TOUCHING THE RAINBOW

Vincent turned the small envelope in his hands, reluctant to open it. A message from Catherine usually meant that she would not be able to come Below for a while. If it had been hard on him before not to see her for several days, it was barely endurable now that they had grown so close. Two weeks had passed by since his return, but they hadn't had one moment alone together, not even for a much needed talk. Slowly Vincent slit the envelope open with one sharp nail and unfolded the sheet of writing paper it contained.

"Dear Vincent," the note read, "I will be home rather late, tonight, too late to come Below. I need to talk to you, though. Could you come around midnight? Please send a message if you can't. Love, Catherine."

With an involuntary sigh he gently refolded the note, tucked it back into the envelope, and placed it on his writing table. The prospect of being alone with Catherine in the confines of her apartment was suddenly rather disquieting, and he surmised that it had something to do with his secret fear of not being able to give her everything she longed for; everything she needed. Even now, having experienced the beauty and rightness of the physical aspect of their love, he found the concept of going to see her with thoughts of lovemaking in the back of his mind quite unsettling. Retrieving the envelope from his table, he reread her lines, instantly ashamed of his thoughts. She wanted to talk. What had possessed him to think of anything else? With an impatient groan he put the letter back on his desk, wondering if he would ever learn to find his way through all these new and unsettling facets of his life.

*

It was an hour past midnight when Vincent finally heard a key being turned in the door. The lights went on and he could see the expectancy on Catherine's face as her eyes strayed to the balcony doors. He moved from the shadows and stepped into the light, in order to make his presence known. A wide smile spread on her face and she crossed the room to push the French doors open.

"You should have come in and waited inside," she chided softly, but he shook his head. There was a strange look in her eyes when she gazed up at him. His mind was already beginning to form an explanation why he had rather waited outside, but she grabbed his hand and tugged gently. Complying with her wordless plea, he followed her inside, curious, and also a little apprehensive, as to what she wanted to tell him.

"Did Father tell you about Olivia Foster?" she began as they were seated on the couches, facing each other. He nodded, his heart constricting in uneasy foreboding. "I told Father that I feel I should talk with that woman," she resumed, "but he made it quite clear that he thinks it better to leave the matter alone. What is your opinion, Vincent?"

That was something he hadn't been prepared for. "Why now?" he wanted to know. "Wouldn't it be wise to think it over more thoroughly?"

"I have to go to Chicago for an interrogation concerning the case I'm working on. I thought on that occasion I should try to find Mrs. Foster and find out the truth."

He could feel a tight knot forming in his stomach, and suddenly the air in the apartment seemed to be stifling and hot. "The truth," he ground out between clenched teeth, "is something that can destroy just as much as it can heal."

"But, Vincent, you're torturing yourself with something that most likely never happened," she said, looking at him pleadingly.

"And what if it did?" he demanded. "What if you have to face a truth you find yourself unable to live with? Catherine, what you might hear...." Words deserted him, and he bent forward to bury his face in his palms.

Instantly she was by his side, placing a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Vincent, nothing she could possibly tell me would change what we have," she said softly. Heedless of her touch he rose to his feet, clenching his hands into taut fists.

"How can you say that, Catherine? How can you know that? How can you even think that it would not affect our relationship if you had to hear that the...man you took into your bed behaved like an animal?"

"Let me point out once more that I still think Paracelsus told you a lie. But even if it were true that you raped that woman, it wouldn't have been you but the drug," she insisted.

Suddenly finding it very hard to breathe, Vincent started pacing back and forth fiercely. "That is nonsense," he retorted sharply, pivoting and raising his fists in emphasis. "It was this body, these hands. I could not have done it if this...dark side weren't within me...somewhere."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," she replied softly. "You don't have it within yourself to do such a thing."

Her infinite trust in his goodness was the heaviest burden that had ever pressed upon his heart. "But I do have it within me to kill," he stated flatly.

"You did it protecting and defending those that you love," she pointed out. "That is a deeply ingrained instinct in everyone."

"As is...procreation," he said dejectedly, unable to meet her gaze. He could hear her walking over to where he stood, and he gasped as her arms came up to encircle his waist from behind. He could hardly endure her touch in his current state of mind, but he held still, not wanting to hurt her further.

Leaning her head against his back, she whispered, "And love."

Gently extricating himself from her embrace, he turned and deliberately sought her gaze. "If you are so certain that I didn't do it, then why would you feel the need to seek out that woman?"

He saw a brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before she briefly cast them down to escape his intent stare. "Because I think that we all deserve the truth," she answered slowly, returning her gaze to his. "I don't agree with you that the truth will destroy anything. Maybe it will cut deeply, but bleeding will wash out the things that now fester in your soul, Vincent, and eventually we will heal."

"Please don't do this," he heard his own pleading voice.

"I must," came her quiet reply.

He opened his arms then, and she stepped into his embrace, pressing her face into the folds of his vest. "I know," he whispered softly into her hair. "I know."

*

Vincent sat before his opened journal, pensively twisting the pen between his fingers. Slowly uncapping it, he began to write. A familiar footfall from outside broke his concentration, and he looked up to meet Father's gaze as he entered the room.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Vincent, but I need you to talk with Geoffrey and Zach. I know you must be tired from your repair work at the bridge across the Great Chasm, and I would do it myself, but I've just received a call from Kanin and Olivia. Luke has run a fever, and they are both worried. Please could you...?"

"What happened between Geoffrey and Zach?" Vincent inquired, recapping his pen.

