KALEIDOSCOPE  III
 Cynthia Hatch

"It was a compliment," Jeff insisted somewhat plaintively. "Honest, Cathy. And would you tell this woman there's a law against using the American flag as a weapon?" 

"Well, I intended to carry a musket instead," Marie pointed out. "but I couldn't find one. Molly Pitcher was a more exalting character than Betsy Ross. She got out there and fought while Betsy just sat at home and sewed, but anyway, Cathy, there's bound to be plenty of eligible men there tonight. Jenny's invited lots of people and so has Michael. An unattached woman could have a pretty good time." 

"The operative word is unattached." Jeff reminded her. 

"Oh, I know. I got one of the last terrific guys to crawl through." Marie reached over to give his bewigged head a placating pat. 

Catherine smiled serenely, letting the banter flow over her, as the darkened landscape slipped by. The name Molly evoked the vision of a dark-haired little girl, bittersweet, of feelings almost maternal. A dream image, she was sure. Molly . . . Pitcher . . . the woman with a pitcher in a painting. Water. What did it all mean? What were her own subconscious thoughts trying to tell her? Did they mean anything at all? The elusive messages lost their attraction in the realities of this night. 

Every mile took her closer to the party, every passing moment meant one less until she'd see him again. The two of them walking the midnight city, unafraid, arm in arm. The familiar streets and landmarks taking on a whole new significance as he held her hand, looked into her eyes, as they shared whatever the night might bring together. 

The massive stretch of buildings, punctuated by lights and the occasional glow of a jack-o'-lantern, began to shrink and break up into uneven stretches, now softened by the black shapes of trees. Not long after leaving the expressway, the car turned into a long drive, and the sound of gravel crunching under the tires replaced the steady hum of the pavement, as they swung around a curve flanked by orange lanterns. The house itself was brightly lit at every window. The sounds of music and laughter reached out to greet them as they left the car and joined the other guests, some wrestling awkwardly with their unfamiliar attire as they climbed the wide front steps. 

"Here, Cath, let me help you with your hat," Marie offered, and she handed it to her gratefully, shaking out the wide skirts and petticoats that had never been designed for the back seat of a Japanese car. 

The night was unseasonably warm, and fortunately there was little wind to fight with the tall, conical hennin, as she and Marie fastened it into place. The veil that trailed from the very tip fell almost to her feet, light as gossamer. "Thanks, Marie." 

"All right." Jeff had slipped a pair of spectacles onto his nose. He grasped his kite in one hand, gallantly offering an arm to each of his companions. "The two most beautiful women in the colonies. Ben Franklin never had it so good." 

"That's not what I heard." Catherine laughed, and together they swept up the stairs and into the bright foyer. 

It opened onto several large rooms, all crowded with brightly costumed revelers. A valet materialized to take her burgundy cloak. Beside the entrance to the left hung a huge mirror in a gilded frame. For an instant the image it flung back at her looked like a painting, a detailed rendering of a woman in the court dress of centuries ago: velvet of dusty rose, the low, square-cut bodice encrusted with tiny jewels, the generous skirts falling from a girdle embroidered with golden thread that encircled the high waistline. The figure moved and a glimpse of sheer, decorative underskirts flitted across the glass, the long veil of palest pink whispering out behind her in the drafty hall. The only jewelry she wore winked like fire and ice at her bosom. 

She studied the image only a moment before self-consciousness overtook her, but she was pleased with the effect. For all the crowds of people gathered here, some of whom were already turning to admire the vision in the doorway, this costume had been chosen for one man and one man alone. Somehow she thought the idea of herself as a medieval princess would make him smile. 

She spotted Jenny, resplendent in scarlet and black lace, the high, jeweled comb that held her mantilla bobbing as she talked, and Catherine thought she had never seen her look more lovely. There were several people in the group, but the slim matador at her side, his cape thrown jauntily back across one shoulder, must surely be Michael Compton. 

Jenny with her wonderful, strange intuition glanced up as if she'd felt Catherine looking at her, and her face broke into a wide smile as she spoke quickly to the matador. The two of them came to meet her halfway across the polished floor. 

"Cathy, you look absolutely gorgeous," she greeted her. "Like something out of a painting." 

"So do you, Jen," Catherine laughed. The dramatic colors her friend wore perfectly set off her dark coloring but were probably not completely responsible for the sparkle in her eyes or the flush on her cheeks. "Or should I say, Senorita?" 

"Cathy, I'd like you to meet Michael Compton. Michael, this is my oldest and dearest friend, Cathy Chandler." 

"Hello, Michael, I'm really glad to meet you." He was very blond for a matador, his eyes light blue behind the offbeat touch of aviator glasses, his smile easy and warm. 

"Cathy, I can't tell you how happy I am that we finally got together. Jenny tells me I won't really know her until I've spent some time with you." 

"Well, I'm not sure what that means, unless she wants me to be the one to tell you all the terrible things we did together when we were younger." 

"You've got it all wrong, Cath," Jenny admonished. "You're supposed to tell him how you've known me for ages and I'm a terrific human being." 

"I've known her for ages, Michael," she responded solemnly, "And she's a terrific human being." 

"A sincere endorsement, like that--what can I say? I'm sold." Michael grinned, slipping his arm around Jenny's waist. 

"Jenny's told me a little about the journals. They sound absolutely fascinating." 

"Yes, it's a little humbling to realize how tough the people were in those days--tough and idealistic. But at the same time it's inspiring. I even suggested to Jenny here that we hitch up the buckboard and head for the Badlands." 

"And what did she say?" 

"Oh, she's a city girl--she turned me down." 

"Not exactly," Jenny amended. "I offered a compromise. I told him he could put the top down on his convertible and I'd be willing to go as far as Newark." 

"Is she a trouper, or what?" Michael said approvingly. "Can I get you both something to drink? Maybe we can find a relatively quiet spot to get acquainted." 

They placed their orders, and he headed for the bar, leaving them alone in the crowd. "So what do you think, Cath? Is he what you expected?" 

"I didn't know what to expect, Jen," she laughed. Her friend's enthusiasm was infectious. "But, yes, he's very attractive, and he certainly seems nice." 

"He doesn't look bad in those tight pants either." Jenny said wickedly. "Honestly, Cath, that really is an exquisite dress." 

"Thanks. I thought you might decide to get out the Medusa costume again." 

"Are you kidding? Can you imagine what a psychologist would make of his date wearing rubber snakes?" 

"I see your point." Catherine laughed. 

"You didn't bring anyone?" 

"No. . . I can't stay too awfully late. This is a beautiful house. The party already seems to be a success." 

