, hello, Miss.  Come to browse the poetry section, again?”

Catherine shook her head. “Just stopping in,” she replied.

“Ah.  Well.  You didn’t bring the titwillow with you, did you?” He cast a glance over her shoulder.

Catherine chuckled, and Philip raised a curious head from the pages of his book.

“It’s his nickname for Joe.  Don’t ask,” Catherine shook her head and relaxed, as she laughed over what was clearly an old joke.

She was even lovelier when she let her tension go, Philip realized. Not that he planned to do anything about that.  Just that it was a fact he noticed. You should laugh more, Cathy Chandler, he thought. Happiness becomes you.

“Don’t ask why Joe Maxwell’s nickname is ‘Titwillow?’ I can make no promises on that score whatsoever, Your Honor,” Philip said with mock seriousness, still holding the book. He turned the pages with care. A few were dog-eared, but overall, it was in good shape. Inside the front cover, the words “This book belongs to MARY” were written squarely, the name printed in blue crayon.

"It's perfect,” Philip told her. "Look. Even the name is right. My niece is named Marilyn, but we call her Mary. Or ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ depending on what kind of day she's having."

He continued to smile, as he caressed the pages from his youth. Then he looked back up at Catherine’s bemused expression.

"Uh oh. I just realized I'm losing major macho points, being in the company of a beautiful woman as I’m standing here, holding a book about a stuffed animal." He returned the book to Smythe, who waited with his charge card, an open shopping bag, and a receipt.

Catherine chuckled at him. "Thank you for the compliment, and I promise to think that later, you will go scuba diving with sharks."

"I appreciate it." The smile he sent her was electric. He tucked the card back into his wallet and gathered up his purchase.

"Besides, you just bought my favorite children's story. Do you mind if I look?" She extended her hand, and Philip extracted the book from the bag and handed it to her as they exited the store.  They moved near the wall, away from the flow of finally thinning foot traffic.

Catherine carefully opened the volume. Her delight was immediate. “The pictures are wonderful!" Catherine enthused. A series of highly detailed paintings clearly had the attention of her green eyes. Philip stood right beside her, as she turned the pages. “These are amazing. So much detail,” she observed. Blue morning glories climbed a garden gate post. The toys had been taken outside, for a picnic. A huge willow trailed glossy green leaves. Dragonflies buzzed and butterflies flitted. It was beautiful.

“See the picture of the Old Skin Horse?" Philip pointed. "That was my favorite. The binding on our book had a crack in it, right there, thanks to me skipping to that page all the time," he said.

It was charming. A truly lovely edition.

"You say your sister used to read this to you?" she asked, leafing through some more pages. The beautiful, familiar story that had always warmed her heart and made her think of her childhood, did so again.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit. 'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' She smiled at the familiar line. Nostalgia was a wonderful thing.

"Emily read it to me over and over, yeah,” he answered. “She was like, four years older than me. Little Mother.  We'd sit in the bay window and she'd read me everything. Including this.” He let her hold the book for as long as she wanted.  She traced a loving fingernail over the picture of the bedraggled rabbit, one where his fur was mostly gone.

“I wonder what happens to all that stuff? The stuff from our childhood?" he idly mused, as she enjoyed the beautiful book. It had been an expensive treasure, in its day. Oversized. Pastel paintings. Its hard cover and end pages were scrolled with a riot of garden flowers. “I wonder where it all goes.”

Catherine thought of all the cast-off things in the world Below.

"Maybe it gets carried away to where the poor children who love good books and toys live,” she offered, envisioning the tunnels.

"Yes," he replied, liking her fancy. "Charity does some amazing things, when it's working right."  He misunderstood her meaning, of course. It was all right.

"Yes, it does," she agreed simply.

Catherine gently closed the cover, sparing another thought for her tunnel family, and for Vincent.  Looking up at the slit of sky between the buildings, she realized how late it was getting. She'd stayed out much later than she'd planned.  She handed him back his book.

"Well.  It was a lovely way to spend the time, but I need to be getting along," she said, signaling for a taxi, now that the crowd was finally letting up. One pulled up to the curb.

"Nice working with you again today, Miss Chandler. Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow,” he told her, settling her into the cab.

“You can call me Cathy.”

“Not ‘Radcliffe?’” He smiled as he teased her, and helped her with her overstuffed briefcase.

“Only Joe gets to call me ‘Radcliffe.’ Have a good night.”

“You, too. Take her straight home," he instructed the cabbie. "Can't have anything happening to my new mentor." He gave her a friendly nod as he closed the door.

She watched him walk away from the curb, the shopping bag in his hand, the expensive briefcase still slung over one broad shoulder.  Philip Blair, you’re an interesting man, she thought.

Chapter Two

Growing

Philip continued to learn quickly, and in the days that followed, the pace of being a public servant kept him busy.  He was fast on his feet, fairly organized, smart, and steady, no matter what got thrown at him, and by extension, the two of them. He continued to be friendly, but professional, and didn’t cross any lines. Catherine appreciated that about him. All of it.

One rapid-paced afternoon, they ate hot dogs on the run, as they crossed in front of a crumbling Catholic church. They'd just come from interviewing an abuse victim, and then grabbed the food. It had been hard to make out the victim’s words, since her jaw was so swollen. Her husband had skipped out, and Philip and Catherine had taken her statement.

The church reminded Catherine of something Philip had said the other evening, when he’d bought The Velveteen Rabbit.

"Before, you said something about redemption,” she prompted.  Is that what this job is to you?

He looked up at the same stone building she had. Ancient, stained glass reflected what sunlight there was. "Redemption. Yes. Also known as 'dodging a bullet,' among the wealthy." He bit into his stand-up lunch.

"You dodged a bullet?" she asked, hefting her loaded briefcase as they crossed the street.

He swallowed. "I did," he responded, but offered no details.

She inquired no further, and simply finished her hasty meal, once they’d reached the safety of the opposite sidewalk.

"Cathy, how do you do this?" he asked, as he threw away the remains of his food. For a moment, she thought he might be asking her about needing to eat on the run before they filed paperwork with the judges on their roster.

"How do you interview people like that woman, then go home and not feel like throwing yourself off a balcony?" he asked, clarifying.

Ah. That. He’d been doing the job nonstop, and was due to blow off a little steam… past due.

"The same way everyone else does, I suppose,” Catherine answered calmly. “There's always hope, Philip," she added.

"Hope?”  His tone let her know what he thought of her assessment.  “The woman's husband pimps her out when they're short on rent. When he's not beating her.  They’re both alcoholics and I’ll kiss your ass if all she smokes is tobacco, or takes aspirin for her aches and pains.  What hope is there for that, Cathy?"  He was frustrated… past it… and it showed.

Steady. There’s a reason the burn out rate on this job is high. "Maybe not much," Catherine replied honestly. "But there are places she can go if she decides to change her life. There should be more. But they do exist."

“Yeah.” He blew out a long stream of frustrated air. He was listening. Taking in her words.  Calming down. Trying to let the tension in his long frame dissipate.

He raked his blonde hair with a tanned hand. "Do you think she'll ever use one?" He was truly curious as to what she thought.

Catherine knew the odds. "I think she might.” She allowed for some cautious optimism. “Marla Shemp might not be a straight-A character, but she's got a dream for a better life, same as anyone else.” Catherine wiped the remains of her lunch off her hands with a paper napkin. “Which is why I won't be throwing myself off my balcony this evening." She crumbled the paper and tossed it in the garbage bin, overtop of his.

"You were more upset over the neglect case," Philip observed.

She caught his eye. He was sharp.

"Children are different.  They can't fend for themselves." Catherine answered, a little surprised that he'd picked up on that.

"You seemed more upset over Marla," she returned, giving tit for tat. "Do you mind if I ask you why?" Catherine asked.

"It bothers me when large men put their hands on small women,” Philip said. "Not much of a challenge in blacking a woman's eye when you outweigh her by about eighty pounds." He folded his arms across his chest. It was a defensive posture.

Catherine took him in. "Seems like we all have our little sack of rocks, then,” she said.

"Ain't it the truth,” her companion replied, with a shake of his handsome head.

He held his mouth in a grim line for a moment, then let the tightness go. Catherine knew he’d already had the lecture about burnout and the job. So far, he seemed to be handling the work load okay.

“Okay. Break time over,” she said. “If we hurry, we can get this filed before four. Keep the ball rolling on it. Get the restraining order in place. Get her some help, maybe.”

Catherine saw him looking back toward the church, for a moment. Then they caught a cab.

Deadlines to meet. Reports to write up. Paperwork to file. Phone calls to make. Phone calls to answer. Catherine sighed.

Some days, it felt like the work never ended.

Chapter Three

Parting

Vincent came to see her that night, but only briefly.

“Another long day?” he asked, as she settled into an obviously tired heap, beside him, on the cushions. The low balcony wall was to their back.

“Mmm. If crime would take a day off, I’d be very grateful. You?” she asked.

“Much the same, though likely not with your… pressures,” he replied, cradling John Milton, while she tried to stay awake.

“You have pressures,” she replied, nestling against his arm. She wasn’t even pretending to be able to keep her eyes open.

He smiled a little at that. “As does everyone. I was going to apologize for not being able to stay for long, but considering you’re half asleep as it is, it’s probably just as well.” He closed the cover of the book.

At that, she did open her eyes to look at him. He needed no bond to see how weary she was.  “Paradise Lost is staying lost, then, I guess?” she asked, indicating the book.

He nodded. “Pascal and Cullen are anxious to get an early start. We’ll be gone in just a few hours, well before breakfast.”

An early start...  It took her a moment, and he could sense her searching through the bond. She’d forgotten about what he was referring to.

“The mapping expedition.” They said it almost together.

“I remembered, I just… forgot for a moment,” Catherine said, knowing an oxymoron when she used one.

He merely nodded in understanding.

“Do you know how long you’ll be gone?” she asked, both trying to cover for forgetting and praying he hadn’t already told her.

He shook his head. “It depends on where the trail leads us, and on the terrain. Pascal is packing heavy gear, in case we have to climb.”

“That sounds… dangerous,” Catherine wasn’t sure if she liked the sound of it.

“Not very,” he quickly reassured. “Cullen is no mountaineer, so I can’t see us attempting anything too steep. And the area has pipes until it approaches the labyrinth. Then they pick up again on the other side. Pascal wants to see if the two sides can be connected somehow, so that a message can reach the pipe chamber without having to be relayed by a helper, or a sentry.”

“The labyrinth is dangerous ground.” They both well knew its hazards.

“Which is why we’ll be searching for a safer way around it, rather than through it,” he returned.

Catherine nodded, and settled her head back against his beloved arm. Though she’d love to have him stay longer, she had known about the trip after he brought up its possibility, more than a week ago. It was something Pascal was looking forward to, greatly. And exploring was something Vincent himself loved to do.

But she knew there was a bit more to it than that. You’re leaving to go with Pascal and Cullen. We both knew you would. I knew you would, even before you told me last week, either that, or something else would take you away.

Before work had thrown the kitchen sink at her, Catherine knew that they’d been edging closer… “Closer” in a way that was becoming uncomfortable for him, and by extension, her. She’d known he was going to agree to the trip even before he told her about it. This was part of a thing he did when he needed a bit of separation from her, needed to “reset” his internal balance. In the years they’d been together, it had become part of the routine, between them.

They were getting used to the pattern of it. Used to taking a step back, even as they took them forward.  In honest moments, Catherine couldn’t say for certain whether that was good or bad, but she knew it was sometimes necessary, for Vincent. Vincent, who did indeed have “pressures,” of which she could only guess. She’d expected him to do it long before this.

We draw close. And you leave, for a while. It’s been this way since the beginning. Will it always be this way? It was a question she didn’t dare give voice to.

The city was to her back, the apartment before her. She knew if she’d been livelier, they’d be standing up, taking in the park view. As it was…

“Just be safe,” she replied. “Let the others take care of you, just as you take care of them.”

“I will do so.” He inclined his noble head as he made the promise.

And who will take care of you? He wondered, asking the second question between them that went unasked aloud. He knew her work was a thing that often taxed her. But the trip had been arranged, and he knew he couldn’t cancel.

He needed to regain the sense of balance he lived by, and the one that marked their days. It was easier to leave when the pressure between them started to build.  Not that his reasons for going weren't valid. The mapping trip had been something that needed doing for a while. He had mentioned Pascal’s desire to plan it out weeks ago.

Catherine sighed internally. You are sorry to go. Except for the part of you that’s glad you’re leaving.

It caused a flicker of resentment, which she tried heartily to suppress. Being angry with him for all they couldn't be would do no good.  Either they would sort their way through the notion that there could be more for them than what they enjoyed now, or they wouldn't, or couldn't. She understood. She truly did. She even agreed sometimes, for all the good it did either of them.

Still, she was tired from the fast pace of the week, yet desperately tired of the slow pace of their year. As much as that didn’t make sense, she knew it did.

“You should take care as well,” he intoned, referring her fatigue.

“I will. There’s a new hire who’s coming along. It will get better.” She squeezed his arm and eyed her mantle clock.

Time between them often still consisted of stolen moments. When he was gone, she counted the long days. When those happened, even the stolen moments seemed like they were insufficient.

“When I return… is there something you would like to do?” he asked.

She had no answer. It was impossible to arrange a trip to beneath the band shell, or a visit to Henry and Lin’s, when neither of them knew when he’d be back.

“I think they’re doing Rimsky-Korsakov, next week. No, wait… maybe the week after?” She tossed out the suggestion.

He simply nodded at that. Next week, he might still be gone. The week after was more likely to find him home. He knew he could make no commitments. So did she.

She was tired of trying to figure out where they went next, not just “what they did together,” but what they did together as a couple.  But there were no more answers to that than there had ever been. Sometimes they felt bereft of any real level of understanding when it came to where they were heading, if they were heading anywhere except right where they were.

Some days, Catherine felt irritated at the notion of having to wait for clarity. But she also knew she had little choice but to do so. Fighting against discontent pushed Vincent away even harder, and faster. Vincent hated conflict with her, and he was bond-sensitive to her unhappiness.

She wrapped her arms around his solid one and stayed near. Holding him close, she felt the soft, spring night as it gathered into the folds of his cape.

"I'll miss you," she told him simply, keeping herself near.

"And I you." They were the right words, and he meant them. But she could feel time tugging on his sleeve.

“You’ll leave early, then?” she asked.

“It’s best if we do,” he said, eying the same mantle clock. “Pascal is… enthusiastic about it.”

“Well. You should go get some sleep, then,” She released her hold and then brushed at his cape, wanting to grab it and hold on instead.  He felt the war inside her.

“I wouldn’t have missed coming to see you,” he replied. But part of her wondered if he did so because he knew the words were expected. Then she slapped herself mentally, for being so uncharitable.

We’re just tired, that’s all, she thought. And she thought it at almost the same time he did.

"You wouldn’t have?" The words were out before she could call them back. "Are you sure you won't just... oh, I don't know… keep going farther and farther away, exploring?  You know how curious Pascal is," she tacked on hastily, aware she'd overstepped some, and tried to step back.

Vincent caught the slip. "Yes.  He's curious. But he also hates to be away from the pipe chamber." The big beast inclined his head. You’re exhausted. You should get to bed. And I… must leave. He knew he had to, before he gave into the temptation to carry her into the room himself. He kept his head at his customary angle.

That was at least the second time Catherine had seen that gesture today. The first time had been on Philip.

"So, I am sure we will return as quickly as possible. Is something... unsettling you, Catherine?"

He knew there was. Her emotions had been on something of a roller coaster at work. She was alternately harried, satisfied, frustrated, relatively content, irritated, happy, curious, and a whole range of other emotions. He’d felt her during the day. No wonder she was tired.

And he was sorry he'd asked it as soon as he'd done so. Because that meant she might actually tell him, and he knew what really unsettled her he had no cure for. They were, right now, all they could ever be, each to the other. It chafed and it strained… but there it was.

He could not change the hiring practices of the District Attorney’s Office, so that her work day was easier. He could not change either the demands of her day or his. He knew he had to go so he could get some sleep, in front of what promised to be an arduous day, not to mention before he told her everything that was in his heart, listed everything he wanted her to give up, so she could be with him.

He knew that would never do. He couldn’t define what they were by what she had to sacrifice.

"No.  I'm just...  I don't know. Restless,” she answered. “Spring fever. Easter is late this year," she sighed.

It was. Not that it made much difference, but it was.

"So it is.”

He re-opened the cover of Milton’s masterwork and read just a little more. Her clock chimed, just as Adam declared his ultimate devotion to Eve.

“So forcible within my heart I feel

The bond of nature draw me to my own,

My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;

Our state cannot be severed, we are one,

One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.”

Her clock chimed. It was officially eleven. They both knew what that meant. He closed the battered tome and tucked it inside his cape pocket.  She rose with him, knowing she needed bed as much as he did.

“Be well, Catherine. I’ll send you a note, to let you know when I’ve returned."

He left her, stepping away with the almost silent grace which always seemed to mark his passage. In a moment, he was gone.

Catherine stared out into the late night sky, feeling that a note would be such a small thing to receive. And it was pathetic that she'd be overjoyed by it, when it came. Some small scrap of paper with nothing more on it than "I have returned," or "I will meet you at the Concert this evening," or... anything. Just anything, as long as it was from him.

She was beginning to feel like a beggar in her finery. Like someone who would settle for very little, since it was all she could have.

“I’m just tired,” she said aloud to the empty night.

Chapter Four

In the Line of Fire

The week passed by at its same hectic pace for Catherine. The work load eased a bit when Philip began doing more things on his own, rather than requiring her guidance. He was a ways from taking a case all the way to trial on his lonesome, but he was handling the pressures of the day to day just fine. By the end of the week, things seemed to be lightening up some, thanks to his extra pair of hands.

Joe was pleased, and just as swamped. A case against a mob enforcer was going to trial, and he was carrying that particular ball. Everyone else in the office had their own concerns. Ted was working a burglary case. Rita was too. One week flowed into another.

The day Vincent returned, Benny brought her a sandwich with a brief note of homecoming. Catherine unfolded the yellowed scrap of parchment.

I am returned from mapping, but there are other things that need my attention. I will join you as soon as I am able. ~ V.

Catherine folded the note and tucked it into her pocket. Then the phone rang. And the rest of her day engulfed her.

Philip Blair, meanwhile, watched her at her desk. Her somewhat lost, unhappy expression was not lost on him as she tucked the paper away.

~~~

The day Marla Shemp died started out like most others. Files, phone calls, too much to do, and not enough time to get it done. Philip was the one who took the call from her, which in the statement he gave later, made him the last person she ever spoke to. She said she remembered some things and wanted him to come over. Philip knew he was not to go alone. Catherine accompanied him.

"I don't like how she sounded on the phone, that's all." Philip told Catherine, as they climbed the stairs to Marla's apartment. The door wasn’t latched, and when he knocked, they both realized it was slightly ajar. Knocking sent the door in. Philip stepped in after it, on reflex.

It turned out to be the wrong thing to do.

Marla wasn't there.  But Karl Shemp, her abusive husband, was.

Oh, hell. Catherine was right behind him.

They left the door to the hall open. If it wasn't for the fact that Marla had called from this phone not forty minutes ago, they wouldn't have gone in at all.

"There's a restraining order on you." Philip said, pushing open the door wider. He did not see Marla in the room. Good.

"I know. I pissed on it before I came over, rich boy," Karl informed him, from a position near the living room window.

Okay, not good. Catherine's radar was pinging. Karl Shemp was a big man with a beer belly, and he wore an undershirt with so many stains on it, it was no longer identifiable as 'white.' His tan pants looked like they'd been slept in, and deep, horizontal wrinkles bisected the legs, where he’d been sitting. His hands were empty. He didn't smell of liquor. But Catherine was very uncomfortable, just the same.

"Karl, this is not a conversation you want to have." Philip’s voice had a warning in it. "Where is Marla?"

"Why don't you take a look around?" Karl challenged him.

"That's not what I asked you,” Philip said. It was a small fleabag of an apartment. They were standing in the kitchen/living room/dining area combo. The only other two rooms in the apartment were the bathroom, and one bedroom. The bedroom door was wide open, the rumpled bed in view.  The bathroom door was shut. Philip nodded toward the bathroom, to Catherine, who crossed to it, knocking.

"Marla?” Catherine's voice called to the woman. She didn’t like how tense Karl suddenly became. She could see his eyes darting. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

Catherine changed course. "Philip, we'll come back tomorrow. Karl, please tell Marla we stopped by." She wanted them out of there. Now. They could call for a unit once they hit the street.

Karl began to hack and cough, and bent over double. Catherine jerked her head toward the door.  Philip stepped toward the exit, waiting for her to go first, and they almost made it… until Karl came up with the gun, having pulled from the waistband in the back of his pants. His cough was suddenly better.

"See, I don't think so. I think you assholes are way too much into telling me what is my business." The gun was not steady, but it was definitely there, and trained on them.

Philip moved a step closer, rather than away. "Karl, nobody wants to get up in your grill." The younger man moved his larger body between Karl and Catherine. "Women. Can't live with them, can't just get rid of ‘em, huh?" Philip offered, praying Catherine was running out the door, using his big body for cover. She wasn't. Damn.

"Funny thing. You can." Karl answered, trying to figure out what to do next.

"Don't make this worse, Karl,” Philip advised. “You can cop a temporary insanity plea. If the guy who shot Reagan did it, you can."

He’s thinking fast, even with a gun pointed at his chest. Catherine would give him that. Philip was trying to give Karl a lifeline, and praying he took it.

Not today, apparently.

"Don't bullshit me, you spoiled, silver spoon sonofabitch. You got no idea how crazy I am. Bitch got to die before I did.  Don't matter to me if I take a couple more of you rich assholes with me.  They can't burn me twice."

Philip had an idea that he knew what was in the bathroom, and it wasn't good.

Catherine was behind him, but moving to the side. When Karl cocked the gun, Philip had only a moment to think.

On instinct, he turned and grabbed her, then shoved her beneath his bent-at-the-waist body, covering her, putting himself firmly between the gun and Catherine. He was being a meat shield.  It was a crappy plan.  But it might get one of them out of this alive. If I can just get at least one of us out the door, maybe…

The gun fired, and Philip tensed every muscle, fearing for the worst. Catherine was beneath him, her head tucked under his torso, where he'd enfolded her. His arms were holding her there, trying to protect her head.

Philip Blair's instinct was to close his eyes. It was the instinct of panic and fear. And the one he knew he could not give in to.

Catherine struggled beneath him. Then they both heard the roar.

It was a roar.  Philip understood that. A safari on the Serengeti had taught him what one of those sounded like.

And suddenly, Karl the pimp/wife beater/murderer was simply not there anymore.

The smell of the fired gun was in the room… but the gun no longer was. Neither was the man who'd been holding it a second before. It was as if something had yanked him backward, out the window he'd been standing in front of… yanked him cleanly… taking the two hundred and forty pound man clear off his feet and sent him flying.

"What in the hell?"  Philip said, as Catherine wrestled her way clear of his protective hold.

"What?"  Catherine asked him, looking toward the still-open window. The curtain rod was bent.  Karl had tried to grab for the drapes on his way out.

Catherine's eyes were worried, Philip noted, and not as panicked as they should have been.

"I don't know.  He was here.  Now he's gone." Philip straightened, and cautiously approached the window.  Sirens.  Thank God!  Sirens coming.

"Philip, be careful.  He still has the gun." Catherine made to pull him back.

But Philip wasn't careful. Philip was reckless.

It was why he saw two things.

The first was Karl, three floors below him, on his back, on the concrete in an alley. The gun was near his hand, but he was either unconscious or dead. Blood was already pooling.

The second was a man. A hooded man, and a big one, on the rooftop opposite the building where he and Catherine now stood. He was moving, fast. Very. Then, he was gone.

"Did you see that?" Philip asked her, pulling her toward the view. Somebody up on the roof," he clarified. "Big. Wearing a dark… cape of some sort."

"No,” Catherine lied. "I was behind you. Are you all right?" she asked, looking to see if he'd been hit, though they both knew he hadn't been.

"Pretty as they day they christened me, though I have no idea why," he said, turning his arms over. A police cruiser screeched up into the alley.

Catherine's mind scrambled. "It looks like he got tangled up in the drapes somehow… and fell backward."

It was the only explanation that made any sense, though it made no sense at all.

"Maybe the kick from the gun? He underestimated it?" Catherine tried to cobble together some sort of explanation.  Quickly.

"Yeah, because Karl the wife beater can't handle the retort from a thirty-eight?" Philip shook his head.

Catherine stayed quiet, afraid she might say something to make it worse.

"I heard a sound. Like a… roar. It... It must have been him, but..." Philip’s voice trailed off, trying to make sense of the senseless.

"It must have been," Catherine said shortly.

"I didn't get a look at the guy across the roof. Probably a local. I wonder what he saw?" Philip stared in that direction, still.

"Good luck getting him to tell you.” Catherine hoped her voice was neutral enough. "Witnesses are notoriously hard to scare up in this part of town." She stepped back far away from the window, hoping he would do the same.

Philip nodded, looking around the room. The bullet had bit a hole in the masonry. Karl’s shot had gone high, thanks to his backward fall.

"Get ballistics to come dig out the slug. I'll go see if we need to add murder to Karl's rap sheet,” Philip said. He did not want her to be the one to look into the bathroom. So he did. What they both feared was in there.

“Rest in peace,” he said, closing the victim’s eyes. Catherine, from her position across the room, heard him.

~~~

They did need to add murder to Karl’s rap sheet at first, and then they didn't. Though Karl was alive when the ambulance transported him to Mercy General, his outcome was dire, though not from his injuries.

Karl Shemp was dying of cancer. Rapidly, and of the lungs. He wouldn’t last long enough to stand trial. He would barely last long enough to mark the day of his wife's funeral. They filed the charges, anyway. Marla Shemp would suffer at his hands no more.

Her body had been dumped in the bathtub, the whole time.

Joe Maxwell was concerned. He’d come too close to losing two good people, one of whom was Cathy.

“Take the day, Radcliffe,” he instructed. “File your statement. Put it on my desk before you go.”

Catherine blinked, already planning what that statement would be. She’d told half-truths to protect Vincent before. Today would be no different. For the most part, she knew her story would match Philip’s exactly. Where it didn’t, it would be because of how he’d been holding her, or how she’d been standing behind him at the window. She gave a mental shrug. She’d already told Philip she hadn’t seen anything on the roof. She’d just repeat that.

“Radcliffe?” Joe questioned, noting her distracted look.

“Yes, Joe. And for whatever it’s worth, Philip did well. He was steady, and he tried to talk Karl out of it.”

Joe turned the information over, in his mind. “Yeah. Well, okay. Good to know. On my desk. And try to stay out of the line of fire for a while, will you, Cathy?”

“Will do,” Catherine replied.

Chapter Five

Awareness

"It's a horrible irony that if she'd only managed to survive him a while longer, she'd have buried him, and not the other way around." Catherine told Vincent later, as they sat on her balcony.

"The specter of death makes people behave... unpredictably,” Vincent said. "The man sheltering you.  Was he injured?" Vincent asked.

"Philip? No. We were both fine, thanks to you. But he saw you, Vincent. Just a glimpse. But you must be more careful." Her green eyes were worried.

"I regret that I did not have time to sort out the particulars. If you could arrange to be shot at alone next time..." there was gallows humor and mild censure in his voice, at the fact she'd ended up in danger.

"I'll see what I can do." She squeezed his hand, just glad to be near him again.

"This Philip.  He works with you, now?" They had been out of touch for the time he’d been gone.

"Philip Blair. His Aunt is Marjorie Blair."

"The congresswoman?"

"The same.  I think he's… paying his dues, or something. He's the new kid on the block.  Joe had me show him the ropes. I don't think that's going to be my job anymore, considering I got him shot at today," she said.

"You could not predict what that man was going to do, Catherine." Vincent defended her to herself.

"No. But I could predict that he was unpredictable. Even Philip picked up on that."

"He sounds intelligent, then. And brave.  He was protecting you from the gun… or trying to."

"I'm a fortunate woman," she said, rubbing Vincent’s arm. "I have amazing friends."

Vincent embraced her, gently. Philip Blair. So this is who Vincent had sensed lately. Though she had regularly felt overwhelmed, or even sad, Catherine's mood had also been lighthearted at times, of late. Vincent wondered if this man was to thank for it.

"I must go." He separated them, reluctantly. "There is a planning meeting in the morning, something about food storage and medical supplies. And there are the results of my trip with Pascal to discuss. Cullen thinks we might be able to excavate to the west of the maze. Peter Alcott and Father have requested my presence." He brushed her cheek with his. Things felt more... in balance between them. The separation had done its usual magic.

"Go on, then." Catherine told him, squeezing his hands again. "And thank you again for today." She too, felt the relief of their routine. These were the easy days. The days when he was newly back, and would come to her more regularly for a while, before the tension between them began to build.

She accepted that it was so, only because she had no idea what else to do. Complaining about it would solve nothing. They were both very aware of their routine by now.

"I am only glad you were uninjured, Catherine,” he said sincerely.

“Thanks to you. Good luck tomorrow,” she said, knowing he had to leave.

“To you as well.”

She stepped back toward her doors as he took the fire escape up to her roof.