"They had a fight, and Geoffrey hit Zach's nose so hard that it bled quite profusely. Now they both claim that they hate each other and won't talk with each other ever again. Mary told me that both boys are deeply upset, but I'm afraid that's about all I can tell you. Maybe you should talk to Mary first."

"Don't worry, Father," Vincent said, rising from his chair, "I will try to calm the boys as best I can. You go on and tend to little Luke."

"Thank you, Vincent," Father mumbled and was gone.

As he closed his journal, Vincent's thoughts went back to a similar incident between his brother Devin and himself. Devin had accused him of something he hadn't done and pushed him in the process. Even though it went back so many years, Vincent could still taste the rage he had felt as he had lashed out and left three deep gashes on Devin's cheek.

Maybe it would have been advisable to talk to Mary first, but it was late, and if he wanted to talk to both boys before their bedtime, he had to hurry.

Zach was still in the hospital chamber, propped up against several pillows and reading. His features brightened considerably as he looked up and saw Vincent entering the room. Vincent could feel the boy's relief that it wasn't Father who had to come to lecture him. To be honest, he could understand Zach quite well, remembering with a wry smile how uncomfortable one could get when Father was angry. Fighting among the children had always been on top of Father's list of prohibitions.

Vincent met Zach's expectant gaze with solemnity, and finally the boy cast down his eyes.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Vincent prompted gently, sitting down on the edge of the cot without taking his eyes from Zach's face. The flicker of uneasiness on the boy's features didn't go unnoticed.

"Geoffrey hit me," he said simply.

Vincent waited patiently, wordlessly for him to continue. When nothing was forthcoming, he coaxed softly, "And?"

"And I bled," came the evasive response.

"So Geoffrey hit you unjustly?" Vincent inquired, raising one brow to enhance his disbelief.

Zach shrugged noncommittally. "I guess I teased him a bit. How could I know that he would react in such an overly sensitive way?"

"You said something that hurt his feelings," Vincent pointed out. "Did it really come as a surprise for you that he acted on the impulse to return his own pain to the one who had inflicted it upon him?"

"I guess not," Zach conceded reluctantly. "It just took me off-guard that he..." Leaving the thought unfinished, he stared up at the ceiling, before he returned his gaze to the book in his lap.

"You didn't expect him to have the strength to actually hurt you, did you?" Vincent surmised.

Zach's embarrassment was evident in every line of his posture. "I guess it was mean to tease someone who's so much younger," he mumbled evasively.

"Is that what you feel or what you think I expect you to say?" Vincent pressed on relentlessly.

Slightly unnerved, Zack snapped the book shut and put it on the nightstand with a thump. "So what's your point, Vincent?" he asked with barely concealed exasperation.

But Vincent only kept looking at him evenly, knowing that at this state of their discussion words would only lead to a clashing of standpoints. What he could do to make the boy see his plight more clearly, he had done. From here, Zach would have to work it out on his own.

Reaching out to squeeze the Zach's shoulder reassuringly, Vincent rose and left the chamber.

*

Geoffrey was huddled up on his bed in the dormitory. When he heard Vincent's approach, he hugged his knees even tighter to his body, refusing to look up. One by one the other children were filing in, returning from their bath and preparing for bed, and Vincent decided that this was not the place to talk about such a delicate matter.

"Please would you take a walk with me, Geoffrey?" Vincent asked softly.

Nodding, the boy's head came up and Vincent could see that his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from crying. Extending one large hand, he helped Geoffrey from the bed, and they left the dormitory, aware that countless pairs of eyes were following them speculatively.

"I hate him," Geoffrey ground out between clenched teeth, as they were barely out of earshot. Thinking it unwise to respond to that right away, Vincent just placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, surprised by the tension he encountered there.

"So would you please just punish me and leave me alone again?" Geoffrey asked tersely.

"I didn't come to punish you," Vincent remarked, slowly withdrawing his hand.

"Then what?" Geoffrey inquired, fidgeting impatiently.

"I came to find out if there is anything I can do for you," he replied simply.

"Yeah, you could teach me how to fight more efficiently," the boy retorted, and Vincent flinched inwardly under the implications of that request. Momentarily at a loss as to what to say, he just walked on beside his young charge. After a while he stopped and squatted down, turning the boy so he had to face him.

"And then?" Vincent inquired intently. "What would you do after I had taught you how to fight...more efficiently?"

"I would make sure that everyone knows that they better stop saying mean things me," the boy said defiantly.

"How would you do that?" Vincent probed gently.

Struggling against the persistent grip of Vincent's strong hands, Geoffrey averted his face. "You of all people should know," he mumbled angrily.

Vincent swallowed hard. He had not been aware that any of the children would look at him that way. Struggling to keep his breathing calm and his voice even, he demanded, "Could you be a little more precise, Geoffrey?" He dreaded the answer. Oh, how he dreaded it! But there was time to deal with his own conflicts later.

The boy turned and looked at him contritely. "I'm sorry, Vincent," he stammered. "I didn't mean for it to sound that way. I...it's just..." He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness, and Vincent held out his arms to draw him in. With a quiet sob, the child dissolved into his embrace, his shoulders shaking from crying. "I'm not a bastard," he gasped. "I knew my parents, and they loved me. They just couldn't..." The rest of his outburst was muffled against Vincent's massive chest, as he stroked the boy's reddish shock of hair soothingly.

"You are strong, Geoffrey," Vincent began, when the sobs wouldn't stop. "That is a great responsibility." Geoffrey's head came up, and beneath the tears Vincent could see a new confidence forming. "When others provoke you," he continued, "you will feel the urge for retaliation, for hurting them just as much as they hurt you."