"I know I'm having a great time," Jenny laughed. "Would you like me to introduce you to some---" 

"I really came to see you, Jen--and Michael, of course. Don't worry about me. I have every intention of enjoying myself tonight." 

When Michael returned, they sought out a sofa and spent the next half hour talking. Other guests drifted in and out of the conversation, and Catherine decided she liked Jenny's choice very much. He might have seemed an interesting man in any circumstances, but she found, when Jenny would leave them briefly to introduce some newcomer, that unconsciously his eyes kept returning to her across the room. It touched her--that telltale sign. She recognized the feelings that prompted it, the intense, secret pleasure just in looking at that special someone, the constant pull of that person's presence no matter how many others filled the room. 

For the first time tonight a wave of melancholy gripped her. The orchestra had embarked on a sweeping romantic tune. Did the couples dancing to it appreciate how very lucky they were? For a moment, she wished for nothing so much as to be away from the opulent surroundings and back in a stark, stone cavern, carving pumpkins among the sounds of childish chatter, basking in the glow of his nearness. 

"Cathy, I want you to have a turn with Madame Zola." 

"Who?"

"Madame Zola--the fortune teller. You'll find her in the garden room--first tent on the right." 

"I'm not big on that sort of thing, Jen. You know that." 

"She's really wonderful Cath," Jenny insisted. "Absolutely amazing. Wouldn't you like to know what the future has in store for you?" 

"I'd rather decide that myself." 

"But there could be other forces at work--powerful forces that can't be denied," Jenny enthused. 

"How do you feel about all this?" Catherine appealed to Michael. 

"Well, there's no doubt that you're being confronted by a powerful force, Cathy, it's been my experience that it's better not to deny her." 

"Okay," she laughed. "I guess it couldn't hurt. Wish me luck." 

"Oh, it will be good fortune," Jenny called gaily after her. "I'm pretty sure." 

It wasn't hard to find the garden room. Some of the French doors that made up one long wall had been opened to the unusually temperate night. The scent of water drifted in from the Sound, and a gentle breeze stirred the tiers of diaphanous cloth that formed a large enclosure in one corner. As she approached, a purple veil was pushed aside and a man in a gorilla suit emerged. At least she assumed it was a man. If Madame Zola was as amazing as Jenny said, he might be simply a customer who'd rubbed her the wrong way. 

Lifting the veil, she stepped inside where the gusts of air no longer stirred. The exterior of the tent was multi-colored, but here the surrounding cloth was all midnight blue, hung with tiny silver stars and moons. Only the woman sitting at its center interrupted the design. Her embroidered dress was vibrant with reds and yellows and greens, her hair, a dark auburn, tumbled around a plump face whose eyes were heavily kohled, the lips a bright scarlet. She wore countless bracelets and necklaces of gold and brass and vividly colored beads. Big, golden hoops swayed at her cars. 

It was only her highly trained sense of observation that saw behind the perfect image of a Gypsy to--she was almost certain--a half-remembered glimpse of one of the secretaries who worked at Jenny's office. 

"Come in. Don't be afraid." A hand rich with rings motioned her to take a seat on a low velvet stool near the table. "I am Madame Zola. I see all, know all. We will look into the crystal ball together and see many things." 

"Do I need to cross your palm with silver?" 

"No, no. It's included--part of the hospitality." The woman hunched over the gleaming glass ball in the center of the table, moving her bejeweled hands on either side of it with a coaxing motion. "Ah, yes. I see that you work in the city--a large building . . . lots of people working there . . .and papers--everywhere papers." 

Catherine nodded. So this was to be a generic fortune--one to suit almost anyone who might venture into Madame Zola's presence. 

"And the past. Yes, there in the crystal--a little girl . . . lots of happy times, lots of friends . . . but sorrow, yes definitely sorrow and tears too." 

"That's true," she said politely. 

"You went to school. Many years of school. Many adventures. What's this?" Carefully drawn eyebrows pulled inward as she squinted into the depths of the ball that seemed to Catherine only to make an intriguing jumble of the decor. All the little silver stars and moons turned topsy-turvy. It reminded her of something, but she couldn't recall what it might be. "I see a castle--very beautiful, very old. You are a prisoner in this castle." 

What now--past life experiences? Well, she couldn't fault the logic. A soothsayer would be on pretty safe ground describing visions of a past that her client couldn't possibly be expected to remember. Or had it merely been her costume that set Madame Zola's imagination soaring in that direction? If so, she wondered idly, what on earth had she told the gorilla? 

"Oh, yes. The sun is setting, but something draws you . . . tales of a horrible murder . . . on this date centuries ago. You long to stay and find out for yourself if the stories of hideous screams from the death chamber are true . . . and now it's too late. The doors are locked. There's no escape." 

Catherine gasped, her wandering attention suddenly focused on the woman's words. "Am I alone in this castle?" 

"No," came the hesitant reply. "There is someone else, but the face is hazy. I can't make it out. You are both frightened now, but still you can't help laughing, and every moment you wait to hear the shrieks, echoing down through the centuries, of the poor king being murdered." 

"Edward II," Catherine supplied. 

"Whoever." Madame Zola dismissed the trivial point with a wave of a plump hand. 

"September 21--Berkeley Castle." There was only one other person who knew about that incident--she of the "hazy" face. 

It had been the summer before their senior year, and they'd come upon the castle in the late afternoon when its stone walls glowed in the last rays of the sun. They had lingered behind on the last tour, daring each other, mildly startled when they realized that everyone else had really gone. The old shadows had settled in and with them the palpable sense of the drama that had played itself out here over six centuries ago. Every creak and tiny sound in the ancient house made them jump, until they'd both set to hammering on the huge oak door, alternately yelling for help and collapsing in hysterical giggles. Madame Zola seemed to have missed the slight detail that she'd almost wet her pants.

"That's truly amazing," Catherine complimented.

"What else? I'm an amazing person. Oh, but this is bad. This is very bad. The work you do--it brings you into much danger . . . ruthless people, and you are not always as careful as you should be. The crystal tells me you have been very lucky, but you should beware. You would be wise to avoid such situations in the future. A nice desk job maybe. Mark my words," Madame Zola said ominously.

"Oh, I will. I'll be very careful." Yes, this fortune was definitely an Aronson production. 

"So enough of that already." The Gypsy smiled, and Catherine suspected it was an impression much more common to her, that she was relieved to have performed a rather onerous duty. "Now, let's see what the future holds. Ooh--this is nice." 

"What is?" Catherine asked amiably, staring into the pretty ball. 

"I see a stranger--a man. Very handsome. Tall and dark with eyes--"

As black as coal tar, she finished inwardly. 

