FAIRY TIME

by Becky Bain 

(This story originally appeared in the 1993 conzine for GreatExpectations.)

Vincent woke slowly and stretched, stiff from lying on the chamberfloor with only his cloak to cushion the unyielding stone. Rollingover, he came to his feet in one smooth movement and stretchedagain.

The dying embers of his fire glowed dully among hot ashes. He eyedthe meager supply of fuel beside it and turned away. There was noneed to kindle a new blaze. He was only a two hour walk from home.His inner sense of time told him it was early yet; if he hurried,he'd be in time for one of William's hearty breakfasts.

Moving rapidly, he gathered up the few items he'd brought with himon this visit to his world's deeper, unexplored chambers and thrustthem into the small canvas sack he used as a carrier. Thecloth-wrapped bundle of food - cheese, fruit, and hard rolls - wentin first. It was followed by the book he'd read by firelight lastevening - a new novel by Jonathan Carroll, lent to him by Catherine,who thought he would enjoy the writer's peculiar and sometimesstartling outlook.

A shallow tin bowl went in next, along with a plastic peanutbutter jar scavenged from the world above; the jar had held lastnight's dinner - some of William's thick chicken stew, and the bowlhad been set into a bed of glowing coals to heat the stew. He pausedwith a tin cup in his hand, filling it from a plastic bottle anddrinking deeply of the tepid water he'd brought with him. Shaking thecup to rid it of the last, clinging drops, he packed it beside thewater bottle and closed the sack.

He'd leave what remained of his firewood - someone might need itsomeday. No need to extinguish the fire. There was nothing here itcould spread to; the firewood was a safe distance away. Shoulderingthe sack, he took one last look around.

This chamber was lovely; the walls were streaked in pastel pinks,blues, oranges and greens, highlighted with sparkling crusts of limeand quartz crystals. The upper reaches of the chamber were strangelymisty and the entire chamber was bathed in a milky glow.

Catherine would appreciate the beauty of this place, he thought,and it wasn't as far as the crystal cavern. The trip could easily bemade in a day. Perhaps he'd ask her to accompany him sometimesoon.

The cavern's single egress was behind him and regretfully heturned to go. The opening was narrow, the lintel low, and he duckedhis head, entering a short, twisting passage. Halfway through he feltan odd tingling, as if a chill wind was blowing across the back ofhis neck. He paused, startled by the sensation, but the air was stilland the feeling did not come again. After a moment he went on,emerging moments later into a wider tunnel that would take him,eventually, to the Chamber of the Winds.

Once on the more familiar paths, his tireless stride lengthened ashe found himself suddenly anxious to be home. He always enjoyed hissolitary excursions, but no matter how much he valued his privacy, itwas always good to come back.

He turned a corner and saw, at the far end of the passage, a boy,perhaps nine years old, coming toward him. His step faltered. The boywas clearly a member of the tunnel community - his clothing, hiscasual manner and his proximity to the living chambers all attestedto that - but Vincent didn't recognize him.Odd. He knew all thetunnel residents as well as all the helpers. Was it possible thatsomehow this boy had been admitted to the community literallyovernight?

He reached for his hood.

It was too late.

The boy, open-mouthed in astonishment, was frozen into place atthe end of the passage. Vincent advanced slowly, hands held out in agesture of peace. "Please don't be afraid," he said, his standardgreeting to newcomers. "I mean you no harm."

The boy watched his approach, his expression changing to one ofwonder. "I know who you are," he said suddenly. "You're Vincent."

"That's right. Who are you?"

"My name's Luke."

"Luke." Vincent offered his hand in greeting. "You must be newhere. The only Luke I know is Kanin and Olivia's son."

The boy nodded. "Yes. That's me."

Vincent stiffened. "That isn't possible. Luke is only a baby."

"You've been gone a long time," the boy observed candidly. "I grewup."

Baffled by the boy's calm statement, Vincent felt only relief whena familiar figure appeared in the passage beyond Luke's shoulder."Jamie."

"Vincent?" Her eyes were wide, her voice uncertain. "Is it reallyyou?"

Her reaction was puzzling. Only yesterday they had spoken togetherabout sealing an entrance where security had been breached; now shewas staring at him as if she'd forgotten what he looked like.