"So what do you do when you feel that way?" the boy asked hopefully.

"I try, just for a second, to look at myself through their eyes," Vincent answered candidly. "Then I can usually guess why they do what they do; whether they are a real threat to my life or to that of others, whether they just want to hurt me out of spite, or whether they carry some unsolved problem within themselves that makes them lash out mindlessly. Then I try to act accordingly."

"Wow," Geoffrey said admiringly. "And does it work?"

Vincent shook his head, hiding a smile. "Not always," he confessed truthfully, "but at least afterwards I have the small consolation that I tried." He knew that these words could only be an intimation of the complex thoughts and emotions every act of violence entailed, but they had to do. For now they just had to be enough.

"Maybe Zach called me a bastard, because he doesn't know his own parents," Geoffrey mused aloud.

Relief flooded Vincent's soul, and he hugged the boy to him once more. This time, he seemed to have found the right words to guide the child towards a more mature point of view. "Probably," was all he could say, too moved to tell the boy right away how proud he was of him.

"I hit him pretty hard, didn't I?" Geoffrey boasted smugly as they made their way back to the dormitory.

*

"Mrs. Foster? Olivia Foster?" Catherine asked the dark-haired woman who peeked out cautiously from behind her door.

"Yes?"

"Please could I talk to you privately for a minute?"

"I don't know you, Miss. Go away. Just leave me alone."

A door was slammed in Catherine's face, and she knew she would have to find the right thing to say, quickly, or that door would never open for her again.

"Mrs. Foster, this is about your baby," she said calmly, waiting patiently for the words to settle.

Stifling a sigh of relief, she saw the handle move, and the woman peered out again. "What baby?" she inquired cautiously.

"You see," Catherine pressed on, "I have a friend who means a great deal to me...a friend who looks unusual, too.”

The woman's eyes darted along the corridor as if making sure that they were not being overheard, and then she motioned Catherine into the apartment. "Who are you?" she wanted to know.

"Someone who needs your help," Catherine answered evasively.

"I don't see what I could possibly do for you," Mrs. Foster said in a forced casual tone.

"This friend of mine," Catherine began her explanation, "was abandoned as a child and raised by good and caring people. Yet my friend wonders if there may still be relatives. We heard about your baby, and I thought..."

"That bitch," the woman hissed under her breath, but the next moment she appeared in control again. "I'm sorry but I can't help you," she insisted.

Catherine could only assume that the curse was directed at Ted's grandmother. With a sigh she realized that there wasn't much more she could do or say, lest she endanger Amy and Vincent. "I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said politely, turning on her heels.

"This friend of yours," the woman picked up the thread of their conversation, "is she grown up or still a child?"

"My friend is an adult," Catherine replied hopefully, "but for reasons you will certainly understand I cannot tell you more."

Mrs. Foster slumped into a chair, burying her face in her hands. "You know, I loved her. I would never have given her away, but my husband couldn't bear to look at her. He made me choose between him and the baby. You know I had to think of my three other children as well. If Tony had left us..." Her voice trailed off, and Catherine knelt down beside her.

"I understand why you had to choose your husband over the child," she said carefully, dreading how the next question she was going to ask would be received. "Is he the baby's father?"

Mrs. Foster's head came up in surprise. "Why, of course," she said, her eyes wide with confusion. There was not the slightest sign that would have given Catherine reason to believe otherwise.

"Was there ever anyone else in your family, or your husband's, who looked like your baby?" she asked.

The woman shook her head. "We don't know how something like that could be possible," she said dejectedly. "Tony had come up with somebody who would take care of her. He wouldn't tell me more. He said it was better for me if I didn't know. I guess he was right. I would have tried to see her a thousand times, had I just known where to look."

Catherine's heart constricted with compassion. What kind of a man was Tony Foster to lie to his wife and get rid of his own child that way? Of course there was always the remote possibility that the person the baby had been entrusted to, if such a person had ever existed, was the one who had abandoned Amy near the park, but she didn't think that was very likely.

Olivia Foster rose from her chair. "I'm sorry, Miss, but you have to go now. My husband will be home any moment. I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help. I can't see that your friend could be related to us in any way."

Catherine reached out to offer her hand and was glad when Mrs. Foster took it. "Thank you," she said warmly.

"You did help me, believe me."

The woman nodded. "I wish your friend all the best," she murmured finally. "I can only hope that my baby will have a friend like you one day."

Catherine gave her hand a last squeeze before she relinquished it. "I'm certain that she will," she said huskily before she left.

*

Lying on his back, Vincent stared up into the darkness of his chamber. He had just been startled into wakefulness by some obscure dream, and now he was finding it difficult to relax again. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, and he pondered the fact that it had been a long time since he had last had a dream about Catherine. Maybe she is so much a part of my reality now, he mused languidly, that my subconscious doesn't feel the need so strongly to dream of her as well. Images of her floated through his mind; her iridescent eyes when she had looked up at him as he had joined his body to hers; her parted lips that had beckoned to him; her soft cries as fulfillment had claimed them both.

With a helpless groan, Vincent turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the crook of one arm. Thoughts like that would hardly help him to find sleep, yet they were so enticing that he could barely resist indulging in them. Oh, God, how he missed her. Everything in him cried out for her, his soul empty and his body aching when she was not with him to make him whole.

