KALEIDOSCOPE II
PART 1Cynthia Hatch
PROLOGUE
The city's tallest buildings spiked the clouds, releasing a torrent that slowed traffic tar below, sending windshield wipers into a frantic dance. An unseasonable wind scooped up soggy bits of paper that brushed through the mud-splattered legs of pedestrians to plaster themselves against the rain-streaked walls.
It was a dismal morning, its greyness more typical of winter than a summer's day. Even the park could not drink fast enough to keep its bridle paths from turning to mud, and the gutters gurgled noisily in its wet, winding roads. The water disappeared into the secret places underneath, but deeper still, unseen and unsuspected, sealed against the elements, as though enchanted, a room lay bathed in golden light.
It would have been a welcome haven to those seeking shelter from the shower - windless and dry, warmed by soft flame, but no one would be fortunate enough to stumble upon it. It seemed separated from the city above as much by time as by distance. The arch of its stone walls might have predated any civilization at all, yet the torchlit passageways radiating from it suggested the stronghold of some feudal lord.
Its furnishings represented the craftsmanship of more than one century. A discerning eye might even have picked out in the shadows, objects not unlike those found in the homes above. Having noticed these things, mass-produced in recent times, an observer might have felt satisfied that this chamber was not so mysterious after all -- might have, if it weren't for the extraordinary presence who dominated the room. His face, his clothing, the aura of mythic power that surrounded him, even in repose, would have disoriented even the most rational of men. He might have been a legendary warrior keeping vigil over some fantastic icon. Indeed, though he lay quietly, deep in his own thoughts, his eyes continually went to the small figure curled next to him.
He had been charged to watch over her -- by what? By some capricious deity, by fate or solely by his own heart, the heart he'd given to her long ago? In her small hands, lying tranquil now beneath her cheek, he knew lay his own destiny: doom or salvation. He would accept either willingly for moments like these, when the miracle of her love whispered through him like the fragrance of some exotic flower, reminding him that she was where she had wanted to be: in his world . . . in his bed . . . in his arms.
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It had long been a source of amazement to her that in a city of concrete and glass, crowded with too many people, too many fast-moving objects, the most substantial thing of all was one she could neither touch nor see nor even adequately describe -- the mysterious connection that tied her to him. It defied the laws of physics, and now, as she slept, it seemed she'd found the reverse of this phenomenon.
She knew she was dreaming; a part of her stood aside, dutifully noting the fact. The figures in her dream were only shadows, their actions mere ideas conjured by her mind. Why then could she feel so clearly the soft tufts of hair beneath her fingertips as she stroked his hand, the smooth warmth of his palm caressing her cheek? She touched his neck and felt the beat of his pulse beneath the heated skin. It seemed she could count every lash that shadowed his eyes, eyes in which there were only answers -- no questions, no doubts, no fears.
He swept her toward him, and the feel of his body surrounding her was solid, complete with warmth and weight and the welcome pressure of his arms, pulling her closer. How could she doubt the reality of a kiss that rushed through her veins like wildfire? What phantom lover could cause her heart to pound so, as his fingers traced down the golden chain at her throat? Surely, the intense physical quality of this dream would allow her to hold onto it, to believe in it, through the breathtaking conclusion it promised.
But no -- already she found herself slipping away, lifted from his embrace by the warm, sensual currents that encircled them, floating slowly upwards toward the surface, when she had wanted so desperately to drown.
Clues to another reality began to gently invade her senses: the distant rumble of a subway, the acrid scent of a burned out candle. She recognized the cool, still air of the tunnels and the warm, comfort of the mattress beneath her. It seemed as though the yellow glow from the stained glass window played perceptibly behind her closed eyelids.
She lingered on the edge of wakefulness, teasing herself with these incidental reminders of where she was. They were totally unnecessary, and at last she allowed herself to focus on the feeling that waited to flood all her senses, luxuriating in the awareness that he was right beside her, though they no longer touched. Involuntarily, her lips curved into a smile.
"Do you always smile in your sleep?" There was a note of gentle amusement in the whispered question.
"I doubt it." she whispered back. "It's only that for once when I open my eyes. I know I'll see something that will make me very happy." She felt lighter than air, like a loose balloon soaring instinctively into the sky. Her eyes fluttered open and found the blue serenity they sought.
He was leaning on one elbow, his head tilted as he looked down at her with genuine curiosity. "And what do you usually see?"
"My alarm clock. It can look pretty hostile when I haven't had enough sleep."
"But you're rested now. No bad dreams?"
"Bad ones -- no. But I had some wonderful ones. Did you dream, Vincent?"
He pulled his gaze from hers. His left knee was bent, and he reached to straighten a rawhide thong that bound its leather patch. "Yes."
Suddenly, she thought she knew the answer to a question she had never dared to broach -- whether he, in fact, could sometimes share her dreams. The implication sent a catalogue of recent images rippling through her mind -- particularly those she'd enjoyed last night. This was not the time or place to discuss something so intimate -- not here, in the warm nest their bodies had created together, and she pushed the notion aside to be examined at a later date.
"Vincent, I really don't think I could have gotten through last night apart from you. Thank you for letting me do this."
He turned back to her, his long hair trailing across her shoulder with the movement.
"Catherine, I've been called upon to do many unpleasant things in my life, but holding you all night was not among them."
"I'm glad," she smiled, wondering how his candid look, so cool in its clear blueness, could convey such incredible warmth. "Vincent," she said hesitantly. "do you think I could have a turn at doing that?"
"At what?"
"At holding you."
He was clearly unsure about the nature of the request. She could sense that he was trying to gauge her feelings, to understand her intent, and hoped he could feel that she didn't have any motive in mind that might complicate the situation. After a moment, he reached over to pull her toward him, but she shook her head.