Philip Blair, from far below, saw nothing clearly. But he saw the shadow of something on top of her roof, in the gibbous moonlight. It looked like the movement of a large man… a large man wearing a dark cape.

~~~

Weeks went on, and Philip officially finished his 'probationary period,' with Catherine. They worked together occasionally, on this or that case, and Cathy served as his co-counsel on the first case he brought to trial. It was a win, and Joe was pleased.

Philip noticed that Catherine never mentioned a boyfriend, though she was often busy. On her birthday, two dozen red roses were delivered to her desk, from her father. She was pleased, and he was pleased for her.

But still, he knew Catherine Chandler had a certain aura about her… one that indicated that there was far more to her than met the eye.

They saw each other everyday at the office and once, by chance, at the Metropolitan Opera House. She'd been there with Jenny Aaronson. He'd been there with Marjorie

Blair, and a few other family members. He introduced her warmly, and Catherine's measure was taken by the congresswoman from district four, at least one interested sister, and the pixieish Marilyn, among others. They had a family box reserved. Catherine wasn’t surprised.

Philip wasn’t sure what Catherine was involved in. Only that no one in her office seemed aware of the particulars either. She was single, never brought around a boyfriend, did charity work, volunteered at the crisis hotline, had dated Elliot Burch once upon a time, and was an heiress.  She'd never had so much as a speeding ticket, and other than the attack, had no brushes with the law. She'd been in the same apartment since college graduation. It had been a gift from her father. The title that had originally been in his name, had been transferred to her, the same month she’d passed the bar exam.

He knew all of it, because he'd quietly looked it up as he grew more attracted to her, and more suspicious of the caped figure he’d seen leave her apartment. He saw the shadowed figure leave her place twice more in the next few weeks, and those were only on the nights he happened to be looking.

He remained curious about the beautiful woman who worked near him. She was bad with punctuality, but great with witnesses. She was passionate about what she did. The people in her office who knew her, liked her. Philip swore she was genuine. But also that she was… part of something else. He couldn’t explain it to himself any better than that.

What are you into, Catherine Chandler? he wondered, more than once. Who comes to visit you that can’t use the door?

Criminals. Criminals did that. But Cathy didn’t seem the type to get mixed up with those. Nothing about her said “drugs,” “gambling” or any other vice. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be involved with something illegal, at all. It made her more of a puzzle to him.

Philip knew it all meant he was stalking her, on some level. He also knew he was at least a little curious. Without having seen the figure of a caped man leave the crime scene at the Shemp place, he probably wouldn’t have bothered, so much. As it was, however…

So, he walked by her place as often as he was comfortably able. Other nights, he had other obligations. He wondered if she did, too.

Philip purposely chose not to bring up the caped man to Catherine. She'd lied to protect him, once. Clearly that meant he was important, somehow. If he was a secret Catherine was keeping, she kept it with a vengeance. Besides, near as Philip could tell, the anonymous man had saved both their lives.

Philip was surprised, however, when he received the note.

I mean you no harm. Will you consent to meet with me? It has to do with Catherine.

Central Park, the bench by the stand of laurel near the band shell.  Nine o'clock.

The note was tucked under his sandwich, on his desk. Either it arrived with the food, or somebody had set it there prior to Saul’s rounds.

Philip eyed the long, slender script. Fountain pen. Something of the old world in the handwriting. A southpaw, judging by the slant of the letters.

Philip tucked the note into his pants pocket. Curiouser and curiouser. Without knowing how he knew who it was from, he knew who it was from.

He also recognized the yellowed, almost antique quality parchment paper.

It was the same as the note Cathy Chandler had tucked into her pocket several days ago, and earlier, from time to time.

Chapter Six

People Like Us

The night was mostly clear, but there was a hazy mist, just enough to make the bench a little damp. There was no moon. Philip stood near the park bench for only a few minutes, before he was joined by a tall, hooded man who seemed to literally slide out of the dark.

Philip wasn't sure he was expecting this caped being. On the other hand, it was either going to be Catherine who wrote him or this person. There was no one else.

"I was rather hoping you'd be Catherine, having me on a bit,” Philip told his companion, as he settled as far distant as he could get. He perched on the arm of the park bench.

"Were you?" A soft baritone voice emerged from the deep hood.

"But her handwriting is different. So I could only hope so much," Philip replied. The June night gathered around them. Late as it was, the sun had not been down for long. Summer was on its way.

"I know what it is to only be able to hope 'so much,’” the deep voice replied.

Philip bet he did.

"So. I'm Philip Blair. And you are a man who wears a hood to hide his face. Can't say I see that we have a lot in common,” Philip extended his hand anyway. A gloved one took it, cautiously.  A huge one.

"Vincent," said the hood of the cape.

Vincent eyed his guest. He wore a London Fog raincoat against the damp. So. This was the man who'd been making Catherine... happy, lately. Vincent tried to assess him.

"Ah. Vincent. I wasn't sure if you'd tell me your name." Blue eyes met blue, though Philip had no way of knowing what color Vincent's eyes were, as the other man kept his face to the shadows.

Vincent took Philip’s measure. They were of nearly equal height, though that meant almost nothing. And Philip had come here, even when he didn’t have to, because the note had mentioned Catherine.

Vincent knew he risked much for this meeting. But he felt he had to.

"There is no reason for you not to know it." Vincent stepped away. He was big, Philip realized.  Very. The cape could hide his bulk, but it could do little but accentuate the breadth of his shoulders.

"Do you mean Catherine any harm?" Philip asked him, bluntly. He knew he was looking at the man who'd yanked Karl Shemp backwards out an apartment window. A man who had saved his life, probably.

"No.” A pause. Then, “Do you?" Vincent returned.

"None whatsoever,” Philip toyed with the idea of standing, to even the distance between them, then realized he wouldn't. He settled himself more comfortably down on the bench, then stretched his arms across its back, claiming territory.

"You cover your face,” Philip said, “Is it scarred?  Like Catherine's? Is that how you two met?"  Philip asked, trying to pierce the veil of secrecy this being wore like he wore his cloak. A heavy cloak, put together in patchwork style. Well worn, as were his work boots. A working man, then.

"Yes, my face is... scarred.  But not like Catherine's.” He did not answer the last. And when he said the name "Catherine," Philip detected just the barest hint of... something. Something like reverence.

"Are you the reason she was missing for ten days in April?" Philip asked. It was a wild shot.  One in a million.

There was a pause. "Yes,” Vincent answered.

Bullseye.

"I have answered your questions honestly.” Vincent’s deep voice carried his sense of gravitas.  “Now it is your turn to tell the truth,” Though Vincent was turned toward Philip, he stayed well back, his face kept hidden, by his hood. Philip glanced up at the moonless sky, wondering if his companion had waited for just such a night to arrange their meeting.

Now we’re getting to why you asked me here, Philip thought.

"Are you in love with Catherine?" Vincent asked him.

Philip leaned forward on the bench, and kept his hands loose, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Actually, this is the part where I might not want to answer, since I might not want to die. I get the feeling you are,” Philip replied.

Vincent's low voice conveyed nothing but sincerity and depth of soul. "I am and always have been.  I think I always will be. She is the depth and breadth my soul can reach.” He paraphrased Browning. "But... a... life with me... it is not possible… for her. We have… reached our limit.” It was a sorrow Vincent had been grappling with recently.

Vincent struggled to put sentences together coherently. Philip realized that a man who paraphrased Elizabeth Barrett Browning probably didn't have that problem very often. Whatever else he was, he seemed to have a certain gift for eloquence… until he mentioned parting from Catherine.

"Then to answer you honestly, I don't know. I might be.  I'm not sure if she is, or can be, so I'm guarding against it," Philip told him, with point-blank candor.

Vincent sat down on the other end of the bench. A few feet separated them. His face was still in shadow, deep within the hood.

"You have to love her with your whole heart," Vincent said, as if he were explaining something to a pupil.

Philip shook his head. "You clearly don't quite understand how marriage between people like us works.” His tone was rueful. And careful. When Vincent didn’t say anything to that, he continued:

"It's a deal, even when it’s a love match. You make the first. You build the second."

Vincent tried to fathom the complex man before him. He had leapt to the word “marriage” unprompted.  We understand each other, then.

“A… deal. That sounds like barter,” Vincent replied.

"In a way, it is. We make a bargain. And then we live with it. It’s a merger of assets. All of those. If it's a good bargain, there are happy years, and good children. Or good years and happy children. Whichever." Philip sat silently, offering no more by way of clarification about how it worked for “people like us.”

“That seems… cold-blooded, to make an… arrangement of it.” Vincent replied.

Philip shrugged. “A poor man’s marriage isn’t less of a deal, just because there are fewer assets to split,” he reasoned. “It just makes it harder to send your kids to the best schools.”

Philip knew instinctively that "children" was something this man was not going to offer Catherine, for whatever reason. Maybe his deformity, whatever it was, was hereditary.

The two men sat in the hazy night, trying to gauge each other’s intentions.

Philip's mind, as always, worked quickly.  He did not feel as if he were in danger.  But he wasn’t sure exactly what he did feel. Worried for Catherine, to be certain. That feeling had been with him for a while.

Whatever this caped and hooded man was, if he thought himself not good enough for Catherine, Philip was going to agree with him.

Philip liked Catherine. More than a little. He’d been trying to resist it, but there it was. He'd been worried about whatever it was she'd gotten herself tangled up in. But he knew he liked her. He knew that much, at least. He also knew that he could know more, could feel more, in time.

Philip looked out toward the distant lamp, near the sidewalk path. The one he bet his companion wouldn't go near. He toyed with asking Vincent if he’d yanked Karl Shemp backwards out a window, but dismissed it. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that. He thought of Catherine, again. His next words were careful.

"If she and I do happen, and you leave her to me, and we marry, I can promise you she'll want for nothing, all her life.  Nothing."  It was a brutal truth for this caped man to hear. But it was the truth.  "My family has the kind of money and connections Charles Chandler just brushed the surface of." Now Philip Blair did stand.

"She’ll have some monster of a house, with servants. A castle, with staff. Not only will she pick the charity she wants to fund, hell, she’ll be all but required to. I don’t think she’d mind that.”  He saw Vincent’s shoulders tense with understanding. Philip did not let up.

“We’d travel, often. Her children will have every possible advantage. Foreign language tutors, European vacations, music lessons… They’ll go to the best schools. Be senators, more than likely, someday."  His hands went into his pockets, as he took a few steps, seeing a distant point, and aware that the mention of “children” meant moving off a ways was prudent.

"Albany, first. Then Washington. Who knows? A woman like that? Maybe one day her son will be President. It's not outside the realm of possibility, Vincent."

There was no lie in Philip's words. Vincent knew it.

"Or if they study law, maybe the Supreme Court. No elections to put up with." Philip raised a sardonic eyebrow.

After a moment, Vincent replied. "The chance to do great good," he said.

"You are an idealist, aren't you?" Philip answered this strange man before him, and marveled that they were having this conversation.

"Aren't you?" Vincent asked him.

"Oh, God no, and not for a long time," Philip stated bluntly.  "But that doesn't mean I don't admire Catherine for her principles, for her heart. She would be treasured for those qualities.  She's an exceptional woman, Vincent. You don't need me to tell you that."

Vincent rose, then took a step back, clearly ending the conversation. "No. I don't need you to tell me that,” he replied. After a moment, he turned, and simply faded into the thin mist of the spring night, leaving Philip Blair where he stood.

Well, that was interesting, Philip thought. He walked back to his apartment, turning over what any of it meant, or if it even meant very much, on the whole. I don’t know what you’ve gotten into, Cathy. I really don’t.

He now knew Catherine had a protector, of sorts. But the strange conversation had forced him to confront how he had been feeling about Catherine, himself. What if I fall in love with you? Where does this man, this Vincent, fit in, then?

For that, he had no clear answer.

Chapter Seven

Social Circle

Catherine didn’t work with Philip as a partner for a many days after that, though the DA’s office continued to be a buzz of activity. Everyone at the office was slammed with work, and every attorney there had a full “in” box and was expected to carry their own weight.

Philip was doing that very well. Well enough so that even Joe was feeling generous.

"Blair, you're living a charmed life. Three convictions, one dismissed due to lack of evidence, and six, count them six, plea deals. I think that means I owe you a beer." Joe said, one payday.

"For seven plea deals, do I get dinner to go with it?" Philip joked.

"Only if it's a hot dog. And only if you look like Cheryl Tiegs." Joe said, and the sexist remark earned boos from Edie, Cathy, and Arlene, one of the other attorneys.

"What?  What? Oh, that was sexist? Please. You all are lucky I even let you work for me under these sterling conditions." Joe held his arms wide to embrace the sterile environs of the office.  The group chuckled.

"Come on, Chandler.  Edie. We’ll go to Kelly’s Bar on Sixth. The Mets are taking on the Padres and I'm buying the first round."

"Well, okay.” Edie said, grabbing her purse. “But we want you to know we're only letting you do that for us because we think you have nice legs, Joe."

The group laughed at that, and Catherine headed out the door with her friends.

--

The sports bar was packed, since it was Friday. Joe set pitchers of beer on the table with nachos, on him. After that, it was every man and woman for themselves; as a rear projection big screen TV broadcast the game.

Catherine watched Philip, and discovered that he and Joe had much in common. For one, both of them yelled at the umpire on the TV screen.

"Ball? That was a ball? He was trying to take the guy's head off with that pitch." Philip raved.

"Might be looking at an assault charge." Joe agreed, taking a drink.

"With a deadly weapon. Ball was going about ninety-five.” Philip replied, grabbing a chip.

Catherine noticed that Philip did not drink. Which was to say he poured himself a beer, took a few sips, then drank mostly ice water. Since the pitcher went around the table several times, it was the sort of thing no one would notice, unless you were looking for it.

By the time the evening was over, Philip had eaten two coneys, half a basket of chips, and had drunk maybe half a beer.

When the game ended, they all spilled out into the street, mixing in with the rest of the crowd, everybody trying to hail a cab at the same time. Catherine decided to walk a ways, before she hunted for a taxi. Philip simply fell in step beside her.

"Which way are you headed? Maybe we can split a cab," Catherine offered.

"My apartment isn't that far off the park. But this being the weekend, I'll be at the big house.  I just need to pick my car up at the garage," he answered, not wanting to reveal that he was comparatively near her place, though they were by no means neighbors. They shared the park, in a way. That had been an accident, as much as a happenstance of his wealth. Birds of a feather.

"The big house? Prison?" she teased.

“Only by the most literal of interpretations.” He chuckled. “Marjorie has a nice place in Connecticut.  Some twenty-room monstrosity we all get to use on the weekends. My sister Emily will be there with Marilyn.  She loves the book, by the way."

"Of course she does.” Catherine smiled. “And you should be fine to drive,” she added, not thinking.

He pulled up short. “You counting my drinks, Miss Chandler?” he asked. So she had been noticing him. Good.

“Not counting.  Noticing.” She shrugged.

“Not a lot gets by you,” he said.

“A lot of people should take a lesson from you,” Catherine returned.  “It's not that many people who walk out of a sports bar having had half a glass of beer.” Okay. She had been counting.

“A fact for which the owner is very grateful, I'm sure.” He watched the traffic go by.

“And for the record, you drank a glass of white wine, and then switched to iced tea, for the chicken sandwich," he told her, as he stayed between her and the dangers of the curb. Good breeding. Instinct.

"You counting my drinks, too?" she asked, teasing.

"I count everybody's drinks,” Philip replied, a shadow crossing his eyes. "Edie's going to have a hangover come the morning. So will Jeff Shandler, and maybe Arlene. Not a bad one. But it will be there."

"Joe drank almost half a pitcher."

"Joe can handle his liquor. He ate all night. He'll be okay,” Philip commented. "The one to watch was Mike Findlay." There was not a cab in sight.

"Mike? He didn't drink that much," she replied.

"No. But it was straight whiskey, when there was beer on the table. And it wasn't how much he drank. It was the way he was holding the glass,” Philip elaborated.

Catherine tried to recall the image he wanted her to have… Mike… sitting a little off to one side, a glass of amber liquid in front of him.

"He picked up his glass, a lot, and rolled it between his palms.” Philip said.

Catherine remembered, now that he'd prompted her. “I guess he did,” she acknowledged.

"All night long." Philip saluted her memory with a nod of his head. "That's a man making love to his drink, Cathy,” Philip told her.

"He only had the one?" Catherine struggled to remember.

"He had two. And made love to both of them. The whole time. That's somebody with something heavy on his mind."

Catherine nodded, thinking about the quiet man they were discussing. "He keeps to himself a lot.  I think his wife is out of town. Maybe he just misses her."

"Maybe. Or maybe she's leaving him.” Philip shrugged. "Or maybe we're both wrong, and he just likes Jack Daniels."

No, there was something. Catherine realized it, now that Philip had pointed it out.

Mike was one of those people of changeable moods. He was sometimes talkative, and sometimes quiet, but not that quiet. Catherine realized that over the noise of the sports bar, no one had noticed how he'd sat there, saying very little to the group all night. He'd spoken to Edie a couple of times, but not much. And he definitely seemed like a man with something on his mind.

She was surprised at how aptly Philip had picked up on it.

"You should be a therapist. You're very sensitive to other people," she told him.

"God forbid," he replied, though he knew it was true.

"Lord only knows what you've figured out about me, then." She meant the comment to be light.  But he answered it as if she didn't.

"That you have the best heart of anybody in that room, to go with your class. That you're almost always five minutes late, but you'll stay twenty minutes after, a lot of days. That the ugly you see doesn't seem to mark your soul, and that's unusual for a woman who is smart as hell. Maybe it's because you already got marked.” He cast his blue eyes toward her scar, which she knew he couldn't see in the dark. He continued.

"You don't know diddly about baseball, but you came to a sports bar with the gang because that was the nice thing to do. You know even less about football, but the young guy who sells sandwiches off the cart, you seem to know all about him. You know the janitors by name and ... well. You're quite an amazing lady, Catherine Chandler." He complimented her sincerely.  Yes, he knew about her. It was time she knew that at least, though he'd tell her nothing else, for now.

He mentioned nothing about meeting Vincent. On purpose.

His compliments warmed her. And tested her. The mood between them was growing more intimate. The air changed around them. It might have been the prelude to a kiss. So she stepped away from him.

He caught the motion and filed it mentally. He'd swear Vincent-with-the-cape was not her lover, and he knew of no other person who could be. She keeps herself close, then. Or closed off.

"What about Philip Blair?" she asked, deflecting a little, as she kept her distance. "Does he know the janitors by name? Does he even know why he's working here? This is temporary for you, isn't it?" she asked. He had to pay attention to her conversation, while he was having his own internal dialogue about the talk with Vincent.

"Andre. Maria. Jack." He ticked them off on his fingers. “And the little guy who does the restrooms is Manny. It's not short for Manuel. It's short for Emmanuel. I asked."

He settled his hands in his pockets.

"This is my redemption tour,” Philip said, deciding it was time. He already knew a lot about her. More than she realized. Fair was fair.

Catherine raised a curious, carefully sculpted eyebrow. "Did you need redeeming?" she asked.

His blue eyes were very serious. "I made a mistake, back in college. So yeah. I need to do some time. Penance for my sins."

"It must have been very bad," she prompted.

"It wasn't jailable, if that's what you're asking. And yes, it was bad," he confirmed.

"You don't have to tell me,” she said gently. She meant it, even though she was curious.

"Sure I do. Because it's not honest if I take you this far and don't. And because this might just be the beginning of something, and you should know."

Part of her was not sure what he meant by that. Part of her was.

"One night at my ivy league school, the name of which I'm sworn not to reveal thanks to what went on, I made love to a whole bottle of scotch in my frat house. Why not? Not like I was going to be driving anywhere. And it was a party." His voice was not bitter, but his eyes were hard.

"I passed out on the downstairs sofa. So my friends took a girl up to my room, and raped her in it.  After all, I had silk sheets. Well, we all did. We were privileged sons. But mine must have been cleaner that day. Or something."

Catherine's fingertips came to her lips, but kept silent, sensing he did not want her sympathy as much as he wanted to be through with this story.

"When the indictments came down, well… my sheets, my room… I was there in the house, and she was drunk of course, so she wasn't quite sure which wasp had had at her. I think we all look the same after a while,” he shook his head.

"Fortunately, the DNA evidence didn't convict me, and Aunt Marjorie was a help. Otherwise, I'd probably be sitting in jail for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong group of assholes. Sorry. Us privileged sons aren't supposed to use that word."

He didn’t like this story. It showed in every line of his long frame.

"I'm sorry it happened," Catherine told him, needing to say it.

"They tied her with the strap I used to tow a kayak, when I used to go rowing." He turned away a little. "And one of my belts. It was hanging on the door. And then they broke her jaw.” He breathed in, to steady himself. Recounting it always sickened him. Part of the penance.

Catherine remembered the dark look on his face when he'd seen Marla Shemp's jaw, and the look he'd hidden quickly. Now it made sense.

“I’m sorry you were an unwitting part of it. Sorry she was hurt.”

Philip tilted his head to one side. "You know, after it happened, that was one of the things I couldn't get over. That everybody was so worried about what they could prove, and what they couldn't, and what evidence they had, and whose name was going to be in the paper, and three weeks later, all the indictments get finalized, and ... here's this poor girl. Broken jaw. Still drinking soup through a straw. And nobody is stopping to ask about how she's doing.” He shook his head, then let out a long, controlled sigh.

"Anyway. The evidence cleared me of being anything other than a drunk idiot. And Aunt Mags was the one in the family who sat me down for a little heart to heart, and made sure I knew my political career was over before it started. "Rape" is just one of those words you don't want next to your name, even if it wasn't you."

He ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "So yeah. I don't drink much. And I don't like it when men put their hands on women." He cocked his head at her. "And I never had political ambitions, not for myself, so that didn't matter.  Not to me."

He was giving her his story so she would know it. So she would know if she wanted them to move forward. He understood about Vincent. But increasingly, he was feeling himself drawn to her. And hoping.

"Will you stay here long? With the DA's office?" Catherine asked.

"I don't know yet. Depends,” he told her. Is she wanting me to stay around? Maybe. But the atmosphere was getting a little too serious for a night spent in a sports bar with the gang.

"On what?" she asked.

He gave her no answer, as he finally hailed a cab. The street was growing empty.

"On whether or not the Yankees win the pennant,” he dodged, then held the door to the cab open for her.

"Have a nice weekend, Cathy," he tucked her inside, then got into the cab that pulled up behind it.

Chapter Eight

Free to Love

"If I step away, if I step back, he will step in,” Vincent told Jacob, later.

Father took in his son.This was not so unlike the time when Catherine’s life had gotten entangled with Elliot Burch’s. Yet, this was different.

No matter what, Jacob’s reply was much the same as it had been, knowing all that had originally stood between Vincent and Catherine still remained.

"Let it happen, Vincent,” Jacob replied, as gently as he could. “We both know it will hurt. I’m… sorry I can’t spare you that.  It is the thing I have dreaded, and feared, but knew would come.  Let it happen. Let her fall in love." Father knew what he was advising, as Vincent confessed his conclusions.

"You said that with Elliot Burch."

Jacob rubbed his beard, thoughtfully. "There would be less pain for you now, if you had let her go then,” Jacob reasoned, even though he knew reason wasn't called for now. "His Aunt is a politician. They are from the same world, and it isn't a bad one, Vincent. Her children will be privileged all their lives. Cared for. Educated and strong. They'll have every advantage."

Vincent could hardly deny the same truth had been twisting in his stomach. The one that had been there in one form or another, even before Elliot Burch. She is destined for a different life. A better life. With a different man. She is destined for children. Children, which I cannot give her.

Vincent stared at a candle flame. "Philip says they might be senators themselves, one day.  Perhaps become even more." It was as if Vincent could see her unborn children. The ones she would never have with him. Healthy. In the sunlight. Blonde. Human.

Jacob regarded his special son and knew the pain he was in.

"He is not certain that he is in love with her,” The information troubled Vincent. "He says he is waiting for her. To see how she feels."

Jacob stepped close. Ah. I see. ‘If I step back, he will step in.’ I see what you are wrestling with, my son. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.  It was unfair that he had to be the one to say what he knew he must. Unfair and wrong. Because when it was all a bloody, painful footnote in Vincent’s life, Vincent would remember that it was Jacob who’d said it, and not Catherine, or anyone else.

"She will feel she is betraying you if she goes to him. You have to make it clear. You have to let her go, Vincent. Let her go so she is… free to love."

"Free to love,” Vincent repeated the words. "I have felt her comfort in his presence. She… likes this man, Father. She respects him.”

“Do you? Do you respect him, Vincent?” Father asked.

“I… I sense in him that there is goodness. That there is… resolve.” Vincent shrugged. It was difficult to know more. “They have much in common. Her life would be good, would be fulfilling." Jacob could hear his son wavering, feel him processing the hard choices before him, and the empty life, after.

It was only the understanding that this would be even worse two years from now, or five, that kept Jacob going. "Let her have that life, Vincent. It's the one you always wanted for her. He is a good man?" Jacob asked.

"I think so.  He isn't perfect. I don’t think he has led a perfect life. But his mistakes have made him stronger, made him better. He has the same kind of sympathy for others that Catherine has.  His heart is similar."

"You think she could love him, in time.” Father said it, rather than asked it.

"I think... he told me that marriage was something of a business arrangement with ‘his kind.’  That love often comes later."

Jacob rubbed his beard. "Yes, that sounds about right." The specter of Margaret Chase crossed his eyes as it crossed his mind.

"It isn't that the very wealthy don't fall in love,” Jacob rushed to reassure him.  “It's that they do so with a certain... awareness of what their fortune can bring them. Or cost them.”

He looked at the son who stood there, ragged, his eyes cast down. The son who did not own much more than the clothes on his back, and the books on his shelf. He was trying to bear this.  Trying to see his way clear to it. Jacob cursed all their fates.

Father labored to keep his voice soft, knowing nothing would make this easier to hear. "If her children are judges, or senators, or perhaps even president someday, they could do great good, Vincent. And with Catherine as their mother… great good."

"You have always favored our parting." Vincent did not like that he knew Father was telling him all the reasons he should let her go. You foresaw this moment. You didn’t… want it. But you foresaw it. Sooner than I did.

"That doesn't mean I don't understand it hurts you," Jacob said, real sympathy in his voice. He remembered the feeling of losing Margaret the first time… and the second. He squeezed Vincent’s shoulder.

"Vincent… Catherine doesn't have forever to make this decision. She is getting older. Most of her friends from school are already married, with families of their own. This chance she might have; this chance with Philip Blair, it might well not come again. And likely nothing with this much potential for good.”

Jacob saw Vincent’s shoulders droop, bearing the weight of all Jacob was saying. “Let her have it, Vincent.  Let her have it, and build a life for herself with it. You know that isn't asking anything evil."

"No.  Not evil.” His heart was breaking in his chest. If this was 'good,' why was it so... excruciating? "She has said they will be working together a good bit, next week; a case they are bringing to trial. I will go to the deeper tunnels. Bring Narcissa supplies. Perhaps... wander a while." Vincent was deciding his fate. And hers.

"Take Devin with you.” Jacob advised. Devin had come for a visit while Charles was settling in at a summer camp for adults with special needs.

“He can carry some of the things Narcissa needs. Or wants. Keep him close by. You aren't alone in this, Vincent,” Jacob said, with parental gentleness. "Your brother loves you. And so do I."

Jacob stepped away, giving Vincent room. But even from several feet away, he could feel the pain radiating from Vincent's skin. Father dreaded this moment, this time, for his son. Dreaded it almost since the beginning.  At least Devin is here, for the moment. That might help.

"I would rather go alone," Vincent replied, moving toward the doorway.

"I know.  But take Devin anyway. For me. Please. It will keep him out of trouble, and Narcissa's supplies are fairly heavy. It’s been a long time since she came up to gather food. And there is some fresh fruit with the canned goods, and things I'd like her to have. She stays far Below, far too much.  It isn't good to always eat out of cans." Jacob told Vincent, worried for his son.

Vincent nodded, then crossed the room to leave it.

Jacob’s misbegotten son mounted the metal stairs with a heart so heavy he could feel every beat of it in his chest. What if I am wrong about the wisdom in this choice?... then… what if I am right?

Chapter Nine

Losing and Driving

Philip and Catherine were deep into the neglect case; except it was a neglect case that had turned into an abuse case, though they could prove neither very well. It was the situation that had been bothering Catherine the week they had both interviewed Marla Shemp. There were three children and a complicit spouse, one who was afraid to speak up.  It didn't matter. She didn't have to testify against her husband, and no amount of begging could make that happen.

They went to trial. They lost.

The kids were scared; the father looked clean, in a good suit, and was smart enough to keep his head down the whole time, making him look humble. The little girl corroborated that every bruise was because she fell down a lot, and no amount of questioning could sway her. Keeping at her looked like badgering, and nothing Catherine could do would help. Her name was DeeDee.  It was short for DeAnna.

Catherine had a feeling she would be seeing the inside of an emergency room soon. If they brought her, that is. Her brothers had never had a hand laid on them, according to them.They probably hadn't. And, they were younger. Nothing sexual was implied, but the kids seemed, to the neighbors, to be alone a lot.

They could prove almost nothing they suspected. So they lost, and they did it together.

"It's not fair."  Catherine was upset. Vividly. Philip had driven her to her apartment, and put her inside it. Uncharacteristically, she'd gone straight for a bottle of wine when she hit the door. She knew that Vincent was gone, and would be for days. She was hurting, and she was mad. She wanted him, and knew it wouldn't happen. They were separating again. Another mystery she didn't have the wits to solve today. Philip stood in her doorway, then invited himself in.

"I know. I know, Cathy." Philip watched her pour. She didn't offer him one.

She tapped the glass with a nail. A little girl was now back home, which might just be exactly where she shouldn’t be. Lack of solid evidence meant the judge hadn’t even been able to order counselling. And the apartment was suddenly too small to hold in all Catherine was feeling.

Philip watched her take a deep drink, then start to pace. He wondered if she'd open the terrace doors and step out, trying to expand the space some. But she didn't.

Philip knew that Vincent came to her on her terrace. And somehow, thanks to her body language, he knew that the caped and hooded man wouldn't be coming that night. Also, Cathy had looked increasingly lonely at the office; and increasingly lonely, in general.

Except for now… now she looked... bereft.

Catherine was fighting down her own adrenaline and losing the battle, as she waited for the liquor to kick in. " That little girl had bruises on her. The kind caused by hand prints. I know what those look like."

Philip bet she did. He knew that Catherine had had those on herself, once upon a time. Along with knife slashes.

"I know, Cathy. She's scared, honey. She loves him and wants to please him. She thinks this will make it okay."

"She's a fool, then!" Catherine exploded, aware she'd just called an eleven-year-old girl a “fool.”

She set the wine glass down and put her head in her hands. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"I know. I know you didn't. The charcoal grey suit coat he'd worn to court was open, and he pulled her into an embrace meant for comfort. It was a measure of how upset she was that she went into it. He felt her grip his lapel.

"Her mother should be looking out for her." Catherine’s voice was muffled, and it hitched. She was crying on his single needle tailoring. Let her.

"I know. All our mothers should be doing that." He knew Catherine Chandler’s situation. She'd grown up largely motherless, but with a father who adored her. He also knew, with perfect clarity, that she would be an amazing mother. He wrapped his arms around her, tightly, letting her feel his strength, borrow from it, and take it in. He knew he wasn't going to kiss her. But he also knew very distinctly, that he wanted to.

"She denied it from the beginning,” Philip said. “None of the other kids show any signs. It's a wonder it ever made it to trial. You did all you could, Cathy."

"So did you," she sniffed. He had. He'd tried talking to the mother, but men clearly intimidated her, and she’d shut down, crying that she wanted to be left alone. The little girl was out of the question for him. The family's attorney had done their job.

Philip rubbed Catherine’s back. She was beautiful, beneath her tailored navy jacket.

“You have to love her with your whole heart.” Vincent’s words echoed in his brain.

It's just...  I hate to lose. Especially when it's this important." Her voice was shaky, and she was in pain. And she was very, very beautiful.

But for the barest granting of a court date of a sympathetic judge, they'd never had much of a case, or much of a chance, to begin with. He knew she knew that. But she'd bulldogged her way through it, anyway.

"I'm so afraid that little girl is going to be hurt," Catherine worried.

"If she is, it isn't your fault, Cathy. It's her father's fault," Philip said.

Catherine shook her head in the negative, these being the days that really did threaten to topple her resolve. "No. We're supposed to protect them. That's our job." She lifted her head, and he really did want to kiss her. He settled for pulling her back in close, and brushing the top of her head with a very brief kiss. It was unsatisfying. But right.

"It is our job,” he echoed. “In the morning, we'll badger Joe. See if we can get a uniform to swing by the house more than usual. Do a little surveillance without being official about it." His voice was strong. He was thinking. He was helping.

Good. Good. Cathy appreciated that more than anything, right now. He felt the tension in her shoulders dial back a notch.

"Greg Hughes is a good friend. Maybe we can call him." Catherine was trying to think, trying to get her brain back in “work” mode, trying to help, and pull back out of the despair that felt too large right now..

"There's my girl. We'll call Greg Hughes and see what help he can be." Philip was giving her hope. When she knew she had none, he was giving her some.

"I should call him right now. Something might happen this evening. I’m afraid the father will feel emboldened, now that he’s gotten away with it." She wiped at her swollen eyes.

“I’m more hoping that he’ll be scared witless, after having to sit in front of a judge this afternoon.” Again, he was throwing her a lifeline.

“We need Greg. And Joe.”

"I'll call. You go to the bathroom, and wash your face. I'm going to take you out for pizza. Then we might just use my car to sort of... swing by their apartment building. I think things will be okay, for a while, but I also think it will make you feel better.  Go wash up." He was discussing something that might get them both sued. And the city. And she really wanted it. But food?

"Oh, Philip, I really don't want to..."

"Cathy." He cut off her protest with the wave of a well-manicured hand. "Let somebody else drive, for once." He picked up her phone and punched out Greg’s number.

Catherine went into her bedroom, hearing his voice through the louvered doors. He was helping.  He was there, and he was helping. She shrugged out of her jacket and pulled a sweatshirt out of a drawer.

Fine. She’d let someone else drive. It’s not like Vincent is around to help.

Chapter Ten

Wishing It Was You

It wasn't just the weight of the supplies, it was the bulk. Sheets and fresh blankets and pillows, food and odd items only Narcissa seemed to want. A large copper bowl. A wooden spoon made specifically of olive wood. Lemon leaves. Laurel. Things Vincent would need help to bring down, one way or the other.

Devin groused, as they packed it all up, then stopped, as he realized his complaints were falling on distracted, if not deaf ears. Whatever was bothering Vincent, it wasn’t the size of the load.

It took two days of needling, which was the length of time it took to reach Narcissa's at this pace, in order to get at least most of the story out of Vincent.

While there, Narcissa was decidedly unhelpful, and predictably cryptic. The only thing she would say about Philip Blair as she put away her provisions was the simple: "He's like any man, Vincent. Just seeking his measure of faith."

That didn’t do much to alleviate Vincent’s introspective mood, nor did anything Devin had to say on the subject.

The two of them headed back to the world of the inhabited tunnels, Vincent figuring that he would be burdened with Devin's running commentary most of the way back. Much to his chagrin, he was right.

If Devin had a gift, where Vincent was concerned, it was his ability to say exactly what he was thinking, without considerable fear of reprisals. Perhaps it was the scar on his face that bought him that ability. Perhaps it was simply that they were brothers. Whatever the origin of the talent, Devin knew he could be blunt with his younger brother. He was often just that.

"You're an idiot," Devin told him, unconcerned with Vincent's reaction to the charge. They were less than halfway back from Narcissa's. With not as much weight to carry, since almost all of what they’d brought down had been left behind, they could be moving faster, but they weren't.

Vincent’s in no hurry to see what’s happening Above, apparently. Devin knew what their slow pace meant. He had he known Vincent since childhood. Vincent was either avoiding something difficult, or using his absence to further an end. In this case, not a good one, Devin realized.

"There are things you are incapable of understanding about this, Devin." Vincent said firmly.

Devin shot him a look. "I love your 'teacher' voice,’” Devin fired back. "It's so damn omniscient-sounding. So like Father. It must be nice to be God. To know everything."

"I never said I..."

"Oh.  Didn't you?" Devin leaped. "You've got her life figured out. And you know yours will stink.  But you'll do it, anyway. Vincent's big sacrifice, so Catherine can be happy.” Devin slid his pack off his shoulders. “Except she's not going to be happy, Vincent.  She can't. And both of you are going to kill somebody else here. Or make him wish he was dead, before it's done."

"You do not know what you’re talking about." The leonine countenance was set.

"The man who gets her," Devin said pointedly, setting down his gear. They weren't going an inch farther until they had this out.

Vincent's head turned… "Will be the most fortunate man on earth." He dropped his own bag, as he finished the sentence.

Devin's hand ran hard through his thick hair, dishevelling it, more than a little. "Oh, God.  It really is all 'Cinderella' and 'Snow White' in that little brain of yours, isn't it? I could kill Father, right now. Does reality penetrate in there, at all?"

Vincent was in no mood for censure. From anyone. "My realities are my concern. And I promise you, they are... hard," His voice had a biting quality. He began to lift his bag again, until Devin's hand stopped him.

"Hard? Let me tell you ‘hard:’” Devin took a deep breath.

"Two or four, or maybe five years from now, when she's given up on you… beaten to utter death from whatever it is that's tearing you apart. Broken, beaten, and done. And some guy comes along, and hey, it's Cathy, right? Of course he falls in love with her. Completely. And it's bad, see, it's bad, because she's this beautiful woman, this… sad, beautiful woman, and he wants to save her from it.”

Devin looked to a distant point, and then back at Vincent. “And Hallelujah, there must be a Jesus, because she says she'll marry him.  Why not?  By then, she knows she's never going to marry you."  His brown eyes were sharp.  "And her clock is ticking. Fast."

Devin's throat tightened as he swallowed. "And he works. And he gifts her things, and he tries and tries, and tries to please her, and she tries too, and his heart is breaking from it, because he knows, he knows, he knows, Vincent." The words were hard, for emphasis.

"What?  What does he know, Devin, other than he is the most blessed man on earth?" Vincent asked, sorrow in his blue eyes.

Devin's dark gaze became very intense as he leaned across the small space separating them. His voice became almost painfully soft.

"That every morning, when he wakes up beside her, every morning when her eyes open, every morning, before she can marshal her defenses and get it all together… that for a moment, just a moment, she looks over at him and..." he let his voice hang,

“What?”

"And she wishes he were someone else."

Devin let the words settle, and watched Vincent take them in.

"I don't know which one of them I feel sorrier for. But it isn't a blessing. It's the worst kind of curse.  Because he knows nothing he can do will break it. Other than to be the one she truly wants." He tossed a pebble at the small trickle of water that ran down the wall nearby. "You, in this case."

Devin leaned back against the rock wall a little, and watched Vincent digest his words.

"There is no man, anywhere, who would wish to be me,” Vincent stated, finally.

Devin shrugged his shoulders inside his bomber jacket. "The man who loves her will wish he was. Hell, Joe Maxwell and Elliot Burch, for two. They just don't know it's you. And they likely never will. But if they love her? Love her the way you know she deserves? Don't kid yourself about how fast they'd be willing to make that switch."

Devin dropped himself onto his pack, using it as a stool, and stared off, moodily. Vincent had the feeling that he was hearing the voice of experience; that Devin had known this pain. The pain of being the wrong man for the right woman.

"Love makes you wish for insane things, little brother,” Devin finished.

Vincent closed his eyes over that pronouncement, no longer as resolute as he had been, but determined, still. If she falls in love… if her life is full of blessings, of children… then it will all be worth it.

"That, at least, is a thing we agree on,” Vincent concluded morosely, joining him on the ground.

Chapter Eleven

Charity

Days after the court decision, there was nothing new on the abuse case. Philip’s prediction that the court date had frightened the father might be coming true. At any rate, extra patrols in the area had turned up nothing alarming, and life at the DA’s office went on as usual.

When Saturday came, Catherine found herself loading boxes into a semi-truck destined for the Women's Shelter. A home furnishings store had filed for bankruptcy and the scratched-and-dented items were being used as a write off, along with some of the bedding, lamps, and rugs used in the showroom to display the furniture. Luz Corrales had called, urgently, and Catherine had answered.

Several people from the DA's office were there as well, the shelter being the pet project of the Deputy Attorney General. Two homeless shelters and a rehab facility were also going to benefit from the bounty.  Joe Maxwell made it known that major brownie points were forthcoming for those who donated time to the cause, not to mention the possibility of leaving early next Friday.

"It's bad math to donate a perfectly good Saturday in hopes of getting off an hour or two early on Friday, Cathy," Philip told her. He was hefting a long box that contained the metal rails for a daybed.

"Probably why nobody from accounting is here," Catherine answered, following behind him with an end table. Edie was behind her, holding a pair of lamps.

"Step lively, people. It's for a good cause," Edie prompted them,

"How did I end up carrying a table, while you've got lamps?" Catherine asked.

"Simple. I know how to delegate,” Edie replied, setting the lamps in a popcorn-loaded box.

"I need to learn that skill," Philip told them both, finally setting the daybed rails down where they would be loaded onto the truck. They were heavy. He looked ready to work, in a navy polo shirt and khakis.

"Everybody, keep it going. We've got one side of the showroom to get, plus part of the warehouse,” Joe dictated, comfortable in chinos, his sleeves rolled up on a white shirt. Jenny was taking pictures for the PR department. Mike Findlay was lifting one end of a sofa, while Tony from Human Resources had the other. Whatever it was Mike had been working through, it seemed to be resolved.  He was his chatty self, if "grunting" counted as small talk. It was a busy morning.

By the time they were done, every attorney and office worker there was muscle-sore, even the ones like Joe, who swore they worked out three times a week.

"Cathy, I know you're beat. But it's important I speak with you," Philip told her, once they were apart from everyone else.

She was about to fob him off for another time, but his next sentence froze her blood.

"It's about Vincent. He wanted to meet me a while back. In the park. So I did."

Catherine stared up at him, knowing he wasn’t lying. The sidewalk felt as if it wanted to swallow her. And suddenly, there were far, far too many people around her.

Catherine tried to put on her poker face, and simply nodded. Everyone was breaking up, and heading for home. Philip deftly hailed a cab, and put both of them into it.

Catherine was in turmoil. Vincent? Vincent had revealed himself to Philip? How else would Philip know his name? And they met in the park? Of course they would. Where else could they meet?

Philip had known Catherine to face down guys who outweighed her by a hundred pounds, as she gathered depositions, and information, and interviews. He swore he had never seen her nervous, until this moment. Her face was set, her eyes kept straight ahead, as the scenery rolled past the taxi window. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

"I promise I mean no harm." It was all Philip could think to say to her, to try to allay her fears.  She simply nodded. She could do nothing else, and did not want to have this conversation, either in the back of a cab or in a public place.

Once they reached her building, she couldn’t get him into her apartment fast enough.

"What happened? You have to tell me everything." She didn't even consider that he might not be telling her the truth. Philip Blair was an honest man.

"Whoa, whoa, Cathy. Easy. I'm not going to hurt anyone," He held his hands up. "And it's not like I could pick him out of a lineup. He wore a dark cape, and kept the hood low, over his face."

Oh. Okay. Thank God.

Catherine seemed to relax a little, at that.

"Birth defect or accident?  His face?" Philip asked.

"Philip, if it's all the same to you, I'd really rather ask the questions,” Catherine answered.

I just bet you would. He stared at her, trying hard to fathom her situation.

"Are you afraid of this guy, Cathy? Does he have some kind of… hold over you?" Philip was really concerned. The fact that Vincent had professed his love for her didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous… very. Karl Shemp came to mind. So did the fact that women in abusive situations often stayed with their abusers.

"Afraid of him? Never. He saved my life, back when... a long time ago.” Catherine caught herself before she could reveal more.

"Back when your face was cut?" he asked her. It was an attorney's trick. Ask a question you already know the answer to.

"Philip. I swear there is nothing I can tell you about him."

"Fine, then. See you Monday, Cathy." Philip made to leave.

"Philip." She tugged his arm. "Please.  I...  I know you can't begin to understand this..."

"Understand what? Some six-foot plus guy who can't show his face named Vincent is in your life, and nobody, not Edie, or Joe, or Ted or Rita or anyone who knows you has ever heard of him, and I say his name and you're half panicked, and I don't understand?  I kind of do, Cathy.  I just don't have the particulars.” He let out a slow stream of breath, fighting down frustration. I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that?

“What does he have on you? Compromising photos? Letters? Swear to me he's never hit you. That he isn't abusive."

Catherine realized the direction Philip’s thoughts had headed. "It's nothing like that." Catherine shook her head. "Philip. I swear he has never hurt me in any way. Just the opposite. And yes.  I'll tell you, and almost no one else knows it. He saved my life back when I was attacked. But his face is... well, let's just say he never shows it to anyone other than his family.  And it's his request for privacy that kept me from saying where I was back then."

He took the measure of her words and decided she was telling the truth. Catherine saw him visibly relax.

"You've seen him since then. Since two years ago." he stated, again, knowing the answer.

Catherine nodded, but didn’t say more, refusing to offer any particulars.

"He's why you don't date? Why the office thinks you're single, yet nobody knows who you go out with?"

Again, she nodded. "Philip, this is making me uncomfortable. Please tell me why he wanted to meet you."

The handsome attorney cocked his head to one side. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was sizing up what my intentions were, toward you. Trying to get the measure of who and what I was.  Decide if I was good enough."

Catherine blinked. He was trying to… what? Suddenly, their long and frequent absences from each other made a terrible kind of sense. He’s… giving me away. Like a gift, to a charity.

"May I ask what you told him?" she inquired, using her best “courtroom voice.”

"You may. I'm not sure how much I'm going to answer, however. Does he have a record? Is he dangerous, Catherine?"  Philip asked.

What a difficult question to answer. Cathy went with the one she knew he wanted to hear, and would accept.

"No. He's... protective of me."

It turned out to be the wrong tactic. "Bullshit. He's in love with you." Philip's temper was inching closer to the surface. "Don't play me, Cathy. We both know he's who yanked Karl Shemp backwards, out a window."

Catherine reached for Philip’s hands, as well as for understanding. "Philip.  I'm not trying to do that, I swear. There are things I can't say about him!” The look in her eyes pleaded for his forbearance. But no. He is not dangerous to either you or me. Is that what you want to know?"

Philip cradled her cheek in a gesture so like the one Vincent used, it felt like deja vu.

His tone was very gentle… more than. "I just want to make sure you're okay, Catherine,” Philip’s eyes were sincere. "After all, we spoiled rich kids have to stick together. Make sure the aristocracy survives."

She knew the words meant he was concerned for her. He meant that. He really did. He wanted to make sure she was all right. Or at least as all right as she could be, considering.

Philip had kept this secret for two weeks, watched her, and tried to sort it all out on his own. But Vincent hadn't contacted him again, and he had his fears so... this.  He had to tell her… to see if she was all right.

Catherine felt his warm palm on her cheek. Philip was treating her tenderly. And that broke her down more than making demands could have. "I'm fine,” Catherine told him, her voice a little choked up. "And you're a very special man, you know that, Philip?"

Her green eyes were full of tears. She was very dangerous, when she was vulnerable. Dangerous for him. Oh, Cathy. Does he even know what he has?

"He wanted to know if I was in love with you. And just so you don't have to ask, I told him ‘no,’ but that could change, if I wasn't careful. It could change, Cathy." He was being totally honest, in response to her reluctantly offered truths. Nothing could have disarmed Catherine more.

She had no idea how Vincent would take such a declaration from Philip. Or even how she wanted him to take it, considering it looked like he’d set this all up, at least in part.

She stepped back. Out of reach. Philip knew she was about to put the distance between them an instant before she did.  He felt the lid on his heart close, as his hand dropped. Self-preservation.  He put the stray hand in his pocket, stretching the material of his khakis.

"He seemed impressed with my pedigree,” Philip tossed out, now that the charged atmosphere between them needed diffusing.

"He would have been."

"I take it his surname isn't something a political pundit would recognize."

Catherine shook her head. She was not going to give up so much as one fact about him that she didn’t have to.

"But there's a kind of nobility to him, nevertheless," Philip stated. At that, Catherine’s eyes flickered with understanding and assent.  She was as in love with Vincent as he was with her.  She was trying to hide it, and trying to hide that she was hurting.  But he could see it, because in that second, he did love her.  Or part of him did, even though he didn't want to.

Again, Catherine agreed with him. “Yes.  He has a kind of nobility. Why did you agree to meet him?" Catherine asked.

"Probably the same reason he wanted to meet me,” Philip answered. "Wanted to size up the competition.  Do you love this man, Catherine?" He asked it as a friend, not a potential lover. He was pushing the feelings he had for her down. Hard. They were going. Good.

"I do. With my whole heart." A tear slid down her cheek. If this was love, there was no joy in it for her.  Or damn little, right now.

"I wish you luck with him, then," Philip hugged her hard, and kissed her cheek, before leaving her.  “I wish you luck,” he repeated. It was all he could say. I could have given you the world, Cathy Chandler. We could have had something special. And made something special with it. But that’s not going to happen. Is it?

He turned from her door as it closed softly behind him.

Chapter Twelve

The Unexpected Farewell

The rest of Catherine’s Vincent-less week passed in a maelstrom of cases that all needed everyone’s attention “now,” followed by a rash of pharmacy break-ins and liquor store robberies, which some of the evidence insisted were committed by the same persons, and other evidence said “no.” The liquor store she and Philip had been to before, in Greenwich, got hit again.

By Friday, Catherine was exhausted, and she still had not seen Vincent.

Philip, she had seen. He was usually headed out as she was heading in, or vice versa, to question a witness. On Thursday, a pharmacy technician had been pistol whipped, the fall resulting in his death.  The stakes were now homicide, and Joe was ready to chew nails.

Catherine gave up another Saturday, just sitting in a conference room at her office, trying to compare statements from the witnesses, to grainy film from the crime scenes. Edie was there with her, as were Joe, Greg Hughes, Arlene, and two other attorneys working on the various cases.

They were all behind, and feeling the push.

"Where's Philip?"  Catherine asked, looking around the conference table, as they all drank old coffee and tried to find statements from the various detectives assigned to the cases.

"Called last night to hand in his resignation," Joe told her, dropping his case files on the table.  "Seems his Aunt has declared a state of emergency, and he's moving to DC on Monday. Rich kids. Never can get them to stick around,” he declared. He gave Catherine a slight wink at that one.

"Uh...who's getting his cases?" Catherine asked, stunned.

"Until I'm sure we're not all working exactly the same one, we split the files."

"Give me the robberies." Catherine told him, still shocked. That was sudden. Families in power must have to move swiftly, she thought.

Joe hefted her half the stack.

"You think you can make heads or tails of this mess?"

"He's good at details, when he takes notes. Let me see what I can do," she answered. Her mind was already swimming.