Only slowly did he notice changes in her appearance. She seemedolder, more mature. Her hair was no longer scraped into a tomboyishponytail; instead, it was pulled back with carved wooden combs andcurled to fall prettily to her shoulders. She was wearing, in placeof her usual jeans, a softly patterned skirt. Her crossbow wasnowhere to be seen.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, and he resisted the urge tosmile. Underneath the changes lurked the old, familiar Jamie.

He shook his head in bewilderment. "Below the catacombs. I toldFather I might be away overnight..."

"Overnight! Vincent..." Her expression alarmed him. "You'd bettercome with me," she decided, turning swiftly. "This way."

Father's study hadn't changed; it was still piled high with booksand cluttered with what Mouse would call 'stuff'. A man was seated atthe desk, going rapidly through a stack of papers. The candles in thechamber flickered in the currents of air stirred up as Jamie andVincent entered and the man lifted his head.

It wasn't Father.

There was a moment's stunned silence as the man's dark-eyed gazemet Vincent's blue one; a heavy fountain pen fell and went rollingacross the uneven stone floor.

Vincent recovered first. "Devin?" he asked, uncertainly. Somethingwas different. As with Jamie, something had changed. This Devin wasnot the reckless, devil-may-care brother he knew. With gray liberallystreaking his dark hair and beard, this Devin, dressed comfortably intraditional tunnel garb, looked remarkably like a younger version ofFather, with the same lines of care and worry etched across hisface.

"Vincent!" Devin was on his feet, rounding the desk and boundingup the steps to offer a fervent fraternal hug. He was beside himself."Where did you come from? Where have you been? You look well. Youhaven't changed..."

"But you have," Vincent interrupted. "You look positively..." hehesitated, but it was really the only word to properly describe hisbrother's new demeanor. "Responsible," he finished.

Devin grinned. "That's the old man coming out in me," heproclaimed cheerfully. "I couldn't help it." He glanced past Vincentto where Jamie waited in the chamber entrance. "What is it,Jamie?"

"I'm sorry, Devin. I was wondering if we should spread the word,about Vincent, I mean."

Devin required only a moment's thought. "Yes, we'd better, beforerumors get started. Have Zach put out the news on the pipes. Just saythat Vincent's back, we don't know yet where he's been, and..."

"Everyone will want to see him," Jamie reminded him.

"Yes, of course," Devin agreed, sounding just like Father. "Saythere'll be a welcome-home party here, tonight... no, better make ittomorrow afternoon. That'll give Vincent time to catch his breath.Ask William and Marcy to prepare something special." He glanced atVincent. "That's okay, isn't it?"

Thoroughly perplexed by the easy authority in Devin's voice andthe way Jamie deferred to him, Vincent nodded. "Of course."

Jamie hurried out.

Vincent was starting to feel overwhelmed; he turned to Devin,seeking something familiar, something substantial to steady himself."Where's Father?"

Devin gestured back over his shoulder, towards Father's sleepingalcove. "He's still asleep," he said.

Father? Asleep at this hour of the morning? With a skepticalglance at Devin, Vincent crossed to the sleeping chamber and peeredin.

Father lay in his bed, propped up by pillows. His hair had gonecompletely gray; his face was gaunt, with deep lines of unbearablegrief etched upon it. His hand, where it lay on top of the quilt, wasthin, frail and deeply veined. He looked... old. Much older than whenVincent had seen him last.

Yesterday morning.

He tried to step forward, but Devin caught his arm. "Don't," hecautioned in a bare whisper. "The shock... besides, he needs torest."

Silently, Vincent let Devin lead him back into the main chamber."I don't understand. What's happened? How long has he been thisway?"

"He's been ill, Vincent."

"Ill?" Yes, of course, it was the only explanation for the wayFather looked, but he'd been so well when Vincent had last seenhim.

Yesterday morning. Only yesterday.

"A series of small strokes," Devin went on. "He had the first onethree years ago. He never completely recovered..."

Vincent stared in horror. "*Three years*? Devin, that's notpossible. I was gone overnight. Only overnight..."

The expression on Devin's face was one of compassion. "No,Vincent," he said, very gently. "You've been gone for six years."

There was an odd buzzing sound and the very earth seemed to shift;Vincent reached out, gripping the back of a chair as he strained tokeep his balance. Six years! It was, quite plainly, impossible.

Grasping for rational explanations, he remembered Devin's boyhoodfondness for practical jokes. A wave of hopeful relief swept overhim. Of course! Surely this was one of his brother's devious schemes.He started to smile, but one glance at Devin's face, with its newlook of care and responsibility, was enough to freeze his face intowhat he felt must be utter shock.