"No. I mean like this." Her hand slid up and around his neck. The soft hair at the nape was warm and faintly damp from sleep, as she gently tried to tip him forward. He resisted, looking mildly alarmed. "It's okay, Vincent -- really. Please. Come here -- just for a minute." She coaxed him gently toward her, smiling reassurance, until he was lying partially across her, and she could put her arms around him, softly rubbing the broad shoulders, urging him to relax.
"I'm too heavy," he protested at her ear.
"No, you're not." In fact, the warm weight of him, pressing her into the bedding felt delicious, and she hugged him closer.
"You cannot breathe, Catherine."
"It's not important. You breathe for me. This feels nice, doesn't it?"
"For me, perhaps."
She laughed softly, snuggling into his sleep-tousled hair. "For me, too. I've wanted to do something like this for a very long time."
Her determination and delight had apparently gotten through to him, as gradually the muscles in his shoulders began to relax. She stroked him, soothingly, thinking of all the times she'd longed to take him in her arms and comfort him. It was almost maternal, this urge to hold him close and to protect him. It should have seemed ludicrous, given his greater size and strength, but it felt very right somehow, and she sighed in contentment. In a lifetime, would it ever be possible to sort out the myriad emotions he aroused in her?
His sensitivity, his unconscious innocence called to some mothering instinct deep within her. and she was indulging that now, but there had been many times when he had played the parental role, nurturing her when she needed it most. He was her teacher, her spiritual guide, her protector, her conscience and inspiration, and always, always her truest friend. She opened her eyes to find a web of golden hair lying softly across her line of vision. Peering through it gave everything in the chamber a diffuse glow -- magical. She combed her fingers through the tangles that had sneaked in during the night, loosening them with care, smoothing the strands back over his shoulders.
When he was little, when he'd been hurt or frightened, had there been women here below who had cuddled him and kissed away the tears? Probably there had been, and Father had undoubtedly tried to compensate for his lack of a mother, but it wasn't the same. The thought that he had never known the gentle comfort of a woman's touch, the touch of an unconditional, feminine love meant only for him, wrenched at her heart, and he raised himself to look at her. "What?"
"I was just thinking about when you were little -- how I wish I could have been here for you -- to hug you when things went wrong."
"You would have been smaller still."
"I know, it's crazy, but sometimes I don't feel I can do enough. You deserve so much, and it makes me wish I could give you all the things you ever missed -- and be all the people you should have known. I just wish I could be everything to you."
"Catherine," he said simply, "you are."
The deep honeyed sound of his voice, the sincerity in his eyes filled her with a brightness that almost hurt, and she lowered her gaze. The neck of his muslin shirt had been pulled slightly askew, and the glimpse of golden curls it revealed unexpectedly stopped the breath in her throat. Her eyes returned involuntarily to his and held.
Oh, yes, there had been one minor item deliberately excluded in her musings about what he meant to her, but it hit her with full force now. Everything around them had dissolved away into a mist, leaving them alone and breathless. She tried to say his name, but her voice had fled with any rational thought. There was only the hammering of their hearts, as he bent over her, his hair cascading around her face. One moment his mouth hovered above hers, her own lips parting in response, the next he had turned, listening, and in one fluid movement, had swung himself lithely off the bed, going to stand at the writing table where he casually lit a gutted candle.
She had no idea what had precipitated this sudden change in course, but reflexively followed his lead, rising to sit on the edge of the bed, running her hands quickly over her uncombed hair, just as a figure appeared at the entrance.
"Vincent! I thought you'd already left. Father just sent some of the children to look for you at the -- Oh, Catherine, I didn't see you there."
"Good morning. Mary," she said brightly, opening her eyes wide in hopes they wouldn't look puffy with sleep.
"I'm sorry if I interrupted any-- That is, I didn't expect to see you here so early or -- well, not that I expect to see you here at any time of day really -- I mean, in the daytime with your job and all. But it's Saturday, of course, isn't it?"
"Mary, it's all right," Vincent's soothing voice drew the flustered woman's attention away from Catherine who suspected she'd begun to look rather like a startled owl in her determination to appear chipper. "Did you want to see me about something?"
"No, I only came to drop off this mending. Father does want to talk to you, but he assumed you'd gotten up long ago. Which I'm sure you did," she added hastily. "He thought you'd be with one of the work crews, but 1 can explain to him that you're -- that you're not."
"Thank you, Mary. Please tell him I'll be there soon."
"Of course. Well, I'll see you later on. And it was so nice seeing you again, Catherine." She smiled uncertainly and fled the chamber.
Catherine smacked her hands over her face, falling back onto the bed. "Oh, God, Vincent -- what do you suppose she's thinking?"
"She's thinking that as it is a Saturday, you decided to pay me an early morning visit."
She sat up again, looking at him in amazement. "You can tell that?"
"I can hope that," he said wryly. "Catherine, Mary is a gentle soul -- totally incapable of masking her emotions. She was distressed only because she feared she had interrupted us."
"That's what I'm afraid of. What does she think she interrupted?"
"Probably something far less interesting than she did." He retrieved her shoes and handed them to her, sitting down beside her to pull on his boots.
"It's just that I'd hate to be the cause of upsetting anyone down here."
"Catherine, only one person down here is upset." He smoothed her hair back and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Would you like me to arrange some breakfast for you before I talk to Father?"
"No. thanks. I know you have work to do, and I need to go back up and change. I'll have to use the park entrance, won't I?"
"For a while, yes."
She looked around the chamber, hating suddenly to leave it. "I know I've kept you from things you should be doing. I can find my own way out."
He stood and picked up his cloak from the chair. Not bothering to contradict her with words, he held out his hand, and she went to him, gratefully accepting it.