" . . . that pierce straight to the soul." 

Well, two out of three's not bad, she thought. Even a fraudulent psychic was bound to hit the bulls-eye once in a while. 

"Romance." Madame Zola continued. "Such a good-looking man and nice, very nice. I see a wedding--lots of people, flowers like you wouldn't believe, and children." 

"At the wedding?" 

"No, no--this is later. They're your children--two . . . maybe three." She peered up, as if to gauge Catherine's projected cutoff point for offspring. 

"That's lovely," she smiled. "Tell me more." 

"They're good children, bright, very well-behaved. A handsome little boy and a beautiful little girl." 

"What's the other one?" 

"The other one?" 

"You said three children." 

"Oh, . . yes . . . that's hard to tell." 

"Really? Oh, the poor little thing." 

"I meant the crystal." Madame Zola shot her a reproving look. "The crystal isn't clear on whether that one's a boy or a girl." 

"I see. What about the office and all the papers--is that still there, or have I left it behind to stay with the children?" 

Once again she'd thrown a challenge to the Gypsy's powers, and brown eyes studied her swiftly, trying to determine which way the wind might blow on an issue for which she clearly hadn't been coached. "It's a little cloudy. Could be this is a choice the fates want you to decide for yourself. But you're comfortable, you know what I'm saying? He's a good provider--a house in the country, an apartment in town--maybe a nice cruise now and then. The details--who can tell? But no money worries." 

Chalk up another one for the Gypsy, Catherine thought, finding she was enjoying herself very much. "And will we be happy?" 

"What's not to be happy? The crystal is very clear. I see a long and happy life. You're crazy about this guy, and he treats you like a princess. You're one of the lucky ones." 

"One of the lucky ones," Catherine repeated softly with a smile. "Thank you, Madame Zola. I appreciate your . . . sharing your amazing powers with me." 

"So, what good are powers, if they can't bring a smile?" Madame Zola favored her with one of her own, as Catherine rose to leave. "And by the way, that's a drop-dead gorgeous thing you're wearing." 

"What . . . the gown?" 

"No--that necklace, the crystal. It's a very nice piece." 

"Yes . . . thank you." Despite all the jewelry that dripped from Madame Zola's ample figure, she was shrewd enough to recognize in the simple pendant something extraordinary, and Catherine thought, as she lifted the purple veil and moved out into the hubbub of the party, she might indeed have hidden perceptions.

She went in search of Jenny--to thank her. The session with Madame Zola was obviously meant as a loving gift, a light-hearted reminder that Jenny, who felt her own most romantic dreams coming true, wished the same for her best friend. She knew that impulse--being in love and wishing that everyone could share the feelings that suddenly made the world a wondrous place and all the people in it secretly good and kind if only they could find the love that would inspire them toward their better selves. 

She did, in fact, know many of the people at this party, though their costumes sometimes made identification an amusing proposition. She stopped to talk with several guests, refused invitations to dance from others with the excuse that she had to find the hostess. She'd always enjoyed dancing, but the thought of it, even as a casual diversion, had no appeal. Instead, she hugged an image in her heart--the image of the two of them waltzing in the Great Hall and the kiss that had followed. 

No, of course, that had been months before their first kiss. Sometimes fantasies . . . dreams could seem so real, but then the reality of him was so much the stuff that dreams were made on. Love blurred the boundaries between fantasy and reality, blending them together in a magical way that made every touch an emotion, every glance from those heavenly blue eyes a physical caress. Impatiently, she looked at the great rococo clock on the wall. Still two hours at least before she could make an exit, two hours till she would be free to gaze into those eyes. 

Two hours less than there had been, she reminded herself sternly, as Jenny rushed toward her. 

"Well, how was it?" 

"It was great, Jen," she grinned, giving her friend an affectionate hug. "You were right, she's absolutely amazing." 

"And I understand she takes terrific shorthand." 

"Michael, please," Jenny said with a blush. "This is Halloween--nothing is what it seems." 

"Sorry," he grinned. "Cathy, if Jenny doesn't mind, I'd like to ask you to dance." 

Catherine suspected that, far from minding, this too had been Jenny's idea. Or maybe Michael was just sensitive to her dateless status. It was funny to think that to them she must seem somewhat of a wallflower. They were going out of their way to alleviate her supposed loneliness, when she had never felt less alone, more thoroughly loved, more delighted with her status in life, but she loved them for caring and couldn't think of a graceful way to refuse the dance. 

"I'd like that, Michael." 

They moved out into the center of the large reception room. The musicians, who alone of all the men in the room wore tuxedos, were really quite good. Nevertheless, as they began to dance, she felt the dreaded wave of longing, the bite of injustice. It should be someone else whose arms encircled her, someone who could make everything else in the room disappear. 

"Is anything wrong?" 

"No, Michael. I'm sorry, I'm just a little out of practice." 

"It's not that. Your dancing's fine. You just looked a little sad for a minute." She didn't deny it, didn't explain, and after a pause, he spoke with a touch of uncertainty. "Cathy, I hope you don't think that what's happened between me and Jenny has all been too fast--that I've somehow been unfair, monopolizing so much of her time." 

"What?" she said, surprised. "No, Michael, that's not it at all. I'm thrilled that you two seem so happy together. I don't think you can put a timetable on these things. It's nobody's business but yours and Jen's." 

"Well, sometimes it surprises me," he said with an abashed smile that was somehow endearing. "I've never met anyone that I felt this way about before. There's a feeling like there couldn't possibly be enough time to say and do all the things I'd like to with her." 

"I think I understand." Catherine returned his smile. 

"I just wanted you to know that my intentions are honorable--whatever in the hell that means." 

"You certainly don't need my approval. Neither does Jen." 

"You'd be surprised how important your opinion is to her--or maybe you wouldn't be, I don't know." 

"Are you telling me that the only reason you asked me to dance was to win my approval?" she teased. 

"Definitely not." he returned in an injured tone. "However, if you'd like something to eat . . . or a contribution to your favorite charity . . . or maybe half my stock portfolio, I'm prepared to meet your terms." 

Her laugh pealed out, joining the last notes of the song as it ended. "Believe me, Michael. I know Jen. I could march right back there and announce that I've just recognized you from the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference." 

"That's even better," he grinned. "I get off cheap." 

"Your portfolio's perfectly safe," she assured him as Jenny approached.

"Stocks? You were talking about stocks?" Jenny exclaimed. "Honestly, am I the only person with an ounce of romance in their soul?" 

"Au contraire, Senorita," Michael replied with a flourish of his cape. "May I have the honor of this dance?" 