Trembling, he sank into a nearby chair. This was too complex, toocomplete. There was Jamie, and Luke. There was Father. He knew hisparent. Father would never have agreed to such an elaborate joke, andbesides, he'd just seen Father looking frail and ill. Far too frailand ill for a practical joke. No, this was terribly, horrifyinglyreal. Somehow, he'd lost six years. Six years!

Devin bent over him. "Can I get you something, Vincent? Sometea?"

Vincent shook his head; tea held no attraction for him in the faceof this devastating, impossible truth. And then, his mind stillspinning, his heart leaped to the one person he loved above allothers.

Catherine.

He searched quickly for his sense of her; it was there, but fadedsomehow. There was no indication of what she was doing, how she mightbe feeling. He turned to Devin. "Where is Catherine? How is she?"

Devin shrugged. "I don't know, Vincent. I haven't seen her in ayear or more. She doesn't come below anymore. Not since before I cameback to stay. That was right after the old man got so sick."

Three years then. Impossible, when he'd been with her only twonights ago. "But you've heard from her? Of her? She's well?"

Devin spread his hands. "She's still a helper. She sends us things- toys, books, medicines. Clothes her daughter's outgrown, stuff likethat."

"Daughter?" Vincent repeated the devastating word slowly.Catherine had a daughter. Surely it also meant she had a husband, andhe tried valiantly to rejoice that she seemed to have found happinessin a life without him. "She's married, then?" he asked, voicing thequestion with difficulty.

Devin looked startled. "No, not that I know of. At least, Ihaven't heard..." Comprehension caught up with him. "No, Vincent. Herdaughter's adopted."

Vincent sank back into his chair. "Catherine has a daughter..." Heglanced sharply at Devin. "She thinks I'm dead?"

Devin nodded slowly, his face etched with sorrow. "We all did. Welooked for you - Father got word to me and I came right away - butthere was nothing. No sign. Catherine was frantic - she tookresponsibility for searching above, even though Father was sure you'dsaid you were going to explore below. She contacted researchfacilities, circuses, carnivals - anyplace that might have gottenhold of you... Weeks passed, and then months - and finally, there wasnothing else to believe. I think Catherine went back to her job.Father... Father was older and grayer by the time I left; I rememberwondering if he suffered that much when I disappeared..."

A sound from the alcove where Father slept interrupted and Devinbroke off.

"Devin?" It was an old man's voice, thin and querulous.

Devin rose smoothly and went into the alcove. Vincent followedslowly, pausing just out of sight. After a moment, Devin lookedaround the corner and beckoned. "I've told him you're back," he saidin a low voice. "I'm not sure he believes me. Come on in."

Much later, Vincent sat beside Father's bed, watching him sleep.Despite Devin's promise of a welcoming celebration later, the morninghad brought an influx of well-wishers as Vincent's friends wereunable to wait to confirm Jamie's happy news. Mary, William, Pascal,Rebecca, Mouse, and a whole handful of children, now grown to youngadulthood, had 'stopped by' Father's chamber on one pretext oranother.

"Shall we send word to the helpers, Devin?" Pascal had asked.

Devin had looked at Vincent questioningly, and Vincent hadsolemnly shaken his head. Catherine was still numbered among theirworld's helpers, and this was not news she should learn through amessage from Pascal. Indeed, he had not yet decided if she should betold at all.

It was this he pondered as he watched his father sleep. If he hadtruly been gone for six years, and it was becoming increasinglydifficult to believe he hadn't, then things had certainly changed.Catherine would be changed. Perhaps she wouldn't want to see him.Perhaps she'd put him so far behind her that the reminder of whatthey had once shared would hurt. Whatever happened, he didn't want toupset her life. He didn't want to cause her any more pain.

"Vincent."

The sound of his name brought him sharply out of his thoughts. Hebent forward anxiously. "Yes, Father?"

The old man was staring at him with only a little less of thewonder that had lighted his face this morning. "You're reallyhere."

"Yes." Vincent reached for the heavy mug of water that stood onthe table, but Father waved it away.

"No water." His body might be failing, but Father's mind was stillsharp. "What's troubling you, Vincent?" he asked now.

"Nothing, Father." Vincent suspected he'd already caused hisparent enough distress.