~~~

Five hours later, case files spread open on the conference room table, Catherine had her hand on her neck, rubbing it. "Wait a second. The tattoo. My liquor store witness said the guy had a tattoo on the palm of his hand. That it looked like a star."

"Yeah? So? Nobody else made that comment." Greg was leaning toward the idea this was gang related, though that didn’t make sense, either.

"No.  ut Philip's witness at the pharmacy on Third said when the guy took off his gloves, his left hand had some kind of mark on it."

"You think it's the same guy?" Joe could all but hear her think.

"When I was going through the video footage, there was this one scene where he was pushing the pills off the shelf and into the bag. I thought I saw... something... Edie?"

"On it," Edie said, cuing up the video tape on the computer. So far, what they mostly had were bad pictures of faces covered by stocking caps and masks. Gloved hands, mostly. But not always.

"There.  Right there. Where he's dumping the stuff off the shelf into the duffel bag. Can you focus in on his hand, rather than his face?"

Edie put a zoom square on the photo and tracked in, getting closer and closer.

"Go forward a couple frames. See if we can get a good shot of his palm," Joe instructed. Several of them gathered around. Edie did as Joe bid her. A blurry image began to appear, inside the square.

"It's so fast, you miss it. Like his hand is dirty, or it's part of his sleeve," Arlene said.

"It isn't," Joe replied, seeing it too. "Come on, Edie."

"One miracle, coming up," Edie told him, zooming in closer. And closer.

And there it was. The label of a pill bottle dominated the screen, obscuring part of the design on the man’s hand. But it was visible. An image of a spiked club, on a man's palm.

"A mace. Or a morning star.” Greg identified it. "Looks professionally done. Not a prison tat."

"And it's Christmas,” Joe declared. “Run it through the list… anybody with a record that has that kind of tattoo."

"Why didn't the other witnesses see it?"  Arlene asked.

"It's the hand he usually holds the gun in,” Joe answered, showing how it would cover his palm.  "Nice work, Chandler. Everybody pack it in. Let the database do its work. Edie, you're a goddess."

"That is what I keep telling you people," she told him, sending out the search request on internal.

~~~

Catherine thought she would finally be able to sleep in on Sunday. But a note on her doorstep dissuaded her.

Will be in the office on Sunday, to clear out my desk, around eleven. Would like to say goodbye. Philip.

Catherine knew it was an appointment she would keep.

~~~

Catherine entered the office to find Philip already there. Judging by the state of his desk, he was nearly ready to leave.

"Joe told me. I can't believe it." She gave him an open hug. It was all right to do that now. And besides, she owed him. For many things.

"Marjorie called a family meeting. It seems Aunt Mags is considering a permanent move to DC in the near future. A bunch of us are going down there. My sister is house hunting right now."

Catherine nodded. "About what happened… I'm sorry, Philip. And more than a little embarrassed. Not by… him, exactly, but by how put on the spot you must have felt."

Philip Blair shook his fair head. "He's in love with you, Cathy. I don't pretend to understand it, but only a fool would not respect it, having spent five minutes with him." He tossed a pen cup into the mix of items in a cardboard box.

"Respect." Catherine turned over the word. "What an oddly chosen word, considering." She looked to the side, and sat on the corner of the now almost-empty desk.

"He didn't stop to meet me because he doesn't respect what he feels for you, Catherine." Philip told her, settling his coffee cup in. The America’s Cup. It had a picture of a yacht on it.  She wondered if he’d ever been on it.

"No. He stopped to meet you because he doesn't respect me. How I feel. How I feel about him, and how I feel about...” Her hand sliced the air, in the gesture of futility. "It doesn't matter. It really doesn't. But you have to swear to me that this has nothing to do with why you’re leaving."

"I swear this has nothing to do with why I’m leaving.” He put up his right hand in the gesture of one taking an oath. He knew it didn’t. Though in a way, it did. He was content to let that half-truth linger between them.

"DC, huh?" she asked.

"Heart of the beast. All the better to pave the way for Aunt Mags' political aspirations,” he told her.

"Does it make you happy to do that, Philip?"

Ah, the right question. It was part of why he liked her. She always seemed able to ask the right question. She was a damn fine attorney. And an amazing friend. And if he stayed, he knew “friend” was only going to last so much longer, for him.

So did she. But it was the right question.

"Surprisingly, it does. I may have no political ambitions for myself, Catherine, but Marjorie is one of the good ones. I don't mind being part of what she's trying to accomplish." That was true.  It made him feel good that it was.

Besides. If I stay here, I just might get my heart broken. Time to get, while the getting is good.  The desk was nearly clear.

Catherine stood, and embraced him again, warmly. "Good luck. If you ever decide to run for any kind of office, you know you have my vote."

He dropped a paperweight into the box. "Tell the gang not to bother to see me off. I wasn't here that long anyway, barely a couple of months." He picked up the box of his things.

"I'll tell them. "Catherine walked him to the door, and past it, to the elevator. "I'll miss you, Philip.  I do mean that." Part of her was relieved that he was leaving. The other part understood and could face squarely just why that was. Given enough time, something might have happened between them. Even as one part of Catherine’s brain negated that thought, another confirmed it.

You really are everything I should want. And you really are a very good man. She knew that had Vincent never happened to her, that they’d likely have become a couple.

Then again, without Vincent in my life, I’d never have been working here to begin with. It all made her head hurt, if she thought about it too much.

He shifted the small box to his hip as she pushed the call button for the elevator. "Catherine, I will miss you. And I'll even admit there will be times I will wonder what might have been," he said, with the open kind of honesty she'd come to expect from him.  He did not always tell everything he knew. But what he did say was the truth. He reminded her of Vincent that way.

"You're like him, you know. In some ways. You are." It was time to return honesty with honesty.  The elevator doors opened.

"I don't think so," the privileged son who knew the names of all the janitors on the floor said.  "For one thing, if you ever loved me the way you love him..." he swallowed, licked his lips, and gave her a hard stare, his heart in it. "I'd be all over you, lady. You count on it."

Catherine blinked, with understanding.   piece of her destiny was about to step into an elevator.  And they both knew he better do that, before anybody did or said anything stupid. Or said something honest, like "Don't go. I’m lonely, and it hurts."

"Be well, Chandler." He shifted the box, stepped in and turned. He used her last name, to end things on a light note between them. "Keep Joe on his toes, keep an eye on Mike and give the bad guys hell. And if you ever run for anything..."

"You'll be one of the first people I call," she promised.

The doors hissed shut, over his handsome features. Catherine went back in to her office to catch up on her files. She needed to go through the motions of doing something familiar.

She hadn't opened the first one before she put her head down on her desk, and cried.

Chapter Thirteen

Seeing and Trusting

"I could throttle you. Do you know that?" It wasn’t exactly the greeting Vincent was expecting.  He and Catherine were standing on her balcony.

She had wept in her office. When she'd recovered from that, she pushed her way through the rest of the day on a strange kind of momentum. She jumped every time she heard the elevator doors open and shut, wondering if Philip had come back, and wondering what she would do, if he did.  But it was only the janitors. Andre, mostly. He had the weekend shift.

She’d looked over at the now-empty desk Philip had cleaned out. Someone else would sit there come Monday, or not too long after that. Someone young, and smart, and eager to please, probably. But it wouldn’t be him.

And that was a good thing. For all of them.

She’d snatched up her purse, realizing it felt so much better to be angry than to be heartsick. So “angry,” it was.

Vincent, obviously, had sensed her emotions. But his own feelings were hard to decipher in the mix. The bond was sending him something that felt more like static, than anything else. She was angry. She was relieved. She was… bereft, somehow. No. No, not bereft. Back to “angry,” again.

Catherine had even banged her shin on the side of a drawer, just so she could add “hurt” to the mix.

She'd had a few hours to work herself into a fine temper. He had sensed her mood long before he cleared her roof. She was doubtless upset about losing Philip Blair. She’d clearly been crying, at some point, and her color was high.

"Catherine. Saul came down to visit Father. He told me that Philip had left for Washington."

"Don't worry. This is Manhattan. Some other rich idiot will come along you want to give me to."  Her anger was pervasive. And her shin was bruising. She’d hit it, hard.

Vincent’s eyes were shocked at her censure.

"Catherine, that is hardly fair."

"You're right," she concluded. "Philip wasn't an idiot." Her meaning was clear.

Before he could draw breath, she rounded on him.

"If you don't want me, fine. But don't you dare interview people I meet, whether at work or not, and decide for me if they're appropriate! How dare you!"

I do it because my life is not a normal one. I could meet him no other way. Vincent shifted, uncomfortably. "He was a good man, Catherine. I needed to know that. For my own reasons."

"No! He was an excellent man. Just so we're clear on that. He has wealth, and heart, and a hard lesson in humility he has to carry. He isn't a snob. He liked my favorite children's book. He's as protective as you are. Hell, the first thing he was trying to figure out was if he needed to protect me from you.”

Catherine ran a hand through her hair, knowing she was just getting started. “His aunt works in the state legislature, and she's got ambitions. He is young, handsome, and probably an excellent kisser. He reads other people quickly and well, and that will make him a damn fine attorney if he sticks with it. I think all of that will become even more pronounced as he ages, so 'good' doesn't quite cover it,” she all but spat the words on her list of Philip Blair’s virtues. “Oh, and he bothered to find out the names of the custodians. And keeps a box at the Met." Her voice was coming down.

Vincent stared at her. She was nearly trembling with emotion, and probably close to tears, again.

"He sounds... perfect,” Vincent told her, evenly.

"For someone, he probably will be. But not me. I'm not in love with him, Vincent."

Her arms were folded, protectively.  And yes, there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm in love with you. For all the good it's doing me. I'm in love with… you." She turned her back to him, trying to compose herself.

“Catherine… “

"A long time ago… you thought it was inevitable that I would find someone else. I thought we were well past that,” she said, not turning.

“As did I,” he replied, not bothering to explain that they still had every limitation they’d ever had, from those days.

“Fine. I get it." She was rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, as she turned back to him. "I'm so tired of this fight. So tired of it. And now it's to the point where you're meeting people in the park, sizing them up for me. I still cannot believe you did that."

"He has much to offer. Much I cannot give y--"

"Everyone has much to offer, much you cannot give!” Her head snapped up. “Mother of God, Vincent, nearly every man on the planet can take me for a walk in the park in broad daylight, and you can't! Do you plan on interviewing all of them?"

"Do you think it pleases me that that is the case?" His voice held a note of warning, of his own temper.

"No. I think it intimidates you that that is the case! It intimidates the hell out of you, and... I'll try to help you bear that, Vincent, if you want me to." Her voice changed from anger to pleading.  "Try to help you work through it. Try to help you see that I don't look at other men as anything other than friends anymore, because my heart is so... lost to you." A tear slid down her cheek at the last three words. She dashed it away. “And you’ve been punishing me for that. And I…  I’m so lonely, Vincent. Even when you’re here, sometimes. I just am.”

It was a harsh charge. And he knew it was overdue.

Catherine faced him, her heart in her eyes, her voice trembling. "I know you want me. I know you do. But if you don't want me enough, or… something… you have to have faith in this thing between us… enough to trust it, and to give yourself to it, and to count on the fact that I’ll be there in it, with you, if you let me.”

She took a deep breath. “If you truly think I am just marking time with you, or if you are, then you have to say it, Vincent. You have to. But even if you say it, I am not going to run to Philip Blair. I would never doom him to being with a woman who doesn't love him. He doesn’t deserve that, nobody does."

Devin's words came back to haunt him. You’re wiser than you know, my brother.

Catherine dropped her head, defeated. "I love you.  I'm so sorry if it isn't enough." She sat down hard on the chair next to the patio table.

"I just don't know what else I can give.” She put her palms up. “I gave you myself. I tried so hard to make that be a better person. I'm all I have. If that isn't enough..."

Vincent realized the havoc he had wrought.

“I am not enough. Not you." His voice was gravelly as he knelt beside her chair.

"That isn't true," she looked into the blue eyes that owned her soul. "It's never been true." She reached a hand around his great, muscled neck, and pulled him close. "It's like there's you. Then there's everyone else on the planet. And they don't even come close."

"Catherine..."

"You have to see that. Even if you don't believe it. Or you're not sure you can trust it. You have to see it, Vincent, just see it, at least. I see it. So clearly."

She was upset and she was in love with him. Words she'd said before. Words she hadn't. For some reason the declaration finally penetrated the insecurities of a lifetime.

"Why? Why do you love me, Catherine? Is it because I saved you? Isn't that just… gratitude?"  The question in his eyes had been gnawing at his heart.

Her reply was simple. "Because you saved me, but so much more. Because you saved me, and everything after," she told him, keeping his head close. "Vincent, I’m better because of you.  You didn't just save my life. I think you saved my soul. But just gratitude? No. Gratitude doesn't feel like this.”

She kept her head close to his, and dared a small kiss. Though he barely gave it back to her, she could feel the wanting in it. Perhaps he couldn’t return it, not yet, and not fully. But he wanted to. And he wanted her to know he wanted to. Perhaps that was as good a place as any to start.

"I admire you." She kept her mouth near his. "I respect you, and all you've become, and all you've had to overcome, to achieve it. My heart skips a beat every time I see your shadow on the balcony, every time you say my name. I love you. I always will. No matter what. Whatever happens. Whatever comes. I will always be in love with you,” she told him as she held him, his arms coming around her.

"That's always going to be true. No matter whether you give me away to someone else or not."

"I adore you,” he said. "And part of me feels like it is the most selfish, self-centered thing I have ever done." He held her close. "How can I say 'I love you' and ask you to give up the life you have built for yourself? To leave it half-fulfilled?"

"'Half-fulfilled' is all I would ever be if I never thought I would see your shadow on my balcony again,” she told him, burying her face at his neck.  He cradled her close.

"The fears you have,” she continued, “the fears that I'll leave, and the fears that I should... they take your strength from you. Fear always does that." She hugged him, hard.

"Let yourself love me," she whispered. "Don't be afraid to let me love you. Don’t be afraid to feel it. I swear I won’t hurt you because of it. You just have to have faith in that and in me."

She let her arms stay locked around his neck.

"Two years ago you took a leap of faith." She raised her head, looking at him. "You brought me into your world against every measure of good sense, and look what we became together." She kissed his cheek as she spoke.

“We were braver then,” he admitted. He was. And he knew why. The paralytic fear of losing her hadn’t taken hold yet, in his heart.

Once it had, he realized what giving her to Philip Blair meant. He’d been trying to “lose” her on his own terms, rather than on fate’s. Taking what small measure of control he could, and calling it at least partly his choice.

He’d been a fool. He’d be shredded if she ever left, and he would be as good as dead the day she died.  He stroked her soft head, and willed her to live forever. He shut his eyes tight, against the knowledge that neither of them would. No. He would not borrow trouble. He would not change hating fate for hating death.  He loved her. He loved her so much, it hurt to feel it, sometimes. I love you. You are everything, to me Catherine. Every breath. Every wish. Forever.

"I don't know what else we can be, if we decide we are forever, and that there will never be anyone else,” she said, softly, her head resting beneath his chin.  She was looking at their rose bush. “I don't know what that will make, any more than I knew what was going to happen the night I left Tom’s party early,” she said, referring to the night he had rescued her.

"But I know that whatever it is, you'll be with me. For now, that's enough. It's all any couple knows, really. It's always enough. Because it has to be."

“There would be… children, for you… if you took another path.”

“None of us knows that. None of us can. And I think your family is… large enough.” She almost had a smile in her voice.

She raised her head as he cupped her cheek.

"You are so much... more than anything I ever thought to have." He touched his forehead to hers, a moment, then drew back, just a little.

"I'm sure I never thought to have you," she returned, smiling at him through a tear-streaked face.

He chuckled at that. Actually laughed at himself. It was the moment she knew she'd won something. "No, I suppose not.  It would have taken much imagination, my Catherine, to have conjured me."

"I didn't have imagination then." She held his hand where it was, trying so hard to explain, “I don't think I even remembered how to dream," she told him. "It's why I was so unhappy, most of the time."

"As was I," he returned, on a soft breath. "No dream could fulfill me. None of them felt like they were mine. Or like they were possible." He remembered the desolation of his aloneness.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now I dream that I will find a way to you. A way for you to forgive me my ignorance. I want to build you castles, Catherine. I'm just so afraid that anything I can give will be so much... less than what you could have."

"Then we should build a castle together," she replied, picturing rooms Below. "So you will know our dream is shared."

He kissed her for a long time, gently, and with feeling. He never wanted to leave her… never wanted to lose her. But it wasn’t the desperate kind of that feeling, the kind that had been gnawing at both of them. This was softer. Surer.

He didn’t want her to stop kissing him, and he didn’t want to leave her.

Had began to feel, for the first time, that he never would.

Chapter Fourteen

A Measure of Faith

A few days later, in Washington, DC, Philip and Marjorie Blair talked long into the night over what would be her political strategy for unseating the current incumbent.  She was razor sharp, and spoke rapid fire when she was on a roll. And she was on one, now.  Her future opponent had a bad habit of keeping a mistress, and the latest one was about to go to the tabloids. Marjorie wanted them in position, when the story broke.

Philip looked out the window, as it faced north. Another life away, one possible future for him closed, as another opened. Marjorie's personal assistant was a tough little redhead in a wheelchair, named Faith Bryant, her left leg missing, below the knee. She'd lost it when she'd been hit by a drunk. She only used the chair on really long days, and this was turning out to be one of those.  He liked her.  He had no illusions about his life, but he liked her. Maybe when this meeting was over he'd put her in a cab. Or offer to take her out for coffee. Maybe.

Narcissa's voice whispered, hundreds of miles away.

“He's like any man, Vincent.  Just seeking his measure of Faith."

~~~

In New York, far below the city streets, Vincent was showing Catherine a warren of rooms it would take a few weeks of work to reach, from his current chambers. Access to them would be had through solid bedrock, but it was only a few dozen feet away, to where the closest “hallway” serpentined. It was a thing he’d discovered when he’d been on expedition, with Pascal and Cullen.

Part of it seemed like a castle. A castle of rooms, within the rock.

Catherine stood in the largest one, sort of an anteroom, and pictured it full of their books and treasures. The vaulted space was cozy, and dry. And had more than twice the room of her whole apartment. One of the pathways wound down to a branch of the hot springs. Another was half a wall of shimmering crystal. She loved it.

And she loved him.

“And you never knew this was here?” she inquired.

“Not until I came through with Pascal and Cullen. Pascal says there is nothing like it on this level.”

“Like it was… always just kind of there… waiting for us,” Catherine smiled at the splendor around her. You’re a prince in this world. And you’re excavating a palace. There are so many things I’ll never want, or need… as long as I have you… have your love.

“You’re sure this can be done?” she asked. It was an ambitious undertaking. They’d had to crawl part of the way, to get to it.

“The path will need widening, the floor, smoothing,” he said, showing her a set of plans he’d already drawn up. “Once that happens, we can begin to bring some of the furniture in…”

And as they made plans for it, together, she knew they'd all achieved something wonderful. That they’d passed some kind of test.

One taken on a measure of faith.

~~~

No matter where you are in your own fairy tale, I wish you love. ~ Cindy

~~~

“So forcible within my heart I feel

The bond of nature draw me to my own,

My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;

Our state cannot be severed, we are one,

One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.”

~John Milton, Paradise Lost

Elliot’s Curiosity

by Judith Nolan

Elliot refilled Catherine’s glass. “You won’t tell me what you wanted with that tungsten carbide drill bit?” His blue gaze interrogated.

“I promised I’d be in the next time you called.” Catherine looked around

Delmonico’s, conscious of being overheard. “I never said I’d explain my reasons.”

“It’s always the same with you.” Elliot grimaced. “The closer I get, the more questions I have. Why can’t you level with me, Cathy? You can trust me, you know.”

“Trust is a two way street, Elliot.” Catherine sipped her wine. “You haven’t proved yourself trustworthy in the past.”

“Will you never let that go?”

Bowling For Vincent

by Judith Nolan

In honour of “our” Joe Maxwell - Jay Acovone

~~~

“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment...”

Sarah Dessen

~~~

Catherine’s borrowed car slammed to a halt on the shoulder of the roadway through Central Park. She hurried from the vehicle, barely pausing to lock it and pocket the keys.

It was almost midnight, but she knew the way instinctively, even in the dark. She ran downhill to the grassy bottom of the roadway’s slope, picking up her pace to run full-tilt in the direction of the culvert. She was running back to Vincent. Nothing else mattered…

Sensing his love coming ever nearer, Vincent sprinted out of the tunnel entrance and skidded to a halt. He looked up expectantly, waiting for Catherine to run to him. He thought he’d lost her forever, and now she was returning to him. He felt as if his heart would burst with gratitude.

He had run all the way to the surface from the Great Falls. Through their shared bond, he’d already promised her he would do anything Catherine desired, if only she would never leave him again. Anything and everything…

~~~

Appearing at the top of the last slope, Catherine cried out when she saw him waiting for her. Increasing her already headlong pace, she sprinted downhill and into his open arms, throwing herself hard against the solid wall of his chest, her arms going around his neck.

They clung together for a precious split second. But the speed of her tumultuous arrival caught Vincent completely off-guard. For someone so small, Catherine took away both his breath and his balance in one solid hit. She knocked him backwards onto his butt, as they fell together, into a tangled heap.

Smothered in his mane and clutching his chest, Catherine gasped, “Oh, forgive me… forgive me for doubting! What we have is all that matters. It’s worth everything!” She pulled back to stare down at him.

“Everything!” Vincent avowed, his strong arms holding her closer.

Captured, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, freezing the moment of voiceless communion. Then, on a blind impulse… Vincent lifted his head and kissed her.

Breathless from running and falling with him, Catherine gasped for air before she began to kiss him back, deepening the erotic contact. Everything was there in that one kiss. Everything that had constantly lain between them, both said and unsaid.

“Everything…” Vincent whispered, after he pulled back fractionally to stare up at her, his eyes filled with wonder and confusion.

“Always…” Catherine breathed, knowing she had him at a complete disadvantage. This was uncharted territory. However, as much as she wished to stay this way, with him, forever, she knew they needed to get up, before someone saw them.

She lifted herself away reluctantly, moving back to rest on her knees, beside him. Vincent leapt to his feet and assisted her to rise.

“Are you all right?” He maintained his gentle grip on her upper arm as he stared down at her, bathed in moonlight.

“I have never felt more right than in this moment.” Catherine looked up into his shadowed face, unable to read his thoughts, but knowing them instinctively. She could feel him already pulling away from her, trying to rebuild his shattered walls. She couldn’t allow the magic of this moment to slip away. She could sense his confusion and wish to retreat, to process what had just happened between them.

“Meet me,” she said quickly. “Don’t think about it. Don’t try to analyse or dissect it. Just promise to meet me on my balcony, in an hour. Please, Vincent…”

“I…” He hesitated, taking a step backwards, and dropping his hand. Everything within him wanted to run.

“Promise me, you will do as I ask.” Catherine went after him, afraid to let him escape, this time. “I need to see you tonight…”

“Catherine…” Vincent stared at her, remembering the unspoken promise he’d made to her through their bond. He had promised anything and everything she desired, if only she would return to him. And now she was here… and he felt unable to resist…

“Very well…” He nodded quickly. “I promise I will be there.”

“Good…” Catherine reached to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be waiting for you… don’t be late.”

She turned and ran back up the hill, before her love could find the words to tell her he’d changed his mind.

~~~

Catherine moved slowly around her balcony, lighting the last of many candles, to illuminate the darkness. On impulse, she decided to repeat the night of their first anniversary. She even dressed in the same long ivory and lace evening gown. Her crystal necklace nestled beneath its bodice.

Soft music drifted out from her living room. She paused to listen, then looked around, making sure everything was perfect. She was aware that more than an hour had passed, and that Vincent was late. But she refused to believe he had broken his promise to her.

“Be well, Vincent,” she said softly, as she shook out the taper she’d used to light the last candle.

In the same moment, she heard a rustling sound, and turned to find Vincent standing on the far end of the balcony. She gasped when she saw he was dressed in his formal white ruffled shirt. She loved the fact he’d also remembered the night of their first anniversary, and had taken the time to change. She saw he was standing very still, and she sensed his deep unease.

“I am so glad to see you.” She resisted the impulse to hurry to his side. She was aware this was vastly new territory, and they needed to take things slowly.

“There was a moment when my courage almost failed me…” Vincent sighed, as he shrugged apologetically. “Then I remembered how remarkable you are, and how much I owe you.”

“And you promised me you would come here tonight.” Catherine walked slowly towards him. “It will be all right, Vincent.”

“I feel blessed that you have returned to me.” He stared down at her, unwilling to break the moment. “After all I said. After I told you we could not go on, and I urged you to… find another to love…” His chin sank to his chest, pain haunting his expression. “I meant it… then… even though it felt as if my heart was breaking…” He drew his next breath on a great shudder that wracked his whole body.

“I know you were trying to make life easier for me, Vincent. And I love you for that.” Catherine grasped his forearm. “But, surely you know you could never truly lose me. No matter what comes between us. I know that now. You must believe me.”

Vincent took in the beauty of her face. “I wish…”

“What…?” Catherine shook his arm gently, when he stopped speaking. “What is it that you find so hard to say?”

“That moment… the intimacy we shared… back at the drainage tunnel…” he whispered brokenly. “I couldn’t… I didn’t want it to end,” he finished, in a great rush of breath.

“Oh, Vincent…” Catherine moved closer, finding the solid warmth of him. “Aside from the terrible possibility of our being discovered there, nor did I…”

“Yes…” Vincent huffed a small laugh. “That would have been… unfortunate.”

“But here, we are alone.” Catherine raised one hand to cup his cheek. “And I have locked all the doors.”

“All of them…?” Vincent teased gently, looking up towards the doors leading inside.

“All, except them…” Catherine smiled, her thumb just touching the corner of his unique mouth.

“Good…” Vincent breathed, seeming to give her unspoken permission to take them further than they had ever gone before.

“It’s warmer inside…” Catherine returned her hand to his forearm. “The fireplace is working well.”

“So I can see…” Vincent gazed through the gauzy curtains to the flickering flames of her electric fire.

“I’ll admit it’s nothing like how things are done Below.” Catherine shrugged. “But if you’re willing to try…”

“I…” Vincent paused to draw several long breaths. “I would… like that.”

“I’m glad…” Catherine linked her fingers through his, drawing him slowly forward, as she walked backwards in front of him.

She reached the doors to her living room and fumbled behind her back to open them. The gauzy curtains billowed out to envelop her, but she maintained her grip on Vincent’s fingers, drawing him ever forward, through the curtains. His boots landed on the doorsill. Catherine didn’t hesitate. She continued to draw him in with her, and suddenly they were both standing on the step leading down into the fire-lit room.

“Shall I close the doors?” she asked softly, allowing Vincent the time to adjust to his new surroundings.

“I think I can manage that.” He turned and snagged the door handles, closing them together, against the chill night air.

As he turned back to her, Catherine settled her hands on his wrist. She encouraged him down into the shadowed room. In the background, the soft music changed to a plaintive love song. Catherine half-turned her head to listen. ‘'Cause I'm your lady and you are my man…whenever you reach for me, I'll do all that I can…’

“The power of love,” she whispered, absorbing meaning of the words.

Vincent stood still, watching her listen to the song. ‘When the world outside's too much to take… that all ends when I'm with you…’

He reached for her, turning Catherine to face him, with his hands on her shoulders. “Truly, everything outside ends when I am with you.” He looked around the living room. “I never expected in a million years to be here, with you, like this. It has always been a distant dream.”

“I had to wait until you were ready to take the next step,” Catherine admitted honestly. “That was quite a step we took tonight.”

“Yes…” Vincent nodded. “Until this very moment, I had no true idea of what to do. Tonight has been a… revelation.”

“I’m glad.” Catherine looked up at him through her lowered lashes. “I believe you said that you didn’t wish our moment, back there at the drainage tunnel, to end…”

“I did say that…” Vincent whispered, his hands dropping to her slim waist and drawing her nearer. “In that moment, I truly allowed myself to dream…”

“I am here and I am real, Vincent.” Catherine placed her hands over his, encouraging him closer. “There is no longer any need to dream about what could be. This is all real.”

“I know it now. I made you a promise, Catherine. I promised that if you ever returned to me, I would do anything and everything, you asked of me.”

“I felt that, Vincent. When I was running back to you, I sensed you calling out to me.”

‘We're heading for something, somewhere I've never been. Sometimes I am frightened but I'm ready to learn about the power of love…’

“I am truly ready to learn, Catherine.” Vincent nodded, his gaze on her parted lips. “If you are willing to teach me…”

“I think this is a lesson we can learn together, Vincent…” she whispered, drawing his head down to hers, and placing her mouth softly over his.

‘'Cause I'm your lady and you are my man…Whenever you reach for me, I'm gonna do all that I can. We're heading for something, somewhere I've never been… sometimes I am frightened, but I'm ready to learn of the power of love… Ooh, the power of love…’

~~~

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

Robert A. Heinlein

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiFre0FK-s0

Remember

by Janet Rivenbark

Rated R-Sexual Content

Catherine lay back in the tub full of hot water. She was surrounded by heaps of fragrant bubbles, and she smiled as she contemplated just how far she and Vincent had come in the last couple months.

He had fallen ill in the middle of May and had to spend the rest of the month and part of June regaining his memory and recovering. Father finally pronounced him well again at the end of June. The first time he dropped onto her balcony after that had been a complete surprise.

It was a Friday. They’d exchanged notes earlier in the week and agreed that she would go Below on Saturday and they’d spend the day together.

She was relaxing on the balcony with a glass of wine and a book when he landed lightly beside her. She was startled but smiled up at him.

“Welcome back,” she said with a wide smile. “We’ve missed you.”

“We?” he asked as she rose and stepped into his arms.

“The rose bush and I.” She nodded towards it, and he was surprised to see it covered in red and white blooms. “It’s really growing and is going to need a bigger pot.”

It wasn’t late, it had only been dark a little less than an hour. She hoped he hadn’t come to cancel their day together.

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” she asked as he moved to stand by the balcony wall and she went to stand next to him.

He looked over at her and smiled.

“Of course. It’s just that Father finally gave me a clean bill of health and I couldn’t wait to get Above and breathe the fresh air. It’s always fresher up here, away from the exhaust fumes and city smells.”

