Love is the most terrible, and also the most generous of thepassions; it is the only one that includes in its dreams thehappiness of someone else.

- J.A. Karr

Dates of Birth

Charles Vincent Chandler January 6, 1991

Jacob Winslow Chandler August 18, 1994

Evan Joseph Chandler October 11, 1996

Victoria Catherine Chandler September 16, 1997

Carey Allen Wells May 11, 1997

AT THE DARK'S EDGE

*August 1991*

"You look like hell, Radcliffe."

Catherine looked up slowly to find Joe Maxwell scowling at her andsmiled wanly. "Gee, thanks, Joe. You sure know how to brighten aperson's afternoon."

He ignored her attempt at their usual banter. "I mean it, Cathy.You look awful." Leaning across the desk, he put a hand to her cheek."You have a fever," he accused.

"It's just a cold, Joe," she said defensively. "I'm okay."

Joe didn't look skeptical; he looked flatly disbelieving. "I canhear your cough all the way from my office," he said bluntly, comingaround her desk and pulling her to her feet. "You shouldn't havetried to come back so soon. Come on, you're going home."

"Joe, I can't," she objected reflexively. As usual, there was moreto do than hands to do it and she was swamped with paperwork.

"Cathy, you're sick. Probably contagious as hell," Joe countered."The work will get done; it always does. I want you to go home and goto bed. Don't come in tomorrow. You hear me?" He found her purse andthrust it into her hands. "Go home," he repeated sternly.

"All right." Catherine capitulated. Her cold seemed to have takena sudden turn for the worse; she couldn't remember the last timeshe'd felt this bad. "Thank you, Joe."

Outside, the August heat was soothing, warming her as she wavedfor a cab and climbed in; the ride home seemed to take only minutes.Once inside the brownstone, she swallowed some aspirin and crawledinto bed.

*I must have a fever*, she thought, *or I wouldn't be so cold.*Shivering, she burrowed under the covers. Her head ached and herchest was starting to hurt.

*If I don't feel better tomorrow, I'll go to the doctor*, shepromised herself hazily, and fell asleep.

"Vincent, get the other end of that beam, will you?" Quinn asked.When there was no response, he turned. "Vincent? You okay?"

At the touch on his arm, Vincent shook himself free of histroubled thoughts and met the solicitous eyes of his friend. "Yes,Quinn, I'm fine," he answered.

"Sure? For a minute there, you were miles away."

Vincent forced a small smile. "Not that far," he said.

Quinn grinned. "Catherine?"

"Yes," Vincent acknowledged. He reached for the end of the stouttimber at his feet, lifting it over his head and holding it steadywhile Quinn propped upright supports at each end and used asledgehammer to drive them into place. When he finished, thecrossbeam was held fast between the fractured rock ceiling and theheavy uprights.

There were seven workers here - Kanin, Mouse, Matthew, Owen,Timothy, Quinn, and Vincent - all intent on their task; shoring upthis section of tunnel before it collapsed on someone's head.Sometimes the disturbances caused by construction in the city abovecreated fractures in the rock. When the fractures were many, and cametoo near one of the passages Below, a hazard was formed. If a passagewas remote and little used, it was simply sealed off, but thisparticular tunnel was a major path to the northern part of the city.Doing without it would cause undue hardship to those who travelledthis way, so, after much discussion and planning, not to mentionscrounging of materials, the walls and ceiling for a forty-footstretch were being heavily reinforced.

Vincent turned to the next beam and waited for Quinn to signal forit.

"Is she feeling better?" the other man asked over hisshoulder.

Vincent, lost in thought once more, only half heard the words. "Ibeg your pardon?"

"Catherine. Earlier in the week, you said she was sick. Is shebetter?"

Vincent rested one booted foot on the beam and sighed. "It'sdifficult to tell," he confessed. "I know she's been uncomfortable,but she insists it is only a cold, or perhaps the flu."

Quinn grinned. "You don't know how fortunate you are to have neverexperienced the common cold, Vincent," he said lightly. "She probablyaches, can't breathe properly and feels generally miserable."

Vincent managed a smile. "I'm sure that's it," he agreed."Only..."

"Only, what?"

"She insisted on going to work this morning, but I believe she'shome now, and she seems... confused," he said. "It troubles me."

"If she's home sleeping, it's probably the best thing for her,Vincent," Quinn told him. "We're going to run out of spikes in abouthalf-an-hour, and you can go see how she's doing."