Father gave a derisive snort and struggled to sit up; risingquickly, Vincent helped him into a comfortable upright position,bolstering him with pillows. "Can I get you anything?"

"No." Father fixed him with a commanding eye. "Sit down, Vincent,and tell me what you're thinking."

Sheepishly, Vincent did as he was told. "It's Catherine," headmitted.

"Of course," Father agreed. "It always was. Does she know you'reback?"

Vincent shook his head. "I've been trying to decide if I shouldtell her."

Father raised a frail, trembling hand to his forehead. "DearCatherine," he murmured. "She suffered so. She insisted on going outwith search parties, different ones every day."

"Devin said she searched for me in her world," Vincent objectedautomatically.

Father nodded. "Oh, she did. She did both. She was determined tofind you. She wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat. I was afraid she wouldmake herself ill. And then, one day, we had to admit that you weren'tto be found. She fought against the decision, railed at the councilabout it. She'd have continued to search herself if I hadn'tforbidden it, but of course I couldn't let her wander about in theuncharted tunnels alone. Mouse volunteered to go with her, and Ithink they did, in fact, make a few forays into the deeper,unexplored sections, but by then it had been half a year since you'ddisappeared and eventually even Mouse lost hope. Finally Catherinejust stopped coming.

"I went to see her once. She'd missed Winterfest, you see, so Iwas worried about her. She told me then that she wanted to remain ahelper, but she just couldn't come here anymore. It hurt her too muchto come down and not find you waiting for her, I think.

"I didn't see her again until I became ill, though of course Peterkept me informed about how she was doing. I knew when she moved toher new apartment..."

"She's moved?" Vincent interrupted.

"What? Oh, yes, several years ago. When she adopted the littlegirl... you knew about that?"

"Yes, Devin told me. Go on, Father."

"Yes, well, Catherine came to see me when I suffered the firststroke - very kind of her, really, to make that long trip down - andDevin's seen her once or twice, I believe."

"Yes." Vincent studied his clasped hands. "What should I do,Father? Shall I allow her to live out her life never knowing I'vereturned? If I go to her, will it upset the new life she's made forherself? Devin tells me she's never married, but perhaps there'ssomeone close to her, someone she loves. I don't want tointerfere..."

"Go to her, Vincent," Father advised kindly. "She'll be glad tosee you, I know. It isn't fair to let her go on wondering.Grieving."

"After six years, Father?"

"I still mourned you, Vincent," Father said simply. "Devin did,and Mouse. What makes you think that Catherine, who loved you perhapsbetter than any of us, has forgotten?"

The night wind was cool on his face, stirring the ends of hishair. Somewhere nearby, music played. Moving with his usual grace,Vincent traversed a sheer concrete wall and scaled down a narrowaluminum drainage pipe, dropping finally onto a high balconyoverlooking Central Park. He paused, getting his bearings.

Devin had needed to give him the address; his sense of Catherinehad been so thoroughly blunted by his night in the cavern that hecould no longer find her. He paused, thinking of that sweet, clearconnection and wondered, for just an instant, if he would ever feelthe full depth of it again. A careful search of what remained broughthim no sense of her being near.

He moved cautiously, remembering how he had frightened her thefirst time he visited that other balcony. Lights glowed behind theglass doors and he approached slowly, peering inside. Some of thefurniture, visible through the glass, was familiar, but there was nosign of Catherine.

Brushing back his hood, he turned to look out at the city. Theview here was similar to the one from Catherine's other balcony andhe wondered if she'd noticed that when choosing this apartment. Heeven dared to wonder if she'd deliberately tried to imitate thefeeling of that other place.

The wrought iron table and chairs were the same, and the plantslooked familiar. On the balcony's far side, carefully placed toreceive sun and rain but sheltered from violent storms, stood anenormous clay pot. Vincent crossed to it and knelt down. The potcontained a rosebush.

A single, creamy white bloom glowed softly in the moonlight. Nearit was a bud just starting to open; the petals of the opening budwere red. He touched it reverently. If she'd kept the rosebush allthese years, surely it meant she still cared about him? The verythought brought all his doubts churning to the surface.

During the long wait for darkness to fall, he'd had time toagonize over the six years since Catherine had seen him, and toimagine the worst. What if she wasn't glad to see him? What if thelove that had burned so brightly between them had died away? What ifit had cooled to the warmth of friendship, and she looked on himmerely with kindness? Worse, what if nothing was left but cold,unfeeling ash? What if she turned away from him, asked him to go?

