Kaleidoscope II - Final Chapter

KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

PART 25
The room was awash with late morning sunshine when she awoke, and she lay in its mellow warmth feeling more deeply rested than any time in recent memory. No dreams had come to disturb her sleeping. What use were dreams when reality surpassed them, promising more than her capricious imagination could design?
For once she felt no compulsion to leap from the bed and find the countless odds and ends that could use attention even on the freest of her days. The need to be up and doing, to be pushing forward that had been a lifelong habit, was curiously absent, and it felt like a burden lifted. How much of that constant activity had really been productive and how much merely a way to give the illusion of purpose, to cover up the emptiness, the doubts, a running away from the questions she was too frightened to answer, even to ask? Like the fashion trends she had hurried to embrace, it seemed that much of her life had been concerned with finding easy substitutes for real values, real goals, as though too close a self-examination would find a person incapable of grasping either.
The clarity of purpose that prevailed in her now brought a sense of freedom, as if in embracing it, she had been relieved of the obligation to make it happen, as if in believing totally, she had passed some secret challenge, and a power beyond herself, something benevolent and mysterious and omnipotent had taken over the responsibility of putting it into effect.
Whatever the choices they made now, she felt confident that faith would bear them forward on a sweet billowing wave, rippling with light, headed irrevocably for some exotic and sun drenched shore. It was a matter of trust, she thought, remembering the curious lyrics that had drifted down to them in the Whispering Gallery. But whose? Her trust that he could never hurt her, that her happiness -- her life --lay with him. or his trust in allowing her that first touch of intimacy, so innocent, and yet so fraught with terrors for him?
The thought of touching him shocked her anew -- the feel of his warmth, that electrifying power, the unutterable softness, undreamed of and yet familiar to the fingers that seemed to hold the memory of each texture, each powerfully defined muscle, even before they had reached eagerly to explore them for the first time.
She had been too delirious with the experience last night to look at it objectively, but an attempt to do so now confirmed what she had long suspected. His lifelong modesty, his determination to spare others from as many of his differences as possible were likely far more responsible for his insecurity than the differences themselves. Trying to set aside her own prejudices, which had found him uniquely exquisite, she could truly envision nothing that would shock or offend. Granted, her exploration had been limited, but the care he took always to keep as much of himself as he could amply concealed, the fear she had sensed in him at the token exposure of his chest gave credence to her theory.
What had caused that shame to become so deeply ingrained? It might have been something as common as teasing by those cruelest of beings -- other children. She could see their thoughtless remarks finding a vulnerable target in the open-hearted little boy, too wise not to notice his own solitary status, too gentle to find fault with their judgment.
Or was this Father's doing, she wondered, with a flash of anger? In his zeal to protect the son he loved, had his words of caution been taken to heart by that trusting little child, becoming a stigma he'd accepted all his life? She sighed. If so, it was probably meant with the best of intentions. Even Father wasn't perfect, and it wouldn't do any good to blame him now for falling to see that his son was. Hadn't her own father erred in that same regard? Poor, daddy, doting on her, unconsciously saddling her with a label of perfection that had condemned her to unsuspected terrors about falling short. Parenting must be the most daunting Job imaginable, and. she smiled to herself, one she would dearly love to take on. Now what had brought that subject to mind? It was one she had resolved not to dwell on until its time had come. Oh, yes: the feel of that incredible body so warm beneath her hands.
It was hard to believe it had even happened, that it wasn't Just part of one of her insistent fantasies or the dreams that beguiled her with images her conscious mind was afraid to indulge. Was it like that for him too? Was he somewhere below still trying to convince himself that he had let her so close and that he had sensed only a blissful approval in her response?
Her sense of him this morning was deep and sure and titillating. Even the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains seemed to shimmer with it. She felt at once languid and curiously energized, as if the currents stirring around her were carrying her along effortlessly. With a smile she left the bed and showered, taking her first cup of coffee out onto the terrace.
The weather was still warm. A faint breeze, not yet tinged with autumn, teased at her hair and set the leaves fluttering in the park far below. They were still green and lush, thanks to the heavy rains, and the world seemed to be caught in an aura of spring despite the calendar. Tilting her face, she let the sun caress her, its warmth all the sweeter for knowing that -- however cherished the sensation --she could let it go, willingly and eagerly. There was no sacrifice.