"Well, the language's a little garbled, but I like the idea." Jenny smiled at Catherine and turned back into Michael's arms. 

Catherine watched them whirl off across the floor, feeling their happiness waft over her. It was ridiculous to feel so cheated when the clock was ticking away--slowly, but it was ticking, and then all the reminders of other people's romances, other people's right to dance in each other arms would fade away in the brilliant light that waited somewhere in the city streets. 

The faint touch of the breeze drew her with its promise of solitude, a moment away from the raucous voices, the happy couples, the sweet sound of the music that made her feel his absence so acutely. She considered retrieving her cloak, but it seemed the cold night wind was yet to blow, and the heavy velvet dress should be warm enough for a short walk. 

At the doors she discovered that others had taken advantage of the gentle weather. The music carried easily on the humid breeze, and several couples were dancing on the lantern-lit terrace. She ventured past them to find that there were actually several levels, each only a few steps below the last. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw that the last of them curved off to the right, ending just above the water's edge. Ahead she could just make out the meticulous shapes of a formal garden, but there were no lights here, and inbred caution told her to go no farther. 

Besides it was lovely on the lowest tier. A harvest moon played full and bright on the water. Far away the lights blinked, tantalizing reminders that for her the night had not yet truly begun. How beautiful it was--the combination of limpid music and soft night air, and how impossible it was not to feel the gnawing sense of incompleteness. Would there ever be a time when she wouldn't miss him as sharply as if they were never to meet again? It was as if all the seeming perfection of the moment emphasized its fatal flaw. She closed her eyes, drawing in the night air, willing him to feel the pleasure of it. 

"Catherine."

She turned slowly, half believing the sound was only in her mind. Before her at the base of the steps a great stone urn loomed on its pedestal. As she watched in stunned fascination its shadow split, and a figure stepped toward her, moonlight picking out a fringe of gold beneath the black hood. 

"Vincent!"

"I'm sorry if I startled you." 

"Startled? No . . . how did you . . . why are you . . .?" 

"I felt a need in you, Catherine--a longing." 

"For what?" she breathed, unable to supply any but the most basic reactions to his words. 

"For a dance." 

"To dance . . . with you," she nodded slowly, in a trance she noted the cool, blue sparkle of his eyes, the fall of white linen ruffles that peeked through the familiar cloak. The garment seemed extraordinarily dramatic in this romantic setting. He himself seemed larger than life, but then didn't he always? There was no doubt that the vision regarding her patiently was more than an apparition of All Hallows' Eve. It was the real thing. 

He offered his arm, and she took it, floating like a sleepwalker up the gentle steps, her eyes never leaving his face. When they reached the upper terrace, he stood gazing down at her. "You look like a princess from a fairy tale--too beautiful for the real world." 

"Did you ever dream of holding a fairy-tale princess in your arms?" 

"Yes ... but I never could have dreamed this feeling." 

The statement rang with emotion, yet he appeared quietly self-assured. They might have been deep in the benign anonymity of the tunnels rather than standing here in full view of the other people on the terrace, of anyone who happened to look out the numerous windows. His attention was concentrated solely on her for reasons that spoke clearly in his eyes, in the soft curves of his mouth. He spared no uneasy glance for the alien environment, preferring, she recognized with a certainty that was as humbling as it was affecting, to dedicate these stolen moments only to her. 

Disbelief gave way to a soaring sense of delight, and she smiled, reaching up to slide the hood from his hair, baring it to the autumn moon and the exhilarating freedom of the night. The first sweet strains of a violin began to play and without another word he took her in his arms, his easy grace flowing through her slight frame as if they danced as one, effortlessly. 

Michael had said she was a good dancer. She had found him easy to follow as well, but if what they'd been doing was dancing, then there had to be some other word for this. There was no sense of being led. His touch, warm and light, spoke only of his love. She felt borne along on the crest of the feelings between them, the magical connection that gleamed in his eyes and fluttered with soft, insistent wings in her own heart. 

The other couples on the terrace were near the house, leaving the wide expanse of flagstones under the paper lanterns only to them, and as the waltz tempo increased, they swept in wider and wider circles, her long skirts swaying gracefully with the music. Was it the pleasure tilting the marvelous blue eyes that drew her smile or her own happiness finding its home in him? Whatever its origins, the sheer elation careening through their bond bubbled up inside her, and it was a moment before she realized that the soft, trilling sound among the flutes and strings was her own laugh of pure joy. 

He answered it with a rare, unself-conscious smile, his teeth gleaming white and beautiful, and as the music slowed, finally coming to a stop, her dismay that it must end at all shattered as he pulled her close and kissed her mouth. 

"I should go now," he murmured, drawing away. "I'll see you soon--after midnight."

"Where, Vincent? Where should I meet you?" Hands reluctant to let him go fingered the creamy ruffles at his throat. "What would you like to see in the city?" 

"Whatever you want to see, Catherine. When I'm with you everything is beautiful. Everything is worth seeing." 

"I don't want to go all the way back to my apartment. How about . . . how about Grand Central Station?" 

"I'll be there," he said, shrugging his cloak in place about his shoulders. "Thank you for the dance, Catherine." A swift bow over her outstretched hand, the tingle of a kiss across her fingers, and he had turned, striding away as if he owned the earth, his cloak swaying gently with each step. 

She watched as he disappeared into the cloistered shadows of the formal garden, her heart thumping so wildly that she thought its movements must be visible in the revealing gown. A glance downward showed only the smooth rise of her breasts, the crystal winking with bright fire. 

Half giddy and inordinately satisfied, she directed her steps back to the house, taking a deep breath to adjust to this different dimension, feeling as if she'd stepped out of another world. 

The din of music and conversations closed around her again, and she was immediately waylaid by a group of attorneys, all of whom she knew, and she joined them, pretending to have no other identity than what they expected, no more pressing interest than the shoptalk that inevitably followed. She sampled the food, indulged in a second glass of wine, and turned down several requests to dance with a cheerfulness that she hoped wasn't interpreted as callous. 

Spotting Michael Compton deep in conversation with Napoleon, she smiled, and he beckoned for her to join them. "Cathy, I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine--Jim Grafton. Jim this is Cathy Chandler. She's Jenny's oldest friend." 

"Dr. Grafton?" she exclaimed as he held out his hand. "I don't know if you remember--" 

"Of course, I remember, Cathy. How are you doing?" 

"Well, that depends," she laughed, momentarily flustered. "Is that a social question or professional curiosity?" 

"Obviously, you're already acquainted," Michael said diplomatically. "If you'll excuse me I'll let you two catch up." 

"A little of both," Dr. Grafton admitted when they were alone. "You certainly look well." 