With a small, angry growl, he pushed to his feet. Tormentinghimself this way was useless; no one could answer his questions butCatherine. There was nothing to do but wait for her.

Restlessness, fueled by something within, wouldn't let him waitpeacefully. Instead, he paced. Four long strides covered the lengthof the balcony; four more brought him back.

The music he'd heard on his descent was clearer here; some form ofrock music, he guessed, but not the jarring, discordant sounds hesometimes heard when he went above. This was softer, more lyrical. Heregretted being unable to give it his full attention; another time,he might have enjoyed listening.

No more than five minutes passed before he sensed movement frominside the apartment. He stopped pacing and looked to see a girl comethrough a door on the far side of the living room. She was Asian,about ten or eleven years old, he judged, with waist-length, glossyblack hair. She was neatly dressed in jeans, oversized sweatshirt,and sneakers.

Catherine's daughter.

Silently, Vincent eased into the shadows and watched. The girlmoved slowly, her eyes fixed on the open book in her hands. Limpingslightly, she crossed to an area out of his sight. Moments later, theclink of glassware and the sound of liquid being poured told him shewas in the kitchen. She soon emerged carrying a glass of milk and apackage of Oreo cookies and settled at the small dining table toenjoy her snack. He never once saw her look up from her book.

After a while, though, she closed the book and rose to her feet,stretching. Vincent expected her to clear away the remnants of hersnack; it surprised him when she turned and opened the door leadingto the balcony. He had time only to melt more deeply into the shadowsand raise his hood before she came out.

She went directly to the railing and leaned on it, looking out atthe lights. The motion was poignantly reminiscent of Catherine, andhe felt a stirring of fondness for this child he had not yet met.

Suddenly the girl straightened, turning back toward the open door,and Vincent. An errant breeze caught the edge of his cloak, making itflutter in the moonlight; swiftly, silently, he caught at it, but notswiftly enough. She'd seen it.

"Is someone there?" The cadence of her speech was musical, withjust a trace of an accent to tell the listener that English was nother first language. She poised warily, peering into the darkness.

The distant music had turned sweetly nostalgic, the notes floatingon the same breeze that had betrayed his presence. Vincent reviewedhis options. Silence would frighten her; so would an abruptdeparture. He sighed inwardly. It seemed he had no choice. "Yes," heanswered, keeping his voice low.

She tensed, shifting her stance defensively as she watched hisshadow. "Who are you?"

He eased forward, letting the light fall across his body; his facewas still shadowed by the hood, and his hands were hidden by thefolds of his cloak. "Please don't be afraid," he said gently. "I am afriend of your mother's."

The skepticism in her voice told him she wasn't convinced. "Howdid you get up here?" Her eyes left him just long enough to glancearound as if looking for ropes or ladders.

Vincent offered the only truthful answer he could safely give."'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls.'"

"'For stony limits cannot hold love out,'" she answered promptly,completing the quote.

"You know those words?" he asked, surprised. She was very young tobe memorizing Shakespeare.

"They're written in a book my mother has," she explained. Hervigilant stance didn't waver.

Vincent nodded, finding hope in the news that, as with therosebush, Catherine still kept the book close.

"My name is Vincent," he said softly. "The book is a collection ofShakespeare's sonnets."

His knowledge was enough to dissipate her fear; the warinessdisappeared as she straightened, her bearing suddenly formal and veryOriental. She made a small bow. "I am pleased to meet you, friend ofmy mother," she pronounced solemnly. "I am called Cassie."

"I am pleased to meet you, daughter of my friend," he answeredwith the same air of ceremony, making a small bow in return. Themovement brought his face into the light, and she jumped, stifling asmall gasp.

Vincent hesitated, then reached up and slowly pushed back hishood. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to frightenyou."

She edged closer, staring. "You are... very different," she saidat last.

The child was a master of understatement, Vincent thought wryly,but she had a generous heart. "Yes."

"Like a fairy tale."

He couldn't help a small smile. "Perhaps."

She inched closer. "May I..." she broke off, blushingprofusely.

"May you...?" Vincent prompted, bending a little to minimize hisimposing height.

She swallowed. "I mean... would it be rude to... could I touchyou?"

Vincent allowed himself a small smile. It was a common requestfrom children. "Of course," he said graciously, and bent even lower,holding perfectly still as her fingers, delicate as a butterfly'swings, traced the contours of his face.