"Yes," Vincent agreed, turning back to the work. In little morethan the predicted half-hour, Quinn drove the last of the giant nailsthat held the massive beams together.

"Getting close to quittin' time, anyway," Kanin grinned afterthey'd set their tools aside and started the long walk home. Filthyfrom the shower of fine rock dust that constantly rained down fromthe damaged ceiling, they headed straight for the bathingchambers.

Vincent hesitated, reaching out along the bond to Catherine. Hefound her sleeping, and decided to take time to wash before goinghome to her.

Catherine woke from feverishly vivid dreams, disoriented andchildishly wanting comfort. "Daddy?" she called weakly. She laystill, trying to organize her incoherent thoughts. "Vincent? I needyou." As she mumbled the words, a deep, harsh cough that tore at herlungs. When no one came, she pushed herself up on the pillows andlooked toward the windows. *Of course*, she thought in confusion.*It's still daylight. Vincent can't come now. Someone might seehim*.

Shakily, she got out of bed. Shivering from the fever and enduringan occasional weak cough, she dragged on pants, boots and a warmshirt and stumbled toward the door. She made her way downstairs onunsteady legs and found the tunnel entrance.

*I don't live in my apartment anymore*, she remembered fuzzily. *Imust have been dreaming*.

She peered down the empty passage. *He knows I'm sick*, shethought with sudden clarity. *He's coming*.

Coughing, she braced one hand against the tunnel wall for supportand started out to meet him.

A natural warm spring fed the stone pool where Vincent had beenbathing. Stepping out, he rubbed himself cursorily with a towel,pulling his clothes on before he was completely dry. Catherine wasawake now and he was sensing a fuzziness that troubled him. It wasn'ttheir bond; that was crystal clear and strong. The cloudinessoriginated in Catherine; in a way, it reminded him of thedisorientation she'd experienced during the final stages ofchildbirth.

Swinging his cloak over his shoulders, he strode along quickly. Asher thoughts cleared, he was left with only the newly familiarsensation of discomfort that he had learned to associate withillness.

He had nearly reached their home when he rounded a corner and cameupon her huddled form on the cold tunnel floor. Horrified, Vincentdropped beside her and touched her face. It was hot, and her cheekswere unnaturally flushed when she looked at him.

"I'm cold, Vincent. So cold." She shivered and he swept his cloakfrom his shoulders and wrapped it around her. When he tried to helpher to her feet, she stumbled, swaying against him.

"Wait," she mumbled, clutching at his shirt. "I just need to resta minute..."

Bending, Vincent lifted her in his arms. "You need a doctor," hesaid.

"Don't want one," she mumbled thickly. "Only you."

This had been a recurrent argument during the past few days, andVincent couldn't help a small smile. "You'll always have me,Catherine," he said, "but I'm not a doctor. You're ill."

She didn't answer, and, looking down, he saw that her eyes hadclosed. Cradling her close, he carried her back toward the hub. Hethought Catherine had fallen asleep in his arms, but after a fewminutes she roused enough to look at him.

"Vincent?" she murmured.

"Hush. I'm here." He shifted her weight in his arms, feeling theheat from her body even through the layers of fabric betweenthem.

She coughed, deep, tearing sounds that shook her slight frame;half-sobbing, she spoke his name again.

"I'm here," he said, sensing her need to be comforted. "You'regoing to be all right."

Taking her into his chamber, he disregarded her protests and laidher on the bed.

"I'm all right, Vincent," she argued, between coughs."Really."

"Catherine, we both know you are not well." His mild gazechallenged her rebellious one and after a moment, her eyesdropped.

"I've felt better," she admitted.

"Stay here while I get Father."

"Vincent, no..."

"Catherine, we will not discuss this any further." His tonebrooked no argument. "You've been ill for a week. This morning youclaimed to be better and now you are worse."

"All right," she murmured sullenly. "You win."

Vincent didn't want to win, he just wanted Catherine to be well,but he didn't stop to dispute the point, going instead to bringFather. Catherine was still cross when they came into thechamber.

"Well, Catherine," Father began, sitting on the bed beside her."Tell me how you're feeling."

"Lousy," she mumbled, shooting Vincent an aggrieved glance.

When he didn't react, she sighed and offered specifics. "I'm cold.I'm coughing. My head hurts and there's an elephant sitting on mychest."