Turning her attention once again to the park, she smiled. Since she was a little girl. playing in its cool shade, it had always seemed to her the heart of this city -- the gentle domain of nature that answered only to the seasons in a place where everything else was frantic and uncertain. How true that was. Her own heart beat quietly beneath its tranquil greenery, beckoning. The Emerald City, she thought whimsically as she sipped her coffee, the goal of her own fantastic journey, and the gateway to discovering -- deep within -- that she'd always known the secret way home.
It wasn't until she carried her cup back to the kitchen that she spotted the envelope shoved under the front door. This time she recognized the writing, and she poured herself another cup of coffee, curling up on the couch before she dared to open the letter.
Dear Catherine,
I left notes for the others, but in a way I feel like I owe you more of an explanation than anyone, and I think-- I hope -- that you're the one who will most understand.. First of all, please don't be too hard on Mouse. It was his idea to get you guys stuck somewhere together -- to talk, he said, and he was excited about testing his door "Vincent-proof," he called it. But the rest of it -- the not too subtle part -- I did that myself. That gown was from my hope chest pre-Winkenbruger, of course -- and I want you to have it, whatever happened or didn't happen last night.
For a long time I was really confused about just what you and Vincent meant to each other. Everybody talked about you as if you were connected in some way, but whenever we were all together, there was such formality between you. It seemed to me your friendship must be limited. He obviously wasn't happy, and I wanted him to be. The more time we spent together the more I wanted that, and, in case you haven't already guessed, the more I wanted to be the one to give it to him. I honestly don't understand, Catherine, how anyone could not be in love with him. I couldn't manage it. Not that he gave me any encouragement. I don't think he even noticed. It was getting harder and harder for me to hide it, but he still treated me like a friend
I just don't think he recognizes those feelings aimed at himself, and I began to have some pretty wild ideas about how to get through to him, but when I came to your apartment, I saw the inscription he'd written in your book and I knew it was hopeless. He's so strong, Catherine, so focused-- well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, but if he was in love, I knew nothing would change that. And when you said he was more than human to you, it was hard to keep assuming that you weren't attracted to him in any romantic way. I kind of had to force myself to look at things in a different perspective, and I realized the tension I felt between you was probably the opposite of what I'd figured, or maybe hoped
I didn't understand why that should be, or why you two weren't together. I still don't, but I thought maybe with the right kind of push, all that could be solved. I hope it worked. Before you go thinking that I'm some goody-goody who would just be content to watch the two of you find happiness together, I've got to tell you, you're wrong. I wish I could be that way, but at least for now I can't. I've got it bad, and it wouldn't do the two of you any good to have me hanging around. It wouldn't do me any good either. You're what he needs, and I hope to heaven you'll see that. I mean it when I say I want you two to be together. I just don't have the guts to watch it happen, so I've decided to exercise my option and return topside. I think I've helped some with the problems down there, and I'll always be available if something comes up. You've got a terrific resource there in Mouse's convoluted little brain. If he attempts anything too weird, just have him contact me, and I'll try and give him some practical pointers.
Please don't feel like anything you've done has forced me to return above. It's my choice, and who knows, after a while, I might be able to come back-- if I can get myself to accept emotionally what I already have in my mind, and if Father doesn't have conniptions over my lack of commitment. Go for it, Catherine.
Love,
Gillian
PS. I don't want to cause any more trouble than I already have, but I can't help asking -- have you ever noticed the way that girl Lena looks at him?
Catherine folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. The guilt was unavoidable. Gillian had wanted for years to return to the tunnels. She was an asset there. Everyone liked her. She liked her. But if there was blame to be attributed here, it had to go to that fate that itself made difficult choices, blessing certain people with its rarest treasures, leaving others who longed for them to find another road to fulfillment. She hoped fervently that some wonderful destiny, not yet apparent, awaited Gillian. She deserved it, but she understood perfectly the choice the woman had made. If the situation was reversed, would she be able to stand by and smile, watching Vincent with someone else? Not hardly, she thought. The image of St. Catherine seemed forever destined to remain a myth.
The temptation to call her father's law partner was great, to set the wheels In motion that would separate her from her obligations above. The money -- so much money. Most of it languished in investments, just sitting there drawing more money into itself. There were things it could do, people it could help in ways she never could at her job. With the correct management it could continue to do that for a very long time to come, but she resisted the urge to get that machinery under way and the explanations that would be required. Once she made her intentions known, she knew there would be considerable pressure from friends and advisors alike to reconsider, to explain more fully just what in the world it was that she thought she was doing. She could handle that when the time came, she knew, but there was nothing to be gained by tipping her hand so soon.