She nodded and sighed. I guess I can’t always be his primary focus, she thought.

He caught the fleeting feeling as she tried to suppress it.

“And you are always the biggest incentive,” he assured her. “We haven’t really been alone since I left here when I was ill. Even on our walks Below, there was always someone within shouting distance.”

She moved closer and leaned on him. His arm came up around her shoulders.

“I have missed this,” she admitted. “But I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

They stood like that for some time, before he cleared his throat.

“There is something I’d like to talk about,” he told her.

~~~

It started there. They’d made love for the first time that night, but even then, it wasn’t a spontaneous action on his part. He’d thought it all through and planned everything. He had obviously done some research.

After he said there was something that he wanted to talk about, he hesitated, then went to sit on the end of the chaise. She went back to the chair she’d been sitting on when he arrived. He sat staring at his hands for so long that she began to wonder where his mind had gone.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

He didn’t look up but continued to stare at his hands as he spoke.

“I… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and well… I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” she asked.

“To move toward love… take the next step.” His head came up, and he looked into her eyes. “To truly be together.”

Something smoldered in his eyes, and there was no way she could mistake his meaning, she was sure of that, but she had to be absolutely positive.

“You want to make love?” Her voice was a little strangled as she restrained herself. She wanted to tackle him and have him right there on the balcony floor.

He nodded and smiled slightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t clear… I want to make love to you.”

Before he could draw another breath, she was on her knees in front of him, pushing between his knees and wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling herself as close as she could get.

“Yes. Yes!” she gasped. “When? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Ah… Tonight?” He didn’t sound very sure of that. “I mean, I’ve been reading, and I think this is a safe time; in your cycle, I mean. I really don’t know if I can father a child. Father seems to think I might be sterile, but I just want to be safe.”

Catherine just hugged him tighter. “I’ve been on birth control since I was 18; since I learned from a friend that it not only keeps a woman from getting pregnant but also changes her period. Periods are a bother, messy, inconvenient, and not to mention painful. The pill changes that. And even if I wasn’t taking it, there are other methods.”

“I don’t have access to any of those other methods,” he told her.

“We don’t have to worry about that,” she assured as she leaned back to look at him. “You’re sure of this?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“There’s no doubt that I’m sure. I know the Bond is telling you, but I don’t have that with you. You have the advantage over me there.”

He lifted her off her knees then and settled her on his lap. The kisses that followed and the fact that he became aroused and didn’t try to hide it or leave, convinced her.

It took him a while to make it to the bedroom and even longer for her to get him out of his clothes and onto the bed, but by the time that finally happened, she knew he was committed and wouldn’t back down.

What followed still made her smile when she thought of it. He had mentioned reading, and it became obvious that he’d read about more than a woman’s menstrual cycle. He seemed to know her anatomy better than she did. He found and explored all her erogenous zones, and even found a few that she didn’t know about. It didn’t take her long to figure out that when it came to Vincent, her whole body was an erogenous zone.

He started out tentatively but had quickly gained confidence. She thought that if they ever got to this point, she’d have to teach him, but between his reading and the Bond, he quickly moved to the head of the class. She climaxed three times before he ever moved over her and guided himself into her. Then she climaxed twice more before he finally joined her.

It had been her experience in the past that men tended to become rather single-minded once they got her naked and horizontal. If she managed to have an orgasm along the way, that was great, but none had ever seemed inclined to go out of their way to make it happen. Then once they got what they wanted, they would roll over and start snoring within minutes.

Vincent was just the opposite. Even though it was his first time, he was a very generous lover. She didn’t know why she even considered that it might be different. He was very generous in everything else. Why not this?

She was chagrinned later when she realized that she’d been the one who had fallen into an exhausted, sated heap and gone right to sleep.

When she woke later, she was surprised to find him lying on his side next to her with his head propped on his right hand and his other hand resting on her midriff, just below her breasts. She was still sprawled flat on her back. He was watching her sleep.

“Hi,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “What time is it?”

“Only about an hour since you fell asleep,” he told her.

“Did you sleep?”

“No.”

“Have you been watching me the whole time?”

“Yes. You are very beautiful.”

Catherine felt her whole body blush.

~~~

They never did make it Below. He spent the whole weekend in her apartment, and he didn’t go home until almost dawn on Monday morning.

She’d stumbled into the office on Monday, and her goofy smile gave her away. Joe walked into her new office, the one she’d been given when she was promoted to Deputy DA and started teasing her. She told him to mind his own business and chased him out.

~~~

She sank lower into the tub and pushed the hot water tap with her toes, the water was starting to cool, and she wasn’t ready to get out yet.

~~~

Since that first time, they spent every weekend together and the occasional night during the week, and Vincent had become more and more sure of himself. He started out asking permission every time but eventually reached the point where he would just show up and take her into his arms. Of course, the Bond told him if she had a headache, or wasn’t in the mood, but when it came to Vincent, that didn’t happen very often. She took a lot of aspirin to ease the subtle aches and pains in muscles that she’d forgotten she had. The bath had become her best friend.

That led her to remember the time the Vincent followed her into the shower, and they spent a long time soaping and massaging each other. Vincent had finally taken her against the shower wall, supporting her entire weight while she wrapped her arms and legs around him. She was thankful that the building had a boiler and they didn’t run out of hot water.

That encounter led her to wonder if she could entice him into his bathing pool.

She’d been surprised to learn that he had a private bathing chamber. It was small; the pool was only about the size of a large hot tub, the hot water was piped into the chamber and routed over a rocky outcropping that acted like a waterfall. She’d used the pool a few times when she stayed Below during his recovery and found the small waterfall to be perfect for rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Since their encounter in the shower, it kept coming back to her. It was featured prominently in some of her fantasies of late.

~~~

Vincent was supposed to come to her place that night, but remnants of a tropical storm had moved over the city a few days before and dumped a lot of rain. Vincent spent the past three days out with a crew inspecting and repairing leaks. He let her know that he wouldn’t be Above that weekend, but he invited her to come Below on Saturday morning.

She had an idea. Vincent wasn’t the only one who could plan ahead.

She rose and stepped out of the bath and reached for her towel as she went over her plan one more time.

Half an hour later, she was dressed and waiting just around the corner from the first sentry post. She was waiting for the announcement that Vincent had returned to his chamber. She didn’t have to wait long. When she passed the sentry post, Jamie called out to her.

“Hey, Catherine. Vincent just got back.”

“I heard that. I want to surprise him. I’m not supposed to be here until tomorrow, so don’t announce me, OK?”

“Sure thing! “You know the way?”

“Yeah, just follow the marks on the ceiling, right?” Vincent had told her that when the ways changed, they marked the route on the ceiling of the tunnel. They used chalk, so it was easy to erase when they needed to mark a new route. She followed the marks until she reached the shortcut Vincent had shown her. It wasn’t so much a shortcut as a way to get to his chamber without being seen. She used it and was relieved to find his chamber empty when she got there.

His cloak was folded over the back of a chair, and his boots sat in front of the armoire with his muddy clothes piled on top. She went to the opening of the short tunnel to the bathing chamber and could hear the faint strains of music. He’d told her that he often took the tape player she’d given him along with him when he bathed.

Good, he was right where she wanted him.

She quickly took off her clothes and left them on the bench, then tiptoed into the bathing chamber. He was hard to sneak up on, but she thought that if she was barefoot and suppressing the Bond, she just might be able to do it.

She peeked into the chamber, and Vincent was relaxing against the side of the pool, his eyes closed. He was almost floating; he was so relaxed. She moved as quietly as she could and slipped into the pool at the end closest to her. She waited for a moment to allow the ripples to subside. She was glad that the music and the sound of the waterfall covered any noise she might be making.

She stopped a moment to admire the view before she started moving toward him. Before she got even close, she watched as he slowly submerged. The reflections of the candles on the surface didn’t allow her to see where he was, but it didn’t take long for her to find out. She was grabbed around the knees and pulled under. Her short scream was cut off when she swallowed water. She came up sputtering and coughing to see Vincent standing in front of her grinning.

“You knew I was here?”

“Only after you got in the water.”

“How? I thought I was quiet.”

“You were, but the ripples you made when you entered the water came from the opposite end of the pool from those made by the fall. I could see you when I opened my eyes underwater.”

She reached out and touched his hair.

“What’s in your hair?” she asked. She drew her hand back and rubbed her fingers together; it felt greasy and smelled like the office of the repair shop she took her car to.

“When it rains, a greasy, smelly residue runs off the streets. It tends to accumulate in the pipes. I had to stand under a leak holding a pipe while Cullen and Mouse made the repair.

“I can help you with it. It is a mess, but with a little shampoo and conditioner I think we can get it out.”

“Thank you, I was just getting ready to start on that.” Vincent reached to the side of the pool and picked up a bottle. “I have shampoo, but no conditioner.”

“I left that short blue bottle.” She pointed to the bottle in the basket. “It’s my conditioner.”

They moved to the shallower end of the pool, and she made him stand while she sat on a ledge behind him. She lathered and rinsed his hair twice, and it was obvious he was enjoying the indulgence.

He rinsed the last of the shampoo out under the waterfall and went back to stand in front of her. She put some conditioner in her hand and spread it over both palms, then she started to work it through his hair, stopping to work out knots as she found them. By the time she was done, all the snarls were gone, and she told him to rinse again.

“Would you like me to wash your back?” she asked when came up from rinsing the last of the conditioner out.

“Did you come here planning to bathe me?” he asked. His mouth twitched as he tried not to smile.

“Well, not exactly. I thought I might just join you in the pool and see what happens.”

He moved close to her and captured her hand. She was surprised when he gently pulled it down into the water to touch his body.

“Is that what you expected?”

She tried to hide her smile as she fingers traveled lightly over his erection.

“I guess you could say that I hoped.”

She turned to move off the step where she’d been sitting and into the deeper water and was surprised when she felt his arm come around her waist and pull her back against him. He turned her and pulled her close. They floated, and she rested her head against his chest.

She felt his erection against her thigh and tried not to move a lot, but the water made her slide against him. The arm holding her against his chest tightened, and she sighed and relaxed. He felt wonderful. The weightless feeling from being in the water made it even better. The feel of his chest moving… rubbing across her nipples caused them to harden. He glanced down and smiled. She thought she’d gotten over the blushing stage, but the look he gave her caused her cheeks to get hot. Maybe it wasn’t embarrassment; maybe it was arousal. She felt like her body was on fire.

He moved back toward the steps into the pool, and she tried to back away because she thought he was going to get out, but both his arms circled her and pulled her close again.

“You’re not getting out?” she whispered.

He shook his head, and with one hand, turned her head until their lips were only centimeters apart. She watched as he lowered his head but closed her eyes before they made contact.

The only sound in the chamber was her breathless moan. It seemed her surprise had backfired, and he was the one surprising her.

He moved to a sitting position on the steps, never breaking the kiss. She slid her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and wouldn’t have stopped kissing him if her life had depended on it. One thought did cross her mind. She drew back for a moment.

“This is your private bathing chamber, right?”

“It is,” he answered, then moved back in to continue the kiss.

The feel of his mouth on hers was heaven. His hands slid down her back and cupped her bottom, pulling her closer. His fingers slid between her legs and rubbed across her, and she gasped. The whimper that escaped made him growl deep in his chest, she felt it more than she heard it.

He caressed and teased, continuing to kiss her. She didn’t know whether to wiggle away or ask for more. From the ache that was building deep inside, she knew that wiggling away was not an option. He guided himself into her, and she moaned at how wonderful he felt. She’d waited so long, and now, every time they made love, it was better than the first time, even though she swore it couldn't get any better. This time was no different.

He grasped her upper arms and pushed her slightly away from his body.

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Is this what you expected?” he asked, repeating his earlier question

The only thing she could do was nod wordlessly.

He pulled her back against his chest, his hands slid under her bottom and held her while he began to effortlessly thrust… in and out… the water made them weightless.

She moved her hands up into his hair… whimpering faintly at the sensations overpowering her senses. She started to meet his movements as the first wave of orgasm washed over her.

His movements slowed, and he held her tightly, whispering softly, as she moaned and cried out at the intensity of the pleasure.

She lay on his chest as the spasms slowed, but he was soon moving again. She could feel the first orgasm fading but not completely. It seemed to hover waiting to return. His hands moved up her back... his lips found her breast, and she cried out helplessly as he took the nipple into his mouth. She’d never felt anything like it. He knew exactly how to move and where to touch her.

His mouth made her feel as though she was being consumed by the fire that was building again. The only thing she could do was hold his head and lose herself in the feelings. His thrusting began to increase in intensity, and without warning, another climax hit her. This one stronger than the last, causing her to cry out softly. He sucked harder on her breast, and she began to shake. She surrendered all control to him.

Twice more, he brought her to orgasm before he whispered into her ear, "I love you.”

She looked up at him, and the look on his face was almost frightening. His eyes had darkened and narrowed, the grip of his arms had tightened, and his movements were much harder.

“And I love you,” she whispered back.

One of his hands moved up and held her head against his shoulder, and he began to thrust faster. The other hand slid back to her bottom, holding her tight.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on his hands and body. She could feel the rising tide of another orgasm coming toward her that was stronger and harder than anything she’d ever experienced. As it finally reached her, she began to moan. Never in her life, had she had a climax that intense. He turned his head and covered her mouth with his… she felt his groan vibrate through her. He stiffened suddenly and erupted, pulling her tight against his body.

She lay for a time on his heaving chest, almost whimpering.

He kissed her softly and whispered, "I love you so much!"

She nodded her head when she couldn’t force words out.

He patted her bottom, and she smiled and tried to breathe normally again. He eased her to the side.

"This was nice,” he said, reaching back to rub a spot on his back. “But let’s keep this in a bed from now on," he suggested.

“Are you OK?” she asked, twisting so she could see his back. There was a red spot just above his waist on one side, but there was no blood. “Maybe if we drape a couple of towels over the steps.”

“Or I guess I could get in here with a chisel and smooth them out.”

He pulled her back to his chest where she snuggled close.

After a few minutes, she sat up.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else before we both fall asleep,” she suggested.

“Maybe we should get some dinner… I seem to have worked up an appetite but for food this time.”

~~~

Unrequited

By Anne Alden-France

Father: Then you believe her love for you is real?

Vincent: It is what Lena believes. To deny that would be unfair.

~ From ‘God Bless the Child’

~~~

I had a dream which was not all a dream ~ Byron

~~~

Vincent watched the young blonde woman in front of him, as she folded a soft, often mended skirt, and packed it in a battered suitcase. “Katie, you’ve got Puppy?” Lena asked. Her chamber was a hub of activity.

“Got him!” Katie announced, holding up her favorite stuffed animal. Aunt Fran has a puppy, too? A real one?”

“That she does.” Lena was busy putting child-sized shoes into a carpet bag.

“I can pet him?” Katie was excited at the prospect. Lena took the toy from her daughter’s hand “Sure. That is, if he doesn’t eat you first!” Lena teased, pushing the stuffed animal gently into Katie’s face and making gobbling sounds. Katie squealed her delight, as Vincent continued to watch them.

Lena handed over the toy. “We’ll keep this out. You’ll want it for the ride. But you can put your other toys in the box.” Lena emptied a dresser drawer as Katie put Puppy near the little bag she’d keep next to her, as they travelled. A pair of soft, child-sized nightgowns went into a small suitcase.

“Honey, don’t forget Blankie,” Lena called to her daughter. Katie was putting toys into a cardboard box, just as she’d been told. Their chamber looked disorganized, almost to the point of being ransacked. Every drawer and box was open.

“Blankie not here, Mama. Blankie wif Mary. Gettin’ washed,” Katie replied.

Vincent chose that moment to make his presence known. “Then surely you should go and see Mary for it, Katie,” he intoned from the doorway. Lena looked up.

“Vincent! Mama says we going to see Aunt Fran!” The four-year-old raced over to Vincent, and threw herself into his arms with all the fervor of a loving child. She was beautiful, lively, and blonde, like her mother, though her blue eyes were of a darker shade. She had a pugnacious little nose and a winning smile.

Vincent liked to think he was looking at a younger version of Lena, when he held her daughter.

“Going to Kanzis to live. Like Dorothy!” Katie enthused.

“So I heard. It will be quite wonderful. I hear you’re going to ride a bus.”

“Big bus!” The little girl named for Catherine exclaimed. “’The wheels on the bus go round and round!’” she sing-songed.

“All through the town,” Vincent finished for her. “Or in this case, half way across the country.” His eyes met Lena’s, over Katie’s head. He couldn’t read her expression.

He planted a loving kiss on Katie’s forehead, and set her down. “And what will we say when strangers ask us about New York?” Vincent asked.

“Big buildings!” Katie raised her arms to indicate the skyscrapers over her head. “Nice park. The zoo. But home is secret! Shhhhh!”

Lena watched the exchange, then set aside a pair of well-worn jeans. She planned on wearing them, for the trip back. Four years. After four years, they’re the most topsider thing I still own, she thought, matching them with a plain blue tee-shirt and a brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows. It would do.

“That’s right.” Vincent ruffled Katie’s hair companionably, and gave her a loving look. “I believe Mary is in her room. She mentioned something about cookies for you,” he told the child.

“Cookies! Can I, Mama?” Katie asked. “Can I, before dinner?”

“Sure,” Lena smiled at the one source of deep joy in her life. “Just make sure… what do we say to Mary?”

“Please and thank you!” The child replied, racing off to the chamber she knew as well as she knew her own. Mary’s chamber had been close to Lena’s since the first day Lena come down, back when the young woman was still pregnant.

Vincent stood for a moment, with that sense of perfect stillness only he seemed to possess. Set against Katie’s usually constant motion, it was quite a contrast for Lena. She kept her eyes on her chore. Don’t come in. I’m busy. We’ll say goodbye when I leave for the bus station. When there won’t be any time for… more, she thought.

“Things will be… very different for her,” Vincent said, watching Lena put a hairbrush and comb into the suitcase. The matching mirror was cracked. It had once been a rich woman’s vanity set. “I’m not sure she understands… the distance involved… or… other things.”

Lena nodded. “I know. The bus ride will fix that.” She shrugged, and set a pair of Katie’s sneakers to one side. “I… fought with myself about it. Now she’ll have to tell a lie, when people ask her where she’s lived. It might have been better if I’d have done this earlier, when she was younger, and not apt to remember so much.” She glanced up at him. “There’d be no need to swear her to secrecy then.”

Vincent came into the room.

Damn it, Lena thought.

“It was William who told me you were leaving. I admit I was… surprised.”

Her smile was grim, as she began folding her daughter’s remaining clothes, and placing them in a much smaller piece of secondhand luggage. You were bound to find out. Might as well get this part over with.

“Thought I was a lifer, did you?” She kept her tone purposefully light.

There was no insult in the remark, nor was one intended. It sounded like a simple inquiry, and Vincent treated it as such. Yes.  Yes, I thought you might be. We were a safe place for you. And we’re the only home little Katie has ever known. “I think we’re all going to miss you,” he replied, leaving the rest unsaid.

Lena busily folded a nubby sweater. “I shoulda done it last year, the year before, maybe. After them… those… horrible people came down. Killed Randolph and Simon. Maybe then, I shoulda gone. Maybe then.” Wisps of her blonde hair were slipping out of the strip of leather that held her hair back. She looked down, still working.

“It was a… dark time,” Vincent replied, remembering the horror that had been the Outsiders. “Still, I’m glad you stayed. Are you… certain you have to go, Lena?” Vincent knew of no compelling reason why the young woman had made the choice she had. It felt sudden. It felt… wrong.

Lena looked up at him and nodded. We’re keeping it simple. Good. “I’m sure. Catherine’s been home safe for a while. Katie’s healthy. It’s time, Vincent. Gotta give up my chamber.” She raised her arm to encompass the stone room she’d called “home” for over four years. There were braided rugs on the floors, and a tiny, child-sized bed near Lena’s, that had gone all but unused, thanks to Katie liking to sleep beside her mother.

“Make sure somebody nice gets it, okay?”

She gathered up the few toys Katie had left unpacked, before Vincent entered the room and distracted the child.

“I swear that little girl has the attention span of a sweet potato, some days,” Lena said, tucking a stuffed rabbit into the toy box. Sarah had made it for Lena’s blonde little elf, and Lena had sewn a brown, droopy ear back on more times than any of them could count. It had gone everywhere with Katie, up until the time she turned three, mostly dragged by the ear, as she accompanied her mother to Lena’s chores. Now, Katie preferred “Puppy.”

“It’ll be good to see a washing machine again,” Lena said, putting a Raggedy Ann doll in beside the rabbit. “I done had to take… I mean… I had to take Katie to the laundromat a couple times, up top. Show her some of the things she don’t… doesn’t see, down here.” Like many other things, Lena was still working on her diction, trying to erase the stain of the years she’d spent on the street.

You’re not leaving this place because Katie has rarely seen a washing machine, Vincent thought. He came farther into the room. “This place you are going…”

“Kansas. Hutchinson, Kansas. Home of the world’s largest grain silo. And still no mountains,” Lena replied, fishing a lost pair of socks out from under the bed. Vincent bent down to help her.

“Hutchinson, Kansas. You’re sure this is what you want, Lena?”

When he was across the room from her, talking to him was easier. Even before today. When he was standing in the doorway, telling her that William had made tapioca, or that the duty roster had changed, or that Olivia needed her for something, it was easier. But this close, half kneeling as she was, fishing out orphaned socks from under the narrow single bed where she’d spent all her nights since the one where she’d actually tried to spend the night in his bed rather than hers… that’s when it got hard.

Which was exactly why Lena knew she had to leave.

You’re a good… man, Vincent. And you have no idea how much I love you. The thought came unbidden, and she shoved it aside. Forcefully.

Because unfortunately, the intervening years hadn’t done one thing to lessen how she felt for Vincent. If anything, the sad, sometimes almost desperate feeling of being in love with him all but threatened to overwhelm her woman’s heart.

She knew she had no chance with him. The years between her introduction to the tunnels and this one had taught her that much, if they’d taught her little else. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in love with him… deeply… and for her, painfully.

“I’m sure,” she said, taking a proffered argyle from his outstretched hand. “Really sure, Vincent.”

She rose, and her fair cheeks began to blush scarlet. She felt the heat, and dropped her head, trying to hide it. I’m an ex-working girl who blushes. But only around him. Dear God, I gotta get outta here.

“Lena? Is there a reason you’re going?” He put a firm finger beneath her chin, and lifted her soft blue gaze to his. “Has someone… said something unkind?” Her color deepened all the more.

No. No one has said anything unkind. Nobody’s called me a whore, or implied I should give them something for free. Nobody’s called Katie a bastard, or said we need to be on our way. Everybody’s been kind. Catherine’s been kind. You’ve been kind… especially you.

“No.” She said it so softly, he almost couldn’t hear the word. It was more mouthed, than spoken.

“Do you no longer… feel this is your home?” he pressed.

Yes. No. It is and it isn’t. And I can’t explain it any better than that.

She lifted her chin so it was away from his finger. He let his hand fall.

“My sister and her husband have a place. Kind of a farm. Like the kinda place I was really tryin’ to get away from. I wanted the big city life, the excitement of it. I guess we both know I got way more than I bargained for. But that’s in the past.”

She stepped back and he let her go, staying right where he was. She was nervous, and it showed, as she started to babble. “And K-Katie, well, Katie. You see how big she’s gettin’. Into everything, questions all the time. Ain’t never seen a picture show, or drank pop out of a refrigerator, or a seen drug store, or been into a five and dime. She’ll… she’ll be startin’ school next year.  If… if she’s gonna grow up Above, and not down here, well… it’s… it’s time, Vincent.” Hang on. Just a few minutes more. Then he’ll leave, and I can break down.

“School,” Vincent said, understanding. Ah. So that’s what this is. Katie and how her life will evolve. It makes sense. It isn’t a bad choice. I would hope for no less opportunity, for any child, he thought. Perhaps what I thought was an impulse is actually a well thought out plan. Certainly I knew Lena and her sister were exchanging letters…

“We will miss you both. You know you’re always welcome to come for a visit.”

It’s 1500 miles from here. There won’t be a visit. That’s the point.

“I know,” Lena agreed, just for the sake of agreeing. “And it ain’t a bad place,” she defended. “There’s the farm, and plenty of room to run. She can ride a pony and there’s a family down the road. They got kids. My sister says there’s gonna be a new grocery store opening up in town by next year. Plenty of jobs. I figure I can get on as a cashier. We’ll be alright. Except for having Katie in tow, it’ll practically be like I never left.”

Lena knew she was spinning a bit of a yarn, yet she wasn’t. Everything she’d just said was true. But there would be questions about how she’d spent the last few years. Questions she could only answer with lies. That was for the best… for everyone.

Vincent considered her, as her color began to return to normal. “You must write to Catherine sometimes. Let us know how you are doing.”

Lena nodded, not sure if she ever would. “Her or Dr. Alcott, maybe,” Lena replied. “He’s givin’ me a letter of reference. Tellin’ folks I worked as a receptionist, up at the clinic. It ain’t the truth, exactly, but it’ll maybe get me a job. Lin Pei, too. She give… she gave me a letter sayin’ I waited tables at the restaurant, sometimes. At least that’s the truth. That should help me get work at the diner in town. We’ll be okay, Vincent. Katie and me.”

Vincent sat down on the bed as he watched her tuck the last of Katie’s toys into the box. They were leaving with few possessions, yet everything they had in the world.

Lena glanced up at him as she made more of a production about sealing the box than was warranted. Leave, now. Just… please. Leave. She thought it, but couldn’t say it.

“That child’s gonna be gone a hour, getting’ that blanket back.” She said it just to break the silence between them.

“This is… quite the brave adventure you’ve decided on. You know we wish you well. Catherine and I. Father. Everyone.”

Lena nodded. Okay, you said it. Won’t you please go, now?

But he didn’t. “In a year, Katie will be in a real school,” he marveled. “With other children her age, and rooms full of books, and a kind teacher. The world is… opening up for her.”

Yeah. And in a year, you’ll probably be married to Catherine. And I need to be in a different time zone, before that happens. Livin’ a different life. Maybe even findin’ somebody of my own. Maybe. Anything, but here.

Lena glanced his way, and caught his slightly wistful look, at the description of an Above ground school. One of the things she’d never cared for, he envied. It wasn’t hard to understand why.

She reminisced for him. “Film strip projectors and school lunch on a plastic tray. A square spot for the milk, and a narrow rectangle, for the fork and napkin. Backpacks and boxes of crayons. I guess you never quite had that, huh?” Lena asked.

“No. I never quite had that.” Vincent knew his education, such as it was, had been a superior one. But it was not the same as what children Above received. Topside education wasn’t something he was sure he could relate to.

Lena dismissed his envy with a touch of reality. “I promise you, you didn’t miss much.” She taped the top of the box and began to tie it with string. “Bullies and pop quizzes you forgot to study for. Gettin’ picked last. People tellin’ you you’re too slow. Or too stupid.”

Vincent heard the tinge of bitter reminiscence in her voice. “I think I understand about bullies,” Vincent replied, sparing a thought for Mitch Denton. “But… if that kind of school is so bad, why go at all?” Vincent asked. “Why send Katie?”

Lena realized she’d stepped in it. “I just… I just mean that’s how it was for me. Katie is … well, she’s better than I was. Smarter. Stronger. She’s had you all. Mary already taught her letters and such. She’ll be fine.” Now will you please just leave? She was running out of chores for her hands. On impulse she stepped back over near her suitcase, and refolded an already packed sweater.

Vincent was immovable. “Lena… what is it you’re not telling me? There is… I sense a sadness inside of you. Are you… ill? Is something—“

“No, I ain’t sick!” She exploded at him. “And I swear, for the smartest person here, you can be thick, sometimes!” Her pretty blonde hair flew, as she turned away from him, not wanting to meet the blue eyes that often saw too much… and maybe, sometimes, purposefully saw too little. I love you. I love you, and it’s killin’ me. Okay?

He rose from the bed, but didn’t come any closer. From behind her, his steady, beautiful voice softened, and surprised her, a little. At least for what it admitted, if nothing else: “I thought we were… done with that. That you’d grown… past it, somehow.”

Damn you. And damn me. Have you thought that all this time? You’re a bigger fool than I am.

“There ain’t no ‘past it,’” she said wearily, still not wanting to face him. She tugged a book off a shelf, just for something to hold. The books would stay here, of course. They were tunnel property, to begin with. “I tried, Vincent. Done been tryin’. In the beginning, well, Katie kept me up half the night and there was just no time for it, even if it was still there. But that was then.”

She did turn, then, knowing the amazing blue eyes of the man she loved but couldn’t have, were going to be boring into her. They were. His gaze was unflinching, as he took in her pain.

“I feel it. Inside.” It was the simplest way to admit what she’d never said again, after the disaster of a night when she’d thrown herself at him.

“I feel it. And it’s tearin’ a hole in me. I know you don’t feel it, too. It’s okay that you don’t.” The book was held at her chest, like a shield. One that contained Mother Goose. “You never said otherwise. But for me… It’s just getting’ worse, Vincent,” she concluded.

Vincent dropped his gaze. “I… don’t know what to say, Lena. Or what you would have me do.”

She shook her head. “That’s just it. There’s nothin’. Long as you’re here… and let’s face it, you’re always gonna be here… then I’m just somebody who wishes for somethin’ that’s never gonna happen. Like waitin’ on a bus that’s never gonna come. Katie’s gonna start to see it. She’s too smart not to know. She’s gonna start to understand. I can’t… have that.”

You mean Katie is going to start to realize that you’re in love with someone who can’t return it. And yet, you stay. You think it will affect her. Make her question her worth. Or yours. Make her settle for… less, Vincent thought.

Vincent considered her declaration, solemnly. “I would have Katie see her mother well loved. By someone who shares her feelings, and can return to her what is… priceless,” Vincent replied.

Lena shook her blonde head. “It don’t work like that. It’s like those old lyrics in “The Rose.” That’s a song you probably never heard of.”

Vincent remained where he was, hoping she’d explain. She did. “Love… it’s just luck, Vincent. So much of life is just… luck.” She tossed the book onto Katie’s little girl bed.

“Good luck. Bad luck.” She shook her head, again. “Catherine ever comin’ here… You findin’ her, savin’ her. Her savin’ me. Just… luck. Just chance. It’s like… you can have all the plans you want.

“But whether or not love comes for you, or luck does… well… go a few rounds… or way more, like I did… and you will start to think that love is only for the lucky… and the strong.”

She crossed the room and sat down on the bed, near the spot he’d just vacated. “I owe Catherine. I always will. And I owe you. But there ain’t a way in the world I’m gonna sit in some chamber someplace and watch you marry her. My heart just… it just won’t take it, Vincent.”

You think Catherine and I will marry? They’d been drawing closer, of course. But “marriage” was a very big word, for both of them. And it was one he wasn’t sure his love had ever entertained. They’d come this far following their own instincts with each other, and stepping carefully. To a certain degree, that was still the case.

But that was a problem for another day. Lena’s was more immediate. He knew they were friends. He hadn’t known that the love she’d once offered to share with him hadn’t faded.

“So… you’re leaving because… because you’re feelings for me have… deepened, over the years, rather than… dissipated.” He was stumbling through her revelation, and trying to solve what for Lena, was an insolvable problem.

“That’s a way to put it. Yeah.”

And love is for the lucky and the strong. You have no idea how much I too have thought that true, from time to time, especially when I wasn’t sure if I was either one.

He stepped near, motioned her over on the bed, and sat next to her. His weight made the narrow mattress dip.

He struggled to help her find a compromise. “You could… move, if you like. Not leave. Just… move. Move to Above, even. Henry and Lin could …”

“No. I done thought about that,” she said, no longer bothering to correct her speech. “It’s too close. I’d still be part of this place. And Katie would, too. It’s… I need the distance, Vincent. I’m askin’ you to understand that, and respect it. This is somethin’ you can’t fix.”

Something I can’t fix. We should add it to the list, then, he thought. In some ways, the past year had been one for failures, even amid its successes. It shared a lot in common with most other years, that way.

They sat for several long moments, in silence. After a few more ticks of the clock, Vincent sighed. “It seems I can’t.” Vincent had no idea how to make anyone fall out of love with him. Until now, it had never been a problem.

But it was problematic for Lena. “I just… how could I not fall in love with you more, when you are who you are?” Lena complimented him, unintentionally.

“You know, you’re… quite amazing yourself, Lena,” Vincent returned the gift of her flattery. “I will still… always remember how beautifully you accepted me. And as long as you’ll allow it… I’ll always think of us as friends.”

Friends. The word most people give each other when they know they ain’t goin’ to be more. But with you… I know there’s a gift in that. It’ll have to do.

“I know. But just friends. I understand. I got it. And… don’t think that’s a small thing. It ain’t. It… saved me, back when I needed savin’, back when Katie needed it, too.” She picked at the nubs of a chenille bedspread. “But… I… can’t see myself ever bein’ truly happy if I stay here, Vincent. And whatever it is I need… it isn’t here. Not anymore. I’m still in my twenties. I’m too young to feel this old. But to be fair… I was feelin’ that back before I met you.”

“I know you were,” he replied.

She gave him an earnest, soulful look. “I just… need more.” She dropped her gaze, as if admitting that was some sort of sin. “After… after how bad I messed up my life… I thought I’d be content to just live on scraps, for forever. For Katie’s sake. For everybody’s. But… I don’t know.” She rubbed her hand on the faded pink bedspread. “I don’t think that’s enough. I don’t think I’m any good for Katie if I take it as it is.”

Vincent reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “Perhaps that’s because you’ve grown. Grown strong. You know that what you want is somewhere else. So it’s somewhere else you have to go. It’s a brave thing you’re doing, Lena. I’m… proud of you.”

This time, he did stand to go.

“Thanks.” Lena managed a bit of a smile, even though it was a wan one. “I remember you lendin’ me Byron, then Longfellow, back when I hadn’t read anythin’ that wasn’t a subway schedule… forever.” She glanced back at her book-laden shelf. Lena had become an avid reader, since her time in the tunnels, one who liked short stories almost as much as she liked poetry.

“Looks like I’ll be leavin’ some old friends behind.”

“You should take some with you,” he replied.

She shook her head, then crossed to the bookshelf, fished out his copy of Bryon, the one he’d originally given her when she’d come Below, and handed it to him. “Nah. Just a couple for Katie. Books weigh too much to carry. Don’t worry. I’ll be visitin’ with ‘em again at the library, in town. Once I get there.”

He knew she would, as he reluctantly cradled the book. “You must continue to read, Lena. Continue to… grow. And you are right. Katie deserves a mother who is happy. Truly happy. Promise me you’ll always keep a good book near you. It is something that… comforted me, in some of my darkest times.”

“First thing off the bus, I’m getting a library card. Promise,” Lena said, content that they’d reached as good a place as they were going to.

He moved toward the doorway, then turned. They could both hear the excited sounds of Katie, coming back down the hall. “Lena…” He called her attention back to him. “For whatever it is worth… you gave me something no one else ever did.”

Lena’s fair eyebrow rose. What? A school girl crush? Unrequited love? “What’s that?” she asked.

Katie bounced past him “Got Blankie Mama!” She began stuffing it into the suitcase she knew was hers.

“Not like that, squirt, you gotta fold it, silly girl!” Lena admonished, smiling. She forgot the question, as Vincent stepped to one side and Mary came in, bearing the rest of Lena and Katie’s laundered clothes, and a paper bag full of cookies.

“Now, her warm coat is still drying on the line. And I want you to know I mended that tear in Katie’s blue pants. Not with a patch, but I just sewed the seam, so it won’t show as much. Hello, Vincent,” Mary said, as she walked in with a laundry basket on one hip.

“Thank you Mary. You was always… were always so good to us,” Lena replied. She was back to correcting her grammar.

“Good afternoon, Mary. Thank you for all the help you are giving to Lena and Katie.”

Mary sniffed a little. “They surely aren’t the first ones we’ve ever seen go back Above, are they, Vincent?”

“No. No, they are not.” But this leave-taking is perhaps just a bit different from the others.  “It’s difficult to let people we… care so much about go.” He knew that Mary had a soft spot for Katie. And Lena. As did everyone else.

“But a grand adventure awaits them, doesn’t it?” Mary said, as much for Katie’s sake as for anyone else’s.

“It surely does,” Vincent replied, leaving them.

Returning to his chamber, he set the book on his writing table. The Assorted Letters and Poems of George Gordon, Lord Byron. He remembered the first time she’d ever told him how much she was enjoying it:

“Come in. Lord Byron. You're already finished?”

“No, not yet. But I’m liking it. Especially the letters.”

“Well then, you should keep the book.”

“Thank you.”

She’d liked the letters more than the poems. Perhaps that had changed. Perhaps it hadn’t.

He inscribed it quickly, and wrapped it in brown paper. He would ask Mary to slip it into Lena’s jacket pocket, as she returned with the rest of Katie’s clothes.