Father's outward demeanor didn't change, but Vincent sensed astirring of concern as Catherine submitted grudgingly to Father'sexamination.

When he finished, Father sat back and sighed. Catherine huddledinto the folds of Vincent's cloak and glared. "What?"

"You have a temperature of a hundred and two," he informed herdispassionately. "I hear fluid in your lungs. Coupled with thesymptoms you've described, my diagnosis is pneumonia."

"Is it serious, Father?" Vincent asked, suppressing a swift surgeof alarm and forcing his voice to maintain its usual serenity.

Father looked at him mildly. "It can be," he said. "Pneumonia isnot a disease to be taken lightly. I'll take specimens and send themto Peter for some laboratory tests that will be more definitive;meanwhile, we'll start her on antibiotics."

He prepared an injection and Vincent helped Catherine roll ontoher side, steadying her as Father bared her hip and swabbed it withalcohol. Both winced when the needle went in and Catherine managed aweak laugh.

"That hurt you... as much as me?" she guessed in between coughs,and Vincent nodded sheepishly.

"Catherine, I want you to rest," Father instructed gruffly. "Sleepif you can, and drink plenty of liquids. Mary will bring you juice,or water. The children are waiting for me now, but I'll be back tocheck on you as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Father," she whispered. After he left, she turned herhead to Vincent. "Where's Charles?"

"In the nursery," he answered.

"I want to see him."

"Catherine, you're ill."

"I want my baby," she insisted. Her eyes were bright with feverand Vincent could only suppose it was the discomfort of her illnessthat made her so uncharacteristically petulant.

"I'll send for him," he said, and went out into the passage. Whenhe returned a moment later, she had crossed the room to his bureauand was hunched over it, clutching the top for support.

"Catherine?" He moved to her side swiftly and gathered her close."Father told you to rest," he reproached.

"Just wanted a nightgown," she said hoarsely, pointing to thedrawer where she kept a few things.

"I'll get it for you," he said. She let him help her back to thebed and even permitted him to help her change into the long, warmgown he brought from the drawer.

"Where's Charles?" she demanded after he tucked her under theblankets.

"Someone is bringing him," Vincent soothed, and a moment laterBrooke came in carrying the baby, and put him into Catherine'soutstretched arms.

Now seven months old and newly mobile, Charles wasn't happy forlong; soon he began to squirm. After only a few moments of contendingwith his energy, Catherine's strength was drained, and she gesturedfor Vincent to take him. He handed the child back to Brooke, whocarried him out.

Sinking back onto the pillows, Catherine stifled a cough andblinked back weak tears. "What kind of mother am I?" she whispered."Can't even take care of my baby."

"Catherine, you're ill," Vincent reminded her yet again. "Yourstrength has limits." He sat on the bed beside her. "Brooke will takeCharles to Olivia. She will take care of him, while I take care ofyou." He kissed her cheek. "You're a wonderful mother."

"Yeah." Suddenly all the spirit went out of her. "So tired," shemurmured.

"Yes," Vincent agreed tenderly. "Sleep now."

He tended her through the night. A cot was brought in and placedbeside the bed; Vincent stretched out on it from time to time, butdidn't sleep.

Catherine's rest was uneasy, broken by fever. Vincent wastireless, offering orange juice and holding the cup while she sipped,supporting her during spells of coughing, and even helping her to thebathroom when her unsteady legs refused to carry her.

"This is humiliating," she muttered the second time he thusescorted her. "If only I weren't so dizzy."

"Catherine, I don't mind helping you." He tried to appease her andwas rewarded with a scowl.

"I mind," she insisted. "I don't want to be like this."

She stopped in the passage, squinting at him in the flickeringlight of a nearby torch.

"What is it?" he asked, perplexed.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. Another spasm of coughingtook her, and Vincent picked her up and carried her the few stepsback to the chamber.

By morning, even Vincent's untrained eye could see thatCatherine's condition had worsened. Father had been in several timesduring the night to check on her, and he made another appearance asthe tunnels began to stir with the morning. Peter came in onlymoments later and Father and Vincent turned expectant faces towardhim.

"How is she?" were Peter's first words, and Vincent allowed Fatherto answer.

"Not well," was the older man's terse reply. "Peter, what did thelab say?"

"That the primary infection is viral. There is a secondarybacterial infection. The oxygen level in the blood you drew lastnight was adequate, but I'd like to take another sample thismorning."

