This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineWithin the Crystal Rose III, in 1991. It takes place in theaftermath of The Outsiders, and it won't make much sense ifyou haven't seen that episode. Beauty and the Beast and itscharacters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and RepublicPictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoyment offans.

Siege of Flowers

by BeeDrew

An unseen messenger left it at the foot of his bed, sometime afterhe had finally lain down to sleep, driven by eyes of sandpaper and anunutterable weariness. And even then, lying in the cool dark withonly his breathing for company, quilts tucked up to his chin, beatendown by exhaustion--even then, he could not rest until he reached outto her.

In his waking hours he shut out the bond, knowing that any realdanger would punch through his defenses, and determined that hismelancholy should not affect her. But at night.... Like an addict,ashamed of his need yet unable to resist, he traced the invisiblepathway until he touched her where she lay Above, just drowsing tosleep. She was whole and quiet and peaceful--and for once, untouchedby the faint sadness she'd suffered since their parting. He let hismind hover near hers, savoring the warm contentment. There was atinge of pleasurable excitement to her thoughts that made him wonder,but he had no way of knowing the cause. No way, because he had notseen her in weeks.

He felt guilty stealing peace from her, when all this time he'drefused to see her. He'd sent others to meet her tappings at thethreshold, and to turn her gently homeward; he'd saved her lettersbetween the pages of his journal, but left them unopened. He couldn'tlet her be tainted by him, nor could he accept the healing of herlove on his wounds, because he needed the wounds. He needed them totell him, finally, what he really was.

He'd asked for the knowledge; he'd rushed to meet it, demandingthat Father let him go and do "whatever must be done." His wordsjeered at him now, and he could see the shadow of hubris in hisactions. He'd as much as said to Father, and to himself, Let me.This is my task; I am made for it, I can accomplish it better thanany man among you.

Yet, when the time had come, it was not a man who'd driven off thethreat, but a beast--mindless, ravening, without conscience orreason. And knowing this was the worst thing, the very worst thing,because it menaced him as surely as the outsiders' cudgels. Hislife--the familiar tasks, the teaching, the people who passed throughhis hours; even the memories of her--they were like a pattern vaguelyglimpsed through a fog. He could no longer grasp it, or fill it, oreven care that he could not, because the man who had lived that lifewas a sham.

The nightmares were the final torture. Since childhood, he haddreamed cinematically--sometimes in snatches of replayed reality,sometimes in finely chiseled symbolism; but always with completerecall, and these dreams.... In them he struggled, over and over,through the deaths he'd given to the outsider family, as if his mindwere determined to force down the bitter lesson, though it wasalready well learned: Here is what you are. Claws carving throughskin and sinew; roars openthroated; smell of rich, red entrailsopened to the air....

Tonight was no different.

He woke himself by crying out, shuddering, covered in icypinpoints of sweat and bathed in darkness, so that there was nothingto drive out the vision of the woman Lizzie. She leaped onto hisback, her hate as hard and blunt as her pummeling fists, her bodylike wood in his grip until he brained her against an outcrop ofrock, and she went soft and blank-eyed and dead....

Vincent retched, and then choked on the bile that spurted into histhroat. Thrashing against his covers, he swung his legs over the sideof the bed until his feet smacked against stone. Soft whimpersreached his ears, and he thought, One of the children iscrying, until he realized the sounds were his own. He swallowed,and coughed, and swallowed some more, until he could draw in a deepbreath, and let it out again, without fear of sobbing.

He got to his feet, and groped for a candle and matches. His mouthtasted foul, and his limbs were twice their normal weight. Hewondered, despairing, how he could bear to sleep again. And how hecould stand not to.

As the match flared, the flower's blueness snatched his eyes toitself.

The iris lay at the foot of his bed, like the very breath ofspring against the rumpled, homespun blankets. He smiled a little,and brought it to his nose, inhaling its hint of fresh wetness.Probably from one of his students, hoping to sweeten his mood; he hadnot been the most forbearing of instructors in recent days. There wasno more telling sign of his weariness than that the flower bearer hadcome and gone without rousing him.