"I'm doing very well, as a matter of fact," she assured him. 

"Does that mean you found a way to integrate the conflicting commitments in your life?" 

"Good heavens, you actually remember what we talked about? It must be . . . more than a year and a half ago by now." 

"You'd be surprised how many unanswered questions there are for someone in my profession. People come into our lives, share their innermost thoughts and problems, and then more often than not they move on. We never know how life worked out for them, but we're just as curious as anyone else--more so." 

"Well, to answer your question, I'd have to say that I learned what was most important to me and to let the other things sort of take care of themselves. I'm still working on the integration part." 

"That's good," he smiled. "Have you known Michael very long?" 

"No, as a matter of fact I just met him for the first time tonight, but Jenny's told me a lot about him." 

"He's a good man. It's nice to see him loosening up and having some fun." 

"Michael?" she said, surprised. "He struck me as pretty easy-going. He's got a great sense of humor." 

"I know. You have to understand that most of my dealings with him have been professional. He's very serious about his work." 

"I can relate to that," she nodded. "A while ago a couple of the other attorneys were talking about how tough I am. They were perfectly serious, and I suppose they were right when it comes to my job, but in my private life I don't always feel very tough. I guess you know that as well as anyone." she added with a laugh. 

"We're all a lot of different people, Cathy," he said, inviting her to sit down, while he pulled up another chair beside hers. "The problem comes when those different aspects of our personalities are in conflict or when one becomes so dominant that the others are at risk. It's all about balance." 

She nodded. "Yes, I see what you mean, Dr. Grafton--" 

"Jim--please."

"All right. Jim . . . do you ever deal with dreams in therapy?" 

"Sure. They're a viable tool. Sometimes dreams can tell us what's really bothering a patient before he realizes it himself. Why do you ask?" 

"Oh, I was just curious. Every now and then something will happen, and I have a sense . . . almost of déjà vu. I know it hasn't really happened before, but it feels familiar somehow, and I wonder if it might be something I've dreamed." 

"It's quite possible." He removed his tricornered hat, letting it dangle between his fingers. "There may be issues you've dealt with subconsciously that feel familiar when you're actually confronted with them in real life. Basically, that's a healthier way to look at it than the reverse. Some people dream about something significant to them. It piques their interest, leading them to explore the issue in reality, and then they swear they're psychic. They're convinced that their dreams told them what was going to happen, when it's much more likely that the dreams stimulated them in a direction that made it possible." 

She could appreciate what he was saying, but it couldn't explain away every instance of premonition. It couldn't account for Jenny. She wondered if Michael knew yet about those dreams. No doubt they would be irresistible raw material to anyone interested in studying the human mind. "I had a very vivid dream a couple of months ago. I say 'vivid', because that's the way it felt, but I actually remember very little of it. I've wondered about what some of the symbolism might mean." 

"If it was symbolic at all," Dr. Grafton cautioned her with a smile. "As Papa Freud reminded us, ‘sometimes a cigar is just a cigar'."  She laughed, remembering her unfortunate conversation with Father concerning boxes. "I have this image of being on a staircase--made of stone. It's a real one. It really exists, and I've been there, but nothing specific occurred there that would make me feel such a violent emotional reaction to it. Yet that's what I do feel." 

"What kind of emotion?" 

"Every kind. Shock, confusion, a little sadness and an incredible sense of joy. I know those things seem mutually exclusive, but that's the feeling it gives me. I can't help wondering if I didn't dream something that would justify it, but I don't know." 

"If you never had a strong emotional experience in the place you describe, then it could be symbolic. Stairs and steps usually represent the sexual act--the building in stages to a peak, the dropping off. It's a staple of dream imagery." 

"All I can picture is being in the middle." 

"Well, that could say a lot, too," he smiled sympathetically, and she thought it was easier discussing these things with a therapist--even one dressed like Napoleon--than it had been with Father. 

"There was one thing that kept cropping up--in different forms--throughout this dream. There were so many references to water." 

"Well, I'd have to know more of the context to give you any personal interpretation" he said, running a hand over his wavy hair. "In its most basic form water can represent movement or feeling and sensuality--particularly in women's dreams." 

She nodded, thoughtfully. "And beyond the basic?" 

"As an archetypal symbol water is the life--giving source. When it continually appears in different dream scenarios, it may mean that the dreamer is on the verge of a rebirth. Maybe subconsciously he's ready to purify his life, redefine his values in some radical way. It can be a very positive image."

"Rebirth," she repeated softly. Yes, the concept felt comfortable, as if somewhere beneath the surface, she'd been preparing along those lines for some time. The temptation to examine the feeling, to understand what it meant was beguiling. 

"Excuse me, but can I get you two another drink?" 

Michael's approach broke her reverie, and she looked up, remembering her manners. "No . . . thanks. You know, I just realized what I've been doing," she said, turning to Dr. Grafton. "I've been pumping you for free professional advice, and I really should know better. I apologize." 

"You'll be sorry," Michael interjected. "Just wait till he gets a traffic ticket." 

"You don't have to worry about that," he assured her with a smile. "Cathy was merely thoughtful enough to turn the conversation to a subject that interests me. I enjoyed it." 

"Well, thank you, Jim," Catherine laughed, "for making my rudeness sound like a social grace. It was good to see you again, but I think it's time I located my ride back to the city." 

"Stay happy, Cathy," he smiled, as she got up to go. 

"Is that the kind of shrewd professional advice you give all your patients?" Michael asked skeptically. 

"Hey, it works for me," Catherine assured him. "Have you seen Jeff or Marie?" 

"By the door," he pointed. "It was really a pleasure meeting you, Cathy. I hope I'll be seeing you again before too long." 

"I'm sure you will be. I'll look forward to it, Michael. Good-night." 

Jeff signaled for her to take her time as she hurried to say good-bye to Jenny. 

"Cathy, who was that you were dancing with?" she greeted her. 

"Dancing with . . . when?" 

"A while ago--out on the terrace. The big guy with the great hair. A bunch of us were watching--you danced so beautifully together. Where did he go?" 

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you, Jen," she answered. "I'm sorry, but I really have to leave. I've had a marvelous time, and I'm so glad I got to meet Michael." 

"So am I, but it's not even midnight. Are you worried about your coach turning into a pumpkin?" 

"Hardly--I don't think there's a pumpkin left in the entire state, but I really do need to get back." 

"Well, if you insist--but the night is still young." 

"I know," Catherine said with a smile that came straight from her heart. "That's what I'm counting on." 

*****

"It's gotten a lot colder." Marie remarked as the car pulled away from the house. "I think it might rain." 

"Well, that's good, it's been a dry summer. We could use it." 