"Of course," Father concurred.

"Peter, if Catherine's illness is caused by a virus, that meansthe antibiotics Father's been giving her won't help," Vincent said,half hoping to be refuted, but knowing too much to expect it.

"That's right," Peter said. "The antibiotics will take care of thesecondary infection, though." He shook his head. "Viral pneumonia isunusual in healthy young people, but I suppose she's been wearingherself out with her usual twelve hour days since she's gone back towork."

Peter came closer and put his hand on Vincent's shoulder. "We'regoing to take good care of her, Vincent," he said. "All of us. Don'tworry."

Vincent managed a small, ironic smile. "I can't help but worry,"he said softly. "She is everything."

"We know that, Vincent," Father answered gently. "Now stand backand let Peter have a look."

Catherine's fever was up this morning, and without the comfort ofVincent's touch, she began to struggle weakly, fighting Peter'sattempts to examine her. "No. Leave me alone," she mumbled.

Peter restrained her hands and spoke her name sternly. When hereyes met his with glazed defiance instead of recognition, he sighed."Vincent, see if you can quiet her, please," he said, releasingher.

Vincent knelt beside the bed, cupping Catherine's flushed face inhis hand and speaking her name quietly. She relaxed at once, turningher head and pressing her cheek into his palm. "Vincent?" she askedplaintively, her face troubled.

"It's all right," he soothed. "Peter's here." He glanced at theirfriend, who had taken the opportunity to begin his examination.

Catherine's eyes drifted closed and Vincent stroked her foreheadas Peter bent over the bed with his stethoscope, intent on the soundof her laborious breathing. Finally he straightened, pulling theinstrument down around his neck and frowning.

"Father? Peter?"

Both men turned to meet Vincent's anxious eyes.

"Yes, Vincent?" Father asked kindly.

The question seemed to be difficult for Vincent to voice, and theyhad to strain to hear it. "Should she be taken Above?"

"No!" Catherine's swift cry was weak but determined and she openedher eyes, fixing Vincent with a completely coherent, ferociousglare.

Father smiled faintly. "I believe it would be difficult, if notimpossible, to take her there," he replied. He had learned long agothat Catherine was not easily dissuaded.

Vincent had learned that, too, and attempted a small smile of hisown. "Catherine, perhaps..." he began, but she cut him off with analmost imperceptible shake of her head.

"No," she insisted. "I want to be with you."

Vincent wanted that, too, but he also wanted Catherine to have thebest possible care. He looked at Father helplessly.

Father did what he could to offer reassurance. "Peter will bringthe drugs we need, and truthfully, it's the fever that concerns memore right now. If we can bring that down and monitor her condition,I see no reason why she can't remain right here."

Vincent looked at Peter, who nodded his agreement, and then atCatherine, who seemed to have drifted back into troubled sleep. "Allright," he whispered.

Father placed a hand on his son's shoulder and turned to Mary, whohad just come in. "We need to bring her temperature down, Mary."

"I'll see to it, Father," Mary assured him.

Father left the chamber and Vincent bent over Catherine, bringingher hand to his mouth. She opened her eyes at the feel of his lips onher fingers, looked at him, and frowned.

"Catherine?"

"Your face," she muttered, sounding troubled.

Vincent straightened a little in surprise. "My face?" he repeateddumbly.

She looked away from him, closing her eyes. "It's wrong," sheanswered dully.

Speechless, he could only stare at her. Mary, coming from behind,leaned over his shoulder.

"What's wrong with Vincent's face, Catherine?" she askedsoothingly.

Catherine opened her eyes again. "It's wrong," she repeated,sounding like an unhappy child.

"Why?" Mary persisted. "What makes it wrong?"

"It's not right," Catherine insisted. Her voice, weak though itwas, was becoming shrill. "It's... smooth." Evidently satisfied thatshe had clarified the problem at last, Catherine sank into herpillows and turned her face away. "Don't like it."

Unexpectedly, Mary laughed. "That's the fever changing the way yousee things," she explained. "The distortion will go away when thefever does."

Blinking, Catherine turned back, fighting to keep her eyes open asshe examined first Vincent, then Mary. "Good," she said finally,subsiding.

As Catherine relaxed into sleep, Mary continued to carry outFather's instructions. She set a basin of water by the bed andreached to turn back the blankets.

Vincent stopped her. "Thank you, Mary," he said gently, "but Iwill do what must be done. Tell me how."