They had found the courage required for this journey, but she mustn't forget the care. It would serve no purpose to rush headlong into the act of severing her ties above, only to find that the far more delicate issue of allowing their relationship to progress hadn't been resolved. The timing in that regard was up to Vincent. It depended totally on his trust in her and in himself and on the changing of the concepts he'd had about himself for so long.
She went about her chores, not really knowing when she'd see him again, not really needing to know. Everything would come when it was meant to come. She believed that now, with a conviction that was more than intellectual, that came from some other sense, finely tuned. One truth is clear, whatever is, is right. Perhaps that one line was the memory she should keep of Martin Pruitt and his sad saga.
Several times during the day, she was drawn to the balcony and the magical, green mirage that was the park. She would stand looking down on it, smiling, like a traveler in a foreign land turning to snapshots of home.
In the late afternoon there was a reception to be given by the mayor. The Attorney General was in town and officials from the U.S. Attorney's office would be there. It was an affair that Joe had been slated to attend, and she'd offered to step in. Actually, she dreaded it far less than she had her evening with Byron Stark. It had little to do with her. She could think of nothing that made her feel uncomfortably tied to this world any longer.
The day was still warm, and she chose a plain -- what the fashion magazines would have called "understated" -- slip of a dress. It was light blue, a bit low-cut, but so simple that the effect was demure. Simplicity. That was the quality she sensed suddenly in her life that hadn't been there before. A simplicity of purpose, a reminder that all the most important questions in life seemed to have the simplest of answers. Whatever adjustments and problems still needed to be faced, the goal had been glimpsed. It existed -- and the means to get to it. Perhaps if they kept their eyes on that, there would be less of a tendency to stumble on whatever obstacles still might litter the path.
She called a taxi and relaxed in the back seat, oblivious to the stops and starts of traffic, the woeful monologue of the driver. The dress she was wearing very closely resembled the color of Vincent's eyes. The thought of it surrounding her body, caressing her skin was immensely pleasurable, and she lost herself in fanciful thoughts until they'd reached their destination.
She glided through the cocktail party atmosphere, touching the bases, accepting the compliments, watching the interaction like an observer from another planet. There was no discomfiting feel of being an outsider, though it did seem remarkable that none of the people there appeared to sense what she did -- that faint, soft trembling in the air, like music just beyond the ears, the sense that some glorious energy was at work, redesigning the universe. She wished everyone there with their furrowed brows, their intense discussion of matters that seemed suddenly trivial, could be in love. She wished it for the people they passed in the streets on the way home, even for the sullen cabdriver to whom she gave a ridiculously generous tip.
It was dark when she arrived back at the apartment. Tossing her bag on the couch, she went directly to the balcony. Like an addict needing a fix, she told herself ruefully. The park seemed even more enchanted in the darkness: touches of green where the street lights pierced the shadows, the treetops undulating darkly like a sea tipped with moonlight. The temperature had fallen with the sun to plateau at a point that seemed to match her own. The effect was lovely -- as if somehow she was one with the night. Even the delicate breeze was neither warm nor cool where it caressed her bare skin. She could hear it softly traveling through the wind chimes on a nearby terrace, smell its fresh, fragile scent, strangely reminiscent of honeysuckle.
The phone rang, and she went inside to answer it, removing her tourmaline earrings, as she did.
"Hi, Cath. It's Jenny. I tried to get you a little while ago, but you weren't home."
"Yeah. I had a reception to go to -- as Joe's stand-in."
"How was it?"
"Oh, it was about par for the course. The hors d'oeuvres were good, and there were lots of them. I won't have to fix dinner."
"What about men? Any interesting guys there?"
"I don't know, Jen," she laughed. "I didn't spot your romantic wino, if that's what you're asking, although there were probably a few incipient alcoholics."
"For an investigator, you're not very thorough about these things, Cathy, but the reason I called -- you know how I mentioned that Brad was asking about the regatta next spring? Well, I know it sounds ages away, but people really are making plans. I talked to Ellen Putnam today, and they're getting up a house party for that week. I told her I'd check and make sure we could count on you."
"Don't, Jen... Don't count on me... please."
"What? You don't want to go?"
"I'm just . . . a lot can happen between now and then. I'm just not sure I'll be available. Why don't you go ahead and make your plans without me."
There was silence at the other end of the line. The first step. The first tiny step. And the first reaction. The earrings sparkled a clear blue under the table lamp, and for a moment her thoughts flew elsewhere.