Last afternoon he had perceived Catherine's emotions through the bond very clearly. There had been apprehension and excitement, sorrow and sadness, but nothing more disquieting, and he wondered if she'd had the chance, yet, to talk to the woman who had probably born little Amy.

A barely perceptible footfall drew his attention to the entryway, and he rose on one elbow, straining to make out the slight noise in the darkness more clearly. With his superior night vision he detected a small shadow, hovering in the opening, obviously hesitant to move into the room.

"Amy?" he called out softly, and the quiet padding of stockinged feet told him that she was on her way across the chamber. She hurled herself into his arms, clinging to his neck and pressing her small face against his chest, as if her very life depended on it. Vincent smiled in the darkness, careful not to have her sense it. "So, what brings me this unexpected visitor?" he inquired with exaggerated seriousness. The child burrowed into him even deeper, and he kept stroking her small back soothingly. "You climbed again?" he voiced his suspicion and felt her tentative nod against his neck. "Does Mary know that you left the room?" he dug deeper. This time her mop of hair tickled his skin as she shook her head. "You know that it was not right of you to leave your bed without permission," he lectured solemnly. Again a small nod. "But you missed your Mama and needed to be held so badly," he offered emphatically.

The child leaned back in his arms a little and tilted her face upward. "Missed you, too," she confessed, placing a quick peck on his cheek.

Touched, he gathered her close again, admitting to himself that he had barely had time for her of late. Since his return there had only been a few occasions on which he had held her or talked with her, or just taken the time to listen to her. He could hardly blame her for taking matters in her own tiny hands, yet he could not simply let it go at that.

Sitting up slowly, he lit a candle on the shelf beside his bed, pulled her in his lap, and leaned his broad forehead against her small one. "We better go and leave a message for Mary," he suggested, "in case your absence worries her."

Bouncing up and down, Amy nodded eagerly. "And then we come back here," she said hopefully, "just you and me?"

"We might," he replied, "if Mary gives her permission. She is the person responsible for you tonight. So we will have to ask."

Instantly Amy hung her head as he rose, scooping her up and swinging her onto his shoulders. She giggled delightedly, and he cautioned, "We better be quiet, unless you'd rather ask Father for his permission as well." Amy made no sound for the rest of the way, and when they finally arrived at the nursery, he lifted her off his back and put her on her feet. Although they had hardly made any noise, Mary sat up on her cot the moment they entered the room.

"Amy?" she called out quietly as Vincent led the little girl over to her, nudging her softly to speak.

"I'm sorry," Amy began. "I'm not s'posed to climb out of my bed." When both adults simply kept looking at her expectantly, she continued, "May I go with Vincent?"

Mary shot him a quick glance and he nodded imperceptibly. "Well, I understand that you won't leave the nursery without permission again. Is that right?" Mary said sternly. When the child nodded shyly, she added, "Then you may go with Vincent for tonight."

Delighted, Amy hugged Vincent's leg enthusiastically, but he gently nudged her again. Obediently, the child released him and turned toward Mary once more. "Thank you," she said courteously, and then held out her arms for him to lift her up.

She was carried back to Vincent's chamber, placed gently in his large bed, and carefully tucked in. Then Vincent extinguished the candle and lowered himself down beside her, pulling a spare quilt over his body. For a long while Amy's irregular breathing told him that she lay awake, nestling with the folds of her covers or coughing softly, and he assumed that she simply wanted to savor his closeness a little longer before she gave in to her drowsiness. A rustle of sheets was followed by the movement of her small hand as she felt for his huge one, seizing and holding it shyly. He gave her a tender squeeze, and soon he could hear that she had fallen asleep.

The light weight of the child's hand in his suffused him with a rush of tenderness and protectiveness that soothed the raw feeling of sorrow and guilt that still stirred in his heart whenever he thought of Olivia Foster. It pained him that there was nothing he could do for the woman who had suffered so much, and he regretted deeply that Catherine's visit might have added to her misery yet. He wished he could face her just once to give her the chance to accuse him, to shout her anger and pain out at him, to do whatever it took for her to bear the nightmarish memory a little more easily.

The child stirred and squirmed restlessly at his side, dispelling his futile reflections. Instantly he relinquished her hand, remembering Catherine's assumption that Amy may have some sort of emotional connection with him which enabled her to pick up on his emotions. There had been nothing to prove that yet, but he resolved to pay closer attention to the possibility. Amy's life would be emotionally demanding enough as it was. She didn't need to be burdened with his own moods and turmoil as well.

Finally she quieted, and for a long while he just lay listening to her regular breathing. Gradually he felt his eyelids grow heavy with fatigue, and the thought of how much he missed Catherine was the last thing on his mind before he drifted off to sleep.

*

He was walking in daylight, in a part of the city that was unfamiliar to him, or in some other city altogether. There was a room, a dark-haired woman standing in its center, a bowl of fruits in her hands. He stepped before her, meeting her weary gaze. She held out the bowl to him, and he could see that it contained olives. A wave of pain washed over him, and he clutched his chest in an effort to quell it.

"I am sorry," he heard himself say over and over again, but she just kept looking at him listlessly, and he felt mildly surprised that her features didn't show any fear of him.

"I don't know you," she finally said in an emotionless voice. "I don't know you." And she opened one hand, offering him a single dark fruit that was nestled in the center of her palm.

*

The clanging of countless hammers and chisels in the hands of the men working beside him reverberated painfully through Vincent's head. I must try to get more sleep tonight, he thought ruefully, straining to split a particularly cumbersome piece of rock.

"I'm glad William's too busy in his kitchen for helping with the excavation work," Winslow remarked to no one in particular.