Mary hesitated only a second before yielding to the unspoken pleain his eyes. "Of course, Vincent. I was just going to sponge her offto lower her temperature."

Vincent nodded in silent understanding and, murmuring somethingabout helping Father, Mary excused herself and went out.

With loving hands, Vincent pulled the blankets away and began toremove Catherine's nightgown. When the cool air of the chambertouched her fevered skin she shivered and tried to push his handsaway. "Don't," she mumbled. "Cold."

"Catherine, it's the fever that makes you feel cold," he explainedgently.

She managed a nebulous smile. "Take care of me?" she whisperedhoarsely.

"Yes. You know I will." Removing the last of her clothing, hereached for the cloth Mary had brought and dipped it into the coolwater in the basin. Catherine shivered when he began to bathe herface and reached up to stop him.

"Catherine, you must let me," he said, restraining her hands."You're burning with fever."

*You're burning up*. Dimly, he heard the echo of his words in hervoice and remembered her, bent over him as he lay ill on the floor ofher apartment. He had nearly died then; Catherine had pulled him backfrom the darkness by sheer strength of will.

To see her now, helpless in the grip of something he couldn'tbattle, was as devastating as it was difficult to comprehend. Onlyyesterday she had been unwell but still capable of arguing with himabout whether to return to work. He had conceded, mostly because sheseemed so certain that her illness was minor and he dislikedquarreling. Now he wished he had been more insistent, but even if hehad, would it have made a difference?

She whimpered softly as he brought the moist cloth down betweenher breasts. He could feel the heat radiating from her feverish body;she looked delicate and entirely too fragile beneath his hands.

When he finished sponging her, she felt cooler to his touch and heslipped a fresh nightgown over her head, cradling her against hischest. She roused enough to slip her arms through the sleeves andattempt a smile.

"...love you..." she whispered, and broke off to coughpainfully.

He supported her while she tried to clear her lungs and loweredher gently to the pillows when she finally relaxed. "I know you do,"he answered, stroking back her hair.

Soon Father reappeared. Catherine seemed more lucid with her feverlowered by the sponge bath, submitting to his brief examinationwithout a struggle.

"How do you feel, Catherine?"

"Hurts to breathe," she whispered.

Father pressed the hand he held. "I know," he said. "But yourfever's down a degree and a half. That's encouraging."

"Aspirin," she murmured. "And Vincent bathed me."

He smiled. "I'm sure that helped," he agreed and leaned forward tokiss her cheek.

As the day wore on, Catherine's condition continued todeteriorate. She slept much of the time; when her eyes did open, theyseemed hazy and unfocused. Several times, Vincent looked up to findher staring at him, frowning; he wondered what distortions the feverwas producing now, and wished fervently that he could take it allaway.

"How is she, Vincent?" Father's voice was hushed in the quiet ofearly evening. Everyone else was at dinner, but Father felt the needto look in on his patient.

"She's feverish and restless. I think she may be delirious,"Vincent said anxiously. "She's shivering, and her lips are blue."

"Blue?" Father moved closer and lifted a candle for a better look."So they are," he agreed, and stepped with alacrity into the passage,where Vincent could hear him tapping out a message for Mary.

"What is it, Father?" he asked when his parent re-entered thechamber.

"Her lips aren't blue because she's cold, Vincent. It's becauseshe's becoming cyanotic. Not enough oxygen in the blood."

Mary bustled in and Father turned. "We're going to have to put heron oxygen, Mary," he said crisply.

"Yes, Father." From a corner of the chamber, she produced abattered green oxygen tank and set it up beside the bed with quick,competent motions.

People had been in and out of his chamber both last night andtoday, but Vincent had been so preoccupied that he hadn't noticedwhen the tank was brought in. As Mary and Father fussed overCatherine, he wondered what other medical equipment might lurk inthat darkened corner. There was no room for him at Catherine's sideright now, so he took two steps away for a better look. Somethingelse, small and square, was there.

"A respirator," Father explained quietly, seeing his look. "Petersent it down in case we need it. Mouse has set up a generator out inthe passage, and it will run on car batteries, if necessary."

Vincent knew what a respirator was. He had seen Catherine's fatherhooked to one, and knew how it worked. The thought of his Catherinewith a tube in her throat while a machine pumped air in and out ofher lungs was horrifying.