"But not on the drive home--not till after your plane takes off tomorrow." Please, not tonight, Catherine agreed inwardly. The possibility of rain hadn't crossed her mind, but it was true that the wind off the water had been cooler they waited for the attendant to bring the car. Through the window she could see wisps of clouds sliding across the moon's round face. Not tonight--of all nights of the year. 

"I must be getting old," Marie yawned. "I'm really beat. How about you, Cathy?" 

Catherine murmured something she hoped would be interpreted as assent. In fact, she'd never felt more alert, more brimming with eager energy, but she wasn't particularly anxious to carry on a running conversation. She was enjoying the heady balance of remembering the magical dance, hugging it to herself with a secret smile, and luxuriating in the anticipation that set her nerves tingling.

This time they were not only coming closer together by the minute, but by the mile. Was he already there--in the city waiting for her? The details of how he managed to travel so far so fast were not something she cared to dwell on, knowing the inherent dangers that accompanied them. 

There was another secret to enjoy as well. Jenny had seen him. Jenny had seen them dancing together. Someday she hoped it could be more, but for now it was enough to know what Jenny didn't--that she had unwittingly witnessed the proof of dreams come true. All Jen's wishes that she too might find someone to love had long been granted, and tonight they had whirled and glided under the autumn moon in front of her very eyes. Someday perhaps Catherine would remind her of the scene, remind her and tell her what it meant. 

Jeff reacted to her request to be dropped at the station with surprise. "What on earth for, Cathy? You're not going somewhere tonight?" 

"I'm meeting a contact--to pick up some important papers. I'll grab a cab afterwards." It wasn't often that an outright lie was necessary, but she couldn't chance the curiosity a less direct excuse might arouse. 

"You sure you don't want us to wait?" 

"I'll be fine. It was great seeing you both again, and I really appreciate the ride." She slipped out of the back seat, fastening the tall hat in place once again, and walked with determined steps toward the glass doors. As the car pulled away, she paused, and before she could decide which way to go, he was standing in front of her, hood thrown back, not looking the least like someone who had recently undergone a harrowing journey. 

"It will be hours until dawn, Catherine. There's still no trace of rain, and by the grace of some powerful sorcery--" 

"One side, buddy. You're blocking the door." A stout man, clutching a briefcase, cut cleanly between them to push his way into the terminal, puffing down the concourse without a backward look. 

". . . I've become invisible," he finished, amused. 

"Not to me, you haven't." She bathed him in an unabashed look of approval, savoring the rare chance to enjoy every detail of his face, illuminated in stark electric light. Without the shadows cast by moonlight, the softening effect of candle glow, it remained so breathtakingly beautiful that her heart fairly ached in trying to comprehend it. 

"Ah, but you're different, Catherine. A princess may be granted special powers by her fairy godmother." 

"The same one who allowed me to dance with my prince at the ball and keep my fine clothes after midnight?" 

"Perhaps your beauty touched her heart. She couldn't bear to see you reduced to wearing rags." 

People were still milling around them, in and out of the bank of doors, but they'd moved too closed together now for anyone to pass between them. "I never thought the tragedy of Cinderella lay in her return to being poor. It was sad because she seemed to have lost her chance for love." 

"That too is still yours, Catherine. No sorcery in the world could take it from you."

Tears of happiness threatened to well as she smiled up at him. "Would you mind?" an irascible voice interrupted. 

She glanced at the speaker--harried looking, laden with luggage--whose trajectory straight from a taxi to the entrance where they stood left no room for compromise. He was not about to deviate one inch from his projected course to use another door. 

"Excuse us," she murmured in a tone not quite as polite as the words, and Vincent moved a hand across her shoulders, guiding her down the row of lighted glass out of the traffic's flow. "Flexibility is not exactly a strong point with New Yorkers," she apologized, feeling suddenly responsible for the behavior of everyone in this world he'd come to visit. 

"Not in small things, perhaps, but so many people--in such close proximity. Much of what affects their lives must seem beyond their control, it's not surprising that they should wish to control whatever they can." 

"I notice you say 'they', Vincent," she smiled. "Don't forget I live that way too." 

"But you're a princess," he reminded her. "This world is yours to command."

"Don't I wish. Why do you say that--because we princesses are rich?" 

"No, because you have the power to understand your people, better than they understand themselves." 

"It doesn't help to understand, when you can't really change anything. If I really had powers, Vincent, I'd wave my magic wand and make this world more like yours."

"They might storm the castle in protest, Catherine. For all the problems, Father says the people here share a common passion for material gain, for accumulating as many . . . things and as much power as they possibly can. A monarch who took that way of life away from them could be in danger." 

"Father exaggerates . . . but not very much," she admitted with a rueful smile. 

"His view of this world is colored always by his own tragic experiences in it. You're living proof that there are exceptions to his concept." He stood looking down at her a moment, clearly appreciating everything he saw. "Where shall we go?" 

"Everywhere," she beamed. 

"You're sure you're not too tired?" 

"I've never felt less tired in my life. Would you like to go inside, Vincent--to see the station?" 

"I just came from there," he admitted. "Its beauty is remarkable." 

An immediate and dismaying scenario flashed through her mind: Long Island Railroad to Penn, subway to the Times Square station and the trek to the shuttle. Of course, tonight he might simply have fallen in with the passengers hurrying to transfer. That he also could have found a way to pay the fare and join them inside the train was too much to hope. She suspected his method of travel was too ingrained to make that a possibility. Still, here he was safe and sound, and she squelched the temptation to vent her fears. He offered his arm, and she took it falling into step beside him, loving the easy rhythm of his movements. 

"Do you suppose Father misses anything in this world?" 

"I'm sure he does. This was his home. He has happy memories as well as sad ones." 

"Does he talk about it much?" 

He shook his head. "He is at heart a scientist, Catherine. His commitment to creating a place free of the injustices that drove him below leave little room for compromise. If he should waver, if he thought too much about the things he loved above and attempted to bring some of them to us, it might upset the balance, jeopardize something he wants very much to keep pure." 

"He can't be certain which variables might invalidate the experiment," she nodded. "I can understand that. Still, I feel bad for him if there are things he's denied himself that he might enjoy." 

The traffic plodded past them even at this hour. Pedestrians, a few in costume, many dressed in their usual attire--anything from furs to tattered blue jeans--filed past with an occasional curious glance. She felt he was taking it all in, the people, the windows stashed with every kind of merchandise, and yet his attention to the conversation, to her, seemed also total. "You are a better judge of that, Catherine, than I am. If you were in Father's position, what things would you miss most?" 