He could sense that Lena didn’t really want to see him again. There was no reason that she should. Perhaps this is the best way to say goodbye. And… thank you, he thought.

~~~

Much later that evening, as a certain Greyhound bus travelled across the New York state line, Vincent sat near Catherine on her balcony, pondering something Lena had said.

“Catherine… do you believe that love is only for the lucky and the strong?” he asked.

“I believe someone’s been listening to Bette Midler,” Catherine replied, taking in his pensive mood. “Is this about Lena? About her decision to return home to her sister’s?”

“Who told you?”

“Peter. He wrote her a letter of reference. I saw him today.”

“All is well?” His concern was immediate.

She smiled. “All is well. It’s just… well, with my age being what it is… we want to be extra vigilant, thanks to my Mom’s history.”

He leaned back, glad of the news. Your age being what it is. Meaning you’re getting older. We both are. Perhaps Lena was right. Perhaps it is time to discuss… a greater joining. Somehow.

He looked up at the heavens, and took in the stars overhead. He knew they were travelling companions for Lena, as well, wherever she was right now.

Westward bound. The direction the sun goes. He mulled over the thought, then looked back down at the woman he deeply loved.

“So… do you believe that? That the most important thing that can ever happen to us is mostly… luck?” he asked again.

Do you? she thought, but didn’t say. She looked up at his strange, beloved face. “I know I… I know I looked for it, for a long time,” she mused. “Thought I’d found it, sometimes, but turned out to be very wrong.”

She squeezed his arm, and settled back against it. “I know I found hope the night I found you. I know… what should have been the most awful night of my life… became the most important, and the most magical. If that isn’t… well, luck…” she shrugged her soft shoulders. “I don’t know. Somehow, I think ‘luck’ is almost too small a word for it.”

He couldn’t help but agree, though he couldn’t think of a better one.

Do you know she is still in love with me? Perhaps you do. Women always seem to know. Do you know how much Lena wants what we already have? How fortunate we are? But of course you do. You know that, too, he thought, as the soft night enveloped them. The sky was clear, and the air barely chilly. It was a good night for travelling.

“I hope Lena finds what she’s looking for,” he said. “I hope she finds what… what we already have. Do you think she will, in this new chapter of her life?” he asked.

“I think she might,” Catherine replied. “I certainly hope she will. Peter has her sister’s phone number. Maybe we can… give her a little while to get settled, then have him call? Check in? Make sure she and Katie are okay?”

Vincent smiled. His Beauty was as concerned for Lena and her daughter as he was. “I think that would be… considerate,” he replied, opening the cover of the book they were sharing. “Lena loved Byron. But Lena’s departure had me thinking of the mountains. So, for some reason, I felt like Longfellow, tonight. She said I introduced them.” He couldn’t help a small, wistful smile.

Of course you did. Do you even know how wonderful you are? she thought. “I don’t doubt it. She’s strong, Vincent,” Catherine reassured him. “She was strong before, when she was carrying Katie. She’s just… she was so used to fighting for everything… and for what was right for the baby… now she’s realized it’s okay to fight for what she wants, too. To take a chance. To go home again, and start over, maybe.” She shrugged again. “This time a little sadder and wiser, I suppose.”

“Sadder and wiser. What a… hard thing to be, sometimes,” Vincent mused.

“Better than sadder and more foolish, I guess.”

He considered her words. “I don’t want it to be just luck that governs our fate, so… vitally. But I think of the night I found you, how much… sheer chance was in it, and how can I deny Lena her conclusion?”

Catherine kept his arm in a tight grip. “Maybe it’s just believing in love at all that takes the real strength. There are so many reasons to doubt. To… wonder… Maybe the luck comes when the strength in believing refuses to be shaken off.”

“Lena had every reason to believe there was no such thing as love. Her entire life, before…”

“And then she had every reason in the world to believe in it, afterwards. Unrequited love is still love, Vincent. And she has Katie. That’s worth more than a little.”

So you did know. Or at least you suspected. And you loved them both, anyway. What a treasure you are.  “Yes. Yes, it is,” he replied.

“I think she’ll find what she’s looking for. If for no other reason, than because she still believes in it,” Catherine said. “Maybe that’s the real thing she found, in her time in the tunnels. That love exists. That it’s strong. And true. Even if it hurts, sometimes.” She brushed a kiss across his sleeve. “You’ve just got to believe, I guess.”

She does believe. Or at least she hopes. She also believed I would ask you to marry me, someday soon. And that you would say ‘yes.’

There are more triumphs before us, Catherine. And even if there are tragedies as well, we cannot be deterred.

“Then I will believe, as well,” he replied, removing the scrap of paper that held his place, in the book. His voice caressed the words, as it always did.

“We have not wings, we cannot soar;

But we have feet to scale and climb

By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen and better known,

Are but gigantic flights of stairs…”

You never did answer my question, Vincent, Lena thought, as she adjusted the small pillow under her daughter’s head. The miles rolled past, outside the Greyhound’s window. What was it I gave you no one else did?

Curious, she tugged out the wrapped package Mary had tucked inside her jacket pocket. She tried not to let the paper rustle, as the somnolent passengers all around her let the bus driver do the work, and get them where they were going. They would pull into Hutchinson sometime late tomorrow, and from there, make the drive to Fran’s farm.

“So like a man to say something important, then not explain,” Lena gibed her absent friend. They had left New York (the state, not just the city) some time ago. Already, the land around her felt different. The Atlantic was to her back. The entire country felt like it was spread out in front of her.

This is a good thing. This is the right thing, she thought, feeling it in her bones. This was freedom. Freedom from a slew of mistakes she never should have made, and from a love she knew she couldn’t claim as her own.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago. Maybe,” she said to herself, knowing that it was only partly true. She wouldn’t have missed her time among the Tunnel folk for the world. Neither would Katie.

She recognized the book she’d tried to return. Lena flipped open the cover of Vincent’s parting gift. Reading what he’d written inside, she had to smile.

You are someone else’s possibility.

I guess I know what I gave you after all, she realized. She hugged the book to her chest. “Maybe I am,” she whispered, then looked down at her sleeping daughter. “Maybe I am,” she repeated.

It was going to be a good trip home.

Success

(From The Ladder of St. Augustine)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

We have not wings, we cannot soar;

But we have feet to scale and climb

By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen and better known,

Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear

Their solid bastions of the skies,

Are crossed by pathways that appear

As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight,

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

~~~

Father’s Memories

By Judith Nolan

“If I had known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself...”

“God, yes…” Father agreed, as he read the quote again. “Mae West surely knew a thing or two.”

He tapped his cane against his stiff leg, understanding it was past being made better. He looked into the mirror as he tugged his thinning, grey beard, remembering it had once been full and dark. Margaret had said it was his best feature, after his gorgeous eyes.

“Margaret…” he whispered softly, turning from his mirrored image with regret. “One day soon, my love…”

Once Upon a Time In New York City

Episode Expansion by Barbara Anderson

Dear Vincent,

What can I say to you? How can I ever express to you my thanks for what you have done for me… again? When we parted last night, you said I owe you nothing, but you were so wrong. I owe you everything, Vincent.

EVERYTHING!

How did you know? How did you find me? When you told me you could feel what I feel, I didn’t understand what you meant. But it must be true. How else could you have come to me when I needed your help so desperately? What does it mean… that we are connected in this way?

So many times in the past several months, I thought I must be going crazy when I would hear your voice in my head telling me that I was strong, telling me not to be afraid, telling me that I was safe. Now I wonder, was that really you? Have you been keeping watch over me all this time?

You saved my life again. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you’ve done for me.

Catherine

~~~

Dearest Catherine,

I took you home again. It was even more difficult

the second time than it was the first. I am so grateful that you were not injured by those men!

You thanked me for saving you, but do you have any idea

what you have done for me? It is I who owe you… everything. After you were horribly brutalized, when you had no reason to trust anyone in all the world, you trusted me. Even after you saw my face, my hands… what I look like… you conquered your initial fear and looked beyond my visage and trusted me.

Tonight, when I felt your fear, your absolute terror, it was as if what was happening to you was also happening to me. It was your life that was in grave danger, Catherine, but I felt that if I allowed anything to happen to you, I too would die. I have never run so fast in all my life. I had no idea that I could do that.

Afterward, when I saw the look of terror on your face, it brought me to my senses. I am so ashamed that you saw me in such a state. How is it that you could take me by the hand and continue to trust, after you saw me and all that I am?

Your kindness and your acceptance mean more to me than you can ever know.

Please be careful, Catherine. I don’t ever want you to

see me like that again.

Sleep Well, Catherine. Be Safe.

Vincent

A Dream Made True

by Allison Duggins

"Vincent, what are you doing out of bed?"

Father caught Vincent as he stumbled into his study, eyes closed and hands outstretched as if searching for something or someone.

"A dream. Father… I saw a woman in danger… a scar on her face… beautiful to behold."

Father looked at Vincent. Neither knew a woman with a facial scar. Sometimes he wondered whether the nightmares that often troubled Vincent were entirely random. Once or twice they did hold a hint of truth. He took hold of Vincent, turned him around and made him go back to the bed and sit down.

Vincent's eyes opened and he muttered, "Blood… her face drenched in blood… "

"Who?" asked Father as he reached for a mug of water on the bedside table.

"A young woman alone in the darkness." Hurriedly Vincent sat up as though looking for someone. "Is she here?"

"No… no, there's no one here. It's all right, Vincent."

"She may die!"  He tried to get out of the bed but Father managed to prevent him.

"Father… terrible dreams… shapes and blood… HER  face covered in blood!"

"Whose face?"

"A young woman with fair hair… wondrous eyes… abandoned… dying!" Both hands grabbed Father's in panic.

“I have to find her. Please, Father, I have to go find her.”

"Where, Vincent? Where do you think this woman is?"

"In the park, in a deserted area of the park. She will die if someone doesn't help her."

"All right, Vincent. Do you know where in the park she is?"

"The 96th Street drive-through. I have to… " Vincent collapsed weakly back down onto the bed.

Father tapped a message on the pipes and soon a dozen people were scouring the area where Vincent said the woman was, and they soon reported that no one was there. No evidence of anything.

"I've had a dozen people search the area you mentioned, Vincent. There was no one there. It was just a dream. Nothing more."

"A dream… But it seemed so real, Father."

"You've been under tremendous strain since Lisa left… with nightmares and wild rages. This dream was just another result of it all. Believe me, Vincent, if anyone was there, they are not there now. We can ask Peter to discreetly check the hospitals for us to see if he can locate any information on the woman."

"Thank you, Father."

Vincent closed his eyes and soon was resting peacefully for the first time in days. Father prayed that this crisis would quickly pass and allow his son to heal.

Years later, as Vincent was wandering the park, he thought about the 96th Street drive-through from his youthful dreams and decided to wander over there. Some urge was coaxing him to walk that way. It was April 12th, 1986…

~~~

Time Tunnels

Welcome to the Time Tunnels…

… where we bring a story from the dusty forgotten stacks of hardcopy zines of long ago, and bring them back into the light.

This year we’re spotlighting a fan fiction writer who was in the thick of this fandom from the very beginning, and who many agree, she left the world too soon.

Nan Dibble

1942-2006

Nan was a prolific writer in the Tunnel world of Beauty and the Beast, writing well known zines such as, Beyond Words, Beyond Silence, Bright Spirit Descending, and many others. She was one of the brave BATB writers, who fearlessly wrote for every season, even tackling the heartbreaking events of season 3, and beyond.

As I write this, I have barely touched the tip of the Nan Dibble iceberg that is the body of her work. If you have access to more than the few of her works that are available online, you are fortunate indeed.

Hopefully more of her work will be available soon for newbies like me who were not around back in the day.

But beyond being a fan fiction author, Nan was so much more! She was a published professional author with a PhD and two Masters degrees. She was a writing coach to any who desired to learn. When the show was on the brink of being canceled, Nan attempted valiantly to take on the ‘powers that be’ to try to save our beloved show. She teamed up with a few others, to organize fans worldwide to sign petitions and pledge their loyalty, but to no avail. It’s fair to say that the fandom might not even exist today, if it weren’t for the efforts of fans like Nan Dibble, who brought the splintered fandom together so long ago, before the internet made it so easy.

A statement left on her memorial page sums up the opinion of many who knew her:

“Thank you Nan, just for being "you".

There is a place in many hearts where you are held safe, resepected, loved...”

The following story may not be to the taste of all readers. I personally felt shocked and violated the first time I read it. But the more I thought about it, the more it inspired me. I’ve come to realize that in this particular piece, Nan has written the middle of a story. How do I know that? Because I live by the mantra “Everything turns out okay in the end. So, if it isn’t okay, it can’t be the end.”

And I can tell you emphatically, that the end of this story is NOT okay.

I realize now that Nan is the ultimate Dream Keeper. Because even though she passed from this world years before I ever discovered fandom, she managed to inspire me to try my hand at finishing her story.

If you have the courage to read it, perhaps she will inspire you too.

So, in honor of the wonderful Nan Dibble, please enjoy One Down and One Up, Two Stories by Nan Dibble

One Down and One Up

Two Stories by Nan Dibble

S3-SND

At the end of the second week after Catherine returned, Diana chalked a mark then continued following the beam of her flashlight down what she hoped would be the last black, crooked passage before the lake. Mouse’s directions had been none too precise, and she might already have gone wrong fifteen crossways ago. But she thought she could smell water, and that kept her scuffing patiently along. That… and other things.

She almost walked straight into the water. Backing hastily, she checked the alternatives, then took a bound against, then off, the end of the passage wall, clunking safely onto the smooth, dry shore.

“No wonder nobody ever comes here,” she muttered, rancorously rubbing a banged knee. Straightening, she swung the flashlight beam in a vain attempt to locate any roof. Then she panned the beam level, but the horizontal dimensions defeated it too. The cavern was too vast. All she could see were still, black water, and grey rock, and only about a hundred yards of them.

The flashlight would be like a spotlight: she’d be advertising her presence for miles, or however far a clear line-of-sight might go. But she had no least intention of snapping it off, any more than she tried to hush the already soft sounds of her jogging shoes on the smooth, slanted stone.

She knew better than to try to sneak up on him. If he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. And if he did… that would tell her something, all by itself.

A week, she would have understood. A week for greetings, adjustments, tentative approaches and retreats, telling each other how horrible it had been, reconnecting, counting baby toes and fingers. That sort of stuff. But more than a week without a visit, an invitation, or a word… and then finding, first crack out of the box, from Father that nobody’d seen him in the last four or five days (it was hard to be certain, since he moved around so much), that sent her alarms into high gear.

She could be making an even bigger fool of herself than usual. It might be no more than Father said — that after prolonged stress, even happy stress, sometimes Vincent had to get off by himself for awhile to get settled, centered again. Maybe that was all it was, and she was being an utter jerk.

If Catherine wasn’t upset, setting up in her old digs in the D.A.’s office, reclaiming her high-rise condo, why should Diana be?

Which of course made no difference at all.

If he’d built a fire, she’d know, and back off as gracefully and as fast as she could. If he hadn’t, if he’d been hanging around here in the dark for a few days, then she’d know that other thing and know her hunch had led her true.

She’d seen no sign of a fire when a shadow moved and said her name, “Diana,” in a voice as resigned as a sigh.

She swung around. Too polite to poke the beam into his face, she could make out only a dark outline.

“Yeah, well, I figured I had an update coming, you know?”

Vincent ignored her blithering, as he always had.

“However did you find me?”

“Yeah, well… will you think less of my detecting skills if I admit this is the third place I tried?”

“And if you hadn’t found me here?”

She shrugged, vaguely embarrassed. “Well, you know…”

“I believe I do. Which is why I knew I must greet you. Or you’d continue searching. It’s not a place to be wandering alone, Diana.”

She shone the beam on her feet, then abruptly clicked it off. “You do.”

“But I am different,” he commented flatly, in what she considered a real peculiar tone of voice. And there’d been no fire. So she guessed she knew.

“Big deal. Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, nobody’s making you. But I thought we were friends, anyway. And friends don’t gotta go by manners. If you don’t come tell me, I come ask.”

He ignored the hint, too. He’d always been real good at that.

“Have you enough power to light your return?”

“That’s not why I turned it off. I thought maybe the dark was better. I mean, you didn’t make a campfire or anything…”

“I see very well without one. I’m—”

“—different, yeah, we been through that. So, yeah, I always carry spare batteries.” She patted a jacket pocket. “I’m fine, you don’t gotta signal somebody down to guide me out, I can manage. Besides, I chalked my way.”

Displaying the chalk as proof, she added, in the most unemphatic, casual tone, “So she won’t sleep with you, huh?”

Her eyes were dark-adapting a little: she caught the glint of his eyes as he swung and stared at her. Then that disappeared as his head bent. Then all of him went down, boneless as a puddle — arms across his shoulders. He was crying, of course. Who wouldn’t be?

He didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t care, she figured. He was still too caught up in the fact of it to feel much beyond himself right now, and he’d already used up all the politeness he had to spare. That was OK. She’d never been much interested in his politeness.

When he finally shut the crying down to occasional wheezes, he got out, “It would be unconscionable to speak of such a thing… with you.”

“It would be an imposition.”

“Says who?”

That accounts for the extra week, she thought. She said again, “Says who? Look, don’t you know by now there’s nothing you can’t say to me? No matter what it’s about? Nothing in this world.”

He said, “I thought that, once.”

“Then you damn well better think it again, because it’s true.”

He didn’t answer. He sat up straight, not leaning even a little. Taking the hint, she eased off, tucking in all the elbows and edges so she wasn’t touching him at all anymore. Now the question was, would he stay or wouldn’t he? If he didn’t, that was it, because the game was always played on his terms and she’d always known that. She’d always find him, but never hold him unless he was willing to be held.

What he finally said was, “It shouldn’t matter.”

So he was going to stay. So far, so good.

She retorted, “Like you looking different shouldn’t matter. But it does.”

“But this isn’t a matter of topside ignorance. This is Catherine. And me. And it shouldn’t matter.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s no different than it was, than I’ve lived with all my life. It shouldn’t matter. I should be content. It’s everything I wished for. She is returned to me, safe. We can go on now. As we were. We can!” he insisted, as though hearing her unspoken disbelief. Or denying his own.

“Then how come she’s having triumphant press conferences at the D.A.’s office and you’re way down here being about as miserable as I’ve ever seen you, which is saying a lot?”

“I’ll learn. It’s been a long time. I need to learn… or perhaps unlearn… I don’t know,” he trailed off, and he had to be really distraught not to finish a sentence.

“So what’s the bottom line here? Doesn’t she love you anymore?”

He shook his head. “She does. She says so. Just as before.”

Dianna heard the slight emphasis in says and drew her conclusions. “The bond hasn’t come back, huh?”

Again, he shook his head — this time, a slower, heavier motion.

“Father theorizes, after the fact, that it was a bonding mechanism… for partners to be mated. For… creatures of my kind. Which probably are empaths. If there are. Creatures of my kind.” Big, deep breath. “He conjectures that after we… When it was replaced by a full joining, it attached itself to the unborn child. I remained unaware of it until the child was developed enough… aware enough… to return it. Shortly before birth. And now, even that is fading. As Jacob grows, needs less immediate, constant care, yet cannot yet shut out all the inappropriate emotions that reach him… It diminishes. So I am losing him too.”

“Hey. Hey.” When his head finally came around and she figured he might be looking at her, she said, “So romance isn’t marriage. Everybody learns that, sooner or later. It’s just more dramatic for you because you had no warning, didn’t know what to expect, and being you, probably figured it was your fault and if you’d just done something else or something more, it wouldn’t have come out that way. So: am I right, or am I right?”

“I’m sure you’re always right, Diana.” Vincent replied wearily. “Now if you have all the answers you require, perhaps —”

“Not a chance. Not even half a chance. Because a little dose of reality wouldn’t have sent you into a tailspin like this. You may be the widest-eyed blazing idealist I’ve ever known, but I got great respect for your common sense, not to mention your overall smarts. And I’m here to help you sort this all out as best it can be sorted. Sometimes it helps to have somebody else listen, you know?” Before he could deflect her into a discussion of that, she said, “So tell me about the bond. Is it gone gone? Or only semi gone?”

“No… Only diminished to… what is normal for me. Close presence. Touch, especially. And strong feeling. Those reach me… as they always have. Except… during my illness. As with Father. Or anyone. No… particular or constant connection.”

That would have been the first week, continually renewing his starved sense of her. Learning what touch could tell him — whatever touch he’d risk, and she’d allow.

Diana had a sudden image of a moth battering itself against the glass that kept it from the flame.

“So: does she love you?” Diana asked, very softly.

“Yes,” he replied, even softer. “As before. And it didn’t matter to me then. It was enough. I was glad simply at her presence, her company, her acceptance of my love. It was enough.”

“But it’s not, anymore. Because—”

“But it should be! It’s more than I’d ever hoped for — a woman of noble character who yet would love such a thing as I am, and what—”

This time, she was the one who interrupted: by clapping a palm, with a certain blind care, over his mouth. It surprised him enough to stop that particular speech, which she’d never heard spoken aloud in so many words, but felt that she knew by heart all the same. That conviction of personal worthlessness, of apologizing for the mere fact of being, permeated everything he said and did.

Lifting her hand away almost as carefully as she’d set it, Diana said, “I’m not disputing the noble character part. Just the part that takes for granted that you’re trash. ‘Scuse the interruption, but I’m not gonna listen to that from you or anybody. Never. Sorry about that, but you’ll just have to put up with it.”

“I’m sorry, Diana,” he responded humbly. “I knew it was not a thing I should bring to you. I knew you’d want, and try, to find answers, and there are none. I knew it would only be a sadness and a frustration to you. Because you cannot help. No one can. I must learn… or unlearn… But I don’t know how.”

She had the feeling that if she just kept after him, didn’t give him any space, he’d break down in tears again. Maybe even walk off on her, though that wasn’t a likely now. So she hunted around in her mind for a neutral topic (Jacob was out: no longer neutral) and asked, “How’s Father been bearing up through all this?”

“Quite well, actually,” Vincent replied, as though it surprised him a little, now that he’d come to think about it. But some of that deadly heaviness had come out of his voice, too, so maybe it’d been a good switch. “Better than I, certainly. He… he’s delighted, of course, to have Catherine back with us, even though she will continue to work Above, of course. And of course he now hopes and expects—”

“—that everything’s finally gonna go back to normal, right? Oh, ‘scuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I could just imagine his face, saying that kind of thing, and looking at you very hard while he was saying it so you’d be sure to know who he meant.”

“You’ve come to know us all very well. Yes, that was the expression…” He fell silent, but it felt like a thinking silence to Diana, so she let it alone and waited until he commented, “Father has lived without a partner and celibate virtually his whole adult life. When there was no need, except that he would not impose on me, and require me to keep, restraints he would not abide himself. He once told me so. So that, in that respect, at least, I would not feel myself utterly alone and alien to all of humankind. Yet his is not a monkish nature. After Jacob was returned to us, and Father finally knew, of his own knowledge, that the child was mine, he immediately took advantage of an opportunity to renew an old relationship. You remember Jessica?”

“Distinctly. The photographer.”

“Yes. They were… close friends. When I was young. The connection of the two events is inescapable. Therefore, so is the conclusion.”

“If the rules had changed for you, then they’d changed for him, too. You both were off the hook.”

“But when he found he could not tolerate living Above, and Jessica couldn’t tolerate coming Below, he returned to his life as it had been before… much to Mary’s disappointment, I might add.”

Diana wondered if it’s been just her nasty, cynical ears, or if there’d been the faintest edge of dry, resigned amusement in his comment. Just as a push to keep him rolling, she said, “I bet.”

She thought his head lifted staring out into the blackness that to him was half-sight, distances she could only guess at.

“Father seemed… almost relieved. It would have been a great change for him, after all. And returning Above would have had… ramifications. He would have found it difficult to… to split his energies and his care between the worlds Below and Above. And his hope that I would rise to the occasion, and lead the community, were at least premature. Without your help…” He didn’t feel like finishing that thought either and retreated to more impersonal ground. “He felt he had to come back. And I confess I’m glad he did. I would have missed him most dreadfully. He’s been… he’s been the only one who hasn’t left.”

His head bent again: back to desolation.

Diana said, “But the bottom line is, he’s stepped back into the role of monk/priest, and doesn’t think there’s any reason you can’t do it too, just as easily. Or does he even know there’s a problem?”

A headshake. “Father and I… do not speak of such things.”

“So, he thinks you should be delighted with the status quo, Catherine thinks everything’s great, and even you’re beating yourself up for not living up to your ideals, which says a hell of a lot about romance but not a whole lot about sex, am I right?”

That was blunter than she’d ever been to him, but she thought it was time. Probably past time. Better, probably, if it had come from somebody else. Preferably a man, at that.

She added, “Can’t you talk to some man about this? Somebody you trust, feel comfortable saying things to?”

“Mouse?’ he countered. “Pascal, the most monkish of us all? Once, Winslow…”

She’d never heard the name, but the way he said it made her conclude that person was no longer an option. “So what about your brother? Didn’t you tell me you had a brother?”

He sighed. “With luck, we might see him in another twenty years. He stays nowhere long. And… I don’t think it’s something I could entrust to a letter. A reply would be dubious. And… we never really came to know one another as adults.”

“He still thinks you’re a kid. Too. And the whole problem is that you’re not.”

A slow, heavy nod, and another sigh. “You speak slightingly of my ideals. But I must follow them. They’re my best guide to… good behavior.”

“Good human behavior, you mean, right?”

“That, and Father’s instruction, and what I observe in those around me, are all I have to judge by. And I wish so very much to do well…”

“I know you do, Babe.” She took his hand: she couldn’t keep herself from it. Damn, it hurt, how bad he hurt, and how well he always meant, and it damn well wasn’t fair!

He didn’t pull his hand away, or pry her fingers off. She felt him looking at her. After awhile he said, “It’s not right to inflict my problems on you.”

“Why quit now?” she quipped, then regretted it because it was too near the truth and sounded too much like a complaint. “Never mind, scratch that. Just a dumb joke. What’s right or wrong for me isn’t your judgment to make. Going off and shutting me out would hurt worse, though you’ll have to take my word for it. My hurt’s my business. If you pick up on it, that’s just tough. And if you pick up on some of the rest of it, too, then that’s just double tough. I can’t rearrange myself to make life easy for you. Or for anybody. Never could. Never will. Comes with the package, take it or leave it. People with big ears sometimes hear stuff they don’t like, don’t want to know. Too bad.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t known for a long time now. And what I notice most is the kindness. The limitless, ferocious kindness that never lets go and gives no quarter. It’s one of the first and strongest things I ever knew of you.”

“Then you gotta know, whatever the problem is here, I’m on your side. Sure, I’m glad Catherine’s OK, and everything. But if you’re hurting, that’s what’s important to me. So even if there’s nothing to be done about it, tell me. Is it you? What you are?”

Slowly, quietly, he responded, “I used to think that. Assumed it, actually. When… we were new to one another, Catherine and I. I had fought so long against… the rages, and what went with the rages. You know.

“I knew all that must be shut away if I was to live, as I must, isolated and yet among a community, in a civilized community where rage and other promptings must be formally controlled, regulated, supervised… Where no violence must be done, except in defense. Where no violence must even be desired… because the consequences would be so great, so intolerable…”

“So you never let yourself get truly angry at anyone. Ever. Or ever—”

“Yes. And the one time that impulse escaped my control, it almost meant my death. Before I could again shut it away, and be as I had been before… As I must do again now, somehow. But I don’t know how I am to do it.”

“Before, you doubted everything. That it was physically possible. That anybody would accept you, much less want you… that way. That you could ever hope for anything as normal a girlfriend, much less a lover or a wife. Hoping for what you can never have just means being miserable all the time.”

He hung his head. “And yet… I did hope. I didn’t seem able to help it. Though with the years, it grew easier… and yet harder. Because instead of peace, surrendering hope meant… despair. And then… I found Catherine.” He took a sharp, long breath. “I don’t believe I’ve told you, because I’ve never told anyone. Some know the fact of it, but not what it meant to me. After she returned home to complete her healing, for eight months Catherine gave us no sign. No message. No greeting of any sort. Though she knew perfectly well that there was a threshold in her basement – a way into the tunnels. She could have rapped on the pipes: she knew we listened. She could have left a note, too large to be missed by a patrolling sentry. There were many ways. But she did nothing. At last I went to her. I … had to. Father was very angry – at first, and for a long time. But the bond had formed. I felt her continually with me and yet as the time passed, I could have no expectation of ever being in her company again, and … I could not do otherwise.”

“Sure, I understand. I really do. I know from mountains and Mohammed. But that left you in a one down position to begin with.”

“One… down?”

“As opposed to one up. Top dog. Boss in a relationship.”

“If you say that, you do not understand. It has never been a question of who was ‘boss’ between Catherine and me.”

“Sure, it’s nice to think so, and a lot of times the lead is situational. Boss in one context is follower in another. But there’s still the boss and the follower, even if who wears the hats changes from time to time. Who called the shots of when you met?”

“Except for special events Below, formal invitation, it was Catherine. But our possibilities were so much more constricted than those of… other couples. I could not go Above in daylight hours, and she needed her rest.”

“Granted. But the fact remains, she called the shots. Who called the shots on your visiting at her place – when and how long?”

“If you mean her balcony –”

“No: I mean her condo.”

“I suppose I did,” Vincent responded, which surprised Diana. “She invited me in a number of times. But I could not accept that invitation.”

“What – never?”

“Once. To protect her. Once in madness. And then once again… when I took her home. When… I believed her dead. Never… socially.”

“Why?”

“She trusted me. She believed I would not impose on her trust in… that more private setting. I didn’t believe I could continue to be worthy of that trust. The balcony presented… less of a temptation. And now, she trusts me again. And I wish to heaven she did not!”

Diana let the echoes of that outburst die down in the cavern before she said anything more. “So is it you?”

“She trusted me to be… safe for her. And I did try to be. All the poets… almost all… name as the highest form of love that which seeks no return, that which is spiritual, not carnal, free of the baser animal impulses –”

“Blake,” she said. “Donne. Whitman.” She’d done her homework, hunting ammunition.

“There are exceptions,” he admitted. “But books with explicit sexual content – and I have read a few – are still termed ‘dirty,’ and an unhealthy or excessive interest in the subject is deemed prurient. The consensus is none the less strong for the exceptions. Gandhi was a truly great and noble man who abstained from sensual pleasure to help him concentrate on spiritual matters he deemed of far greater importance, eliminating a powerful distraction. Voluptuaries are everywhere condemned as self-indulgent. Nowhere are prostitutes held in high esteem. Self-denial, in matters of the flesh, is everywhere praised. Chaste relationships are deemed ‘pure’ and of greater worth than those of sensual indulgence. I do not draw my ideals idly or at random, Diana.”

“Never said you did.”

“But you find them outlandish.”

“Only because nobody even tries to live by them anymore. You might as well tell me you were a druid, or building shrines to Odin.”

“That others do wrong doesn’t make it right. I try to do the best I can, as best I know. What else am I to do?”

She held his hand a little harder. “That’s all any of us can do. But it gets harder when you’re coming down with fits of base animal impulses and nobody, not even you, will sanction them. Me, I like St. Augustine.”

Trust him to know a quote. Any quote. “’Lord, give me chastity. But not yet.’ Yes, I suppose… But now is when I do need it. And the poets and philosophers I admire bid me be content.” His hand stirred aimlessly within hers. “But I am not. I feel excluded. Rejected. As though there is no longer any hope.”

“Back to the original question, if you’ll listen to me this time: is it you?”

“I’m… less certain of that than I was. I’ve been thinking, here… and I’ve come to think… she was drawn to me because she considered me safe. Because she believed that, considering our differences, any relationship that wasn’t platonic was utterly out of the question. The prospect simply would never arise. In being courted by Elliot, she had no least suspicion I would be jealous or hurt, or that even her loving that man would make any difference to what we were to one another. How could it not make a difference? But she didn’t imagine it could. And that she couldn’t even imagine it… told me all I could bear to know.”

“One down again. You weren’t even in the running, in the boyfriend department.”

“Stronger, she once said, than friendship or love. Which I must assume meant not friendship or love. I truly never knew what she meant. I didn’t care. It was love to me. I wished so not to… frighten her… as I’d once frightened someone else. To do nothing to hurt or offend her in any way. Nothing but what would please her. And what pleased her—”

“—was to be safe, and out of the dating market. So, double safe. Attached, but with no commitments except on her terms. One up all the time, calling all the shots.”

“I began… to grow more hopeful. Bolder. She encouraged me. Told me, many times, that I deserved… everything. What was I to think? And yet, when I would reach out… in any but the ways that had become customary between us, I would feel her distress. And a sadness. And a disappointment. Many things. But not gladness. Not… welcome. And so I would draw back and believe I had misunderstood her somehow. I doubt it was anything she had thought out, decided. It was merely… not what she wanted. With me. Or perhaps at all – with anyone. But she hadn’t fully realized or accepted that, and so gave me contradictory signals. She said once… she wished I had kissed her, rather than receiving that kiss from Elliot. I assume she believed it at the time. But she kissed me only once, in thanks, chastely, and then quickly left me to wonder what it meant. It meant thanks. Nothing more. But I would not believe that, so I looked for all the signs she wished greater closeness and tried to ignore or set aside the much clearer and more consistent indications, in all her emotions, all her reactions, that just the opposite was the case.”

“Must have confused the hell out of you,” Diana commented.

“It drove me mad,” Vincent replied steadily, grimly. “I was quite mad for a time. Far too dangerous to be near. Though you discount it, I am dangerous when not in full control of myself. I absented myself from the community. I believed, insofar as I was capable of believing anything in that state, that I would die. And then she came to me…”

“And gave you everything you’d wanted when you were in no condition to enjoy it.”

“I must assume it was a great sacrifice on her part. I don’t know. I still remember nothing of it. Only the fact of Jacob persuades me of what passed between us. And her own word, of course.”

“It’s really the pits, having people making enormous sacrifices for you, isn’t it?”

“She never spoke of it. Never, in the weeks afterward. All was as before. Except that the bond was lost, and I didn’t know why. Probably she didn’t either, although she may have suspected since she alone knew… what had happened in that cave. Something had been broken between us, in any case. And I was distraught about it. And then, before any of that could be resolved, she was gone. But you must not speak or think any ill of her sacrifice. Without it, I surely would have died. Which, I must assume, is why she did it. In extremity. As a last resort. Truly, out of love. But not out of passion, any more than ‘the Kiss of Life,’ so-called, is a kiss in anything but name…”

“The pity is, that it had to be a sacrifice at all.”

“I didn’t know it was… until I reached out to her again, in hope, soon after her return, thinking matters must have altered between us, because of Jacob, or, because of withdrawal, the same profound disappointment as before. Stronger, if anything. Revulsion, I was holding her. I felt it, as clearly as though there were yet a bond between us. It struck like a blow. I had not been mistaken.”

“What did you do?”

“We turned away… and spoke of other things. I cannot bear many more blows like that, Diana. I am ill-defended against them. Yet I love her still. But the hope… that hope… is finally dead.”

“So let’s get practical here. Even supposing you could go back to being a priest/eunuch/monk whatever, which is highly dubious at this point – it’s damn near impossible to get that particular genie back in the bottle, once it’s out – could you put up with the consequences?”

“What are the consequences, as you visualize them?” Vincent responded cautiously.

“Being her very most favorite buddy… and pet. And never asking to be more. Could you live with that?”

“I never thought to be even that… to any woman.”

“Ever isn’t now. Could you stand it now? Maybe you could. There’s people who seem to get along like that just fine. Elsa Lanchester and Charles Laughton, each as gay as a tree full of monkeys, got married and had a hell of a good relationship, by all accounts. Lots of good times, lots of laughs. Loved the daylights out of each other. Just no sex. With each other, anyhow. And there’s always Heloise and Abelard, and –”

“Lovers who never met, except by correspondence. You’ve been researching.”

“Yeah, well. It happened to come up.”

“I will pose you the contrary question, Diana. You know you have become dearer to me than any other woman, save Catherine herself. And I know, though you have never said it, your attachment for me… is beyond the ordinary. It’s been impossible to mistake. You have given, and given, and asked no return at all. You are giving now, even though, if you succeed, it will put yet a greater distance between us. Exactly the selfless behavior my poets so commend. Let me ask it of you, and I truly want to know the answer. If you were certain there could never be anything more than this between us, would you end the disappointment and pain you must sometimes feel and separate yourself? For you must know it would be the prudent thing to do. You must have known that for a long time now. I also am uncomfortable with those who make great sacrifices. Though I admire them.”

“Yeah, well.” Diana took her hand back.