Father was quick to reassure him. "A last resort, Vincent," hesaid. "Peter and I thought it best to be prepared, that's all."

"Yes," Vincent agreed, heavily. "Of course."

"I'll want to start an I.V., too, Mary," Father said, switchingsmoothly from parent to doctor. "We don't want her becomingdehydrated."

"Yes, Father."

At last they finished and Vincent could once again take his placeat Catherine's bedside. The oxygen tube in her nose and the I.V.needle in her arm made her seem fragile and he bent forward to touchher cheek.

Behind him, Father and Mary held a whispered consultation, andafter a moment, Father left the chamber and Mary sat down quietly,trying to be unobtrusive. From then on, Vincent was not left alonewith Catherine; either Father, Peter or Mary remained in the room,constantly monitoring Catherine's condition.

Thus began a long, dark vigil. Catherine's fever rose even moreover the next hours and her breathing was labored as she struggledfor air. The oxygen had helped at first, but gradually the bluishtinge crept back to her lips. Cool water sponge baths were no longereffective against the fever, and Mouse and Jamie were dispatched tothe surface to find ice.

"Lots of ice," Peter said. "We'll pack her in it..."

"Father," Vincent said quietly, as his parent completed yetanother in an interminable series of physical examinations.

"Yes, Vincent?" Father's weariness showed on his face as he rubbedhis forehead. "What is it?"

Vincent did not look up; his voice was unnaturally steady. "IsCatherine going to die?"

Father hesitated, and his reluctance sounded a knell in Vincent'sears.

Vincent's head bent even lower over the small, fevered hand hecradled between his larger ones. "It's all right, Father," hewhispered, trying even now to lighten the burdens of others. "Youdon't have to answer."

Drawing up a chair, Father sat heavily and regarded his son withsorrow. "I don't know the answer to that, Vincent," he answered atlast. "Catherine is very ill; I know you can see that. But there arefactors in her favor. You must know that, too. She is young andstrong, and she has always had a tenacious will to live. She has somuch to live for, Vincent!" Reaching out, he tried to give Vincenthope and strength, but his own faith faltered, and he couldn't becertain of his success.

Vincent's vigil continued as he sat silently at Catherine's side,refusing now to get up even to stretch. Toward dawn, Mary approachedhim and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you lie downfor a bit, Vincent?" she suggested timidly. "You're exhausted. I cansit with her... I'll call you if anything happens."

"No, thank you, Mary," Vincent said slowly. His voice was heavy,laced with pain. "I want to be with her when... if..." He left therest of the sentence unspoken.

"All right, Vincent," she said quietly. "I'm here, if you changeyour mind."

Vincent didn't answer, and Mary moved back to her rocking chair.Father and Peter, standing together on the far side of the chamber,overheard the exchange.

"She's dying, Peter," Father said hoarsely.

"Don't give up yet, Jacob," Peter counseled quietly. "Cathyhasn't."

Father looked toward the small figure in the bed and the largerone bowed over her. "Are we right to keep her here? Our resources areso limited... perhaps she would receive better care in ahospital..."

"Jacob, I'm at the hospital almost every day. I see the care giventhere, and believe me, they can't do anything up there that we can'tdo for her here."

"But the technology..." Father said, doubting.

"Is limited to intravenous fluids, oxygen, a respirator if shestops breathing. We have those things here, Jacob. We have theantibiotics for the secondary infection. The only thing we don't haveis easy access to a lab to monitor her blood gases." Taking Father'sarm, he turned him toward the bed. "Look at them. You can't tell meshe doesn't know he's there. Modern medical knowledge and technologyhave reached their limits. We aren't keeping her alive, Jacob. He is.And only a fool would take that lifeline away from her."

Father exhaled slowly. "I wish I could be certain you are right,Peter." His voice was fraught with a terrible, desperateexhaustion.

"So do I," Peter answered softly. "So do I."

As the world Above woke to a new day, so the people of Vincent'sworld began to stir. Word of Catherine's condition passed quickly byword-of-mouth and pipes. By common, unspoken agreement, no one usedthe passage outside Vincent's chamber, and Pascal tried to route pipemessages along other paths, so Vincent's chamber was unusuallyquiet.

Peter had other patients, other lives needing him, and excusedhimself quietly after extracting Father's promise to let him know themoment there was a change. Father and Mary stayed in the chamber.Time passed, and Catherine remained precariously balanced on the thinline separating life and death.