He padded off to the communal lavatory to brush his teeth, somehowsteadied and comforted by the small gift, knowing he would sleeppeacefully for the rest of the night. Perhaps Mary would have a vasefor his iris.

*****

The morning, barely two hours old, was not going well. Firstthere'd been breakfast with Father, whose starched-and-ironedcheerfulness couldn't hide the sick worry in his eyes. Then, aliterature class--and he had arrived in the study to find he'dforgotten his text.

Vincent whirled into his chamber in search of the errant HenryIV, growling soft, unintelligible words under his breath. Hescanned the desk, sweeping aside blueprints, a subway schedule, and ahapless, crayoned blob that little José had assured him was acollie. Scrabble as he might, there was no evidence of the Bard'swork, and he had waiting a class of restless adolescents who wouldsoon decide they'd been patient enough. Where was that dratted book?He'd been so absorbed, so sunk in his own dark thoughts,since--since...that night...that the book might be anywhere. Heturned toward the stone shelf above his bed.

There was Henry IV, exactly where he'd left it afterpreparing for class last evening. And atop it, bound with a thinwhite ribbon, lay a yellow bundle of marigolds.

Vincent's brow wrinkled, even as he lifted this newest offering tohis nose. Flowers again. He was absurdly touched, wondering ifCatherine....No. He winced away from the thought. He'd sent her away.Leave me now. Please. She had said she loved him, but stillshe had taken him at his word.

He picked up his Shakespeare with a sigh, and left the chamber torejoin the class. He took one of the marigolds with him.

*****

His charges waited with varying degrees of patience and decorum,though Samantha had wandered to the spiral stair and buried her nosein Anne of Green Gables, and the floor bore evidence of afierce spitball war. Justin whispered something in Eric's ear and gota sock on the arm, to which he responded with a sharp elbow in theyounger boy's ribs. Vincent pinned them with a stern look as hecrossed to the bald red splendor of Father's old, high-backedchair.

"I'm sorry for the delay. Gather around me, please, and we'll findout what Prince Hal has been up to since we last met." With a glancehe pulled them all in--all except Samantha, who came reluctantly,with a longing look at the forsaken Anne. Vincent tapped her nosewith the yellow flower he still held.

"Perhaps you would read first, Samantha."

*****

An hour later, Vincent wrapped up the class with profound relief.He'd gotten through the whole of Act III, injected a smattering ofEnglish history, and corralled the children's enthusiasm with a mocksword fight. Two of Father's less-favorite canes had taken a fewdents--a small conspiracy entered into with willing mischief--but hewas confident that his students had a little more Shakespeare attheir command than when they'd awakened this morning.

"I can call spirits from the vasty deep!" Kipper yelled,pelting out the door after Eric and Justin.

Vincent smiled after the boys, as he replaced the "swords" andstacked the motley editions Henry IV left in the children'swake. "Why, so can I, or so can any man; but will they come whenyou do call for them?" he quoted softly.

"Vincent? Who are you talking to?"

Vincent turned. Father limped in, wearing a characteristic frownand carrying a very uncharacteristic potted plant. Without waitingfor an answer to his question, he offered the plant to Vincent."William found this in the common room this morning, when he wascleaning up from breakfast. It has your name on it."

Vincent ran a curious finger over the shiny green leaves andsmall, soft-petaled red flowers. His name was written on the back ofthe cardboard triangle speared in the soil, which identified theplant as a spring-forced begonia. The neat capital letters did notbetray the sender.

"It's the third," he murmured.

"The third what?" demanded Father.

"Vincent, look! I have flowers for you."

Mary had appeared in the stone archway. One arm was laden withheavy black ledgers, while the other held a more delicate burden. "Isee I'm not the first. What's that there, a begonia? And blooming soearly. That's unusual."

Father threw his hands in the air and retreated behind his desk,as Mary extended the newest bouquet to Vincent. "Aren't thesebeautiful? Jonathan found them on his morning patrol near the Falls.The pink ones are peonies, I'm not sure what the white are. I'll haveto find you a large vase."