Her heart skidded inexplicably in her chest. The question was natural, his tone mild, yet it seemed intensely important to consider her answer carefully. "I don't know. Friends, mostly, I think. People. Places and things just don't seem that important. Sunshine, I suppose, would be the hardest thing to do without, though the sun certainly doesn't shine all the time up here either." 

"There are places below where the sun can reach," he reminded her. 

"Yes, I know," she grinned, squeezing his arm. "I'm sure the things that Father's created below far outweigh what he might miss from above." 

"And the most important of those did find its way to us, after all." 

"Margaret . . . It must have been so wonderful for him. Vincent, not just to find her again, but to be able to share with her all the fantastic things he's accomplished, all the beauties of your world--to introduce her to you." 

"It was a joy he richly deserved. Catherine, and all the sweeter for having had to wait so long." 

"But the waiting, the years apart--it was tragic too. They might have had so much more time together." There was a lesson to be learned from that, she thought, one she'd become increasingly sensitive to in recent months. 

"Patience and Fortitude, Catherine." 

"What?" For a moment she assumed he was addressing her unspoken thoughts, but he nodded toward the darkened bulk of the public library, now catty-corner from where they stood. 

"The two lions--those are their names." 

She laughed, "Vincent, just who's showing who the city? This is supposed to be my terrain, but when you know even the names of statues . . . " 

"I'm not unfamiliar with the city, Catherine," he said in what she felt was a typical understatement, "but what I know of it has been seen from its back alleys, studied in books. It's a far different thing to walk its streets unhidden, to see it all through your eyes." 

"For me, too," she smiled. "Patience and Fortitude. I'll have to remember that." 

They continued up 42^nd, stopping to look in windows, talking about the things they saw there. As they neared Times Square, the late night activity increased around them. Groups of people congregated at the garishly lighted storefronts and under the marquees of the theaters. This was New York at its least inhibited, and they began to draw comments from passersby--wolf whistles, and simulated shrieks of terror from girls who dissolved into laughter, shouts of "great costume" and "lookin' good" along with less articulate mumblings that she wondered if he knew how to translate. He seemed impervious to them all, only drawing her a little closer to his side as they strolled, pausing to study one outlandish curiosity after another. 

"This isn't exactly the cultural high point of my world," she felt duty bound to point out. 

"Oh, I know that. So many things, Catherine. Do people really feel they must own all of these to be happy?" He was staring in frank amazement at a jumbled display of electronic gadgetry and cameras, appliances and knickknacks, all under a banner that screamed "lowest prices in the city--buy now before it's too late!" 

"That's what the people who sell them would like them to feel. Father's right about one thing. There's a tendency to pretend that happiness can be bought, that it depends on what you own and wear and drive." 

He made no comment, blue eyes wide with their effort to take in all there was to see. She could almost feel the wheels turning as he tried to assimilate it all, make sense of it in the context of his own very different values. That he who understood so much, more than anyone she'd ever known in her life, should find this a struggle made her love him all the more, and she slipped her arms around him, smiling. 

"You'll never figure it out, Vincent, because it doesn't make any sense. It isn't real, not in the way that you're real." 

He looked down at her upturned face and, ignoring the fact that they had never been more subject to public scrutiny, bent to give her an intense, if all too brief, kiss. 

"Oo--whee! Look out for them fangs, honey." She turned to find a woman in silver hot pants and thigh-high purple boots grinning at them. At Catherine's icy look she resumed a hip-swaying stroll. "Hey, it's cool, girl," she tossed back over her shoulder. "You saw him first." 

"Believe it or not," Catherine said steadily, "that is not a Halloween costume she's wearing." A glance at his face told her he was well aware of that. "I love your teeth," she added, afraid that his feelings might have been hurt. "I've always thought they were beautiful, which reminds me, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?" 

"I was merely confirming your reality, Catherine. Forgive me. It was inappropriate in a public place." 

"I have a hard time ever considering your kiss inappropriate," she confessed, but she took his arm again, and they started up Broadway. 

"What you said before--about being invisible. It's so strange when you think about it. Tonight you can walk around and no one cares. The worst you can expect is rudeness, and nobody who lives here escapes that. Yet tomorrow, if you dared to do it, everything would be different. You'd be in very real danger. It's crazy. You haven't changed. Nothing's really changed, and yet a date on the calendar makes all the difference." 

"Tonight everyone expects the unexpected. They accept that appearances may be deceiving. By tomorrow most of them will have forgotten that." 

"But that's all it is--appearances. Doesn't the truth count for anything?" 

"There's nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so," he reminded her gently. 

"Hamlet again," she nodded, memories soothing her frustration. "How are the children? Were they having a good time tonight?" 

"Mm--hm. They spent the day making costumes. Several of them asked if you could come to see them." Disappointment touched her briefly, but she knew he had only wanted to please her with the importance she held in the children's eyes. "Father read the usual stories. There were more doughnuts and cider. I'm sure they enjoyed the night immensely." 

"I wish I could have seen their costumes, but I suppose they've all been in bed for hours. Vincent--I can't believe I forgot to tell you. I tracked Gina's family." 

He stopped, looking down at her, his expression carefully noncommittal. 

"It took some digging, but I discovered an aunt--her mother's sister. She's apparently the only living relative, and she . . . she wasn't in a position to accept responsibility for her sister's child. There's nothing preventing Gina's staying below." 

He nodded and said only. "I'm glad," but she could see the relief in his eyes.

"I'm glad too, Vincent. I really am. There's nowhere a child like Gina could have a better chance to heal and grow and make something positive of her life than in the tunnels. I really believe that." 

"I know you do," he whispered, slipping an arm around her, reassuring her again that he understood the conflicting pressures she alone faced, being a woman of both worlds. 

They walked a while in silence, passed by a clown, a witch and a giant Hershey's kiss. "Did you dress up when you were a child, Vincent?" 

"Of course. I remember my first Halloween. I was very proud that I was the only child whose identity the adults couldn't guess." 

"What were you?" she grinned. 

"A ghost. Devin insisted there was no way to disguise me in a more complex costume, so he simply dropped a sheet over my head and cut two holes for eyes. It was the first time I had ever been someone other than myself. The grownups who tried to guess who we were thought I might be any one of the smaller boys and girls. It was a unique feeling, Catherine, unique and dazzling--to feel for a moment that I was no different from anyone else. But it was a little frightening, as well, as if my identity had suddenly disappeared." 