"Totally cool," she pronounced finally, stepping back. She eyedhim candidly. "Why haven't I met you before? Are you a secret?"

Vincent spread his hands, inviting her to see all there was tosee. "It is true I cannot be introduced to many people," he saidslowly, "but that is not why we have not met. I've been... away."

"Far away?" she asked, intrigued.

"I'm... not certain," he admitted. "It's an odd story."

"I like stories," she said and sank comfortably into one of thewrought iron chairs, waiting expectantly.

Vincent hesitated, but there was really no reason why he shouldnot try out his explanation on this charming, inquisitive child.Indeed, the practice might help later on, when he had to repeat thestory to Catherine.

"Earlier, you mentioned fairy tales," he began. "Have you readstories where someone visits a special place, and when they returnhome, they find that, while they've been gone only a week, a year haspassed in the outside world? Or no time at all?"

"Like in Narnia," she said promptly, referring to the series ofbooks by C.S. Lewis.

"Yes," Vincent agreed, remembering the tales. "Like in Narnia.What would you say if I told you I had visited such a place?"

"Really? Where?"

"It is a place, a beautiful place, near my home."

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with interest. "How longdid you stay there?"

"One night."

"And how long..." she broke off, her eyes widening. "All thistime? You've been gone ever since before I came to live here?"

He nodded. "In this world, it is six years since I went into thatplace."

"Wow." Her eager expression said clearly that the thought ofdoubting him never entered her mind. "What was it like?"

He began to describe the enchanted cavern, letting the image ofthat beautiful place flow back into his mind. For a while, caught upin the memory, the child's avid attention, and in finding the rightwords to build a picture in her mind, he actually forgot why he hadcome. "Then I came here," he finished.

"To see me?" she asked breathlessly, still lost in the magic.

The innocent question brought him back to reality with a solidthump. "No," he confessed, half-turning away. "To see yourmother."

"She doesn't know you're coming, does she?" Cassie askedastutely.

Vincent gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.

Cassie glanced at her watch. "She should be home soon."

"Good."

He could see her leaning forward, peering at him. "Are younervous?"

"Perhaps a little."

"I was like that," she said kindly. "When I came to thiscountry."

He turned back, meeting her gaze once more. "Tell me about thattime," he suggested. Hearing her story would help pass the time untilCatherine came home and besides, he was genuinely interested in thisengaging child. "You are from China?" He asked the question incareful Mandarin dialect.

Her expression brightened and she sat up straight in her chair."Yes," she said quickly in the same tongue. "You speak mylanguage!"

"A little bit," he said, still in Chinese. "I have a friend whowas born in Taiwan. She taught me your language long ago."

Cassie's grin widened. "I do not often have an opportunity tospeak Chinese," she said. "But I try not to forget. My mother says itis a good thing to have more than one language."

Vincent nodded gravely. "Yes. Your mother is right." He relaxed alittle, resting against the brick wall at his back as he struggledwith the effort of speaking and understanding the difficult cadencesof Mandarin Chinese. "How did you come to New York?"

"Female children are not always valued in China," she confided ina low voice. "Though there are laws against it, daughters are stillsometimes left to die, so that parents may try again to have a sonwho will care for them in their old age."

"Your parents abandoned you?" Vincent tried to conceal hishorror.

She shrugged. "I was fortunate. I was found, and taken to anorphanage."

It was an experience not unlike his own. He knelt beside the girl."What happened then?"

"Soon, it was discovered there was something wrong with my hip. Icould not walk except with crutches, but I was cared for, and when Iwas older, I learned to read and write."

"Using Chinese characters?" Vincent asked, intrigued. The lovelystyle of writing had always fascinated him, but he had never learnedto read the complex characters.

She nodded. "A little, and in English, too. Would you like me toshow you?"

"Perhaps later. What happened next?" he prompted.

"I grew older, and when I was seven years old, my mother came. Ofcourse, she was not my mother, then," she added hastily.

"How did she become your mother?" Vincent asked.