She hadn’t expected a therapeutic talk to take this direction. But it was a fair question. Just blunter than normal, especially from him. He was so damned considerate, nearly all the time, she often wanted to punch him out, or hug him hard, or something like that, just to get one unconsidered reaction. That was, of course, when he wasn’t wrecking furniture or tearing somebody messily apart, which was also very much in his repertoire, as she had good reason to know.

She didn’t really know how much there was, between those two extremes. Not much, he’d contend. Almost everything, she firmly believed it on faith. Hope, maybe. The same kind of hope that, even blind and undirected, had kept him going for so long.

What would she do if that hope were truly gone?

“It’s easy to theorize,” she said finally. “First, I’m gonna duck a little and throw it back at you. Then, if you still want me to, I’ll take a crack at it. It comes down to the difference between can’t and won’t. If Catherine had come back, say, paralyzed or in some other condition that made it literally impossible for you to get together—”

“For instance?”

“For instance bisected at the waist, I don’t know – just pretend a minute, OK?

“I don’t like imagining that.”

“Just pretend one second more, OK? The question is, would the problem seem to you then the same way it does now?”

She thought he’d folded his hands over his knee, in that strange, prim way he had of controlling them.

Eventually, he said, “No. I think not. I would not wonder, even for a moment, if it was my own lack, my own difference. That choice would have been taken from us. A sadness, but less than that of her condition itself. I could attend her, and be content to be whatever we could be, and be glad to be of service to her. Everything would have changed then. Everything would have to be discovered anew. But as it is, only I have changed. And that’s not enough. I take your point, I think. I still,” he added, “wish to hear your answer.”

Yeah, OK. So if some big rock fell on you, disabled neck-down, I’d come visit you till you were sick of me, years and years, not for charity but because you’re great company and I like how you think. Even Steven Hawking got married. Twice, I think it is. Neck down and neck up. Lou Gehrig’s disease. Something. Guy can’t even talk.”

“I’ve read one of his books. The Brief History of Time.”

“I figured. And that Irish guy, Christie something, who paints with his feet. Married a couple of his nurses. One, anyhow. So there’s things besides sex keeping people together.” She wrapped both arms tight around her and shivered. “And imagining you like that is so awful I don’t even want to think about it anymore, OK?” Leaving out can’t, all I can truly say is, try me. What I believe is that… this fits. This is right. This is what I belong to be doing. Which is worrying about how you’re doing. I couldn’t stop if I tried. Can’t even stand an extra seven days of not knowing how you’re doing, when I had every damn reason to believe you were happy as a clam at high tide. It might be sensible to do something else. I don’t know. Don’t really care. This is all I can do. And it’s what I want to do. What you make of it doesn’t really signify, sorry. It’s what I do that I gotta account for, make sense of. And this makes sense to me. So even if I make a damn nuisance of myself, which I probably do already, I’m in for the duration. Always have been.”

She could really have used a hug at that point, but she didn’t get one. Instead, he said softly. “I don’t deserve such faith.”

“Doesn’t it get through to you? You deserve everything, and I know precisely what I mean by that, and so, by God, do you. But it’s not a matter of deserving. It’s… more like making sense of the world. And without you, nothing makes a scrap of sense at all. With you, it mostly does. That’s just how it is. None of it is up to you at all, so you don’t have to feel obliged. It’s no sacrifice. It’s absolutely what I want to be doing.”

“Would it matter to you,” he asked, “if Catherine and I were together again?”

“Matter? Of course it will matter! It’ll hurt like goddam hell, and if it’s what’s gonna make you happy, I’ll move several moderate-sized skyscrapers to help you get it. You said if,” she suddenly realized.

“If you are capable of facing such a prospect, why do I find it so impossible to resign myself to it?”

She dragged herself out of her retroactive fog of astonishment. “Because… because in some ways, I’ve already been there, done that. Compared to you, I’ve been a grownup a long time. Fifteen years, or thereabouts. I’ve got a good-sized file in my head labeled SEX and it’s got contents, and probably a lot of useless baggage and a fair amount of nonsense and plain stupid stuff. But it’s there. I have it. You just found you got a file like that, and it’s so empty it aches. Pretty near all the time, by what you’re telling me. Can’t quit banging against the glass.”

“Like a moth.”

It always startled her how quick he picked up on some hints, considering how oblivious he was to others.

She nodded, then went on, “Everybody wants you to go back to what you were, because it was easier for them. Likely easier for you, too, if you could do it. But there’s a good chance, I gotta warn you, that you can’t. Because now you don’t have just hope: you have knowledge. You know it’s possible… only not with Catherine, it seems like. Not can’t – won’t.”

“Or perhaps only shouldn’t. Perhaps a passionless life is best, and all else is madness and delusion. A mere appetite, better denied.”

“Are you seriously gonna put down the strongest drive any species has – to reproduce, to survive as a species – as crude bestial promptings the very best people shouldn’t feel at all, or shouldn’t give in to, if they do?”

“It can be argued. And has been.”

“Yeah: by the time-honored voices of sour grapes!”

He sighed. “Diana. There are many instinctual responses which, however natural, must be denied if one is to live harmoniously in one’s community. However much the moth desires the flame, it would be his death to achieve that desire. Many would commend Catherine’s sense that … that sort of intimacy is inherently repellent. Lust remains on the list of deadly sins, that kill the soul. St. Paul approved even marriage only grudgingly—”

“Yeah: Better to marry than to burn. ‘In hell,’ my priest always added. But St. Paul wasn’t such a dingbat prude as all that. I always thought he meant burning in the regular way. Wanting real bad. Needing and not having. Marriage is for the preservation of chastity, if you been reading the same books I have. So chastity doesn’t mean no sex: it means socially acceptable sex, generally with one partner at a time in our culture, but within the agreed structures of a given society. Not much polygamy going on Below that I’ve noticed…?”

“No. Nor polyandry, either.”

She was almost certain she’d gotten a smile out of him with that. “Polyandry?”

“A wife with multiple husbands Though I don’t know that Father or the community would particularly object, since all the participants would presumably be known. Family, as it were. As it happens, the question has never arisen. We’ve had some bigamous couples, one or another of them having a living spouse Above. We usually decided to consider them informally divorced, on the legal grounds of desertion, though it was uncomfortable and irregular at times.”

“So chastity is pretty much what you make of it. If you make anything of it all. Tell me – is Catherine a candidate for sainthood anytime soon?”

Maybe another slight smile. “I do love her; but no. Not anytime soon.”

“Even saints gotta rule out all the other possibilities. Not everybody who hears voices has a direct line to God. Nine thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine of them are just bats. Except for the occasional Catholic and High Church Victorian bluenose matron badmouthing what she ain’t got none of herself, short of sainthood, feeling that sex is repulsive, when you really love your prospective partner, is generally considered a handicap, not a higher plane of being. A failure of normal function, normal emotion. A clinical dysfunction, with a name. Maybe treatable. Maybe if Catherine knew how unhappy you are, she’d be willing to see somebody about—”

“She knows. Now, she knows. That’s what makes her sad. Because she believed better of me than this… Diana, I’m not a saint either, nor ever likely to be. Not even one such as St. Augustine.”

“You know, somehow, I’d never thought of you in that context.”

“Somehow, I’d suspected you hadn’t.” She was startled to feel her hand taken and firmly enfolded. Vincent went on, “Make no sacrifices for me. But see me through this time. Please. At least that long, promise me you won’t leave.”

“No,” she said, and felt her hand as abruptly released. “No promises. Some things, you just gotta take on faith.”

He was messing around with something. When the match flared, she realized he was lighting a candle stub.

“I’m remiss,” he apologized, not like it was really bothering him a lot. “It must be very dark for you here.”

“That’s OK. I can see what I need to. But keep the candle,” she added hastily, when he glanced up at her inquiringly. The candle, she was prepared to take as a good sign. That he was at least capable of thinking about somebody, something, besides how miserable he was himself.

The small light picked out certain points of metal – his shirt ties, the utterly useless pocket studs of his quilted vest, and his belt buckle, which had always looked to her like part of a bridle for a hippo or something. Ostentatiously large, considering how little there was to hold in: no flab on the man, not anywhere. Probably symbolic, she’d guessed. Massive, high-tensile restraint at the waist. It could strike him like that. It would have been wearing it lower that would have been ostentatious. And appropriate. She thought of it as his chastity belt.

He settled back onto his heels, still looking at her. by the up-slanting, flickering light, his face was drawn and exhausted, but composed.

“By your own formulation, you must be one down. Is that fair to you?”

She began shaking her head emphatically before he’d finished. “Nope. Not one down.”

“Why?”

“Because I draw the lines of what I’ll put up with and what I won’t. As long as I do that, I’m boss of my own life. I’m calling the shots – making the choices.”

He tilted his head, the way he did – thinking about it, she supposed.

“I’ve always known there were certain things beyond changing. My appearance,” he explained, with a slight downward gesture at himself. “The separation between the worlds Above and Below. The beauty I find in music, and in poetry… and in other things. The day. The night. The absolutes of my existence. They merely are. there is no choice about such things. The choice is in what one does about them. One cannot be ‘one down’ to the dark. Or to a symphony. Or one up, either. I’ve never believed my appreciation affected the rising of the moon one whit. So I must believe you are right. Some things, one must accept as merely given, and do what one may… We cannot be other than what we are. But we must each try to do the best we can with that, that we can.”

“This got a point to it somewhere?”

“Do you… do you truly believe it is not me – the way I am - that’s the cause of Catherine’s… reluctance?”

Even by candlelight, she could tell his face had gone about two shades darker: blushing.

“I can’t answer for Catherine. There’s people who think Robert Redford – he’s a movie star – is smarmy. Repulsively pretty. Maybe not a huge majority, but they’re there. Hell, I’ve seen published letters from women who claim to find some actor named Daniel Benzali sexy. Bald, fifties, fat, face on him like a sulky balloon, teeny little accountant’s eyes like some nasty Commissar –” Catching Vincent’s blank, waiting expression, she hurried on. “What I mean is, there’s truly no second guessing how one person looks to another. You wouldn’t think Steven Hawking or the foot-painter would be real hot items, either, but they each found somebody who thinks they make the day light up. I can only answer for me. And if you’re in serious doubt about that. I really been going about this all wrong.”

“This isn’t a matter for joking.”

“I know. Sorry. Except that I figure it would screw your head up real bad right now. If you so much as wiggled the least little finger in that direction, I would definitely not try to beat you off with a stick or run screaming to the nearest cop. There: that good enough for you?”

His reaction was to bend his head, not look at her, and say, “Please.”

He needed reassurance so goddam bad, he’d even come right out and beg for it. That was plain enough. What she couldn’t figure out was why.

Comfortable understatement plainly wasn’t going to do it. Nor generalizations and blather about total strangers. OK, then: down and dirty, like they said in poker.

Diana hitched herself close against his ear, she said. “So, how about if I tell you a few of the things I’d really like to do with you?” And then she whispered. And then she quit whispering and just imagined. Recollected actually. From several of her more satisfactory dreams. With all the emotions that went with them. So he couldn’t help but feel them, unless he shut her out entirely. Which he did sometimes. But not now, she was somehow certain. So she gave it to him straight. He’d asked for it.

This close, she could tell when his breathing changed.

She had some sympathy. Right now, he was all raw nerves, desperation, and hormones. More would have been mean – like teasing a teenager. So urgent… and so pathologically hypersensitive. When he tensed with a jerk, like somebody had just kicked him someplace very personal, she eased up at once, sitting back, smiling at him, willing to laugh about her dumb, improbable, erotic fantasies and let it go at that. Or willing to say nothing at all.

He was staring at her with eyes dilated just about black, despite the candlelight. Maybe she’d shocked him. Maybe it had been a real dumb idea. Maybe she should apologize.

Before she could make up her mind, he murmured hoarsely, “Theory is all very well…” Then he leaned forward, very fast, and kissed her hard. And she was never, ever going to let a chance like this go by. She damn well kissed him back, grabbing two handfuls of hair for anchors, knuckles into the back of his neck, thumbs practically hooking his ears, and she hadn’t really planned on breathing again this century anyhow. She damn well gave as good as she got, and he let up before she did, resting his forehead against hers., pulling in quick, shaky breaths like he’d just run fifty miles or so. Or thirty years or so. Her breathing wasn’t too steady, either. Scratch the imagined teenager.

Pretty good for desperation.

She’d have settled for a lot of things. But not for desperation. So she didn’t ask if he’d like some more proof, or if that taste of what could be was enough to keep him steady for now.

He muttered, “There was Lena. But that was gratitude. And she mistook it.”

Diana nudged him with her forehead. Lifting his head, he blinked at her. Then his clouded eyes cleared. She waited, sure he was going to apologize, which would be awful.

But he had some fundamental manners, even though he didn’t know the rules. He only said, “You don’t find me distasteful.”

It wasn’t a question. So she didn’t answer it. Instead, she asked, “You gonna tell me what you were scared of?” Because she figured out part of it: he was gathering ammunition. But she still didn’t know why. And then she did. “No matter what you do, she’ll say it’s you. Because if it’s her with the problem, she’s permanently one down. She’d say it’s you. And believe it. And dammit you can’t let her make you believe that again! Vincent, you can’t!”

“No. But it will be so hard…” He bent his head again, wearily. This time, onto her shoulder.

“And I’m still not promising. I don’t do promises. I just do. If that was a bribe, it wasn’t nearly enough for even a down payment.”

He made a noise slightly like a laugh. “Perhaps. I’m sure of so little anymore. Perhaps what you imply also was a reason. But for me, that is the only true knowing. I have very little left by the way of faith, either.”

“Then trust what you know. What you feel. Not what somebody claimed people ought to feel, two hundred or two thousand years ago. Take my word for it: you’d make a lousy monk, and you’re real low on my sainthood list. Some other lists, though, you’re right at the top. You may be an acquired taste, but then again, so am I. So is most everybody. Definitely not disgusting. Never doubt that. Not even for a second!”

She still held two fistfuls of his hair. She shook them, rocking his head, for emphasis. When he just looked at her in placid bemusement, she let go the hair and rested her wrists on his shoulders, hands hanging loose.

“You’re telling me,” he remarked, dubiously and carefully, “that I must follow my heart.”

“Yeah. Exactly. I guess. There something funny about that?” she demanded, trying to read his face. “Something dumb?”

“Nothing dumb. I can only say to you again that I don’t know what will happen. Or what will become of us. Any of us. All I know now is that I will leave this place with a heart much lighter than when I came.”

Leaning, he blew out the candle and then moved again, becoming no more than a guessed-at, towering blur to her freshly blinded eyes. His hand came to hers and lifted her.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

It wasn’t a question. So she guessed it didn’t need any answer.

One Up

When the elevator doors opened, Diana chickened out. She stood so long that the doors closed again. After a buzz dropped her to six and then to the lobby in the company of strangers who looked at her oddly when she didn’t get off, she punched the button for the roof, banged out the metal door, and paced awhile among the vent pipes and air conditioner housings.

It was a terrible idea. She’d probably make things worse or leave a humiliating mess for Vincent to deal with. What business did she have, thinking she could get between and have it be anything but a disaster? Hadn’t a dozen instances of being asked for advice by one or another side of a couple on the outs, giving it, and then having both of them madder at her than they were at each other – hadn’t that taught her anything?

Scuffing to the parapet, she thought, So what? What if I do lay an egg? At least it’ll be a damn big egg, too big to ignore, keep walking around. Maybe then they’ll have to talk about it anyhow. The hell with it. The hell with it.

She slammed back through the door, slapped the elevator button, and marched out on eighteen the second the doors parted for her.

“Hi,” she said to the peephole when a voice inside cautiously said, “Yes?” in response to her leaning on the buzzer. Putting on her best, inoffensive smile, she added, “Diana Bennett. You recall? Vincent introduced me.”

The chains got pulled, the door opened, and she was dragged inside in what must be record time, as if to prevent her from saying anything else incriminating out in the public (but empty) corridor. But hell, there were a couple thousand Vincents in Manhattan, and Diana had never made a big deal of avoiding the name – except around Maxwell, of course. And she didn’t see all that much of Maxwell anymore, anyhow. So no need to treat the mere name like a state secret, burn before reading, gulp the arsenic pill before They torture it out of you sort of deal.

Turning from shutting the door, Catherine said warmly, “Of course. Hello,” in a way that still conveyed a question about what the hell Diana was doing here anyway.

Surprisingly, Catherine was in sweats (pink, with discreet lace edging – Diana’s were Army grey) and sneaks, with a pink paisley bandanna twisted into a headband to keep her longish, light brown hair away from her face.

The briefest glance at the condo told why: cardboard boxes everyplace, sealed or opened and lying on their sides with miscellaneous stuff mounded out on the floor; rolled rugs; a table on its side against one wall and the chairs stacked beside it; bigger furniture ranked along the back wall, except for two little beige couches doing a nose-to-nose in front of the fireplace.

Improvising on the spot, Diana commented, “Looks like you could use a hand with this. And I’m a certified helper.” Diana pushed up her sleeves. “What’s first – the rugs, right? Get the back half down, anyhow. Then move everything, get the front down. Which one goes out here?”

Down on her knees next to the stack of rugs, talking over her shoulder without fully looking around, Diana didn’t leave much room for argument, and she didn’t get any. And toting, then unrolling, the smallest carpet, the one that went in the bedroom, was all the ice-breaker they needed.

The big double bed was already up and made, and a few clothes hung in the open closet, Diana noticed. Some cosmetics, a brush and comb, on the back of the bathroom sink. The minimum.

Wiping an arm across her forehead, Catherine remarked. “It’s all been too much. It’s taken this long for me to work up the courage to tackle the rest of it.”

Patting the rug’s corner flat, Diana sat back on her heels. “You could have hired some movers, something. So I guess you didn’t want to.”

Catherine shook her head – an agreement. “They’re my things. I want to put them back myself. Guess it’s important to me to take back control of my own life. Dumb, huh?”

She smiled – a really warm, engaging grin. A little embarrassed, a little self-mocking.

Much to Diana’s surprise, she found herself liking the living woman, whereas she’d felt only the usual sadness and pity toward the supposed-dead one.

“Maybe,” Diana said frankly, “you’d really sooner not have me messing with it but are too polite to say so?”

Another head-shake. “No, that’s Vincent, not me.” Unexpectedly, they were both grinning then. Catherine went on, “My manners are really awful – not like his. I appreciate the help. I was nearly ready to give up. Now, maybe there’s a chance of getting this place in some kind of shape before I run out of steam again. How about if we tackle the kitchen stuff next, with a bribe of coffee when we find the pot and some cups?”

“You got a deal.”

While Diana sat on the kitchen floor next to successive boxes, handling plates, bowls, and bouquets of silverware up for Catherine to put away, Catherine remarked, “I’ve been making do with instant and hating myself every minute for being so lazy, not getting everything unpacked. But I just couldn’t face it, at first. Just the essentials. Bought a toothbrush, some shampoo, a towel.” Swinging open another cabinet, Catherine shrugged.

“Camping out. Yeah!” Diana was holding out the plastic stand of a Mr. Coffee. Catherine snatched it, gleefully slammed the plug in a socket, and started hunting for the rest of the coffee makings. “Or maybe you like tea? I’m sorry, I don’t have any –”

Almost, Diana said back to her, That’s Vincent, not me, but restrained herself. Because there was a very pointed reason why Catherine wouldn’t have any tea in her apartment: Vincent never came in to be offered any. Not social, echoed in Diana’s mind.

“A confirmed coffee addict,” she responded. “The stronger and blacker, the better.”

“A reward for our hard labor,” Catherine declared lightly, sipping hers, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

There was a thereness about her. She was never incidental. As though a light or an invisible camera was somehow always focused on her, to make her the center of whatever space she occupied. Charisma, Diana thought, trying out the word. Self-assurance, she thought, trying out another. Confident. Complete….

“If I had a nickel for every cup of tea I’ve drunk out of politeness,” Catherine went on, and grinned ruefully, leaving Diana to draw the obvious conclusion.

“Yeah, I’ve had a few myself.”

“Vincent,” said Catherine, with an expression so intent it was almost fierce. Then she looked over at Diana sharply, smiling like sunshine. “Vincent: I can say it! Vincent! Vincent! Vincent! And his formality, and his dear silences, and his shyness, and the way he smiles with his eyes, and – everything! I can really say it! Because you already know, and I can say it to you. Do you have any idea what a relief that is, Diana? How long I’ve wanted to do that, and couldn’t?

“There are other helpers,” Diana commented, a little uncomfortable with the blaze of jubilation, that seemed to declare Diana had given some great gift.

“Sure: Peter Alcott, who delivered me,” Catherine replied with a dismissive tilt of her hand. “Or old Mr. Long? Do they strike you as the sort of people one runs to with one’s girlish vaporings?”

“Not hardly. Assuming I knew a girlish vaporing if it bit me on the ass.”

Catherine made a face at her. Actually scrunched up her nose, scowled and made a really repulsive, silly face. Diana nearly choked on a swallow of coffee. Whatever she’d expected from the reported Park Avenue princess, it hadn’t been this. It was so goddam… unladylike!

And yet it wasn’t. It was just as right as anything else Catherine did, because she did it, and it was impossible that Catherine Chandler could lose the least ounce of dignity, even by the most blatant silliness. Not by airs or pinkie-extended formal manners, but by the absolute conviction that whatever she did was appropriate and seemly, did Catherine’s privileged upbringing show itself, Diana thought. Catherine might sometimes be mistaken, but never deeply ashamed, wish-you-were-dead wrong, the way Diana often was. Or if Catherine ever was, she’d never, never concede it, admit it. The possibility simply didn’t exist.

Permanently, perpetually one up on – so much so that no pains need be taken to maintain some created image. The ingrained assumption of superiority was just there – bone-deep, beyond questioning.

Diana thought she might be beginning to understand.

She thought, “A woman of noble character.” And so goddam sure of it that nobody can even come close to shaking her in that conviction. And the trouble is, now, this once, she’s so wrong that Vincent’s practically bleeding from the eyes with the hurt of it and she doesn’t have a clue. And what chance do I have of making her see that? Much less admitting to it and doing anything about it?

Struck by pity and sadness, Diana stuck her nose in her mug and kept still until Catherine announced cheerfully, “Break time’s over. If you’re still willing?”

Hopping up, Catherine grabbed a stack of cups waiting on the counter. So Diana leaned into the box to collect the stack of saucers.

“Royal Doulton,” she remarked, holding them up carefully so they couldn’t tip. “Nice.”

“A matched set,” Catherine agreed, handling them like dime-store crockery, as though from the awareness that she could replace the whole shebang anytime she felt like it. “Complete place setting for sixteen, including finger bowls, in case I decided to invite the Mets to supper. And heaven forfend I serve them hot dogs off mismatched china. Like the kind they serve supper in, every night, Below. I used to be such a jerk.”

“Come again?” said Diana, deeply startled.

“Nice of you to be surprised, but it’s all too true. With the people I used to know in college, I’ve barely lived it down yet. ‘Majoring in fashion law,’ is one of the kindest ways it’s been described. A genuine card-carrying, empty-headed twerp.” Catherine shrugged, seeming, and worst, fondly amused at her past self. “Everybody seemed to approve of me that way. It was expected. And if I was miserable and worthless, not even I knew it. Until…”

“Until Vincent,” Diana guessed.

“No. Until something really awful happened and I thought I’d lost any chance of being that person anymore. Ugly. Slashed, thrown away. When the magic circle of privilege and security I’d taken for granted all my life stopped working. And then Vincent.”

Catherine nodded soberly as though she’d been trying the formulation out on herself and was satisfied it fit. “Then Vincent. He rescued me, not just from death, but from life. That life. He made me see how unimportant and trivial it had been – how the only thing that mattered was making a difference to other people. Helping them. But it took that… horror… to make me able to see it. Believe it. After that, everything was different.” Lifting her head, Catherine looked at Diana – a steady, level look like Vincent’s, that seemed to see all the way down, as deep as you went. Diana tended to blather whenever she found Vincent looking at her like that. From Catherine, the effect was even more disquieting because Diana knew there was so much Catherine didn’t see and wouldn’t like much if she did. Catherine said, “You rescued him like that, didn’t you? He would have died, except for you.”

“I guess he would. The one way or the other. At least I thought so. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I had to.”

“Somebody had a gun to your head? He startles people, at first meeting. Me, I threw a headlight reflector at him. But I bet you didn’t even blink.”

Diana folded her arms tight. “I already knew… he was different. Just didn’t know what particular flavor the difference came in. Knew about the claws, of course. From… what was left. The photos. So that, I knew. And the rest – well, it didn’t matter. I was too busy trying to figure how to get him out of there, get him home, without getting caught. I had more important stuff on my mind than… the rest of it.”

“Yeah,” said Catherine softly. “That’s what I thought. You were a true friend, right from the start. Had your priorities straight. Me, I took… longer.”

“Eight months,” Diana blurted, thoughtless form tension, and then wanted to bite her tongue off.

Catherine’s eyes drifted. She didn’t seem offended. “Yes, I suppose. I had to get my own life in order before I could think of sharing it with anybody else. At least make a start. On my own terms. Not worrying about what anybody else might think of it. Of me. Not even him… I hoped he’d approve, though. I dreamed, sometimes, he’d feel I was doing the right thing… And then he came. So, I didn’t have to dream anymore. I knew. Diana, has anybody thanked you for saving his life?”

Diana made a face. “For other things – till I wish to hell they’d quit. Not for that, actually. Not that I recall. Don’t say anything, though, or he’ll start in. Things are bad enough without that.”

“Bad enough?” Catherine repeated, inviting confidences Diana had no intention whatever of giving.

“It’s been rough for him. Still is, in some ways. It’ll take awhile to get it all sorted out.” Diana stuck her face in the carton seeking something else to hand off.

Is this where I say it? Are we chummy enough yet for me to say something like, Look, sister, fair warning: whoever sleeps with him gets to keep him because that’s how he is?

Taking a safer course, she clutched some silverware. Surfacing, holding up the offering, she added, “Like you, I expect. Take awhile to face tackling all the changes.” She waved vaguely at the boxes. “Not up to more than the minimum, the essentials, just yet. That you’re alive. Back. That… you’ve had a child together.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s going to take some adjusting to,” Catherine commented, then poked head and shoulders into a low cupboard as abruptly as Diana had ducked into the box. So Diana put the silverware away herself, having seen what drawer it lived in.

By common consent, they kept to neutral talk while putting the rest of the kitchen to rights. That Diana had only one sister but a huge extended family of uncles, aunts, cousins, whereas Catherine was an only and now an orphan, to boot; that Catherine planned to concentrate on trial work now, leave the street stuff to the grunts and the newbies who were generally assigned it anyway, in the ordinary way the office was run.

“I have the seniority for that now,” Catherine remarked as though half expecting an argument, a suggestion that she’d pulled strings, claimed privilege to get that change of assignment.

Which of course she had. But it was a privilege she’d earned, strings she’d woven with Maxwell over the years in the D.A.’s office. Just like Diana had earned her place with the 210, her right to choose which cases she took on. Same thing. Diana wasn’t about to criticize.

“Bet he’s relieved about that,” Diana commented.

“He was,” agreed Catherine, then did a double-take. “Oh, I thought you meant Joe. I suppose he will be. Vincent. When I tell him.” Again subtly defensive, she added, “He’s been somewhere, the last few days. And it’s been so hectic, the red tape and paperwork of getting myself declared legally alive and everything…”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Diana, thinking, Been somewhere. Yeah. So she didn’t do it for him, or because he asked her. And she didn’t tell him beforehand that she was planning on it. She thought I meant Maxwell. Whole separate deal. Why is it a whole separate deal?

No bond, her hunch told her. And then she was horrified to realize she’d said it out loud. Catherine’s face told her.

“I suppose that’s part of it,” Catherine commented steadily, pushing a wing of hair back from her cheek. “That it’s up to me now to create my own security. I can’t depend… on anyone else to do it for me. Should never have expected them to. When it comes to that, I’m on my own.” Catherine’s expression had turned meditative… and downright grim. She looked ten years older.

Is that why she pushes him off – to punish him for not rescuing her from that creep, Gabriel?”

But this somehow wasn’t the time to say It, or anything that would lead so directly to It. It would have been better, Diana now thought, to have blurted it out the first second she got in the door, a stranger. Said, At bottom, he’s a simple guy: just wants somebody to let him love them up one side and down the other, every way he can. Just like fifty million other ordinary joes who love somebody till they’re half crazy with it. No different. So why the hell can’t you just lean back and goddam let him?

But she couldn’t say it now. Dianna had gotten too close or not close enough – somewhere in the between place where you could talk frankly about a lot of personal stuff… just not about the extremely personal stuff that really mattered. It somehow wasn’t possible. Like Vincent, with Father. It just wasn’t possible anymore.

She said, “How about we tackle the big rug next? Can’t do much of anything until that’s down.”

“Good idea,” said Catherine, seeming as relieved as Diana to go back to work.

The glass-topped oval table and its chairs went up on the raised area in front of the dark balcony doors. With them out of the way, enough of the living room floor was clear to manhandle the roll of carpet down to the foot of the stairs and then unroll it as far as the couches in the middle of the room.

“Up and over?” Diana proposed, sitting on her heels to judge how far they’d have to lift.

“Get the roll smaller,” Catherine decided, bending to shove at one end of the nearest couch. So Diana got up and started shoving the other end. It wasn’t too hard: the legs slid pretty smoothly on the bare floor, once they got it started. When the couch was as far as they could get it, up against the desk and the glass-fronted entertainment center against the far wall, they flopped down on it, legs stretched, puffing.

“One down, one to go,” Catherine observed, not moving.

“In a minute. I never learned the Zen of couch moving. All focused and everything. Yell to center your ya or wah or whatever the hell it is.” Diana slapped away floating wisps of hair. The braid was coming undone. It always did.

Catherine smiled. “No chop-sockey garbage. That’s what Isaac would say. He taught me street fighting. I should look him up again sometime.” She swung a foot idly. “That was what was worst about it, you know? Being imprisoned that way. That nothing I did could make any difference. The helplessness. After the first few days, I wasn’t being tortured or anything like that. Treated pretty well, considering. Enough to eat, shelter, medical care… Just left alone. To ripen. Spill my guts a different way.”

Though the tone was quiet, reflective, the words themselves were violently harsh; and the imagined glimmer of charm, or whatever it was, was wholly gone. The inner light had gone out. Diana sat very still.

Like somebody summarizing case notes, Catherine said, “It was like being in that van. Month after month after month. They didn’t do anything to me. But I knew they could. Anything. Any time at all, for any reason they pleased, and there’d be nothing I could do about it. Helpless. They didn’t intend to hurt me. After awhile I realized they didn’t care anything about me at all. The man in charge, I never saw him. Not until the last.”

“Gabriel.”

“Was that his name?” Catherine responded indifferently. “I never knew. Only the voice. Sometimes when the doctor was examining me, the voice would come over the speaker, asking questions: She, that flat voice would say. Her. Never talking to me, I didn’t matter. Didn’t have a name. The Vessel, the voice said a couple of times, and he was talking about me. Like some big fat pot. I didn’t matter at all – only what the vessel held. Toward the end, if they’d left the door open, it wouldn’t have made any difference – I couldn’t even have run. I could barely walk, I was so huge. I thought I’d have longer. Nine months, at least. But it was sooner. Because it was his, I imagine. But I thought I’d have longer – I wasn’t ready.” Catherine meditated a minute or two, swinging a sneakered foot.

Then she commented, almost casually. “That’s not going to happen ever again.”

Listening, Diana wondered exactly what Catherine was prohibiting by personal fiat – another captivity… or another pregnancy, apparently experienced mainly as another facet of being trapped, helpless, choiceless. Out of control. De-personalized into a vessel that no longer held any light.

“All my life,” Catherine continued with a vague gesture, “they’ve done that to me. Built me a comfortable prison and expected me to stay in it. And for a long time, I did. Didn’t even recognize it as a prison. My dad loved me, so he protected me. And that was the prison, and I lived in it. And bursting out of one prison, I’d fall right into another. Somebody who wanted to control me, tell me what to do, who to be. Stephen. Henry. Mike. Tom Gunther. Elliot Burch. Right up to the monster with the video screen and the voice. That time, I knew it was a prison. Every minute. So maybe I’ll be a little smarter, the next time. At least I intend to try, believe me.”

She pulled a little tense, unconvincing smile as if hoping to take some of the edge off what she’d said.

Carefully, Diana asked, “Have you talked to anybody about this?” and Catherine rolled her head around on the couch back, looking wearily amused.

“Who would you suggest: Peter Alcott? Mr. Long?” Catherine’s tone again dismissed those possibilities. “Because it all turns on the child. And therefore on Vincent. And that makes it impossible. I tried talking to a psychologist once. Or was he a psychiatrist? I forget. Anyway, I realized soon enough it was no use because the only things I really wanted to say were the things I couldn’t say. That’s been the price. Anyway, now I’ve told you.” Catherine commented cordially, as if that should settle everything.

“How about Father?” Diana persisted, but Catherine shook her head. “Or hell, how about Vincent?”

“Never,” Catherine shot back. “He wouldn’t listen. He’d only… take it personally. I’ll deal with it. Myself.”

“Look,” said Diana uncomfortably, “it’s getting late, I should go –”

She knew now she was never going to say It. It’d been a stupid idea from the start. Catherine had her own take on the matter and it didn’t include high-minded poets or ascetic philosophers. It was a question of control. Rekindling the inner light and keeping it going no matter who came to batter against the glass. Get her own life, her own place in order – her order, her choices, her things, exactly where she wanted them and no compromises wanted or maybe even possible. Like before: the eight months. That seemed to be her pattern. A fundamental survival mechanism, regrouping after trauma. It was damn near impossible to talk somebody out of that. Likely nobody had any business even trying.

“You don’t get out of couch moving that easily,” Catherine retorted gaily, bouncing to her feet. “The bribe is supper. You like take-out Chinese?” She headed toward an answering machine and phone packed in a box. Receiver tucked into her shoulder, Catherine punched the number from memory, remarking to Diana, “That’s my answer to all social awkwardness – take-out Chinese. Yes,” she said to whoever answered, “I’d like to order for delivery, please.” Naming items, Catherine’s eyes checked for Diana’s agreement, not that Diana really cared.

She felt awful. Hopeless.

That was when the tap came on the glass of the balcony doors.

Phone still in hand, Catherine immediately swung around. An unexpectedly revealing sequence of emotions flashed across her face. First, comprehension, gladness, welcome, that let Diana know what, or rather who, that tap announced. And before Diana’d had the chance to take in the potential awfulness of that, Catherine’s glance swung ruefully around the stacked furniture, the still opened boxes: recognizing that the place was a mess. Then a sigh, eyes cast downward as she reached to set down the phone, because it didn’t matter if the place was a mess because Vincent wasn’t coming in. He never came in.

And Diana found herself springing to her feet and beating Catherine to the French doors behind the glass-topped table, yanking them wide, and seizing Vincent’s wrist, lifted for another hesitant tap.

“Great,” she announced, turning and starting back into the room, still battened onto his wrist. “Great timing, babe: just in time for the furniture. Just what we needed!”

Of course he didn’t move with her pull, so she was hauled up short, not as surprised as she let on, by his immobile, braced weight. His eyes, when she swung back to face him, were wide and somewhere between frightened and questioning. She set her hands on her hips, then changed her mind and folded her arms, staring right back at him.

“You are not gonna get out of this, Vincent. You aren't gonna have a nice social visit out on the balcony when there’s all this heavy junk to be put away. I mean,” she added, glancing back at Catherine, “it’s nice junk, and all, but it weighs a young ton and we’re never gonna get done tonight at this rate, right?”

And while Catherine looked on, blankly bemused and skeptical, Diana reached out and took another good hold on him – his upper arm, this time – and gave him another yank, just as though she didn’t know he never came in, that this apartment was The Forbidden. Just as though she had no least question he was going to come help with the heavy stuff, like any civil male co-opted into such a situation by what were at least friends, goddam it! Like any normal guy.

If she made a goddam fool of herself, what the hell, she’d tried, and somebody had to break this wretched stalemate—

And Vincent took one hesitant step in response to her pull, and then another, and was inside.

Just as though she’d expected nothing else, Diana kept hauling and once the reflexive, habitual refusal had cracked, he kept coming: carefully avoiding the glass-topped table, carefully watching the few broad stairs when he came to them. But coming, because she’d pretty much made it goddamned impossible for him to do anything else, and there was a singing triumph in her that he’d do for her what he’d never done for Catherine.

That wasn’t what was important. But it was there.

“We were just up to the hard part,” Diana announced, letting go without looking at him, waving at the couches. “Gotta lift those suckers over the part of the rug that’s not down yet. You take that end. Catherine, where do you want them to end up?”