"Yeah," Cullen agreed, "I guess he would mutter and complain all the time."

"He simply can't be convinced that we need the new chambers down here," Luther joined in.

"Vincent, could you please come over and give me a hand with this?" Kanin called out from the far end of the tunnel.

The morning dragged on endlessly, and all the while Vincent's head felt like bursting. At lunchtime, the men sat together, eating their meals and talking companionably. Always one to rather listen than talk, Vincent leaned back against the stony wall and closed his eyes. Fragments of last night's dream drifted through his mind, but he found it hard to concentrate on them, to concentrate on anything for that matter. The familiar voices of his friends had a soothing effect on him, and he only listened to their conversation rather detachedly.

"Garreth is too good for her, you know" Cullen said, "but he's so crazy about her that he won't listen to anybody who's trying to open his eyes."

"Garreth loves her," Kanin cut in. "He doesn't care about her past. And what does it matter anyway."

"Yeah, that's entirely his own business," Winslow agreed. "But Garreth is a fine man. He deserves better than that."

Suddenly Vincent found himself listening attentively, his eyes wandering from face to face as the men spoke.

"She's probably good in bed, you know," Cullen said. "She's had enough practice after all."

The men chuckled, and Luther remarked, "There's no answer to that."

The ensuing laughter pounded painfully in Vincent's head, and he could no longer contain the anger that had been building within him while he listened to their idle gossiping.

"Shouldn't you know better than that?" he exploded, pushing himself to his feet. "If you care about Garreth as much as you claim to, you should respect his choice instead of deriding it." With that he turned his back on their perplexed faces and strode toward the exit, determinedly retrieving his tools.

The men spoke very little for the remainder of their working day, and Vincent could literally feel the furtive glances they exchanged behind his back. Now that most of his energy was spent after the long and draining hours of work, he felt more than a little uneasy about his outburst. Starting as he suddenly felt a hand on his arm, he spun around to meet Kanin's kind face. "Enough for today," he said, patting Vincent's shoulder companionably. "Let's clear this up and go home."

*

Passing the nursery on his way to the bathing chambers, Vincent heard voices from within and froze. Catherine! How could it be that he had not sensed her arrival? Had he been so caught up in his anger and frustration that he had missed the signals that should have reached him through the bond? She was talking to Rebecca while the children chattered among themselves, obviously deeply engrossed in some game. How he longed to rush into the chamber and gather her in his arms, but one look at the dirt-caked fur on the backs of his hands told him that he better go and have a bath first. The melody of Catherine's voice followed him down the corridor and echoed through his heart as he bathed hastily, eager to be with her again. While he was toweling his hair, the conversation at the work site came back to him, and he shuddered with the realization why it had gotten to him like that. The thought that anybody might talk this way about Catherine and himself was fit to drive him crazy. Yet he knew it was inevitable that people would talk about it, once the fact became known that they were lovers, that they had joined their lives in every way. Suddenly Vincent felt as though he didn't have one friend in the whole world.

*

When he returned to the nursery, he could hear that the little ones were being prepared for bed. He hesitated outside the chamber, knowing that his entrance would present a welcome opportunity for the children to delay their bedtime just a little longer. Smiling, he shook his head as he listened to Amy's attempt to draw Catherine into some dispute about pajamas and nightshirts, and he wondered once again why children were so reluctant about going to sleep. Deciding that it wouldn't be so bad to give them a few more minutes, he deposited the bundle, which contained his soiled clothes and damp towels, on the floor and ducked into the entryway. When the children caught sight of him, they hurled themselves into his arms, hugging and squeezing as much of him as they could grasp.

Above the children's heads, he met Catherine's gaze, and her joy at seeing him made his heart swell with happiness. He scooped the little ones up and carried his lively burden over to their beds. After all three of them had been tucked in properly, they left Rebecca to her nightly vigil and made their way to Vincent's chamber.

As they walked down the corridor in silence, Father's voice stopped them.

"Ah, Catherine," the old man said. "How good to see that you are back again." There was a question in his eyes, and Vincent marveled at Catherine's ability to say so much with just one smile. Reassured, the tunnel patriarch patted her shoulder. "I expect you two have a lot to tell each other," he remarked and turned to make his way back to his chamber.

Stunned by Father's tactful disappearance, Vincent didn't notice Catherine's amused smile until she tugged at his sleeve. Following her through the narrow entryway, he tried to make sense of his parent’s behavior.

"What is it, Vincent?" Catherine asked, looking up at him with concern.

He shook his head, giving her a reassuring smile. "Nothing," he answered. "I was just a little surprised that Father should be able to rein in his curiosity."

"What about you?" she said. "Aren't you curious?"

"I'm happy," he responded huskily, "that you are back."

She came into his arms, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. "I dreamed that she said she didn't know me," he began without preamble, and Catherine's eyes gleamed with suppressed emotions as she nodded eagerly.

"That's right, Vincent. Her husband is the father of the child, and she has no idea how her baby came to be so unusual."

"Then Paracelsus lied," Vincent said slowly. "That leaves the question...why? What could he possibly gain from telling such a lie?"

Catherine shrugged, her expression suddenly pensive. "Please tell me more about your dream," she demanded, pulling him over to the bed and taking a seat. He eased down beside her, relaying the details of his dream as best he could. When he described the proffered fruit in the palm of the woman's hand, Catherine gasped.

"Mrs. Foster has a birthmark on the palm of her right hand," she told him, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Vincent, do you know what that means?"

"That, somehow, I was there," he said incredulously.