Vincent took the tissue-wrapped flowers in a careful grip, lookingfrom the riot of peonies and star-shaped white blossoms to the homelylittle begonia in his other hand. The new flowers bore an unadornedwhite card, with his name typed in capital letters. "It's a siege,"he said wonderingly. "A siege of flowers."

"Will someone please tell me what is going on?" This from Father,in plaintive tones. Vincent turned toward him.

"First, last night, I found an iris on my bed. This morning, itwas marigolds. Now these."

"Marigolds, too?" Mary beamed. "They're a favorite of mine."

Sketching a slight bow, Vincent presented her with the fat yellowmarigold. Mary's gently lined face softened into a wistful smile asshe accepted it. "How lovely. Someone has gone to a great deal oftrouble--neither begonias nor marigolds ought to be blooming yet.They must have come from a nursery."

Vincent's eyes lifted from the sheaf of pink and white he held,but Mary rattled on. "You've no idea whose been sending them?Marigolds are such cheerful flowers, I've always thought, to have sowoeful a meaning."

Catherine. Vincent felt a spark of excitement as he took astep toward Mary. "The flowers have a meaning beyond their ownbeauty? How is that?"

The woman shook her head in mock reproof. "A history scholar likeyou, Vincent--surely you've heard of it before, the Language ofFlowers? It's an oriental tradition, but it became popular in Englandin the Eighteenth century. Each flower is associated with aparticular thought or feeling, so that you can send a message withoututtering a word."

"Devious woman, is Catherine," Father put in, with an approvingglint in his eye. He'd reached the same conclusion Vincent had."She's outsmarted you."

Vincent waved this jibe aside. "The marigolds, Mary. What do theymean?"

The woman touched the heavy-headed flower to her cheek. "I'venever understood why, but marigolds are for grief."

"Grief," Vincent repeated. His look had sharpened, his whole poseone of taut anticipation. "Then the iris, and begonia, andpeonies--what do they represent?"

"Heavens, Vincent, I've no idea. There are books that give themeanings, and I know we have one Below. It has a green cover withstains on it, and onionskin pages."

Vincent turned and focused the considerable intensity of his gazeon the older man behind the desk. "Father--?"

*****

An hour later, the library was a wilderness of ransacked books,and Vincent was wild with frustration. He stood on the second level,yanking mismatched titles from the shelves and stacking them inuneven, teetering piles. His growls had reduced Father to helplessblustering.

"Come now, Vincent, you can't hold me wholly responsible for thecondition of the library? I know it's deplorable, but with newvolumes arriving all the time, and the children trooping through, notto mention your depredations--and without proper shelving--howcould I possibly be expected to--"

"Vincent!" Mary rushed in, puffing, her grey hair fallen from itssober bun to trail in attractive wisps around her face. She clutcheda thin volume to her breast and smiled at him triumphantly. "Here itis. I knew we had one. Rebecca used it the last time she made scentedcandles--oh, my goodness!"

Mary's voice failed her as Vincent vaulted over the rail anddropped the eight feet to the floor, landing just in front of herwith hardly a sound. Round-eyed, Mary offered him the book.

"There, you see! I had nothing to do with it!" sputtered Father,but Vincent ignored him as he spread open the book in his palm. Itsbinding had cracked, and the leaves were nearly transparent with age.Impatience warred with ingrained respect for an old volume as Vincentcarefully turned the delicate pages.

He found the entry for the blue iris. It meant message.Trust Catherine to begin with that one. Marigolds, he knew. Peoniessignified bashfulness or shame. He frowned as heflipped back, looking for the begonia's meaning. Darkthoughts. There remained only the unidentified white flowers thathad come with the peonies, but the pattern was clear.

He shut the book gently. "Oh, Catherine."

"What? What do they mean?" Father demanded. When Vincent did notanswer, but only stared abstractedly over Father's shoulder, theolder man reached out imperiously. "Here, give me that. I'll lookthem up myself."