"People came sometimes to look at the children - American people,European people. Sometimes they would choose a child but I could notwalk without the crutches, so no one ever chose me. Until one day anAmerican lady came. My English was not so good then, so a man spokefor her. He asked if I would like to live in America and be anAmerican child. I tried to make him tell the American lady that I wasflawed, but he said that did not matter. This lady wanted to be mymother, whether I could walk or not." Cassie's eyes were shining withthe memory. They had been speaking in Chinese, but as Cassie reachedAmerica in her narrative, the rhythm and inflection of her speechchanged, and she continued in English. "She brought me here, and tookme for an operation to fix my hip so now I no longer need crutches towalk. She loves me and cares for me, no matter what. She tells me Ican do anything I want to do. I can be anything I want to be."

"You can." Following her lead, he answered in English. "You arevalued here. What do you think you might like to do?"

"I think, when I am grown, I may be a translator at the UnitedNations. Unless I decide to become an attorney - like my mother."

Vincent nodded gravely. "Both are fine ambitions," he agreed."MyChinese name is Su-Moy," she confided. "Would you like to see thewritten character?"

"Very much," Vincent answered, and she slid off her chair andhurried inside. She was back a moment later with a sheet of thickpaper, a bottle of ink, and a fine-point brush. He watched as sheuncapped the bottle, dipped the brush into the sooty ink, and beganto carefully draw the graceful Chinese characters, one above theother. It took her a long time.

"It means Snow Prune," she said when she finished. "It soundssilly in English."

"It sounds lovely," Vincent corrected, admiring her work. "Itsuits you."

"When I came here, my mother said I could keep my old name, orchoose an American one."

"And you chose to select a new one."

She nodded vigorously. "My Chinese name is fine, but it is not whoI am anymore. Now I am Cassie Chandler."

"That also is a lovely name." Vincent was captivated by thisbright and charming child and so engaged in their conversation that,for a few minutes, he had forgotten Catherine and the six years thatnow stood between them. He was actually startled when he heard thesound of a key turning in the front door. Cassie heard it, too, andthey froze together, watching through the glass door.

Catherine came in alone. She was dressed as Vincent had seen herin the past, in a long, lovely gown, her hair swept up in elegantstyle. She hadn't changed much - new lines around her eyes and mouth,a little gray in her hair. He realized, with a small start, that nowshe was actually older than he. For she had aged those six years,while he had not. It made no difference, though. To him, she wasalways and quite simply, perfect.

"Cassie?" she called, dropping her slim evening purse and lightwrap on a chair.

"I'm out here!" Cassie called back, rising to her feet.

Catherine crossed toward the balcony. "You should be in bed," shescolded lightly, pulling at her gloves. "It's a school night."

"There's someone here to see you," Cassie answered. "We weretalking."

A look of disquiet crossed Catherine's face; she dropped thegloves beside the remnants of Cassie's snack and moved quickly,protectively to the balcony door. Her reprimand was almost automatic."Cassie, I've asked you not to let people in when I'm not..." Shestopped, catching her breath sharply.

Vincent knew she had seen him, recognized him, and moved slowlyinto the light. "Hello, Catherine."

She looked dazed, immobile. She didn't answer.

Cassie glanced perceptively from one adult to the other. "It islate," she said quickly. "I will go to bed now." She paused besideCatherine and, after a brief, awkward hesitation, kissed her cheek."Goodnight, Mother."

Only then did Catherine take her eyes from Vincent's face. Hersmile looked forced. "Goodnight, Cassie. Sleep well." Already hergaze was being drawn back.

Cassie turned, facing Vincent, and repeated her earlier, dignifiedlittle bow. "Goodnight, friend of my mother," she said in formalMandarin.

Vincent looked away from Catherine long enough to reply in thesame language. "Goodnight, daughter of my friend. I hope we shallmeet again."

"Me, too," she said in English. She flashed a quick, thoroughlyAmerican grin, and went inside.

Catherine still stared at him, her expression frozen. He couldfind no trace of any emotion at all through their bond. "Is that whatyou've been doing for the past six years? Learning Chinese?" Hervoice was quite controlled, almost icy. It was almost as if she wasguarding herself with a hurt anger. He couldn't blame her if shewas.

"No," he answered, softly. "I learned Mandarin Chinese long ago,from Lin Wong."

"I see." She stepped onto the balcony, careful not to close thespace between them, and moved to the railing, looking out at thelights. "What did she say?"

He translated, watching her face.

"'Friend of my mother,'" she repeated bitterly. "Are we stillfriends, Vincent?"

"I hope so," he said cautiously. "I want to be."

"After six years. Without a word. Without a sign."

He understood there would be no easy explanation here, so hesimply stated the truth. "Catherine, for me, there were no sixyears."