In the D.A.'s office, Joe Maxwell listened to only the beginningof the recorded message on the other end before slamming his phonedown in frustration. After a moment's thought, he picked it up again,dialing a different number this time. "Jenny Aronson, please. No, Ican't leave a message. This is Joe Maxwell at the District Attorney'soffice. Tell her this is an emergency."

He heard clicks as his call was transferred and Jenny came on theline, sounding worried. "Joe? What's wrong?"

"Jenny, listen, I'm sorry if I dragged you away fromsomething..."

"No, it's okay, Joe. Did something happen to Cathy?"

He twisted the phone cord, wondering if he might have overreacted."I don't know," he confessed. "I'm worried."

"I dreamed about her last night," Jenny said. "I should have knownsomething was wrong. Is she there?"

"No, that's why I'm worried. She was running a fever, so I senther home two days ago. I didn't expect her in yesterday, but shedidn't call, and didn't call again today... I've tried to call hersix times this morning and all I get is her machine."

Jenny hesitated. "Joe, listen, I might know where she is. Let mecheck it out and I'll call you, okay?"

Joe didn't like it, but guessed it would have to do. "Okay. Don'tforget."

"I won't," she promised. "Give me a couple of hours."

It was almost exactly two hours later when Joe snatched up thephone and heard Jenny's voice on the other end. "Did you find her?"he demanded.

She was slow in answering. "Yes."

Relief flooded through him. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

Again the answer was slow in coming. "No, she's not okay," Jennysaid finally. "I talked to her doctor. She has pneumonia, Joe."

"What hospital is she in?" Joe asked, panicked. "Can I seeher?"

"No hospital," Jenny answered. "Charles's father is with her...she's with his family."

"Why isn't she in a hospital?"

"It's okay, Joe," Jenny tried to reassure him. "She's getting thebest possible care, round the clock nursing, everything. She's onoxygen and an I.V., and they have a respirator just in case..."

"Oh, God." Joe sank into his chair and resisted the urge to buryhis face in his arms and cry. "Call me, Jenny, will you? Whateverhappens?"

"Whatever happens, Joe," she confirmed. "And Joe?"

"Yeah, Jenny?"

"Say a prayer for her."

Below, in Vincent's chamber, the unnatural hush of the sickroomwas broken only by the constant murmur that came from Catherine'sbedside.

Denying her own exhaustion, Mary watched from across the chamber."It's so unfair," she whispered to Father as he came up behind her."All his life, Vincent has believed that there were things he didn'tdeserve, things he didn't dare to reach for... and now, when dreamshave finally come true for him...." She couldn't bring herself tocomplete the thought.

"To have it end so soon after it begins," Father agreed, softly."How can a merciful God give him so much joy, only to snatch it soquickly away?"

"Perhaps He won't," Mary said after a moment. "She's stillfighting, Father, and Vincent's still fighting with her."

Vincent had become oblivious to their presence in the room; allhis energy was focused on Catherine. "I love you," he whispered forher ears only. "You are my heart, and my joy. You bring such peace tomy existence, Catherine. The gifts you have given are endless. I loveyou."

She lay still and pale against the pillows, her rapid breathingharsh and labored. He had been speaking for hours, telling her, overand over, of his love and gratitude for all that had passed betweenthem, but their bond was growing thinner and he no longer knew if sheheard him. Still he continued, offering his words as a litany againstdespair.

Hazily, Catherine struggled up from the warm cocoon of blackvelvet that held her. It was hard to breathe and she struggledinstinctively to draw in more air. Something was across her face, butshe lacked the strength to raise a hand and push it away. Somewhere,distantly, she could hear the steady, comforting sound of someonespeaking, but making sense of the words was too much effort.Exhausted, she slipped back into the blackness.

The next time she surfaced, the lifeline of softly murmured wordsthat had anchored her for so long had stopped. Slowly she was able toforce her eyes open. They wouldn't focus properly, but she could seesomething above her, glowing with a soft, golden light.

*Vincent's window*, she thought vaguely. With an effort, sheturned her head a few inches and squinted, forcing her blurred visionto clear. Vincent was beside her, eyes closed as he half-dozed inexhaustion. *He looks so tired*, she thought. *Sad*. She tried to sayhis name and succeeded only in mouthing the first syllable before hermeager strength failed.

His eyes snapped open, instantly alert. "Catherine?"

She wanted to touch him, to give him comfort, but had to settlefor a fragile smile.