Vincent surrendered the book, only half-aware of Mary's concernedhand upon his arm. "I must go to her," he murmured. "She will nothave reached home, yet, but--"

Running footsteps gave a half second's warning before Mousehurtled into the library, waving a thick bundle wrapped in thenow-familiar green tissue. "Vincent! For you. Found it Uptop--"

Mouse's foot caught on the one of the wrought-iron spiral stairs,and he would have pitched headlong to the stone floor had not Vincentleapt forward and caught him, bundle and all. This offering had woodybranches to it, which whipped smartly across Vincent's face as hehalted Mouse's plunge. His eyes stung and watered as he set the boyon his feet.

"Thanks," Mouse panted, grinning. "Brought you this. Ran all theway. Was walking in the park. Found it--"

"Mouse," Vincent interrupted gently. "Let me have it, please."Mouse shut his mouth and sheepishly gave the flowers to him. Pullingaside the tissue paper, Vincent beheld the long, thin boughs that hadrapped his nose, studded all up and down their length with tiny pinkbuds.

"Mary?"

But she was shaking her head. "I don't know what those are,Vincent. I'm sorry."

Vincent swung his eyes to Father. "Do you know what's become ofthe horticultural encyclopedia? We used to have one, I'm sure; it wasa very large book..."

Father, much put upon, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as thoughpraying for strength. "Vincent, you've manhandled every text in thelibrary today!"

But his complaints stood no chance against the mute, little-boyappeal in Vincent's eyes. Father sighed noisily. "Oh all right, I'lllook for it. Heaven only knows the last time I laid eyes on it.Perhaps it would be altogether easier to send Kipper to the citylibrary for one."

By the time the encyclopedia was located some time later, inignominious service as a doorstop in William's pantry--"F'r cryin'out loud, what do you need that thing for? Ain't nothing growing downhere except the kids!"--there were more specimens to be identifiedthan Mouse's branches and the white flowers that had come with thepeonies. The children, courtesy of Mouse, had been alerted that therewas a surprise afoot, and had undertaken the project with all thezeal of an Easter egg hunt. The flowers poured in from all pointsBelow, and Vincent found himself truly amazed at Catherine's industryand ingenuity.

"I've found the white ones," Father announced, rubbing absently athis back as he unbent from perusing the encyclopedia. His grey eyesgleamed with quiet excitement; he was into the spirit of the thing,now. "With those double coronas, they've got to be columbine. Thereare many varieties, but those would appear to be Snow Queen. Theybloom in late spring--"

"Columbine," Vincent repeated. He, and only he, looked up themeanings of the various flowers, while Father strove to identify themand Mary to find containers and fetch water for what was fastbecoming a subterranean bower. "Columbine are for folly. Thatwould fit with grief, and shame, and darkthoughts."

Vincent was not so despondent at this discovery as he might havebeen, for the pink-budded boughs had been identified as floweringalmond, which meant hope. After that had come a great mass ofcampanula--tiny, droop-headed violet bellflowers that meantgratitude--and a fragrant green plant with heart-shaped leavesthat Father had finally named Molucca balm, or Bells-of-Ireland. Balmwas for sympathy.

Then there appeared a cheery potted geranium, found on the GreatStair--that was for comfort--and Livvy had just brought fromthe Mirror Pool a bed of pansies, purple and white and yellow, readyfor planting. Pansies were also known as heartsease; they meantthinking of you.

Vincent's eyes flicked up as the clatter of feet sounded in theouter passage. Jamie appeared, breathless and holding in carefulhands a bouquet of bright, lemon-colored flowers on tall stalks.Without a word, she offered them to Vincent.

"Thank you, Jamie," he said, accepting them, inhaling their sweetfragrance.

Over their yellow heads he glanced inquiringly at Father, whogrimaced as he bent again over the overworked volume on his desk."Here we go again," the patriarch muttered, settling his glassesfirmly on his nose.

Mary looked up from arranging the almond boughs artfully in aheavy vase of blue glass. She hurried forward, drying her hands onher apron. "No need, Jacob. I know those. They're jonquils."