She turned her head to stare at him, incredulous.

"For me, it was only two nights ago we stood together on yourbalcony, that other balcony, and read to one another. For me, it wasonly yesterday I travelled below the catacombs, seeking solitude. Ispent the night in a beautiful, magical chamber and this morning Iemerged to find six years had passed. Yet for me, it was only twelvehours. Only yesterday my father was well and strong; today he lies ina bed he cannot leave and speaks with difficulty because of a strokehe suffered three years ago. I woke this morning thinking aboutmeeting you tonight at our place beneath the park to hear theorchestra play. And yet, for you, that night was six years ago." Hespread his hands helplessly. "I ache to think how many hours you musthave waited for me, hearing the music to which we hoped todance."

Speaking of music made him aware, yet again, of the soundsdrifting on the night air - a party? he wondered distractedly. Themusic had changed again, sounding softer, sweeter, and a littlesad.

Catherine turned suddenly away; he could no longer see her face.Without their bond, he had no inkling of her feelings. When shefinally spoke, her voice was filled with bitterness. "Am I supposedto believe this, Vincent? Am I supposed to be so gullible that anystory, no matter how preposterous, will do to placate me?" She moved,turning far enough for him to distinguish the delicate lines of herprofile, but she still would not look at him.

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I never meant to hurt you."

Her stillness cut painfully; somehow, despite his nobleintentions, he hadn't, after all, been able to believe that the sixyears could be an impossible barrier. He hadn't believed she wouldturn her back on him. But she did. She had.

Stiffly, his heart aching, he moved away, toward the path thatwould take him away from her... forever. Her voice, a thready whisperacross the night, stopped him.

"I never believed you were dead," she said hoarsely. "Father triedto convince me, but I never believed it. I would have known." Hervoice trembled and broke and he knew she was weeping.

"Catherine, if you believe nothing else, believe that I nevermeant to hurt you."

She was crying harder, hugging herself as sobs shook herstill-slender frame. He longed to hold her close, offer her comfortand strength, but somehow he knew that right now, stepping closer wasthe worst thing he could do. It was hard to stand by and watch hertears. Harder still was the knowledge that he was the direct cause ofher pain.

"Catherine, forgive me," he whispered, more for himself than forher. He didn't really expect, now, for her to understand.

But, incredibly, she nodded. Her sobs were abating, punctuated bythe long, shuddering breaths she drew in a deliberate effort tosteady herself. "I do," she managed, after a while. "I have to."

He hesitated, afraid to believe. "Catherine, I know how incredibleit sounds..."

She shook her head, cutting him off. "It doesn't matter. I have tobelieve you. It's the only thing that makes any sense. You wouldnever have left me."

"No," he agreed.

He wondered what would happen now if he reached for her. Would shecome to him, rest her head just there, on his shoulder, as she alwayshad? Or would she, despite the words she'd just spoken, turn away?Knowing he couldn't bear it if she turned from him, knowing he had totry, he opened his arms.

She came to him swiftly, naturally, as if there had never been aseparation at all; as they touched, their connection, so silent sincethis morning, flowed back to life.

"I love you, Catherine," he whispered into her hair. He'd alwaysbeen hesitant to voice his love, fearful she would think the wordsbound her to him somehow when she deserved only freedom, but now itseemed crucial to assure her of his devotion.

Her arms tightened around him. "Oh, Vincent," she murmured, hervoice muffled by his cloak. "I missed you so much. I never stoppedthinking about you. I never stopped hoping." She pressed against him,hard. "Hold me tighter," she pleaded, her voice low. Her need flowedthrough him like a wild river and obediently he tightened his grip,holding her hard against him. She'd been through so much because ofhim, and still she had faith. Still she loved.

It humbled him.

The music had changed, and soft notes floated through the stillnight air. Suddenly, despite the difficulties that still lay ahead,all things seemed possible. Vincent bent his head. "I won't leave youagain, Catherine," he murmured, his voice low. "Not ever."

"You'll be here always?" she asked, a trifle wistfully.

He understood the question perfectly, and for the first time, hadno qualms about answering. "Always," he confirmed. He lifted hishead. "Listen," he whispered. Someone had turned up the volume andfor the first time, the music was perfectly clear.

"Strauss," Catherine said after a moment. "The Schatz Waltz, Ithink."

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Dance with me, Catherine."

THE END