They were looking at each other, Vincent and Catherine, and Diana couldn’t read either of their faces. She was making a thundering fool of herself! She should never have intruded never have insisted, she was only making it worse –

“Where they used to be,” Catherine told Vincent, who nodded and went obediently to the end of the couch Diana’s wave had designated as his. Hastily, Diana scrambled to the other end, and Catherine assigned herself to getting as much as possible of the rug out of the way as they lifted it crookedly over what remained of the roll. In no time at all, the couches were in place, making a sort of corner angle by the fireplace.

Diana rocked back on her heels from smoothing out rug wrinkles. “Great,” she said, with fierce, determined heartiness that dared anybody to argue. “Now we can tackle getting that dressing table and stuff into the bedroom. Vincent, you get the mirror: I’m scared I’ll drop it, and wouldn’t that be a mess?”

She barged over to the last remaining huddle of furniture to check out the dressing table, that it didn’t have any drawers open that could fall out or catch on anything, or like that.

Vincent came to stand behind her. She could feel him there. She checked more drawers.

He said, “Diana, how is it that you’re here?”

She glanced up at him wildly, trying to think of some acceptable excuse, but didn’t have to because Catherine said at once, “She volunteered to help me settle in. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

Diana wasn’t sure she wanted to understand the expression in Vincent’s eyes. Wary, maybe… and even suspicious. Almost certainly wanting to know what she’d said to Catherine about what had passed between them this morning at the lake.

Setting hands on her knees, Diana stared right back at him, intending to convey without words, What kind of jerk do you think I am? I didn’t say word one about it, buster – It’s all just simple if you’ll let it be.

And apparently, he took enough of her reassurance to turn aside and find a good way to hold the big, heavy mirror that would attach to the back of the dresser, lift it (facing outward – away from him – she noticed) and walk away with it, slow, steady paces into the Utterly Forbidden: Catherine’s bedroom. He knew just where it should go. Diana would have bet he could have drawn as good a map as she could, having memorized every single detail of the place early in the investigation.

Good for you! she thought, gazing at his back disappearing through the louvered doors. Goddam good for you, taking it a step at a time, letting us play out the game of visiting boyfriend, normal guy helping out – not all the terror and the blood sweat just at the thought of doing what you’re doing, being where you are. Letting it just be simple, uncharged, the terrible past grounded out into the everyday, ordinary present like I’m the lightning rod that drains off all the stalemate, all the impossibilities…

He came back, standing between the folded-back louvered doors, waiting for further instructions.

Brushing a negligent hand through her hair, Catherine drawled, “Babe?” And Diana felt her face going absolutely incandescent.

“Pardon my New York mouth,” she mumbled, heartily wishing that familiar endearment hadn’t gotten past her teeth. “I –”

“The dressing table next, I assume?” Vincent put in, deflecting her babble, calmly waiting for Catherine’s answer. Requiring it, by his waiting silence. Nobody could be still as commandingly as Vincent could when he wanted to.

Protecting me, Diana realized, with astonishment. Protecting ME from awkwardness, embarrassment, because that’s who he is. What he does. Absolutely and always. And that’s what Catherine no longer needs or can tolerate from him. Or from anybody. And so that’s the name of this game.

She felt practically punched in the gut, seeing in that moment how it all fit. She probably was gaping like a moron.

“Sure, babe,” responded Catherine cheerfully, with a wicked edge of a grin at Vincent. Teasing. Easily. As though it meant nothing and she was glad it meant nothing: as if it was a relief that another potential charge had dissipated, gone into the ground. Kneeling down beside Diana, Catherine asked, “What do you think – should we take the drawers out first?”

“They should be all right if we don’t tip it. Let’s try it first that way, anyhow.”

“Okay. Shouldn’t be too bad: the legs have rollers.”

“Let’s go for it, then.”

They wheeled the dresser into place near the closet, and Vincent saw to getting the mirror in place and attached before they pushed it the rest of the way against the wall. They’d just finished with the chest of drawers (its drawers had to be removed and hand carried: it was too top heavy otherwise) when the doorbell sounded.

Vincent froze, head lifted. As Catherine swung by to get her purse, Diana explained, “Supper. Chinese take-out. Probably enough for three.”

He settled, still listening and alert, still listening and alert but no longer alarmed. Against the safely distant doorway exchanges between Catherine and the delivery person, Vincent looked around.

“Diana. Why are you doing this?”

“Because it needs doing and somebody’s got to, and I’m the only one who will. There: that satisfy you?”

“Why are you angry at me?”

“Is that what it seems like?”

He nodded.

“And you still have the guts to come right out and ask me?” she challenged.

Smiling faintly, he nodded again.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because…,” he began, and then his eyes when distant.

“What?”

He bent his head a little. “Because I’m not afraid of the answer.”

Catherine passed by with the sack then and gave a head-jerk (her hands being fully occupied) to summon them out to the glass-topped table where they found her opening a series of take-out containers and lining them up next to a stack of Royal Doulton plates.

“Forks,” Diana decided, and went off to the drawer where she now knew tableware was kept. As she returned with a handful of forks and serving spoons, she saw how tensely Vincent was standing, looking down at the food. Or maybe at the chairs. Steel, probably, but delicate-looking: as though: as though they might break with a heavy person’s weight. Diana promptly plopped herself down on the top step. “Pass me one of everything,” she requested, holding up the spoons and the extra forks so Catherine could take them.

Vincent slowly settled onto a step a little way distant. After a minute, he commented, “I’ve already had supper. And you weren’t expecting… company. Please: enjoy your meal.”

There was something in his manner, his voice, that told Diana something was wrong that he was trying to pass over, but she didn’t know what.

“Doesn’t he like Chinese?” she asked Catherine, who looked around from dishing rice onto plates. Two plates.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Catherine said, then asked Vincent, “Do you?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

Diana watched them both, trying to puzzle it out. She figured if she really made a noise about it, she could make him join them – just as she made him come in. But proving it, making him do it, would just be a power trip and actually pretty unkind, considering how plainly he didn’t want to. But he would, if she required it of him. However much he hated it.

Just knowing that was enough, she decided. She didn’t have to prove it – that in this, too, she could be one up on Catherine if she wanted to. That wasn’t what this was about. But it was still nice, knowing it. She bent to the plate Catherine passed her and was aware of Vincent relaxing when he was sure she was going to let the matter rest.

Holding a piled plate and chopsticks in a practiced V, Catherine started to sit down cross-legged on the rug, facing them both, then immediately set her plate aside and jumped up again.

“There’s probably still coffee left, if that’s okay?” she asked Diana. Then her eyes slid uneasily to Vincent. “But no tea, I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance to really stock up at the store…”

Vincent shook his head, and Catherine seemed relieved to find her social lapse of being so certain she’d never need tea because he’d never come in, had been so easily dismissed.

While Catherine was in the kitchen getting coffee and fresh cups, Vincent pointed to Diana’s plate. “What’s that?”

“That? It’s a fortune cookie. It’s dessert, sort of, with some dumb message inside, like ‘You are going to meet a tall blonde stranger and—,’” She muffled the rest of that with a mouthful of very good moo goo gai pan.

“May I see?” the large, furred, clawed hand hovered.

Diana swallowed hastily. “Sure, take it.”

The fingers dipped and delicately removed the folded cookie form her plate. Vincent was examining it when Catherine returned, put a cup on the bottom step by Diana, then settled herself where she’d been before.

“It’s a fortune cookie,” Catherine explained, watching him carefully turn and study it.

“I know. Diana told me. I’ve heard of them.” He looked at Diana. “Would you like to find out your fortune for yourself, or may I discover it for you?”

“It’s your cookie, babe –” Diana bit her lip when they both looked at her like two amused cats. She busied herself with her food. “Take the cookie, take the fortune. Never liked ‘em much anyhow. The cookies or the fortunes. Tasteless. In all senses of the word.” She wondered what in the world had gotten into him.

He cracked the cookie at the fold, just as if he knew what he was doing, and removed the tiny strip of paper with clawed forefinger and thumb. So serious. So intent. He offered the strip to her, but she waved it off. He smoothed the strip down against his knee. Then he recited, “‘Your wishes will come true, but not as you expect.’”

Putting the flat of his hand onto strip and knee, he added, “Brooke has volunteered to care for Jacob during the day. She’s fascinated with young children. And it helps take her mind off her own loss… Stephen; and the plans they had together.”

The was a charged silence in which Diana realized that was the first word that had been said about the baby. That Vincent had brought it up because Catherine hadn’t. The silence demanded a response, a comment. Diana bent her head and hunched her shoulders to sit smaller, chewing with great intentness.

Vincent continued, “Of course, Mary keeps the day nursery, and it would not do to seem to slight her. To give one child… special consideration. So Brooke assists Mary, with the youngest children as her charge. Anything beyond that… is merely our understanding. Mine, and Brooke’s. Mary has consented to the arrangement. Father approves. So that’s how it’s been arranged.”

Catherine was being informed, not consulted. And a glance Diana couldn’t resist, at Catherine’s face, told her Catherine caught the nuances: she was staring at Vincent, who wasn’t looking back. Catherine’s face was stiff and unhappy. Then Catherine lowered her eyes, bent and turned her head so that a wing of hair partly concealed her profile – something she’d probably picked up from Vincent, who did that a lot. The chopsticks selected and delivered a sliver of food.

“It sounds like a good arrangement.”

Vincent nodded. “Jamie’s help has diminished the number of security patrols I must see to personally. When I am teaching or similarly occupied in my chamber, or Father’s, I can keep Jacob with me. And most nights. On those occasions I am away during the night, there is the night nursery. Mary assures me that one more sleeping charge constitutes no additional trouble worth mentioning. So… that’s how it’s been arranged.”

Finally, at the last, stress showed in his calm, unemphatic voice – announcing the arrangements that absolved Catherine of all parental duties and requested her blessing on none of them.

For all his politeness, Vincent knew how to go straight for the bone when he wanted to. And Diana thought that this was his equivalent of saying It – what, in fact, he’d come to say, before he’d had any thought of finding Diana here.

“Yes,” said Catherine softly. “I understand.” The chopsticks selected, rose, descended. “I start back at the office on Monday.”

“I thought you probably would,” Vincent responded.

Tell him! Diana’s mind blurted. Tell him about switching to trial duty, not being out on the streets tracking down snitches anymore! No more midnight depositions! Tell him, dammit!*

But Catherine said only, “I’ll come when I can. Weekends, mostly. It’s going to be pretty hectic for awhile. There’s such a lot to catch up on.”

“Yes,” said Vincent.

Diana found it hard to sort all the implications of that brief exchange. It took so much for granted, unspoken. Dismissed so many possibilities. As if the furniture-moving had left any doubt. Catherine wasn’t going to move Below. Jacob wasn’t going to live above, except maybe for occasional visits. Catherine was surrendering all responsibility and rights concerning their child. Vincent was the one who’d make “arrangements.” Maybe he’d inform her about them from time to time. But neither invite nor require her consent about them. Any more than Catherine meant to ask his consent about her personal arrangements. Or, plainly, even inform him of them until they were already in place. Until she was ready to tell him.

Catherine, Diana thought, didn’t look happy about it. But she wasn’t arguing. What she looked, when that shielded profile lifted, was relieved.

“I’m glad,” Catherine mentioned, with a small smile, “you finally decided to come in. See? It’s not so scary, is it?”

“No,” Vincent agreed, vaguely looking around at the apartment, Catherine’s things mostly back in place, where she wanted them – where they used to be. Back to normal. “Not frightening at all… now. I’m glad I chanced to come when I could be of help.”

“Maybe next time,” Catherine suggested, “you’ll come right in without needing to be dragged.”

Vincent gave her an opaque look. Then his eyes moved slowly to Diana and stayed there. One of those long, still looks that generally made Diana feel she ought to duck, hide, disappear into the floor.

“Perhaps,” he said.

His hand moved, and the forgotten little strip of fortune-cookie paper drifted to the floor. The both reached for it at the same time. Instead of withdrawing his hand, letting her get the scrap, his hand closed around Diana’s. Hard. They were sitting right there on the step, right in front of Catherine, holding hands. Suddenly Diana could find no air to breathe. She tried to swallow the current mouthful and choked on it. Started coughing. Had to be pounded firmly on the back and her shoulders held until she could get her airway clear. It was Vincent holding her shoulders, an arm around her back, regarding her solicitously. Sitting right next to her now on the step, hip against hip, thigh against thigh, and all she could manage was astonished wheezes, intensely aware of his closeness, the smoke-and-candle scent of his clothes – of him; the warmth of being tilted to lean back against his chest, his hair brushing her forehead as his free hand collected her coffee cup from the floor.

“Drink some,” he directed.

While he held the cup, she managed to slurp a little and get it past the blockage in her throat. He waited until she’d swallowed, then raised the cup again. She obediently drank.

“Now,” he said, letting her sit straight, and as she figured that was it, end of impersonal first aid, he cracked one of the two halves of fortune cookie shell and held it in front of her face. For her to eat it from his fingers. No expression… but his eyes were smiling a little, quite aware of her discomfiture. Leaving her no option – just as she’d left him none about coming in. And his eyes said he knew it, and knew she knew it. And figured turn-about was fair play.

Calling the tune, that he required she dance to. Consciously and deliberately one upping her – and confident that she’d play along. Not afraid of the answer.

There was nothing else to do. She shut her eyes, opened her mouth, and let him feed her the piece of cookie. It was warm from his hands. It crunched. She felt she was going to cry or explode. She chewed it small enough to swallow. The cup was back, waiting. She sipped a little, thinking in undiminished astonishment.

He’s goddam flirting with me! Right in front of her! What the hell does he think he’s doing? What the hell does he expect me to do?

“Better?” Vincent inquired blandly, setting the cup down but not otherwise moving. Still right next to her.

“Are you OK?” Catherine chimed in.

Diana bobbed her head. The recovered twist of paper was still clutched in her fingers. She pulled it flat. It said, When journeying by water, steer by the stars. She blinked at it stupidly for a second. Then she crumpled it and stuck it hastily into a pocket.

Every breath he took, she felt. As he must be feeling hers. And whatever else she was feeling, this close. Touching. It was so unlike him. He’s sitting by me for a reason, she thought.

Vincent folded his hands tightly between his knees. He sat that way for a minute. Then he said, like asking about what they should move next, “Catherine, will you marry me?”

Diana stopped breathing again. This time, though, she didn’t choke. She sat very still. Letting it be between the two of them. As it had to be.

Catherine looked startled right down to her toes. Her mouth tightened, and that was the answer. Setting the chopsticks and plate aside, Catherine knelt forward, reached out a hand, and placed it on his knee, looking up into his face, blinking fast. Anxious. Unhappy. Wanting not to hurt.

“Must you ask?”

“I feel I must.”

“Then I suppose I have to answer. I suppose… My dear love, no. It’s impossible. There will never be anyone else who’ll be to me what you are. But – no. That, we cannot be to one another. The world won’t let us.” Catherine lifted her other hand – a gesture of helplessness. “I thought… I believed you knew that. Always knew that.”

“Perhaps I did,” Vincent responded in a soft, hoarse voice. “I know it’s what Father has always believed. And dreaded. That someday, I would come to the end of the possibilities.”

“Yes,” said Catherine. “I know. But we have so much, Vincent! So much more than most people dream of already! You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t,” Vincent replied, and Catherine was surprised, slowly withdrawing her hand, sitting back, obviously having expected a different response. Vincent added, “You being what you are… and I, what I am. It’s not possible.”

Catherine was nodding. “But it’s not your fault–you never asked to be born different—”

“I find,” Vincent interrupted quietly. “I am more ordinary than I imagine anyone supposed.”

Diana thought, She’s doing it! Claiming it’s all him – how he is. And he’s not backing down. Hot damn! She leaned against him a little harder, to help give him the courage of her convictions. Which was why he’d contrived to sit so close, she was now certain. Without her there, without that new angle in the habitual dynamic between himself and Catherine, he couldn’t have said It.

Because he was no longer afraid of the answer. That’s what he’d been telling her, and realizing for himself before. That was when he’d decided to say It. All of It. Impassively spelling out the limits they would live within, hereafter – he and Catherine. And Jacob. And me, Diana realized, with enough of a shock that Vincent tilted his head and looked at her inquiringly, though she’d made no sound nor moved a muscle.

“It’s all right,” Vincent said – to Catherine again. “And if it should happen… that our circumstances change, we will not change. Should you find someone Above… to be a part of. It will make no difference to what we are to one another.”

Almost, it was a question. Almost, she could believe he was really talking about Catherine, rather than himself.

Catherine smiled. “No. Of course not! Not that it’s likely, of course. I’m not exactly eager to start dating again, let me tell you! Much less get married – to anybody – or start a family. My life is complicated enough as it is!”

Start? Diana thought indignantly. Start? What’s Jacob, then – and end? An accident?

Then she immediately thought, Jacob’s slipped her mind. She’s simply forgotten him. He doesn’t count.

If Vincent was thinking the same thing, he gave no sign. “Of course. I understand that better now.” He stirred, unfisting his hands pulling his bootheels in against the step. “Now, if the heavy labor is done, I believe I must go.” Rising, he stood waiting for permission to leave.

“Not social,” Diana muttered, and got a sidelong glance down from the top of that blond tower.

Catherine jumped to her feet, blurting hostess of course and trailing him to the balcony doors – still worried, Diana thought, that he’d be upset about what had passed between them; trying to reassure herself he wasn’t going to go and mope on some rooftop like a gargoyle, at having his proposal turned down so decisively, with no need for consideration. Catherine didn’t want him hurt. But she damn will didn’t want to marry him either – which they all knew, now. Which maybe was all that mattered.

Shutting the balcony doors, Catherine turned and set her back against them. She puffed out a breath. Then seemed to notice Diana, sitting so still on the step, on the far side of the glass table.

“Well,” Catherine remarked, “that could have been worse. Lots worse. I’ve been dreading something like that, to tell the truth. But... it seemed… He seemed…”

“He’ll get over it,” Diana commented offhandedly.

“I guess he’s had some practice. While I was away. Time to become a little more independent. Accept things. I’m glad you were here, though – that would have been… hard to get through, otherwise. It helps, sometimes, to have an audience. I hope you weren’t too—”

“Yeah, I guess.” Diana got up and looked around. She’d decided against begging off too soon – that would have been too obvious. She could be generous with her time, she thought. She had time now – all the time in the world. “So – What’s next? Finish up the kitchen, or start on the knick-knacks?”

Catherine brushed back her hair and absently adjusted her headband. “Knick-knacks?” she inquired, mock-haughty.

“Whatever.” Diana smiled and shrugged.

Catherine opted for shoving the entertainment center into place, locating the box of CDs, records, and tapes, and putting them all in their appropriate cubbyholes or shelves. When the plug was put in, the receiver came on, filling the place with classical music. Looking around, Catherine slapped a button. The receiver switched over to an “easy-listening” station. Wallpaper music. Catherine hummed along, cheerfully pitching little pillows onto the couches like somebody shooting baskets. Afterward, she went and straightened them, setting each at exactly the angle she wanted against the couch backs or the armrests.

Another cup of coffee and a box of heavy, waterless cookware, unstained by use, put away before Diana figured she could gracefully call it a night and take her leave. They wandered together to the door, Catherine hoping she’d visit again – soon. Outside, Diana heard the chains being reset and the deadbolts snapped home as she went in lengthening strides to the elevator.

When the doors slid open, she slapped the top button hard.

Reaching the top, she slid out at speed, hit the roof door, dashed up the short flight of steps, and slammed the door at the top back against the bricks. And plunged directly into Vincent’s arms.

“I couldn’t just leave—,” she blurted, face tight against his neck.

“I knew you’d come,” he was saying at the same time, holding on hard. He took a step, and she stepped with him, not going anyplace, just around in a circle – like a dance. Like a dream.

“Oh, babe,” she said. “Oh, babe. I thought you were gonna tell her. I was scared to death you’d think you had to tell her.”

“It’s not necessary. She’ll see. Eventually. No need. And she’ll be reconciled to it. To us. Perhaps even relieved.”

“Gonna give her a hell of a shock, though.” She gazed up at him anxiously. “When she notices.”

“It can’t be helped. She has chosen her way. Set the limits. Not I. The consequences of those limits… No need to say anything. Let her be one up, if her pride requires it.

“Saving face, you mean.”

They did another little dance turn, around and around, his cloak billowing and blowing.

Vincent said, “This is all the up that matters to me. Nowhere is higher than this. I am so blessed. Except for you –”

“Leave it. Don’t gotta say it. Leave –”

His mouth on hers stopped all the talk quite effectively, for quite a long time.

She’d never been happier in her life.

Patting the soft, fine fur of his jaw, she said distractedly. “You fibber.”

“What?”

“You fibbed. About the fortune. From the cookie.”

“I told the truth. All the truth that matters.”

“Yeah. I guess you did, at that. ‘Steer by the stars’ – that’s good advice, too, I guess. But I’m not planning to go anyplace by water anytime soon.”

Conversation stopped again for awhile – exuberantly. Passionately.

Trying to catch her breath, laughing, Diana inquired dryly. “Just how much reassurance did you have in mind, babe?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. She could see the stars reflected in his eyes. After a minute, he said, “None. All.”

Sobering, studying his face, she asked, “Do you think this is the right time? There’s such a thing as rebound. I wouldn’t want –”

“I think now is precisely the right time. If you won’t promise to stay with me – either – I must offer you an inducement. Not to take long ocean voyages. Not … to go away.”

“Oh, babe, don’t you know that’s never going to happen?”

“You cannot imagine… how I hope it will not.”

“And do you really think a bribe’s gonna do it? Inducements?”

“I –,” he began, and then bent his face against her head. His breaths shook him. He said. “Please. Call it what you will. But please.”

Sometime, he’d learn he didn’t have to beg. But begging was OK too, for now: she figured he really meant it. No other considerations she need take into account, warn him against, hold herself back from. No ghosts hovering at his shoulder, demanding a rite of exorcism.

“Sometimes, you really need somebody close, who loves you.”

He nodded several times.

She asked, “Can you hold out as far as my place?”

“If I must.” Lifting his head, he chuckled at the scandalized look he found on her face.

She punched his arm lightly. “Bet I beat you there.”

“Bet you don’t.”

He was off toward the building parapet. Diana wheeled to the roof door and started pounding down again.

She didn’t live on the subway line. And she knew shortcuts. So she hit the roof of her loft at least a minute before Vincent’s big dark outline swung over the top of the fire escape.

“I win,” she announced, the second before she was swung again into the dance of embrace.

Vincent wisely said nothing. Or the answer his mouth made didn’t consist of words, which was probably just as well. She didn’t quite melt into a puddle there on the roof. They made it downstairs and as far as the couch before the necessary minimum of clothing had been discarded. The rest got removed afterward, during more leisurely intervals. There was time.

Aftermath

No Way Down Episode Expansion

by Barbara Anderson

Dear Vincent,

I was so frightened for you tonight… so afraid that you would be killed because of my recklessness, my stupidity. What the Silks did to you, I can’t even bear to think about it. It’s hard for me to believe there is such evil in this world, that there are actually people who seem to find joy in harming those who are weaker or different than themselves. And yet the things I have experienced in the last year should convince me otherwise. I still want to believe that there is good in my world, but there are times, like tonight, Vincent, when the ugliness of my world overwhelms me.

They treated you like an animal. But even an animal doesn’t deserve to be treated the way they treated you. Don’t believe them, Vincent! Don’t ever believe them! You are not an animal. You are a man! You are the very best man I have ever known.

If they had killed you, I don’t think I could have ever forgiven myself. I’m not sure, even now, that I can.

I knew you weren’t dead, I could feel it. And I knew I would feel it if you were. But I felt so helpless, so powerless to help you. I wanted so desperately to find you and lead you back home to safety. I was frantic with worry, because even though I could feel you, I couldn’t find you.

Forgive me, Vincent, for putting you in danger. I didn’t mean to. Please believe that.

Tonight, I told Father that I care for you more than I care for anyone else in my life. I didn’t fully realize it until the moment I said it to him. It’s true, Vincent, I do care for you more than anyone or anything else in my life. But what does that mean for us? Is there any possibility of a future for us? Do you feel the same way about me? I ache for you in a way I have never known before.

I know we have only known each other for a short time, but somehow, I feel as if I have always known you, have always been connected to you… that somehow our paths were meant to cross and we were meant to find each other. I don’t know what these feelings mean or what future might be possible for you and me. What I do know is that you have opened my eyes and my heart to things I never thought possible, and I know that my life is better because you are in it. I am a better person, because you are in it.

Please be well, Vincent. And please… please forgive me.

Always,

Catherine

The Radcliffe

Reunion Society

By C.J. LaBelle

“All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t stay with him for the wrong reasons, even if they are noble ones. No one owes it to someone else to be their girlfriend. It’s a choice you remake every day...”

Aprilynne Pike

~~~

“But, I’ve already arranged to take the weekend off. Joe wasn’t at all pleased that I even asked,” Catherine tried to keep the disappointment from her tone, a difficult thing, given her current situation. She fixed her eyes on the scene below her balcony, avoiding her love’s eyes.

“If it could be any other way…” Vincent’s long sigh said more than words. Of course, he’d sensed her disappointment, and was concerned by it. “But our population is growing, and new chambers are urgently needed. This has already been postponed too many times.” He spread his hands eloquently. “Father is deeply concerned at the potential problems of overcrowding.”

But it has to be this weekend… Catherine didn’t voice her complaint, aware of how mean-spirited she would sound. She knew how much the world Below relied on Vincent, just as she did. She sensed he was at a loss as to how to make it up to her.

“There will be other weekends…” he tried valiantly to make her see his point of view.

“Of course…” Catherine turned from the darkened view of Central Park. “I am being selfish. Please forgive me. It’s just that…” She spread her hands, palms up, in a helpless gesture.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Vincent answered quickly, reaching to draw her into his embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I am equally disappointed. Our time together is always so limited and measured.”

“Yes…” Catherine burrowed deeper into his arms, and they stood locked in silent communion for some time…

~~~

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight as Vincent took his final farewell. Catherine remained standing on her balcony, looking out over the city, staring at it, but not really seeing it. She hugged her disappointment close, and silently wished Vincent a safe journey home.

There would be other weekends…

Inside her apartment, the shrill sound of the telephone ringing made her jump. She retreated to her bedroom to answer it, sitting down on the side of her bed.

“Hello?” she said, into the receiver.

“Hi, Cathy. I… it’s Nancy. Look, I know it’s late, but I couldn’t wait until morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nancy! How lovely to hear from you. It’s been an age since I last saw you. No, you didn’t wake me. I wasn’t asleep. What’s up?”

At the other end of the conversation there was a long pause before her friend said, “Paul has a thing in New York this weekend. He has last minute meetings he has to attend. He’ll be tied up for most of the time. I was thinking, if you’re not too busy, how about I come down and see you?”

“Oh, Nance…” Catherine stared at the billowing curtains of her balcony doors. “I… don’t have any plans. And I would love to see you.” It isn’t a weekend with Vincent. But at least it’s something.

“Great! Thanks, Cathy. It’s been nearly a year since we were last together. You came up for Rebecca’s birthday, remember?”

She did. “Surely it hasn’t been that long?” Catherine sighed. “I don’t often get time off. My boss has a good heart, but he loves to play the slave driver.”

“Then I’m glad I phoned. We could call Jenny Aronson and see if she can come over. Make it a true reunion of the Radcliffe Society. It’s beyond time we reconvened.”

Catherine chuckled. “Now there’s an idea worth exploring.” Her sense of disappointment began to lift. “When will you be in town, Nance?”

“I should make it by late afternoon tomorrow. I’ll get Paul to drop me off at your apartment building. He’ll be so relieved I’ve found something to do. He hates me hanging around the hotel on my own. He worries about me. But his work is important to him, and he’ll be in conference all weekend.”

“I can understand that.” Catherine nodded quickly. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then. And, thanks, Nancy.”

“For what?” Catherine heard her friend’s confusion over the telephone line.

“For being there when I needed you. It’s ah… it’s been a tough week.”

Nancy’s tone brightened. “Hey, that’s what friends are for! By the way, we still have some unfinished business from that weekend. You’ll have to tell me if that extraordinary relationship of yours worked itself out. The one you told me about that night. His name was Vincent, right?”

Oh, no. That’s right. I remember now. I did tell her a few things. “Maybe we’ll talk about it when I see you on Saturday.” Catherine bit her lip. She had forgotten she let Vincent’s name slip past her guard that night at Nancy’s Westport home.

“You’re being very mysterious.” Nancy sighed. “Fair enough. See you on Saturday then. And please don’t forget to call Jenny. She won’t want to miss out on a catchup.”

“I won’t. Bye, Nance.” Catherine placed the receiver on its cradle, and sighed. Maybe this weekend won’t be such a loss, after all…

~~~

“And so, just as I thought I was going to get a great foot massage, he actually asked me to walk on his back,” Jenny concluded her story of ‘what happened after she took off her shoes’ on a forgettable date.

“Did you actually do it?” Nancy asked, laughing with Jenny, as Catherine topped off her glass of wine.

“No! I grabbed up my shoes and ran! Or make that, ‘I ran to the door, opened it, put my shoes on, and then I ran!’ I didn’t dare look back!”

“Good for you.” Catherine laughed, as she refilled Jenny’s glass, and added a touch more to her own. This felt so right. They were already a bottle of wine down, relaxed, and getting giggly. “Did he chase after you?” she asked.

“Yes, and all the while pleading with me to come back. He said it was all a huge mistake. That was the only bit he got right.” Jenny shook her head. “But he only made it as far as the elevator before he gave up. I was in such a hurry to escape, I damn near killed myself. Never run on hardwood floors in stocking feet!” She put down her glass before spreading her arms wide to mimic a sliding woman, flailing out of control.

They all laughed companionably, knowing of Jenny’s sad attraction to the wrong kind of man for her.

“I bet you were mashing the heck out of that call button,” Nancy said, imitating the motion of repeatedly hitting the button for the elevator with her hand.

“Honey, I was all over it,” Jenny assured. “And I had one eye on the stairwell door, just in case!” She picked up her glass and took a long sip of wine. “I could write a whole book on how to leave men wanting more!”

“Depends on your definition of ‘more.’” Catherine settled back down on her dinky sofa, the other two women across from her. This feels so good. It’s been too long since we’ve gotten together like this. I can’t believe how much time has gone by.

“When it comes to a fast escape, a stairwell can be your best friend,” Catherine added, toasting her friends, as she remembered a few times in the last couple of years when she’d needed to use one of those. Usually, someone had been trying to kill her. Thankfully, Vincent had been there to save her life.

Vincent…

Behind her, her multi-disc player clicked onto another piece of soft background music. She sighed as she listened to one of Vincent’s favorite melodies. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him here, sitting beside her, chatting to her friends, with his strong arm slung along the back of her couch… and his warm lips only a breath away from hers when she turned to smile at him…

She knew it was fantasy… all of it… but it was a good fantasy, so she indulged in it, just a little.

Her wistful gaze strayed toward the open balcony doors, as a gentle springtime breeze wafted the curtains. Her heart missed a beat when she thought she saw a shadow passing over the sheers. But it lacked any kind of substance. Probably just the reflection of early evening car headlights moving in the park below…

Jenny chuckled, and brought Catherine back to present concerns. “I guess that’s dating in the 90’s for you. Always know where the exits are!” She leaned forward to clink her glass with Catherine’s. Nancy followed suit.

“I swear sometimes, I feel like I was born too late,” Jenny complained. “Chivalry is truly dead and buried. No one even tries to open a door for me now.” She shook her head sadly.

“To the ladies of Radcliffe,” Nancy intoned. “Long may they outrun the crazies.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jenny and Catherine said practically together.

Each woman drank, leaned back, and sighed, just a little. The last two hours had been fun. They had planned to go out to dinner, then skipped that, deciding they were having too much fun right there. They kicked off their shoes, admitting the wine had more than a bit to do with the sense of freedom that gave, but no one minded. They talked of ordering pizza, but neglected to pick up the phone. They just kept talking, as longtime girlfriends are wont to do.

“See, that’s the thing about being married,” Nancy said, the other two not sure if she was bragging or complaining. “Nobody chases you to the elevator anymore, barefoot or not! I have to push my own button.”

“You have a gorgeous house in Westport. And you don’t have an elevator,” Jenny declared. “Want to swap? I’ll take Paul and the kids, you can have my apartment, my running shoes, and my rolodex of sad oddballs, free to a good home.”

“Careful about the bargains you make, Jen. Sometimes they make you,” Nancy cautioned. “Sometimes, I feel like my life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she continued cryptically. “Maybe I’d like your life, working for a publisher, shooting film for pictures in a book, dinner at Delmonico’s, whenever the mood hits me, trips to the museums and great shopping.” She grimaced. “But, okay, let’s deal… you get Paul, I’ll take the kids, and we can let Cathy have the shoes. She always had a thing for them anyway.”

“I did not have a ‘thing’ for shoes!” Catherine protested.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Jenny shook her head, sending her brown, curly hair to dancing. “Liar! Tell that to somebody who didn’t share a dorm room with you in college! I swear you would’ve rather I slept in the corridor than disturb your perfect array of footwear!”

“Okay. Maybe I had a little bit of a thing,” Catherine admitted.

“We were so sure you were going to major in fashion law.” Nancy grinned as she saluted her with her glass. “Cathy, when Imelda Marcos calls for fashion advice, you know you’re over the limit.” She put an imaginary telephone to her ear. “Hello, Catherine? I can’t dezide between ze black leather pumps and ze patent leather ones. Yes, of course zey both have ze three inch heels. Vat’s dat? Oh. I’m wearing sequins, of course. Patent leather you say? Thank you, Cathy. Good luck wiz your fashion law degree.” She hung up the ‘phone,’ and the women continued to laugh.

“I don’t think Imelda Marcos had that weird of an accent,” Catherine observed, chuckling. “But I get the picture.”

“I don’t think Imelda Marcos needed a separate carry-on for boots,” Jenny jibed gently. Then she turned to her other friend. “But to be fair, that was nothing compared to your camera equipment, Nance. We practically needed another ticket when we flew to Paris that summer!”

“Hey, those lenses alone cost as much as a semester’s tuition. There was no way I was checking them through,” Nancy defended. “I was good…” Her smile faded to a brief look of regret. “I love my life, and Paul. But sometimes…” She took a mouthful of wine. “In a weak moment, he promised to take me back there, someday…”

Someday… a shiver feathered along Catherine’s spine. How she longed to show Paris to Vincent. Someday. Such a simple idea, so hard to execute. I’d share it all with you. Sunrise on the Seine, seen from the top of the Eiffel tower. The winding streets and flower boxes in the windows…

She looked up. “All those great photos you took, Nance, of us at Radcliffe, and on our travels abroad. They were surely something. You were truly talented. I remember we got chased from a few places because you took a heap of pictures even when the signs said, ‘no cameras.’ Do you still have them?”

Jenny interrupted with a chuckle. “I remember that overweight museum guard swearing at us in very bad English because you shot a whole roll of film without his permission. He was too fat to chase us very far. I nearly wet myself as we ran, I was laughing so hard.” She frowned. “Was that where I learned how to run away from unsuitable men? Huh…”

Nancy waved a regretful hand at Catherine’s question. “I used to have all those photos stored in shoeboxes in the bedroom closet of our old house. But when we finally moved up to Westport, they got scattered like a million grains of sand. But sure, I’ve still got them… somewhere between the attic and the basement. I’ve often said I must get them organized into albums. When I get time, ya know…” She pulled a face.

Catherine nodded regretfully. “Yes, I do know…”

“Maybe I’ll take some new ones when Paul finally finds the time to take me back to Paris…”

“We should make the time to go back…” Jenny said regretfully, knowing it was a forlorn dream. “The Radcliffe Paris Reunion Society…”

“Yes, we should…” Catherine agreed, knowing it was unlikely such plans would materialize. She knew she had enough problems trying to plan a free weekend, much less an entire European vacation. And Nancy’s life revolved around Paul, her children, and the schedules each of those employed. Jenny was a law unto herself for ‘busy,’ between her work, her extended family, and a love life that seemed to be keeping her ‘on the run,’ literally.

The group sat silent for a long moment, each reflecting on promises made, and never kept. Slowly they began discussing springtime in Paris. Moments later, there was a sharp knock on Catherine’s front door.

“Is that our pizza? I’m starving. Please tell me that someone thought to order pizza,” Jenny said, as Catherine rose to get it.

“Considering we didn’t order any, I kind of doubt it. The number’s by the phone,” she said, crossing to the door.

“Cathy, it’s Edie!” said a familiar voice through Catherine’s door. “Open up, girlfriend.”

“If you’re bringing me work, I’m not letting you in!” Catherine teased, feeling the effects of the alcohol, now that she’d stood up. She felt delightfully irresponsible, as she placed a hand on the doorknob, but didn’t open it.

“If I lie and say I’m bringing you a tall, handsome man, will you take these files off my hands?” Edie said through the wood. “Please, Cathy. Joe sent me over. You can blame him. I just wanna go home and put my aching feet up.”

“Oh, all right…” Catherine pulled open the door. She pretended to look past her friend. “What gives? I don’t see any tall, handsome man.” She grimaced, motioning Edie inside.

“Fresh out of them.” Edie handed her the files that couldn’t wait until Monday morning, for some reason. “And isn’t that just the story of my life, too?” she asked. “I tried to sneak out. But he caught me at the elevator. Told me my job was on the line, unless…”

For reasons unknown to Edie, that set off peals of laughter from the other two women sitting on the dinky couches.

Catherine stood back and motioned Edie inside. “C’mon in. You know Jenny. And this is my friend Nancy Tucker, from Westport.”

“Hiya…” Nancy waved, from the sofa.

“Looks like an exclusive party.” Edie didn’t move. “I should be going. Got the re-runs of my favorite TV show to watch…”

“This is an informal meeting of the Radcliffe Reunion Society.” Jenny waved an airy hand. “Newcomers are welcome, as long as they bring along a great sense of humor, and know how to enjoy themselves.”

“Well, if you put it that way…” Edie stepped inside and set her things down. “Don’t mind if I do. I take it there’s wine…” She eyed the sideboard, where two bottles of a decent red were breathing.

“There is most definitely wine. But you can have a soft drink, if you like,” Catherine offered, as she closed the door.

“Girlfriend…” Edie scoffed. “When there’s a good Beaujolais in the room? Perish the thought. Hi, I’m Edie.” She waved back at Nancy. “I would say I work with this girl here, but truth to tell, I’m usually the only one working. I make her look good.” She grinned at Catherine, and tossed her dark curls.

“You wish.” Catherine chuckled as she fetched Edie a glass. What a fun night this is turning out to be, she thought.

With her back to the balcony doors, she didn’t see the moving shadow return to the edge of the billowing curtains, and her friends were too engrossed in conversation to notice the new, unseen presence at their party…

~~~

Vincent halted at the edge of the balcony doorway when he heard the feminine voices from within Catherine’s apartment. He frowned, unsure of what to do now. Caution and good manners demanded he retreat, and make his escape back to the rooftop, to wait for Catherine to be alone. But time passed, and he didn’t move away.