Vincent consulted the small green book once again, as the othershung tensely on his words. "Jonquils...they mean--" He stoppedabruptly.

"Yes?" prodded Father. Vincent shifted somewhat uncomfortably, andbrought the flowers to his nose again, as though to hide his face inthem.

"They mean I desire a return of affection." Despitehimself, Vincent's odd mouth quirked in a smile. He could justimagine Catherine, with a little of the Victorian Miss in her voice,speaking the words and daring him to laugh.

"Well that's direct enough, I'm sure," Father said gruffly. But hehad to turn his attention immediately to the papers on his desk,smoothing and sorting them, to hide his own grin.

"I think that's the last of them," Jamie blurted out, sending aquick, nervous look in Vincent's direction. He met her eyes, his owngleaming with fun, in no doubt now as to the identity of Catherine'shelper. She must have had one, to have visited so many spots Belowwith her gifts of flowers.

Jamie flushed, sure she had revealed too much. "I'd better begetting back to work--" she mumbled, and fled.

For a few moments the study was quiet. Mary had gone back to herflower arranging, and Father had shuffled away to put thehorticultural encyclopedia on a high shelf, hopefully safe fromWilliam's nefarious devices. So there were only his own ears tolisten as Vincent murmured again, "I desire a return ofaffection."

He paused, feeling his eyes sting a little as he thought of her."My Catherine, you shall have it."

*****

The day crawled by on a tired man's legs, achingly slow. Vincentmade not even a pretense of doing his normal work, knowing hiscrewmates, this once, would excuse him. Instead, he made onenecessary errand to a Helper's floral shop.

Annabel, and her parents before her, had owned and operated theshop for as long as Vincent could remember. Twenty-three, she lookedmuch younger, with her brown braids and freckled pixie's face. Shewas enthralled by his siege of flowers, and gazed up at him raptlyfrom the four-foot height of her wheelchair, demanding every detailof the flowers' discovery, and appearance, and what he'd thought, andwhat everyone had said.

Vincent had known Annabel long enough to not notice the spasticlittle twitches that cerebral palsy often inflicted on his friend,and he visited often, because stories were Annabel's special delight,and she never tired of tales from Below. Besides, he had a strongback and willing strength, both necessary to running the shop. Sheoften needed more things lifted than her spirits.

"Vincent, that's absolutely divine!" she sighed, when he'dfinished. "I hope I can meet your Catherine sometime. How sweet, tothink of using the Language of Flowers. Of course, I thought you knewall about it, what with all the roses. No pink or white for you, ohno--"

"What do you mean? Are the red special?"

Annabel laughed. "You should have looked that up first thing,Vincent. Pink roses are for love hopeful or expectant.White are for love dead or forsaken. And the red arefor passion."

Vincent started at that, and wondered if there were any hope atall that Catherine did not know the finer points of roses' meanings.He didn't think so.

Annabel had twisted to look up at him, with the light of mischiefin her face. He gave her a mock frown, and she laughed again. "Ofcourse, I thought you knew, Vincent. I think it's terriblyromantic."

He smiled down at the glossy head as he pushed her wheelchairslowly down the wide center aisle of the nursery behind the shop.Annabel had locked it from the inside, so that the clerk on dutycould not interrupt them. Sunlight filtered in though the green gauzeof plantlife that abounded everywhere, and the room had a rich, headyscent compounded of soil, blossoms, and a tang of mint, that waswonderfully soothing.

"To have that kind of love in your life--it must beextraordinary," Annabel said, with a wistful catch in her voice."What does it feel like?"

Vincent set the safety brake on the chair and then came around toface his friend, kneeling so she could see his face. "Sometimes it isvery hard," he confided. "I've wronged her. I've been selfish--that'swhy she had to speak to me with flowers. I would not hear her,before."

"But why?" Annabel's wide grey eyes were filled with distress; herfairy tale had gone awry. Her visitor smiled, a little sadly.

"She will ask me the same question," he mused. "And I have no easyanswer--only that I wanted to protect her, to keep her from pain. Andall I've done is compound it. Annabel, will you help me?"