"Yes, and that what you dreamed about Paracelsus is probably just as true."

He pushed himself to his feet and started a restless pacing.

"That is not necessarily so," he said. "I may have received my knowledge about Mrs. Foster through our bond. You knew all the things I dreamed of, and that is probably how I came to know them as well. There is nothing, though, which could have transferred Paracelsus' plans and
intentions, or the lack of them, to me.”

She pondered his words in silence, and he stopped his restless motions to look at her expectantly.

"Amy," she exclaimed suddenly. "If there were a connection between the two of you, you may have received what she learned while she was down there with him. She may be too young to comprehend any of it consciously, but the knowledge could be there in her mind. Vincent, I do believe that what you dreamed about Paracelsus is true. I'd better keep on top of that problem, just to make sure."

His head was beginning to ache again, and he raised his hands, pressing them against his temples. His mind was a whirl of conflicting thoughts and beliefs, and he found it increasingly difficult to sort through them. He reached out for Catherine's steadying presence and found the room spinning about him. Instantly she was at his side, putting her arms around his waist and drawing him gently towards the bed. He lay down obediently, covering his burning eyes with his hands.

As if from a distance, Catherine's voice reached him. "I'll go get Father. I'll be back in a minute."

Seemingly of its own volition, his hand snaked around her wrist, holding her in place. "Please don't," he implored her. "Not yet."

"Vincent, what's the matter with you?" she asked worriedly, and he could almost taste her fear as it radiated into him. Fear for him, was his last conscious thought before blackness consumed him.

*

He awoke confused, surprised to find himself in his chamber, in his own bed. Starting at a slight stirring next to him, he stared at the sleeping form at his side. She looked so peaceful, almost childlike, curled up beneath the heavy quilt, and he reached out to touch her smooth cheek, but stopped himself, watching his alien hand suspended above her head. Slowly withdrawing it, he sat up, and his gaze swept the chamber as he tried to recall what had happened.

He remembered his headache, but it seemed to be gone for now, as was the dizziness that had assaulted him before Catherine had made him lay down on his bed. But, try as he might, he could remember nothing beyond that. With a pleading look toward the rocky ceiling, he prayed silently, Not again!

"Vincent?" Catherine's voice came from beside him. "How are you feeling this morning?"

She pushed herself up on one elbow, and he noted with relief that she was wearing her clothes.

"Better, I think," he managed hoarsely, trying in vain to clear his parched throat.

"Are you surprised to see me?" she asked, raising her brows. "It's Saturday, and I have every intention of spending this weekend Below with Amy and you."

Nodding, he swallowed hard. As much as he dreaded what he was probably going to hear, he had to ask.

"Catherine, what happened last night?"

"You felt ill, but didn't want me to get Father. Then you fell asleep, and since you slept quite peacefully, I complied with your wish and didn't get him." After a pause she added, "Disappointed?" and he realized that he must have gaped at her rather oddly.

Casting down his eyes, he smiled self-consciously. "No, Catherine. It's just that if we had made love last night, I couldn't bear the thought of not remembering it yet again."

She leaned over to him and tenderly kissed his cheek. "From now on you will always remember," she promised in a low voice that did strange things to his emotional balance. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. With growing uneasiness he noted that it was late morning already, and that someone might drop by anytime.

"I should get dressed," he mumbled, sitting down again and fumbling with the fastenings of his disheveled clothes.

Catherine knelt up behind him and leaned against his back, resting her chin on his shoulder. "What is it, Vincent?" she asked. "What's troubling you so?"

He hesitated, suddenly shy to share his thoughts and apprehensions with her. "I don't want them to talk about us," he finally got out, feeling a blush rise along his neck.

"You mean because I spent the night in your bed?" she replied slowly, and he sensed her dawning comprehension. "Vincent, are you telling me you are ashamed of our love?"

He spun around, seeking her eyes to quickly reassure her. "No, of course not. Nothing could fill me with more pride than being loved by you."

She put her arms around his neck, leaning her forehead against his. "Then, what are you worrying about?"

Closing his eyes, he wondered why he found it so hard to simply speak his mind. "It is you that I am concerned about," came his whispered confession.

Relinquishing her hold around his neck, she sat back on her heels. "You are concerned about what people may think about us," she stated, and he shifted his weight to draw her back in his arms.

"Catherine, know that I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love someone. I love you more than my life. You deserve the best. It kills me to think that you may suffer because of my love." He wanted to hide his face against her neck, but she gently shoved him back, making him meet her eyes.

"Vincent, people will always gossip, no matter what we do. Maybe down here it's not so bad as in the world above, but..."

"It is just as bad," he interrupted her, telling her about the incident at the work site, the day before. Listening attentively, she pulled his head against her chest, pressing tender kisses in his hair.

"I understand your feelings," she said at last. "I really do, but do you think we could stop them from talking about us by denying our love? And if we could, would you really want us to?"

He looked up, and her eyes were alight with love for him as he bathed his gaze in hers. "I could never live without your love again," he said huskily. "Never."

"Then, would you want for us to have a secret affair?" she said jokingly, but when she saw his look before he swiftly averted it, she grew serious again. "You want us to hide our love from the others?" she asked unbelievingly.

"Only for a while," he hastened to assure her. "Catherine, I am deeply touched, and honored, that you are not concerned about everybody knowing that you not only have my heart, but share my bed as well. But I need time to come to terms with the step we have taken. It is all so new. I must find my place in this community anew. Through all these years, I haven't given the people I care about a real chance to come to know me. They only know the protector, friend, teacher, or whatever I am to the various people I live with. None of them know the real me, because I didn't really have a life of my own -- until now."