He heard her apartment door open and close as another woman entered, and then he heard Catherine dial a take-out restaurant to order pizza. The newly arrived friend fell into easy conversation with the other two women about the decided virtues of dating a solid Capricorn over any Pisces. And her total distrust of Leos.

Vincent listened with interest, being a Capricorn himself. Her conversation kept him where he was, knowing he’d need to make a jump for the ladder to the roof if any of them decided to come out on Catherine’s balcony. But no one did. They were too deeply engrossed in deciding their zodiac preferences.

And after a few minutes more, another knock on Catherine’s door meant dinner was served. The enticing smells of pepperoni, anchovies and melted mozzarella drifted through the open doors, making Vincent’s mouth water. He’d neglected to eat, due to the pressing nature of the work Below.

Meanwhile, inside Catherine’s living room, they were now telling stories. Stories, and laughter… even though sometimes, it was of a rueful kind, often centered on dating, office life, how busy they all were, or some such. Sometimes, one of the women would get up from where they were seated, and move to get a slice of pizza, or refill a glass of wine. With the balcony doors open, it was difficult for Vincent to move without being detected. So, he stayed where he was.

They laughed, often. It had a convivial, cheerful appeal. He felt his love relax, as she shared the company of friends who were dear to her.

My Catherine is happy. He enjoyed the sensation, as he stood near.

He hadn’t anticipated how the events of the necessary work on new chambers would abruptly end. A water main, one that had not been on any of their maps, had been pierced by an unwary pickaxe. The resulting flood had taken some time to stem. Father’s deep frustration was clear to all who came within earshot. Nothing more could be done until the water was given time to drain, and the problem properly addressed.

Consequently, for now, all work on the project had been halted, while Winslow and Mouse worked out a solution. Suddenly released from his obligation, Vincent had barely waited for darkness before hurrying Above, hoping to find Catherine waiting for him.

He had not expected her to be entertaining company. Why should she not be, he mused. She has many good friends.

Some of the women were deep in a discussion about their long-ago trip to Paris, while Edie asked questions. Vincent envied their casual acceptance of their ability to go anywhere in the world. They continued to laugh, even now.

Their laughter had a feminine sound, and it was one Vincent found wholly appealing. Even among the four of them, he could easily pick out Catherine’s low chuckle. She had a wonderful laugh. And it was a thing he sometimes heard too seldom, as the seriousness of her job – and even sometimes their situation – gave her only so much to laugh about.

As he listened, their ongoing conversation allowed him to identify the different women. Catherine spoke their names occasionally, and each woman’s voice quickly became distinct to his sharp ears. He wanted to leave, but he became caught up in the unguarded tales about Catherine’s various adventures and mishaps, before he knew her. This was a part of her life he did not know.

Jenny’s voice wafted out. “… and the smell of fresh bread from the bakeries every morning! My God, you woke up ravenous, after dreaming of pastries. We all gained more than five pounds, and everybody had brought tight jeans, so we just suffered…”

Vincent smiled as he listened to the recollections. Against his better judgement, he moved closer to the doorway, and leaned back against the brickwork. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself inside the room with them, sitting beside Catherine, and enjoying the moment.

“And then there was that crazy guy hanging out next to the main entrance of the Louvre…” Nancy related, telling another story of their adventures in Paris. “He had the hots for Cathy, big time!” She waved a hand in front of her face, though Vincent couldn’t see the gesture.

“You need a beret! You can’t tell Edie that story without a beret!” Catherine insisted. “It was too awful.”

She was laughing, and sharing her memories. Vincent drew a deep sigh and released it slowly, caught up in the warmth of her happiness. Their bond shimmered with her burst of nostalgic joy. He wished he could simply walk in and sit beside her, meet her friends, enjoy a glass of wine, and the unalloyed pleasure of the evening. If only…

“No beret. I’ve never been able to look at one, without remembering. But you should have seen it, Edie…” Nancy continued to tell the story. “He said he was an artist, looking for an American girl to be his muse. He wanted her to be Cathy. He followed us for miles, begging her to pose for him! We didn’t dare tell him she’d once posed for a life study class in college. We finally managed to shake him.”

“And he wore a beret?” Edie’s dark eyes widened.

“Along with a long, black coat that had seen better days.” Catherine shuddered. “Do you know how many beret-wearing men in black coats there are in Paris? I swear we thought we saw him on every street corner after that. He had me jumping at shadows.”

“We saw a lot of the city at high speed for days afterwards. Just as well Cathy had packed some sensible shoes. Running from unsuitable men seems to have been a theme in Paris that year,” Jenny declared, frowning. “You know, it’s all starting to add up.”

“I would love to see Paris,” Edie said enviously, as she picked up a slice of pizza.

“If you do, avoid men in berets… who are everywhere over there, by the way.”

Edie chuckled. “I can stay in New York if I want to avoid the wrong kind of guy. Besides, my nights are occupied. Fred Astaire and I have a thing going on.”

“Not Gene Kelly?” Nancy asked.

“Fred. It’s just gotta be Fred. Way more class. And he’s a Taurus,” Edie asserted. “Gene’s okay. He’s just not my type. Virgos can be so demanding.” She swung her braided hair saucily, and it sent her large earrings to dancing.

“When it comes to dating people who aren’t my type, I could give lessons!” Jenny exclaimed. “Their star signs just complicate matters.”

“Jenny Aronson, you haven’t changed. You were just as bad in college. You’ve been running from unsuitable men ever since,” Catherine accused, and they all dissolved into laughter.

“My therapist would say that’s self sabotage,” Edie exclaimed. “But he’s old and married, so what does he know about dating? And for seventy bucks an hour, he should give better advice!”

“Why break the habits of a lifetime.” Jenny shrugged. “Sometimes I think I could have it all, just like Nancy… if I really wanted. A great husband, kids and a big house. But I’ve decided that I like my life, just as it is.”

Earlier glasses of wine had kicked in, and Nancy let a certain truth fly. “You really think my life is so perfect?” She sobered, frowning into her glass. “You know what I said earlier, about my life not always being what it’s cracked up to be?”

The other women nodded silently, knowing they were about to hear something far more serious than their previous happy conversation.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long…” Nancy’s breathing hitched. “A few years ago, just after Jeremy’s birth, Paul fell into a brief affair with a co-worker. He said he didn’t mean it to happen, but it just did. He complained he was lonely, and she was there for him. He said she understood him.” Her lips thinned. “When I found out, I was devastated. We were both so miserable we talked about divorce.” She looked at Edie. “That’s when I found out therapists in Westport go for eighty an hour.”

Catherine reached for Nancy’s hand. “Oh, Nance, that’s so unfair. I didn’t know…”

“And here’s me thinking you have the perfect marriage…” Jenny leaned closer to hug her. “I’m so sorry, hon. Sometimes, staying with someone is harder than leaving them.”

“Men surely know how to hurt us.” Edie nodded, not knowing Nancy’s husband, but understanding the pain he’d caused. “I’m convinced the perfect man doesn’t exist. We just have to get by with second best. Or whatever’s out there.”

Do we? Catherine thought. I know I used to think so…

“It’s okay.” Nancy nodded, interrupting Catherine’s thought. “It’s ancient history. We worked it through in time, and we’re stronger for the experience.” She regarded the ruby contents of her wine glass. “But, it left me feeling… confused and sad, knowing it had happened. Knowing I’d somehow not been ‘enough’ for him.”

“Oh, Nance, you know it wasn’t that!” Jenny protested.

Nancy looked up at her. “I know he doesn’t like me being alone in the city. He thinks I might be tempted…” She huffed a sad laugh before she took a long sip of wine. “For some time I considered agreeing to the divorce. But as time goes by…” She grimaced. “Better the devil you know, right?”

Jenny nodded in understanding. “Well, you all know about how my luck with men has been going. I’ve had to flee to a lot of elevators. Paul needs to take you on that trip to Paris,” she declared roundly. “He owes you that.”

“Yes…” Nancy nodded. “Thanks, guys, it’s a weight off being able to tell you. It must be the wine. I’m getting all maudlin. I thought this was a party.” She wiped away her tears with an impatient swipe of her fingers. “But I do think Paul’s idea of someday taking me on a trip back to Paris was his way of saying ‘sorry.’”

“I seem to hear that word from people I date all the time,” Jenny mused, glancing at her own glass. “I seem to be either taking my shoes off, or trying to put them on again.” She shook her head. “Remember I told you about Craig, the ponytailed artist who lived in that awful, unheated loft? He liked to look at naked women while he painted abstracts. I spent three weeks freezing to death, in a sheet, for nothing! The things we do for love…”

“Ah, now there’s an overused word if I ever heard one…” Nancy stated, leaning forward to look over the pizzas before choosing another slice.

“See, this is why I love Fred. Fred will never hurt me,” Edie joined in, picking anchovies off her pizza. “He’s just there for me, any time I want him...”

Their conversation quickly turned back to lighter subjects. Vincent shuffled his boots, reluctant to leave, but unsure of how long he would have to wait. He half-turned away, regretting that he was standing outside, overhearing a private conversation. Then his keen senses were arrested by the unguarded mention of his name…

~~~

“But enough about our sorry love lives. Vincent…” Nancy tossed out the name carelessly. “That’s what you called him, right, Cathy? That mysterious man of yours?”

She frowned at her friend, as she tried to retrieve the elusive memory. “Back in Westport, when you came up for the weekend. I said to you, ‘You’ve got to follow your heart. It’s the only thing you can every really count on.’ You said ‘he’ always says that.”

“Did I?” Catherine blinked. “I don’t remember.” She frowned at the remains of their pizza meal that lay in scattered open boxes across her coffee table, hoping to avoid the obvious question.

“Men…” Jenny shook her head sadly. “Mars and Venus…” Her gaze locked on Catherine’s worried expression. She sat up to pursue the new subject of the conversation, but Nancy spoke first.

“So, your Vincent…” Nancy sniffed, as she eyed Catherine’s watchful expression. “Whatever became of him? Did you two ever work it out? Please tell me you did. I need to hear all about a really happy ending.”

Jenny trained her dark eyes on Catherine, and her expression said it all. Vincent who? Edie looked equally curious.

“I… we… it’s…complicated,” Catherine managed lamely. She stood up to refill everyone’s wine glasses, wondering how she was going to answer such a direct question, without giving too much away.

“Oh, that’s right, waaaiiit a minute…” Jenny added thoughtfully. “You weren’t going to be alone that night… after… well, you know…” She shrugged apologetically for bringing up the subject of Catherine’s abduction by the Watcher. “You shooed me out, because you weren’t going to be alone. That awful night!”

“It’s okay, Jen,” Catherine soothed her.

Edie accepted the refill as she watched Catherine closely. “Does this Vincent guy have anything to do with that gorgeous silk nightgown you bought some time ago? It was expensive enough to have some cute guy attached to it. Or were you really just fishing from the bank that day, just to see what you could reel in?”

“The New York dating pool is full of boring fish,” Jenny said caustically. “I should know, I’ve reeled in enough of them, only to throw them back. And then had to outrun them, besides.”

“Yeah.” Edie shook her head. “I get by with my Fred Astaire, or some other glamourous movie star, most nights. They don’t disappoint. Where is the great love we were all promised?” She scowled at her glass of wine. “Sometimes I’m so afraid of ending up alone, like my Aunt Cassie. Everyone in the family pitied her because she never married.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m cursed to live my love life vicariously, through others.”

“We’re all afraid of our own sense of aloneness.” Catherine surveyed them, knowing each often saw themselves trapped in an endless cycle of disappointments, as she once had been.

Until Vincent rescued me, she thought. Her voice carried her convictions. “Love is real. And it’s deep. And it lasts. You just have to believe. And I swear... sometimes, I think it only happens to you in that moment when you’re really not expecting it.”

“That sounds juicy. Tell me more. Is there a book in it?” Jenny wiped her hands on her napkin before reaching for another slice of pizza. “You were very mysterious that night. You couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Was it him, this Vincent guy, you were waiting to meet? I didn’t see anyone coming up in the elevator…”

“Had to be. And I can top that,” Nancy inserted. “Last year, she borrowed my car and drove all the way back to town, at four in the morning. Something couldn’t wait.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or someone…”

“I feel like I’ve been left out of something great. I hate that.” Edie sat forward. “I know Elliot Burch used to buy you a florist’s shop of flowers, and a catered lunch. Then he just stopped coming around the office. What gives, girlfriend? Is this ‘Vincent’ guy why you tear out of the office sometimes? But you never bring anybody around…”

Catherine suddenly realized that having all of her closest girlfriends together in the same room might not be a great idea, considering that all of them knew ‘pieces’ about her life after the attack, but none of them knew what the others did. Catherine hedged by saying, “The last two years have been the most amazing of my life. If it’s a mixed bag, or even if it’s lonely sometimes, well… I’d never trade them for anything.”

“That’s a lawyer’s answer, if I ever heard one,” Jenny huffed. “Saying everything and nothing. You’ve worked for the DA’s office for far too long. Are you telling us we have to read between the lines, and butt out? Does this guy of yours even exist?”

“As I said, it’s complicated.” Catherine sighed. “I wish I could tell you more, but there are secrets that are not mine to tell.”

Nancy leaned over to Edie. “I get it. He’s perfect. And she’s keeping him under wraps, so nobody steals him away.”

Catherine chuckled, neither agreeing with nor denying that.

“Oh, a perfect man!” Edie exclaimed, pinning Catherine with her deeply brown gaze. “But tell us Cathy… does he dance?”

Catherine couldn’t hide her smile. It surely couldn’t hurt to admit it. “As a matter of fact, he does.” She remembered their Winterfest waltz. “Very well, in fact.”

“Better than Fred?” Edie asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Nobody dances better than Fred,” Jenny stuck up for her new friend’s crush.

“You got that right,” Edie agreed, clinking her glass to Jenny’s.

Oh, I don’t know about that, Catherine thought, remembering the intoxicating feeling of dancing in the Great Hall, to music only she and Vincent could hear. It had been a magical night. She reached for another slice of pizza, keeping her head down so no one would see her blush.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Nancy opined darkly, watching her closely, and seeing her face color. “But from all this we have to glean this Vincent of yours is still around.” She frowned into the darkness of the bedroom.

“He is.” Catherine opted for a small amount of truth. “But he… doesn’t have a place in my world.” She fought to sound matter of fact.

“Aw. From the wrong side of the tracks, huh?” Jenny guessed thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve tried out all the offerings on this side, and came up empty.” She zeroed in on what Catherine didn’t say. “But he is the reason Tom Gunther got shown the door? You were the town’s hottest couple once, and then suddenly, you weren’t. You’re being very mysterious, Cathy.”

“Says the woman who publishes mysteries for a living,” Cathy deflected. “And Tom was no great loss. I think my Dad liked him more than I did… especially at the end.”

Jenny smiled at Catherine. “We’re all so proud of the way you overcame such a terrible time, and how you’ve managed to change your life for the better. Good for you, we all said. Gunther was a creep, anyway. I hear he finally married some vapid, blond bimbo with more hair than sense.” She toasted the absent couple with her glass. “Serves him right.”

Catherine was glad the topic of conversation had veered away from Vincent, and onto Tom Gunther. “Whatever he did, I hope it makes him happy.” Catherine saluted with her own glass. She meant it. She had no desire to wish Tom Gunther ill. Or even think of him, particularly. Not when I have so many better things to think about…

“He stood you up!” Nancy suddenly announced. She waved a hand at the astonished glances cast her way. “No, no, not Tom. I agree, he was decidedly regrettable. You were always too good for him. And Burch wasn’t much better.”

She turned to Catherine. “I mean your Vincent. That’s why you sounded so down when I phoned you. The pair of you had plans for this weekend. I thought it was odd that you were free. Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Cathy. I really messed up.”

“I… no, please, it’s all right. He had to… go away,” Catherine affirmed warily, not sure where this conversation was leading. “It was… unavoidable. And it’s not an issue. I love seeing you guys.”

“So, he’s not the world’s most perfect man, after all.” Jenny raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Phew! Thank heavens for that! I was beginning to believe you’ve really been holding out on us.”

“Fantasy men are my life’s foundation. My therapist says that’s avoidance,” Edie chimed in.

“Fantasies are fine, but all men stink. I can cope with rejection, knowing my whole belief system is still intact,” Jenny replied.

She surveyed the box of pizza, trying to decide if she could afford to consume just one more delicious slice. “Why not…” She shrugged, dipping her hand into the box. “I can always run an extra mile or two, tomorrow.”

Catherine’s mantle clock showed the hour, and Edie checked her watch, indicating it was time for her to go. “Remember, Cathy, I once told you that Auntie Edie wants all the juicy details.” She drained her glass. “You’d better not hold out on me, girl.” She got to her feet a little unsteadily, stepping back into her abandoned shoes. “I’m afraid only the greatest dancer of the silver screen awaits me at home. It’s been wonderful meeting you, ladies, but I gotta get going.”

Catherine walked with her to the door, and opened it. “Thanks, Edie. For your company, if not the for files I’ll have to work on tomorrow.” She handed her friend her belongings.

“Monday…” Edie waggled her eyebrows significantly, before hugging her close. “I want details. Don’t make me come hunting you down.” She grinned, as she waved an airy hand in farewell, before Catherine closed the door behind her.

I have no idea what I’ll tell you. But if I only tell you only what I already have, that it’s been the most amazing two years of my life, then that’s the truth, Catherine smiled at the white wood.

~~~

“She’s nice. I hope she finds somebody,” Jenny said, as Catherine returned to her friends. The pizza was getting that decidedly ‘demolished’ look. And the latest bottle of wine was more than half gone.

“She is nice,” Catherine said, glad the subject had veered away from Vincent, again. She settled herself back down on the sofa, which now had more room. She tucked one leg up under her. “But then, I think we all deserve someone special… or to be in love.” She toasted Nancy on the last, hoping her friend could make her marriage work in the long run. She knew Paul. He wasn’t a bad man. But he had made a terrible mistake.

“We do. We really do,” Jenny agreed, pouring the last of the wine into Catherine’s glass. “That makes me wonder. What’s the perfect man like, for you?” she asked, setting the green glass bottle down. “I mean, what’s he really like? If you could wish for one, what would he be?”

“This sounds like a conversation we used to have when we were back at school,” Catherine recalled. “I remember you always wanted them ‘tall, dark, and handsome… and able to ski.’”

Jenny smiled. “I think I still want that. I like to ski. But… time has maybe modified my list, a little…”

“Mine, too,” Nancy chimed in. “Faithful. The perfect man has to be faithful. I used to think ‘successful’ was the big thing, so we’d be secure. But I’m changing my list. My perfect man is always faithful.”

Both the other women now knew why Nancy had chosen the trait she had.

“Security isn’t exactly a bad thing,” Jenny piped up.

“If I know it’s just me he loves… he doesn’t have to have a dime,” Nancy stated, taking a long swallow of wine. “Oh. And it’s okay if he really likes photography. I’d love to go on a shoot with somebody who was crazy about me… and could develop all our stuff!”

“I’d just like somebody who wasn’t trying to squeeze me in, in between everything else he was trying to get done,” Jenny said. “His career, his parents, his ex-wife and their kids… I’d just like to be first, for once, you know?” she added, all of them realizing that their ‘list’ for the perfect man had indeed changed, over the years.

“How about you, Cathy? I know this is a bad name to bring up, but you used to love going antiquing with Stephen. Still want that big old house in the country, full of one-of-a-kinds?” Nancy asked.

Out on the balcony, Vincent stood stock still, and listened. He caught his breath, closing his eyes as he waited for Catherine’s answer.

Inside her apartment, Catherine smiled into her wine glass. Vincent is definitely one of a kind, she thought, knowing she couldn’t say it that way… and he is a keeper… She could almost feel his arms around her, and his lips against her hair. She closed her eyes for a moment, simply imagining the impossible.

“Let’s just say I still value … unique things. And uniqueness, in a person,” she answered carefully, trying not to let the wine loosen her tongue too much. “And ‘yes’ to fidelity. It is important. Knowing someone loves you too much to ever hurt you that way… it’s priceless. I’m so sorry you lost that, Nancy. I know it happens. A lot of people do work through it. But it’s so much better to always have it, and know it’s there. But as to being first…”

Catherine rubbed her temple, trying to explain without implicating her life with Vincent. “We all have pressures. I have my work. There are nights when I’m barely in the door, before I have to go to bed and then get up again.” She gestured toward the files Edie had brought her. “I don’t think I can marry you, Jenny.”

She gave her friend a soulful look, and the women’s soft laughter lightened the mood. “But I think it’s okay to not be the only thing he’s dealing with. As long as you… as long as you feel like you’re so very important to him… There are always disappointments in life, and in love. But if you know you’re precious to him… it’s okay if he has to go away on business that can’t wait. It’s okay to know you’re the one he’s thinking about, even if he can’t be with you.”

The other two women exchanged a soulful glance.

“I’d say nothing can beat that. No matter how thin the two of you get stretched, and what barriers stand in the way of your ultimate happiness,” Catherine concluded.

“Hear, hear,” Nancy said, raising her glass.

Out on the balcony, Vincent heard the sound of clinking stemware. Thank you, Catherine. Thank you for understanding. And accepting what we are…

“So, that’s the perfect man taken care of. What about the perfect day?” Nancy asked, settling back against the sofa cushions. “We used to talk about that too, back in college. Cathy’s was always to be spent going shopping. We just refused to go along to watch her do it!”

“Probably for more shoes,” Jenny added. “A nice, big house in the country can fit in a lot of shoes.”

“I guess just like ‘the perfect man,’ the ‘perfect day’ also went through some changes, since the college days,” Catherine replied, chuckling at their description of ‘the old Cathy.’

Nancy ran her fingers through her soft fall of hair. “I used to think the perfect day was getting up and shooting ten rolls of film before lunch,” she said, picking up her glass and contemplating her wine. And now I’d give anything to be able to do that, still. I guess I really haven’t changed much.

“But now, I just think it would be great to be able to sleep in, without having to get up and tend to everybody else and their breakfast, before I even have a chance to think!” she smoothed.

“It sounds like you and Paul could use some time for a vacation. Maybe not Paris, just… a break? Just the two of you? Leave the kids with your Mom? Or their favorite Aunt Jenny?” Jenny advised. She knew the sound of a stressed-out friend when she heard one.

“We took one not so long ago. I don’t think I was ready for it. I just… missed the kids, and wanted to come home. They’re a … distraction sometimes. You don’t have to deal with the stuff you don’t want to, when there’s always a load of laundry to fold, or a new pair of kid’s sneakers to buy. We both… use that, sometimes,” Nancy confessed.

“Maybe you should try again?” Catherine nudged. “Maybe you’re… more ready, now?”

“Maybe,” Nancy replied, honestly thinking it over. “On my perfect day… I think I know Paul loves me again. Really loves me. In spite of what happened in the past. And he can make me believe it, before he kisses me beneath the Eiffel Tower.” Her expression grew wistful for a moment, and held longing for her marriage the way it had once been.

“I hope you get that, Nance. With all my heart,” Jenny said.

Nancy smiled mistily. She knew Jenny spoke nothing but the truth. “But what about you, Jen? What’s your perfect day? Still writing the Great American Novel, then publishing it?”

“I think I figured out it’s way easier to read them than it is to write them,” Jenny chuckled, glad to be able to admit it. “Perfect day. Hmmm. It would have to start with us eating a whole plateful of my Grandmother’s latkes. There’s no perfect day for me, without them!”

“Then what?” Catherine prompted. “Latkes, and…?”

“Nothing but bottles of the best champagne.” Jenny waved a dismissive hand. “Fried foods and sparkling wines echo each other in texture, creating a satisfying effect that’s hard to beat. You know what I’m saying?”

“You read that somewhere!” Nancy threw a cushion at her.

“Yeah, okay, I did. But you have to admit I’m right.” Jenny threw the cushion back at her. “And then I would invite both of you to my lavish dinner at the Tavern on the Green. And when we’d eaten so much we felt like bursting, we would all go back to my apartment for more drinks, and we would dance the night away to old music. We would cry and hug each other, and swear to do it all again, next year.”

Catherine chuckled. “Bursting sounds a bit dangerous, but I like the whole idea. Your Bubbe’s latkes are the best I’ve ever had.”

“Best in New York,” Jenny avowed with simple pride. “I can’t cook worth a damn, much to my Bubbe’s dismay.” She grinned suddenly. “Guess my perfect man will have to know how to cook kosher Jewish food.”

“Okay, so it’s your turn.” She eyed Catherine speculatively. “What would your perfect day look like?”

We were walking on 5th Avenue… The sky was so blue… you bought me ice cream. And no one looked twice. The ghost of a dream-memory flashed across Catherine’s consciousness. One she couldn’t tell.

“Well, for one thing, there would be no files.” She frowned at the pile Edie had delivered. “I would sleep late, and then have breakfast in bed, and read all the newspapers.” She stretched her arms above her head, linking her fingers. The wine she’d consumed was making her feel delightfully irresponsible. “Then I would put on my most comfortable clothes, walk down into the park, and just hang out with all the cool people of this city.”

“That mean us, of course.” Jenny nudged Catherine’s upraised knee with her stockinged foot. “Aren’t we somewhere in this wonderful, pastoral dream?”

“Oh, are you there, too?” Catherine arched her brows at her friend.

“Why do I get the distinct feeling that she’d rather walk in the park with someone other than us?” Nancy laughed, tilting her head at her good friend. “By chance, is he tall, dark and handsome, and able to ski? You never did describe your Vincent to us.”

Catherine let the words go, staying purposefully vague. “He’s tall, not dark, incredibly romantic, and the most beautiful man I have ever seen…” Catherine admitted dreamily, her eyes straying towards the open doorway to her balcony. “And, on my perfect day we would walk hand in hand down Fifth Avenue, and buy ice cream…” The frank admission slipped past her usually well-guarded tongue before she could stop it.

She bit her bottom lip, worrying about what her good friends would make of such an incredible statement. She needn’t have worried.

“Aw, come on. I’m sorry, Cathy, but no one is that perfect,” Jenny complained. “What have we been saying all evening? It’s impossible. No such man exists.”

“Yes, that tears it.” Nancy shook her head, throwing the cushion at her. “You’ve never wanted us to meet this dream man of yours. And now I know why. Your Vincent is just too unbelievable to be real… you made him up. It’s fine, I can understand that. Real life can get so lonely at times, you know?” Her frowning look of suspicion said she wasn’t convinced, but she was prepared to play along, for now.

“I guess so…” Catherine cast her eyes down, trying to look sad about some of her choices in life.

“There you go…” Jenny sat forward to hold her hand. “It’s okay, we get it. Being alone sucks. Forget men. Who needs them, anyway? The Radcliffe girls will have each other, always…”

~~~

Catherine pushed through the filmy drapes covering the open balcony doors and stepped out into the night. It was after one o’clock in the morning, and she was finally alone.

Nancy and Jenny had been reluctant to leave, loath to break up the Radcliffe Reunion party. But, finally, when the last bottle of wine had been emptied and the remains of the pizzas consumed, her good friends left in the same taxi, vowing to do it all again, soon…

Catherine hugged her silk dressing gown closer across her chest. The combination of the wine, and the cool night air, made her head swim a little. She walked unsteadily to her balcony wall, and leaned on it, looking down into the park below.

She needed to grab a few hours’ sleep, but she was feeling too restless to go to bed yet. She’d said more than she planned tonight, but thankfully, her friends didn’t believe she could have such a perfect love. It was for the best to leave them believing that.

“Be well…” she whispered. She hoped Vincent had completed his work on the new chambers, and she would see him the following evening. As much as she knew she needed to go inside, she was reluctant to break the spell of a very enjoyable get-together.

The files Edie brought hovered in the back of her mind, like a shadow that wouldn’t be banished. “Tomorrow…” she said, on a sigh. “No, make that today.” She shook her head, taking one final glance at the moon, before turning from the balcony.

“Catherine…” The sound of Vincent’s voice drifted to her on the night wind.

“Vincent…?” She turned towards the mention of her name, unsure if she had truly heard it.

But, he was there, hidden in the shadows at the end of her balcony, looking as unsure of his welcome as the very first time he’d stood there. He wasn’t a dream, he was very real, and she needed him, right now.

She took a step towards him. “I… how long have you been there, waiting?”

“I… have been here for some time. The work Below was suspended, hours ago. A water main burst.” He moved towards her, slowly. “I didn’t know you had company. I should have left long ago, but...” His wide shoulders lifted in apology.

“They were my friends, Nancy and Jenny. From my days at Radcliffe. And Edie, from work. I… it was a last minute thing.”

“There’s no need to explain.” Vincent came to stand beside her. “I… overheard some of your conversation. It was… enlightening to hear you speak of your life before we met.”

“You heard that?” Catherine reached to grasp his forearm. “Oh, Vincent, I wish you could’ve come inside and sat with us. I know it’s impossible, but…”

“I also wished for that. More than anything.” Vincent nodded. “I loved hearing your stories. I’m sorry I listened in on your private conversation. But I could not leave.”

“Don’t apologize! Don’t you dare!” Catherine shook his arm. “You have every right to know about my life, before you found me. I want you to know all of it. There is so much I want to show you.” In a house in Westport, there are boxes full of almost every memory I have from that time. And probably dozens more that I’ve forgotten.

Vincent released his breath on a long sigh. “You said that the last two years have been the most amazing of your life. That even if it’s lonely sometimes, you wouldn’t trade them for anything. It was enough to hear you say those words.”

“I meant every word.” Catherine raised her hand to grasp his chin, bringing his gaze around to hers. “I meant all of them, and more, despite some of the things that have happened in those two years. You are beautiful, Vincent. And you are my life. Believe that.”

“I do…” Vincent nodded. “But to see all you have seen… all you spoke about tonight…” He shook his head, before drawing her close in to his side, his strong arm going around her shoulders, resting lightly on her slim frame. “‘To see a world in a grain of sand…’” he quoted William Blake reflectively. “I would give all I have…”

“I know. So would I…” Catherine leaned into him, nestling against his solid warmth. “But, right now, I would not trade this moment, for anything…”

“There are eternities in our hours, Catherine,” he whispered near her ear. Eternities. In our stolen hours. And I’ll live every one of them, with you… my beloved Catherine...

They stood in companionable silence for some time. The spell that bound them seemed unbreakable. The tracking moon cast soft shadows, and a light breeze intertwined the tresses of her hair with his.

Finally, Catherine moved against him. “You need to know that I may have to travel someday soon, for my work. Joe’s been hinting that I’m next up on the list, if there’s a need for it.” She lifted her shoulders. “It may be that I am asked to travel across the country. But I will still be with you. I carry you with me, always…”

“As I take you with me, wherever I go.” Vincent listened to all she said and left unspoken. “Perhaps you will travel to a distant shore…” he whispered against her hair. “But that is for another time. It’s late, and you have work you must complete in the morning. You should be in bed.” He brushed his lips across her temple in gentle farewell. “Go…”

“Mmmm… I know,” Catherine murmured reluctantly, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. She moved slowly out of his grasp, then stopped. “Vincent…” She stood still, staring up at him. “What you said before, about seeing a world in a grain of sand...”

“What about it?” he asked, frowning.

Catherine smiled. Blake is wrong. Eternity isn’t just in an hour. It’s in a picture. A frozen piece of ‘eternity.’ An infinity in your hand… and I can show you. I know who has a whole bunch of those, full of places you’ve only dreamed about, but never imagined seeing… “I’ve just had the most wonderful idea…”

~~~

“You want to sort all our old photos into albums?” Nancy marveled down the telephone line the following afternoon. “You’re a glutton for punishment. It will take forever. I know. I’ve tried.”

Seated at her small dining table, Catherine fiddled with the phone cord. “Last night, you got me thinking about old times…” She shrugged apologetically. “I would like to do it. It’s important to me, Nance. More important than anything.”

She stared with relief at the stack of files in front of her. She’d risen early and completed them in record time, so she could make this very important phone call. Anticipation made her heart sing.

Nancy sighed. “Well, if you’re really sure, I can get Paul to collect them together and drop them off to you when he’s in town on Monday. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. There must be more than twenty boxes.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Thanks, Nance, I owe you one.”

“You owe me a lot more than that,” Nancy avowed. “You’re being very mysterious about all of this. Why now, after all this time?”

“Just a whim. Humor me.”

“Ah-ha, the last time we did that we got into all sorts of trouble.” Nancy laughed. “Let me know when you’re done. Maybe I’ll want to relive some old times, too.”

She sighed and Catherine could hear her good friend thinking. “Does this have anything to do with that mysterious man of yours you’ve been keeping away from us?” She paused, and then said, “Of course, we all know he isn’t real. Right, Cathy?”

The doubt in her tone said she hadn’t been convinced, and still wanted answers. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to keep something as wonderful as a great romance from your two best friends, now would you?” The question hung, unanswered between them.

“Sorry, but I plead the fifth. Bye, Nance, and thank you.” Catherine hung up the receiver before Nancy could ask more questions she couldn’t answer.

I love you. And I love him. And maybe one day, you’ll get to meet…

She sat back in her chair, looking out through her balcony doors. It would soon be dark. She knew Vincent would arrive just after the last rays of the sun had vanished below the horizon. She knew her keen sense of anticipation would reach out to him.

“To see a world…” She smiled as she got to her feet to make preparations.

At Vincent’s request, their shared evening meal would consist of wine and pizza. Catherine sighed happily as she hurried into her bedroom to change from her old grey sweats. She had so much to tell him, and she could barely wait until he arrived…

~~~

“To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour...”

William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Words of Light

- by Angie

We’re told that love can transcend tales

We must believe that hate can fail

We read, we listen, hear the songs

Which tell us love will right the wrongs

But what are words without the heart

Or soul that joins us, makes us part

Of each other - friends whose hands

Can span all time and space and lands?

Some words will sooth, while others wake

Thoughts beyond our self and sake

But who would think a TV show

Could tell us something we should know?

Our love’s not selfish - needs no creed

Just candles lit for those in need

With it we grow, we soar, we share

We’ve made a special place to care

Now we’re one, and more each year

Find the sense that makes it clear

B&B shines - always bright

Dark words just lead us to the light

END

Farewell Two

by Anon E. Mouse

~~~

I hope you filled your lovely eye.

I hope you took a look.

I hope the images linger

At the close of this odd book.

I hope the cover uplifted you,

And spirited you away.

I hope your imagination said

“It’s time to come and play!”

On computer, paper, canvas -

No matter what the art,

A creator’s hand touched pages here

And left a bit of heart.

The written word’s a scribbled thing,

The drawn one is sublime.

Each picture worth a thousand words

Of long prose or of rhyme.

After words fade from our minds

The images remain.

Dancing in our memories

A painterly refrain.

Pens or pixels, paint or chalk,

The artist loves to try.

In their silence, pictures talk –

Even when they say “Good-bye.”