*****

He hadn't felt so horribly nervous since that first night, herealized, as he dropped lightly to her balcony. The light thatspilled in precise, oblong shapes from her closed doors told him shewas home. Waiting.

He swallowed to moisten a parched throat, and laid the fragileburden he carried on the low, wrought-iron table to his right. Helifted a hand to tap on the glass. Before he could do so, the doorsrattled open, and she stood there, looking up at him.

There was no smile, no softening for him; only a hunger slaked inher eyes as she took him in. Her hair was longer, heavy against hercheek, and her body more slight than he remembered.

"Catherine," he began, before his throat closed. He had forgottenwhat an impact the sight of her could have; how her nearness broughtboiling to the surface all chaotic, impossible emotions he strove sohard to check. There was love, and yearning, and desperate need, sostrong that he was afraid to reach out.

She still looked at him steadily. "If you'll wait a moment, I'llget a sweater, and come out to join you." Her voice alone, pitched inthe uninflected tone reserved for strangers, accused him of thedistance between them. She started to turn, until he touched thesleeve of her green silk kimono.

"I could--I could come inside," he offered, awkwardly. Their eyesmet. And suddenly Catherine's reserve cracked wide open, and sheflung herself against him, arms trembling and tight around him. Shestood on the half-step above the balcony, he on its surface, so thather face was pressed to his neck, and not his chest. He could feelher ragged breathing, alternately hot and cool, just below his ear.Skin on skin. Contact.

He gasped silently, scorched by the white flare of the bond. Paintinged with anger; fear only now easing at the feel of him in hergrasp; love that was the other half of his own--all these crashedthrough the connection made by her touch, like volts of electricityfinding a common ground. They mingled with his own emotions, and fedback into her, and became something indefinable, something blindingin its power. Something he knew he would die rather than ever livewithout. My soul? he wondered, gathering her even closeragainst him. Our...soul?

The minutes drifted, like slow clouds across the moon, untilfinally Catherine leaned back in his arms. It was odd, and a littledisconcerting, to meet her eyes nearly on a level.

"I'm sorry, Catherine," he said quickly, before she could speak.Somehow, that was important.

She nodded. "I am too. More than I can say. But don't youever--ever--" she punctuated each word with a squeeze around hiswaist-- "shut me out again. No matter what either one of us hasdone." She shivered, and dropped her forehead back against him."I...I can't bear it."

"Nor can I."

When he felt her shiver again, he draped a fold of his cloakaround her and looked down at her feet, bare and cringing from thecold metal of the doorframe.

"Catherine, you're going to--"

"--catch your death," she chimed in, and they both laughedfoolishly, and stood looking at each other, until she stepped back,onto the carpet, and tugged on his arm.

He turned back for a moment and gathered up the gift he'd brought,before he followed her.

Leaving him to shut the balcony doors, Catherine crossed to one ofthe low couches before the fireplace, lit against the chill of earlyspring. Small blue jets of gas danced over the surface of imitationwood.

"It's not the real thing, but it'll do when your feet are cold,"Catherine said. The words seemed to tumble out involuntarily to fillthe hovering silence, and she bit her lip to still them. She reachedup a hand to him. He took it, and settled beside her. But as soon ashe was seated, she pulled out of his grip, and twisted her fingersinto a nervous little knot in her lap. He sensed her struggle forwords.

"You weren't...upset about the flowers?" she ventured, at length."It was such a...public way to get your attention. I thought youmight be angry."

He shook his head, a tiny smile creasing his mouth. "I wasn'tangry. Baffled, perhaps, until I realized you were the giver."

"And you guessed, about the meanings?"

"Mary knew of the Language of Flowers. She and most of the otherwomen Below think it is very romantic. Father, however, chose adifferent word."

"Oh?" Catherine's eyebrows arched a question.

"Devious," Vincent replied, and was rewarded with the rich littlelaugh that was Catherine's alone.

"I had to do something to distract you from all that brooding,"she said, with a hint of exasperation. "Vincent, it's not fair toshut me completely out of your life when something goes wrong. Ineed--"

She paused, and suddenly looked straight into his eyes, as thoughtesting the effect of these two words on him. He met her looksteadily.