"Oh, Vincent," she sighed, hugging him to her and rocking him softly. "Take all the time that you need, as long as we don't have to stop making love to each other."

Expelling a low groan, he tightened his arms around her. Tenderly, he nuzzled her throat and dipped his tongue in the sensitive hollow at its base. The softness of her body drew him, and he eased her back on his bed, taking her mouth in a desperately passionate kiss.

"Don't you think they will suspect it all too soon, anyway?" she whispered when they came up for air.

He rolled himself off her and sat up straight, resting his forearms on his knees. "I don't know," he answered. "I am not certain whether most of them think me man enough to even consider the possibility."

"What about Father?" she inquired, slowly sitting up beside him.

Studying his clasped hands between his knees, he replied, "Not only did he think it possible for me to have a...physical relationship with a woman, he even went so far as to dread it. He is the one who knows my body best. He knew that it was possible, and it scared him so much that it began to scare me as well."

"Is that what he told you?" she asked, struggling to suppress her rising anger.

"He didn't have to tell me with words," Vincent answered. "It showed in everything he taught me."

"Oh my God," Catherine gasped, and he put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to wallow in self-pity. He did what he thought best for me. How could I blame him for that?"

A rapid staccato reverberated along the pipe that ran along the wall outside his chamber, and Vincent cocked his head to listen intently. "We better be going," he said. "It is almost lunchtime, and I don't care to have anyone wondering why you and I do not attend the meal."

*

Night had come and the pipes had grown quiet as Vincent strolled down the corridor towards the study. Catherine was long peacefully asleep in one of the guest chambers, and he smiled, remembering how much she had enjoyed being tucked in by him. The strain of the last couple of days had taken its toll on her, and she had fallen asleep almost immediately.

Father and Peter looked up from their game of chess as Vincent entered.

"Ah, Vincent, there you are," Father greeted him. "How is Catherine?"

"Tired but well," Vincent replied, pulling up a chair and joining them at the table. "Have you told Peter yet about what Catherine found out in Chicago?" he asked Father.

"In fact," Father admitted guiltily, "we have been discussing it."

"So, what do you think?" Vincent addressed Peter. "How can it be that two apparently normal people suddenly have a child with animal features?"

Peter gave a helpless shrug. "I don't know, Vincent. All I can say is that after what we learned about Amy's descent we may safely assume that your ancestors were completely normal people too."

Steepling his fingers, Vincent mulled that over for a while. He had been speculating on this matter practically all his life, thinking that his very humanity depended on answers that eluded him. Now that those answers were within his reach, he realized how little they mattered after all. They were only concepts, only words. He and Amy had survived because someone had taken them in and loved them. That was all that counted in the end.

Peter's voice intruded upon his thoughts. "We tend to forget that humans are creatures whose roots lie in the animals," he pointed out. "We find ourselves at the tip of the branches of an immense tree of life, a tree that has been developing and growing ever more diverse over a period of four billion years. It is difficult to locate the place and the time that our branch separated from the rest of the tree. Look at the development of a human fetus. It goes through the entire specter of evolution. Would it be so very surprising if certain attributes became dominant and popped up from time to time? We've been told about various forms of atavism all over the world. People with rudimentary tails, people with dense fur over their entire body. Why not people with feline qualities?"

Vincent had been listening to Peter's attempt at an explanation attentively, and when the older man fell silent, he leaned forward to direct a final question at him. "How great do you think is the probability that there are two of a kind within one span of life, within the same city?"

"It's next to non existent, I'm afraid," Peter said with a rueful smile.

Father had listened to all that in silence, and when Vincent turned his eyes on him, he reached out across the table, giving his son's large hand a wordless squeeze. With a slow and deliberate expelling of breath, Vincent allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. The look that passed between father and son was one of deep affection and understanding. There was no need for further words.

"Thank you, Peter," was all Vincent said before he rose from the chair and turned to leave.

*

It was long past midnight when, deeply in thought, Vincent left the study and headed for his chamber. Where the corridor that led to the guest chambers branched off, he paused, casting a wistful look down the dimly lit tunnel. Suddenly his longing to see Catherine, if only for an instant, became so overwhelming that, almost involuntarily, he directed his steps toward the chamber in which she lay sleeping.

His hypersensitive eyes swept the room, coming to rest on the unmoving form upon the large bed. She lay on her left side, facing him, and for a while he simply stood and watched the soft rise and fall of her shoulder, before squatting down beside the bed to get a better look at her relaxed features. There was barely any light to see by, aside from the faint flickers of the torches in the corridor outside, but for Vincent it was enough to trace the contours of her face with adoring eyes. He ran his gaze down the curve of her neck and along her arm to her slender hand, which she had tucked beneath her cheek. Reining in the impulse to reach out and touch her, he remembered that his behavior was entirely unacceptable, and he shifted his weight in order to rise to his feet. Suddenly Catherine turned onto her back, and he started, bumping against the nightstand to his right. She sat up abruptly, blinking with the effort to pierce the gloominess around her.

"Vincent?" she called out anxiously, and he swiftly reached for the matches beside her bed to light a candle in order to dispel the darkness he knew she feared so much.

Unable to meet her gaze, he knelt down before her, embarrassment diminishing his usual eloquence considerably. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just came by to... I only wanted to see..."

Quickly leaning up on her elbow, she extended her hand to touch a trembling finger to his mouth. "Shhh," she soothed, "I'm glad you came."