He spoke her name again and raised her hand, cradled between his,to his lips, kissing it tenderly. "Father," he called over hisshoulder, without taking his eyes from hers. "Come quickly!"

Responding to Vincent's urgency, Father was there in a matter ofseconds, in time to see Catherine's eyes close wearily. "What is it,Vincent?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"She knew me, Father," Vincent said, his hushed voice a blend offear and hope. "She smiled at me."

Father performed a swift examination; when he straightened, he wassmiling. "Her fever's down, her lungs seem clearer, and she'sbreathing easier," he said. "I'll want some blood samples to send upwith Peter, of course..."

The rest of what he said was lost. Relief and a directionless,immeasurable gratitude swept Vincent and he turned instinctively toMary, standing beside his chair. Her arms went around his head,cradling it, while he buried his face against her skirt andcried.

When Catherine forced her eyes open again, Vincent was gone. Thistime she was able to turn her head, and she tried to lift herself tolook for him.

"Don't, Catherine." Suddenly Mary was there, smiling gently. "Youmust save your strength," she said.

"Vincent?" Catherine's whisper was barely audible.

Mary pressed a silencing finger to her lips and gestured. "He'shere," she said softly. "He nursed you for two days, Catherine. Hewouldn't rest until he knew you were better."

Mary helped Catherine roll onto her side so she could see Vincentstretched out on a cot beside her, fast asleep.

"He looks so tired," Catherine whispered, wishing he was closeenough to touch.

Mary took Catherine's hand in hers. "You've been very ill," sheexplained. "For a time, Father and Peter weren't certain we weren'tgoing to lose you." She glanced toward Vincent. "He had bracedhimself for your death, Catherine."

"No!" Catherine could only imagine the despair he must havefelt.

"It's all right," Mary soothed. "You're going to be all right,Father says."

Their hushed voices must have penetrated Vincent's exhaustedsleep, for he went from sound sleep to full alertness in the space ofa heartbeat, rolling swiftly off the cot and coming to kneel byCatherine's bedside. Mary took one look at his face and made astrategic retreat.

"Catherine. You're awake." His eyes devoured her. She was pale,her face drawn from illness, but her eyes were clear and focused andher voice steady.

"Vincent, I'm sorry."

"For what?" His bewilderment showed clearly.

"For frightening you. Mary told me..."

"No, Catherine, please. You were ill, that's all." He bent hishead, raising her hand and stroking the back of her fingers with thesilky roughness of his cheek.

Catherine watched him, liking the sensation, but after a momentshe frowned. "Vincent, your face..."

He stopped. "What?" Anxiously, he touched her forehead."Catherine, your fever..."

"No." She shook her head. "It's gone, I think. Mostly, anyway."She brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"Is my face still... wrong?" Vincent asked gently. "Do youremember saying that? I couldn't understand what you meant."

"I don't remember saying it," she answered, watching her ownfingers drift down his cheek and linger on his chin. "I remember howit looked, though. It was flat - two-dimensional - and had notexture. It looked so smooth... not like you at all. It scaredme."

He captured her hand, pressing her palm against his lips. "Is itall right now?"

She nodded slowly. "You look like my Vincent again," shewhispered. "I love you."

Whatever answer he meant to make was lost in her sudden spasm ofcoughing. Vincent held her shoulders, supporting her, and when thecoughing eased, Mary was there.

"That's enough," she scolded gently. "Vincent, if you don't lether rest, she'll have a relapse."

It was the most effective warning she could make, and Vincentobediently moved back, but stopped when Catherine clutched his handconvulsively. "Don't leave me."

"Catherine, please. Mary's right. You must rest," Vincent arguedgently.

"Stay with me," Catherine pleaded, still gripping his hand. "I'llsleep if you'll stay with me. Please."

Vincent gave Mary a helpless look, and she threw up her hands insurrender. "Go ahead," she said. "You'll both sleep better, anyway.Just be careful of the IV." Tactfully, she left the chamber, andVincent helped Catherine slide over, making room for himself in thewide bed. The IV that still dripped vital fluids into Catherine's armwas on the other side, and he was careful to drape the line so itwouldn't snag before easing himself onto the bed.

Catherine, thin and frail from her illness, snuggled into hisarms, closed her eyes and slept.

The quick brief cry of memory, that knows

At the dark's edge how great the darkness is.

- Conrad Aiken