"Your job, Cathy -- you think you're going to get a promotion, and you might not be able to get the time off." Thankfully, Jenny's enthusiastic words were not phrased as a question, but it didn't stop the twinge of guilt she felt at allowing her friend to assume what she wanted. "I knew it! That's terrific. Tell me it's some cushy desk job with no investigative work, that will keep you nice and safe."
"Completely safe, Jen," she said softly.
"Well, in that case, I'll let you off the hook for the regatta, but not for lunch sometime next week. Is it a deal?"
"It's a deal, Jen I’ll give you a call."
As she hung up the phone, she thought of what the springtime might bring -- or even winter. When Winterfest came, would she once again be the recipient of a special candle, or might she be learning to make them herself, sending them to the helpers still mired in the world above? Was it unrealistic to dream of traveling so far, so soon? Realism had little to do with it, she decided. Timetables belonged to practical thinking, the realm of logic whose reassuring structure implied limitations. What they shared couldn't be measured in hours or weeks or even lifetimes. It had a rhythm all its own. mysterious and unalterable as the tides. Still, its very inevitability made her shiver in anticipation -- so many unknowns, all of them filled with promise.
She turned, drawn irresistibly back to the balcony. The small garden shears gleamed silver in the moonlight from their place beside the rosebush, and she found herself snipping with great care a single, sturdy stem. The flower it bore was deep red and flawless, its petals only now beginning to open, to reveal the astonishing complexity of its beauty. The delicate scent infused her, silken petals soft against her lips, and she moved to the balcony wall, fingers caressing the smooth stem. There were no thorns, and the realization made her smile. The music waiting to be heard. It was so clear tonight, so exquisitely clear. If I had an instrument, Samantha, she thought, I believe I could actually play it.
God, she could feel his presence so distinctly -- in her heart, around it, trilling on the subtle vibrations that infused the balmy air. She hugged herself, as if in the gesture she could hug him to her as well.
"Catherine."
She whirled, and he was there, the hood still half concealing his moonwashed hair, his head tilted, as though he had been watching her.
"I -- I didn't know you were there."
"Perhaps we'll go through life continually surprised at each other." He stepped out of the shadows, dark boots gleaming in the moonlight, his shirt a white cascade of ruffles, coming to stand beside her at the wall where she remained, unable to move.
"Somehow today you've seemed so close, it didn't occur to me... I mean, I had given up on your coming here any more."
"It's a beautiful night, Catherine. Look . . . the sky is sprinkled with stars. What better place to see them?"
For the first time this evening she looked up, instead of down into the park. The waxing moon outshone the tiny lights around it, but in the far stretches of the sky, they flickered still, powdering the blackness. "Yes, it's lovely." She was aware that his attention hadn't stayed long on the heavens, that he was looking at her instead, and unaccountably she felt a flush of shyness, but when she dared to look at him, he turned toward the same view that had captivated her since morning. "Did Mouse avoid you today?."
"He tried."
"What happened when you found him?"
"Something I will no doubt live to regret."
"What did you do, Vincent?" she asked, mildly anxious.
"Not what I intended to do." There was a note of embarrassment in the quiet, rich tone of his voice, as he added, "I thanked him. Catherine."
"Oh . . . well, it was his day, his celebration. I guess it's natural to make allowances." She was watching his profile, as he looked out toward the park, thinking what an exquisite cameo it would make, even as she continued talking. "Was he happy with his presents?"
He nodded. "He was thrilled with the tools you gave him. He wanted me to tell you, but he said the best gift was knowing that you and I were not angry."
"At him or at each other?"
"Both."
"That's good." She fell silent, still dazed that he should be here, still conscious of the reverberations in the temperate air that stirred the leaves in the park below and rose to catch at the distant stars until they pulsed with the same subtle beat. It seemed to her a melody was borne on those invisible waves, but when she tried to identify the individual notes, she heard only the muted sounds of traffic, the lilting play of the breeze in the wind chimes and the soft swish of his cloak when he moved.
"Gillian has left us, Catherine."
"I know. She wrote me a letter. Did she . . . did she tell you why, Vincent?"
"Yes." The word was spoken quietly, and he showed no inclination to expound on the subject.
"I feel bad about that. She seemed to truly belong in the tunnels, but she wanted you to be happy, Vincent. She really did. I'm not sure that -- in her place -- I could have handled things as . . . as generously as she did."