Rising from his uncomfortable position, he gingerly sat down on the edge of her bed. "It was inexcusable of me to interrupt your much needed sleep," he said quietly.

"In fact, I feel quite rested," she responded, sitting up and winding her arms around his neck.

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes in panic as he felt his body's reaction to her nearness; to the warmth her body was radiating; to the softness that pressed against his chest, and when she tugged slightly, indicating for him to follow her down onto the bed, he went rigid in her arms. His heartbeat accelerated and his mind spun under the wealth of emotions he received through the bond.

"Catherine," he gasped helplessly. "Please..."

"I love you," she whispered in his ear. "Come..."

Breathing heavily, he tried to formulate a reply, an explanation why he thought this was neither the place nor the time, but she pulled his shirttails from the waistband of his trousers, pressing her palms against the heated skin on his waist, and suddenly there was nothing but sensation, leaving him unable to think or speak or do anything but return her caresses and passionate kisses. He covered her body with his more completely, taking care not to crush her beneath his great weight.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire, and for some endless minutes he lay very still, savoring the throbbing intensity that came across the bond. But soon he could not refrain any longer from moving against her with small, pleading thrusts of his hips. Catherine lifted her head in search of his lips. Her kiss elicited a low moan from him, and his hand stole beneath the hem of her nightshirt, pushing it upward and finally pulling it off over her head. They freed each other from their remaining clothes, and then all Vincent could think of was how good it felt to hold her this tightly, to have her beneath him, ready to receive him, willing to give him everything. He made one last conscious effort to pull back, to slow down their headlong plunge into passion, knowing that everything would be over too quickly, should he continue to give himself up to her enticing caresses, her irresistible tenderness. But she encircled his waist with her legs, holding him firmly in place.

"Catherine," he gasped, struggling for words, "I want so much to love you, but slowly. This way I'm afraid, though..."

"Please don't hold back, Vincent," she whispered against his ear. "We both need each other so badly. Come..."

The tone of her voice caused him to raise his head and stare down into her eyes, which were wide and pleading. How had he ever found the strength to resist her? He breathed her name again, trailing soft kisses along her neck and jaw line before -- slowly, gently -- he joined his body to hers, and they moved as one.

This was heaven, and he was helpless to suppress the need to bury himself more deeply inside her, to thrust into her with increasingly powerful strokes. The soft cries and sighs of their ecstasy mingled like their shared breaths as they kissed over and over again. He didn't want it to end -- not yet -- but he could no longer withstand the waves of pleasure that surged through him and carried him away to a place of sheer beauty.

She quivered beneath him, and he moaned under the force of her climax that left her shaken and utterly vulnerable in his arms. Never before in his life had he been entrusted with anything nearly as fragile as her emotional state at that very moment. The rush of awe and tenderness that suffused him was almost like an ache in his soul as he cradled her against him reverently.

Slowly he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him without loosening the tight clasp of his arms around her body. There were no words, and none were needed, for her emotions reaching him through the bond matched his in every way. So he just continued to look up into her eyes, softened by languor and contentment, and it touched him deeply that it had been he who had put that expression on her face.

Her mouth came down for a tender, leisurely kiss, and when her lips finally released his, he tucked her head under his chin, gently stroking her hair. They lay together in silence, savoring each other's closeness for long, precious moments.

"I have been a fool," he said abruptly, and she flinched slightly at the sudden sound of his voice. Smiling, he gathered her close again, brushing a soothing kiss against her temple.

"What do you mean?" she inquired softly, nuzzling his throat.

"I've been indulging in self-importance," he replied simply. "How could I subject something as precious and pure as our love to other people's opinions?"

Instantly her head came up, and he met her questioning gaze steadfastly, thus conveying his newly found confidence more eloquently than if he had explained himself in so many words.

"I'm glad," she said solemnly. "Will you tell me, though, what brought on your change of mind?"

"I'm not sure," he answered. " I talked to Peter earlier, and it wasn't so much what he said, but rather the way his words affected me that made me see more clearly."

"So, how did his words affect you?" she prompted, never taking her gaze from his.

He briefly closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, and then, with a quick intake of breath, he looked at her again and began to speak, "While Peter was talking, my thoughts were drawn inward and focused on my life. I saw how it began, how it was made possible at all, and how it expanded to touch the lives of many others. I felt that this is what everybody's life is all about: coming into this world, being loved, and learning to give love in return." He paused, thinking how much he owed to the woman who was still lying atop him, warmly looking down on him, and waiting silently for him to continue. The smile he gave her trembled slightly under the enormity of the emotions that passed between them. Blinking back the sudden sting of tears, he continued, "People who give of their love plant seeds in other people's hearts, thus enabling them to love themselves, and others, and grow in the light of their love. That is what Father did for me -- and what you did for Amy."

"And what you did for me," she added softly, pressing her lips against his chest.

"What we've been doing for each other," he amended huskily, pulling her head closer yet to intensify the sensation of her caress. "Catherine," he gasped at last, "what we have been given, what lies ahead of us, is so overwhelming that I can hardly breathe when I try to imagine it."

"Then let's not imagine it," she said simply, shifting her weight to gain better access to his mouth, "but rather live it."

The bond was vibrant with her love as he turned and buried her beneath him, gently pressing her into the mattress. Passion and tenderness blended in perfect harmony as he released his hold on the bond, opening it to her, no longer afraid that it might scare or disturb her to receive him, all of him, even his most secret dreams and deepest needs. For he knew their time had come at last.