SEEING THE LIGHT

By JoAnn Baca

With thanks to the members of BBTV for the suggestion during a discussion.

Kneeling on the threadbare Persian carpet in his chamber, Vincent opened the trunk where his most precious treasures were stored. Quietly he dug down deep inside it, finding by feel the sheaf of news clippings he was seeking, yellowed with age and soft from frequent handling. With great care not to disturb the other contents of the trunk, he removed the papers, bound with a faded hair ribbon now two decades old.

Behind him, up on his bed, Catherine slept. She had been exhausted, worn out from the efforts she had taken on his behalf, injured and fragile from her violent confrontation with the henchmen who had kidnapped her to find Lisa Campbell. He had insisted she stay the night here, in his chamber, where he could watch over her. It was a sign of her extreme fatigue that she had merely nodded and fallen into the bed, curling up like a child as he pulled the covers over her. She had been asleep before the quilt had settled around her shoulders.

Vincent rose, clutching the clippings in one hand, heedless of wrinkling or tearing them now, where before he had always handled them so reverently. Interviews, reviews…all the articles he could find in discarded newspapers and magazines about the brilliant dancer who had taken New York by storm, rising to prima ballerina status within a few short years of discovery. How he had read and re-read every line, relishing the descriptions of her air of mystery, her exquisite beauty, her transcendent performances.

Her legions of fans had been kept in thrall, as he had been, spellbound by her artistry, and imagining her to be in person as she was on stage – sensitive, passionate, deeply compelling. He had felt sure she was all those things, and he had remained captive to the idea…the ideal…of her.

Whatever hold Lisa had once had on him had been shattered by her reappearance Below. He saw her, finally and clearly, for the person she truly was: once and always, a selfish child with no love for or desire to understand anyone else. As Father had once reminded him, there was a danger in confusing the magic with the magician. He had fallen into that trap with Lisa for far too long.

The fire in the brazier blazed briefly, crisping the paper before turning it to blackened ash. Vincent, his face glowing in the flame’s light, fed its searching fingers, adding article after article until the hungry blaze had consumed every one. The ribbon, last of all, he held above the flames. It caught, and the fire licked its way up the length of it. Vincent held it until a mere inch was left, then opened his fingers and let the remnant drop into the brazier. For a moment he could see the residue, but soon enough even the ashes were gone to dust.

He turned away from the fire and looked down at the woman he loved, sleeping in the bed that she had once before healed in. The magic of her was real, yet she was no magician, conjuring a persona to entice him. She was only herself, the woman who loved him so much she would go into the lion’s den at his request, to protect someone she didn’t know simply because he had asked her to. No, she was not a magician. He knew her, too, for what she truly was: someone with a full heart who braved all for those she loved…including him.

He closed the lid of his trunk of memories and sat on it, settling down to watch over the woman he loved…and who loved him…as she slept.

The brazier cast its heat into the darkness, its coals banked but glowing, giving off a golden light.