He turned to her, his height blotting out the sky, the breadth of his massive shoulders blocking the view beyond, his eyes obliterating her awareness of anything but him and the love that encircled them in its tender power. She felt small and vulnerable and exquisite, as if his adoring look had truly brought to life all those qualities he saw in her. "Catherine, how can you doubt your own generosity when you have offered to give up everything -- for me?"
"You are everything," she whispered. "I've only offered to give up the rest." She felt herself slipping deliciously into the profound blue of his gaze, as once again something that strangest of philosophers -- Kristopher Gentian -- had said came back to her --about chipping away all the parts that didn't matter.
"What are you thinking?" His voice was low, lush music. No doubt he had sensed the whimsical turn of her thoughts, tilting his head in the unconscious gesture that signaled his curiosity and never failed to captivate her with its sweet innocence.
"I was thinking of an elephant," she smiled, feeling free and foolish and impossibly happy.
He looked down into her face. the sparkle of her giddy mood reflected in his eyes, like sunlight on the ripples of a pond. "I can see, Catherine, that you have been to a party. Is it possible," he said carefully, "that you found the wine there particularly enjoyable?"
She laughed softly. "I do feel tipsy. Vincent, but it isn't the wine. It's you and this night and...and the future, and to tell you the truth, I've felt that way all day --- long before the party."
"I know. I found myself walking for miles today -- beyond the Chamber of the Falls, far below the Great Hall, but everywhere there was music. You were in that music, Catherine -- in the melody, the words that whispered of impossible things. It was a sweet Intoxication. How else to explain the memory of your words last night, the . . . gift of your touch?"
"What was given last night, Vincent," she whispered in a voice flush with emotion, "was your trust. There could be no greater gift than that."
"I have always trusted you, Catherine... always."
"Then perhaps what matters is that you're beginning to trust yourself, the way I do, Vincent, in the deepest part of me. I want that for you. I know you think there's a generosity in my willingness to let go of this world to be with you. There isn't. It's what I need, what I long for most, but our innermost fears and doubts -- those are much harder to let go of than a... a way of life or a place. I understand that, VIncent -- I really do, and I won't pressure you. Just know that I'm here for you no matter what."
"Here," he repeated, looking around the moonlit balcony. For a moment his eyes went to her crystal, which she had worn openly today, its eternal fire winking indestructibly, defiantly in this impermanent world of taxis and receptions and people maneuvering for position. "Catherine, there is something I must ask you." He reached out to her for the first time this evening, his hands gentle on her bare arms, and when he raised his eyes to hers, they were clear and steady. "Would it please you if I came inside?"
She felt the question, the implicit concession that accompanied it, sweeping through her like a crescendo to the unearthly music surrounding them. A gift -- of courage and commitment, humbling in its magnitude, as unanticipated as the reply she heard herself giving him now.
"No," she said softly, hoping he understood the tears that misted her smile. "I don't need you to do that, Vincent. There was a time when I thought I did; that it would somehow make you more a part of the world I live in, but I was only rationalizing. You were right to feel uncomfortable. A city that won't let you walk its streets openly in the sunlight doesn't deserve your presence. Coming inside wouldn't change that. It would only be another place to hide, and you weren't meant to be hidden. I'm a part of you, Vincent. Any world that has no place for you has none for me. This balcony has always been ours. It gives us the open air, the stars, the city lights, the promise of the park and," she added ruefully, glancing at the open French doors, "a reminder of where I come from. It's our place between."
"'Between' is a place we've learned much about, Catherine." The compelling voice was laced with irony, and she smiled.
"Yes, I think we could probably draw a map of it by now."
"Maps are meant to have a purpose -- to guide the traveler where he needs to go." As if in illustration, he released her arm to trace slowly down her cheek with one long finger. Briefly she felt its gentle passage along the line of her chin. The impression she had guarded privately -- that within him he was secretly laying claim to what he touched -- she now knew to be the truth, and the knowledge checked the ascent of her breath, even as his hand began its loving descent down the column of her throat.
He was making no attempt to hide it -- possessiveness was unmistakable in the unwavering look in his eyes, the intensity evident in their bond, nor did she try to hide her natural response, knowing any attempt to do so would be futile. Even if it was possible to keep the supplication from showing in her expression, he would sense it in her captive breath, her wildly fluttering heart. She thought she was doing well to stand here at all, the willing victim of this tender siege on her senses, when he had already managed with one look, the mildest of loving strokes, to threaten her equilibrium.
He looped the slender chain over his finger as he reached it, following its golden path to the crystal, and involuntarily she closed her eyes at the whisper of fur against her breast.