"You need to know why I kept you away."

She swallowed, and nodded. "Was it because I came into theTunnels, when you'd told me not to--I was just so worried, whenPascal and the children didn't come, and I know I should have comedown another way, or signaled, or--"

He cut her off with a finger to her lips. "Hush, Catherine." Hereyes widened a little in surprise, but she subsided obediently.

"You could have done nothing but what you did, and still beyourself. And I..." He sighed heavily, and his shoulders roundedbeneath the weight of the admission he was about to make. "I, too,could do nothing but what I did, because of who I am." He raised ahand to ward off the protest he sensed she was gathering. "That iswhy I sent you away. I could not bear to have you close, when thatother self was also so near. It...it shames me."

"Vincent." Catherine leaned forward, grasped his hand tightly inboth of hers. "I know that maybe you can't accept this now, but Ineed you to know how I feel about--about that other self." Shefloundered for a moment, then continued, earnestness written in everytense line of her face. "I told you, when it happened, that there aredark places in all of us. And the dark places aren't bad, they justare."

"Not like mine." A whisper, only. It was all he could manage.

"Exactly like yours!" Her voice had risen, and he felt her biteback the hectic emotion before she spoke again. "It's just that therest of us aren't equipped to enforce our rage, the way you are. Andyou're so much more sensitive to the hurts done to others--it followsthat your rage, too, would be greater."

He had turned his face away, as though he could shut out her wordsif he didn't watch her mouth form them. From the corner of his eye hesaw her bend her head, trying to see beyond the curve of his hair,fallen forward off his shoulders. She let go of his hand and reachedfor the wire-taut muscles of his back. When he offered no protest,she began to knead them firmly, coaxing some of the stiffnessaway.

"Can't you even try to see that part of you in a different way,Vincent?" she pressed.

He was silent for a long time, surrendering to the soothing feelof her hands, trying to sort out his jostling thoughts. The bond toldhim indisputably that this was Catherine's truth. There was pain inher when she spoke of his darkness--but it was only the reflection ofhis own pain. The existence of the beast in him--even the sight ofits deeds--did not trouble her, except in that they wounded him. Thisdisturbed him, somehow, rather than being the comfort sheintended.

When he could, he turned to her, gathering her hands in his. "Icannot promise you, Catherine, to accept your words. But I canpromise to try. And never to shut you away from me again, unless itis what we both wish."

Because he was touching her, he felt clearly the tinystruggle--the prosecutor's drive to push the argument further; thewoman's instinct that told her she would not move him on this.Finally, she nodded, and tried to smile. "So. Where does that leaveus?" she asked lightly.

But her hands in his were trying to make fists, and her voice wastoo tight for levity.

"Together," he replied. "It leaves us together." Stroking thebacks of her hands with his callused thumbs, he made her absorb this.Together.

"Words are sometimes too cumbersome, or shaped too oddly to bearour feelings well," he went on. "I believe that...flowers...mightcarry your answer more fittingly."

And he laid in her lap the carefully chosen blooms he'd broughtfrom Annabel's. Catherine opened the package, the tissue rustling alittle with the trembling of her fingers.

On top lay the battered, stained little book that had unlocked forhim the mystery of the flowers, and beneath it, a wealth of redroses, a half dozen, dressed in greenery with waxy, sweet-scentedleaves, and woven with tiny sprays of purple.

Catherine smiled, and he watched her eyes mist. "Roses," shemurmured. "I don't need the book to tell me what those mean. Theothers?"

Vincent pointed with a claw tip. "These are myrtle. They meanlove. And these, forget-me-nots. True love."

Catherine took a breath, lips parted, but didn't speak. Instead,she buried her face among the blossoms and breathed deeply, as thoughshe took in love itself along with the flowers' fragrance. "Love, andlove, and love," she murmured, lifting her face. She turned,wordless, and looked into Vincent's eyes, and right down into hissoul.

There were flowers there.

The End