"Its fire seems deeper, Catherine, more vibrant than when it was given. Perhaps because it lies so near your heart." His voice now was so hushed that she wondered if she heard it at all, or if his thoughts were merely invading her mind on the same seductive wave that inundated her senses. Slowly, his hand returned along the chain, and she resisted the urge to lean into it, knowing that the choices now were his.
She opened her eyes and noted that the soft waves of his hair were still half imprisoned. "May I?"
"You have the right, Catherine." A wisp of a smile wound its way through his impossibly seductive voice, the promise in the whispered statement vibrating through her heart and in the fingers that laid the scarlet rose on the balcony wall and reached for the dark fabric, freeing the bright, wild tumble to the fragile breeze, the glittering touch of the moonlight.
"You look , . ." Words failed her. Spectacular, breathtaking, gorgeous -- all of them seemed inadequate, and finally she breathed, "magical."
"Perhaps there is some magic in this night -- how else to explain the music and . . . you, Catherine? That such beauty could exist outside a dream.., that it could live and breathe . . . must surely be enchantment."
His hand had traveled up the chain of the necklace to the clasp, his fingers almost imperceptibly caressing the nape of her neck. Not so very long ago, he would have shied away from the intimacy unmistakable in his touch and in the instant response that she knew he could sense.
"How did that happen, do you suppose?" she whispered, hungry for the hypnotic sound of his voice.
"Your eyes cast a spell, Catherine." He lowered his head, softly moving his face over her hair. "And your fragrance . . . its delicacy overwhelms my senses, vanquishes all reason." She swayed toward him, as one large hand lifted her hair, and she felt the whisper of his mouth against the exposed skin. "And the taste of you, Catherine . . . the taste..."
He released her, and she raised her head to look into his eyes, spellbound. The expression she saw there drove the last breath from her body, as he bent to take her parted lips.
Had there ever been any shyness in his kiss? Tenderness, yes, and sometimes the restraint that guarded them both from their deepest hunger, but his innate sensuality carried no hint of timidity. All the passion, all the romance so inherent in his spirit found their natural expression in love; the paradox of his power and gentleness suddenly made perfect, blinding sense, as they fused in his tender conquest of her mouth.
If there was magic, its source must be the bewitching elixir that she thirsted for now, that besotted her so she could think of nothing but taking more, the savoring of it only rendering her more and more insatiable. As her strength fled the invasion of desire, his arms tightened around her, instinctively compensating for the loss with his own support.
There was a timeless period in which she reeled helplessly, euphorically through some sublime domain, defined only by love and by him, until she found herself pulled tight against the hard warmth of his body, as they both gasped for air, and his voice caressed her ear, like a sinuous stream gliding over brilliant pebbles. "The taste of you Catherine... it is beyond magic, beyond dreams."
"Then all this must be real." She ran her fingers through the thick softness of his hair and reached up to stroke his cheek in an effort to confirm that it was so.
"Believe me, I cannot doubt your reality tonight, Catherine," he murmured, still holding her close, his hands warm on her bare back. "I only question what magic has placed it in my arms."
"Love," she whispered. "Love makes things real. Real enough to hold and taste and touch.., and how could I be anyplace else? This is where I belong, Vincent."
His eyes, veiled by the fine, gold lashes, had deepened to a midnight blue. She felt the longing in him, so like her own, a seemingly endless craving for the tangible proof that here, in the very heart of their bond, reality and dreams were one, inseparable.
She folded softly into him under his kiss, letting him guide her through the overwhelming mystery of his desire, knowing he would take her nowhere that she didn't want to go. Clasped safe in his arms, it seemed they flowed with the rhythm of the night, with the stars gliding inexorably across the vast reaches of the sky, their faint fire echoing the path blazed by his passion. Only once was there a hesitancy, a slight catch, as if the swift currents carrying them hovered tremulously at some unexpected turning.
Lost in his kiss, she trembled as his fingers softly caressed her throat, again tracing a path to her crystal, their slight contact searing through her with the power of a command. They stopped, and for an instant, the universe froze in place, the only movement a sudden flash of every emotion he'd ever felt, doubt and fear among them, and all of those they had forged together, so new and untested. Empathetically, she felt them like falling stars, flaring briefly in her heart, trailing a silent promise. You have the right, Vincent.
Then there was only the whisper of his fingers on pale blue silk, the melting warmth of his possession, and the world fell away. She saw nothing but the heavenly face before her. heard nothing but the achingly beautiful timbre of his voice. And on her lips there was one word only -- the sweet, enrapturing music of his name.