She leaned her head against his shoulder, not trusting herself to comment. The story was touching and, she thought, revealing. Even as a very little boy in the midst of a masquerade that had allowed him to feel briefly, wistfully, no different from the others, he had felt a sense of his own identity, a pride in it. She had always found it remarkable that in his genuine humility, his sincere belief that others might find him abhorrent, his efforts to down play the differences that might offend them, there was nevertheless no trace of an inferiority complex. He carried himself with an air of pride that was all the more stunning because it derived, not from vanity, but a clear assurance of who he was, a dignity that no amount of rejection could touch. 

"It ended badly," he continued. "Helpers were few in those days, and sheets and blankets were very hard to come by. When Father discovered that we'd taken the scissors to a valuable piece of property, he was very angry. Mary insisted the sheet could be mended almost as good as new, but he was furious." 

"What did he do to you?" 

"To me? Nothing. It was Devin who bore the brunt of his anger . . . as always." His voice echoed the memory of old regrets. 

"That was a long time ago," she reminded soothingly. "So what did you do on other Halloweens?" 

"The older we grew, the more complicated our attempts at costumes," he said, returning to a lighter tone. "Pirates, knights in helmets with visors that kept closing--Devin nearly stumbled into the abyss. And there was once," he hesitated, shooting her an awkward look, " . . . once when I dressed as a girl." 

"You're kidding," she chuckled. "What made you decide to do that?" 

"I didn't decide to do that," he said determinedly. "It was Devin. We had a bet. I lost." 

"What was the bet?" 

"There were several of us playing hide-and-seek in the maze--" 

"I thought children weren't supposed to play in the maze," she interrupted. 

"That's true. Children are supposed to be perfect adults in miniature, to do only those things that their parents ask. Nevertheless, Catherine, we were playing in the maze, and Devin bet that he would be the last person found. He was always good at slipping away, disappearing without a trace." 

"And what about you, Vincent?" 

He looked at her, and there was an uncommon mischievous gleam in his eyes. "I was better." 

"Then how did you lose?" 

"I couldn't understand it at the time. It was a full five minutes after the others found me that they came upon Devin. It wasn't until later that someone-- Mitch to be exact--explained that Devin had chalked arrows on the walls, leading directly to my favorite hiding place." 

"Good old Mitch," she said with as much humor as she could summon on the subject. 

"Yes, I suppose now he only told me to cause trouble between the two of us. Even then Mitch derived his greatest satisfaction from manipulating people for his own amusement. But I was too young to see that, and I was furious with Devin for cheating. We fought." 

"And he was bigger than you." 

"I see you understand the subtle relationships between young boys. Devin insisted I had lost the bet. The proof no longer existed that he had cheated, and as the loser I would have to do whatever he commanded. He said it would be a waste to ignore the advantage of my hair. He borrowed a dress and made me put it on." 

"What did the others say?" 

"Very little. I agreed to honor our wager, but I had not agreed to put myself on display. I managed to avoid everyone all night long. It was not my favorite Halloween." 

"Well, at least you were carrying on a family tradition." At his questioning look, she elaborated, "Father . . . as Ophelia. I wonder if he had his beard then?" 

"A good actor can play any role, Catherine," he reminded her with a smile, "even, we must assume, a bearded lady." 

Their walk had taken them beyond Times Square, and the theaters had let out long ago, but still the sidewalks were hardly deserted. She kept the fact resolutely in her mind as three young men materialized out of an alley, sauntering toward them. They all had mustaches and scars crudely drawn on their faces in tribute to the evening, but they were far too old to be trick-or-treating, and a sixth sense honed keen and reliable since the night she'd been attacked, told her they were trouble. 

They spread out as if to block the sidewalk, and for a moment she thought Vincent would push right past them, but he stopped. Her hand on his arm felt no particular tension. Maybe he didn't realize that they posed a threat, but she took her cue from him, glancing around as though she suspected nothing, noting that there wasn't a single patrol car within her line of vision. 

"Hey, fancy costumes you got there. Been to a party?" Vincent said nothing, merely watching them. 

"What are you supposed to be here? Some kind of queen or something and a . . . scary dude?" The other two laughed appreciatively, as the pushy one drew a little closer. 

Oh, yes, she knew the dynamics of relationships between boys, especially boys like these whose horizons stretched no further than the moment. What they could gain, what they could win, who they could intimidate--that was all that mattered with no thought to the consequences, and the aggressive ones drew their power from the approval of their more fearful companions. It confirmed their leadership, brought them the only respect they might ever have experienced. 

It was a scenario repeated many times a day around the city. Sometimes it was relatively harmless; sometimes it was fatal. Logic told her that it was doubtful this encounter would go to an extreme. For all the lateness of the hour and the relative darkness of the particular corner, this was still a busy area. Traffic was light but persistent. Parties ending had sent groups of revelers into the streets looking for a nightcap or a bite to eat. But she couldn't discount the threatening pose, hands in pockets as if weapons were at the ready. 

"We wanna buy some candy for the kids, you know? But we need money. Looks like you two might have some--fancy ruffled shirt and all." A hand shot out. A grubby finger flicked at a ruffle and quickly withdrew, its owner still standing back, testing, she thought. Without her being conscious of it Vincent had moved slightly in front of her. "Come on, what do you say? Wouldn't you like to contribute a little something for the kiddies?" 

Playing it safe, she calculated. At this point they could still be accused of nothing more than solicitation, but no one was looking their way, and New York's finest seemed to have vanished into thin air. Apparently, the spokesman for the three was likewise aware that no one was watching, and he stepped closer, pulling himself to his full height and staring cockily into Vincent's face. As he did so, she saw the first flash of uncertainty flicker in his feral expression. 

"Go on, Rab. Make them give us something," one of the others urged. 

"Yeah, come on now and be nice." Rab was apparently feeling the pressures of leadership. He stuck his chin out jauntily. "Be reasonable, man. There's three of us and only two of you and what's she gonna do--poke us with her hat?" 

The other two snickered, and she had to repress the urge to let go with a well-placed kick. Already she'd been cataloguing her supply of potential weapons as Isaac had taught her, finding them pitifully few. The low silk slippers were useless in defense, but she knew a few moves that might surprise them. 

The derisive laughter seemed to fuel Rab's courage, and his voice dropped to a threatening tone. "I'm tired of waiting, man. My boys are carrying, you know what I mean? One word from me, and you're both gonna be history." 

Fascinating, she thought later, how quickly it all happened, how incredibly subtle it was, and yet in that brief moment, she saw an individual's view of the world change before her eyes. The growl started low in Vincent's throat, never becoming loud enough to be heard beyond the players in this little drama. His lip curled, revealing a lethal canine, and Rab gasped, falling back, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

"What? . . . Hey, man, what is this? . . . We're going. Just back off--we're going." He turned, white--faced and took off down the alley, his loyal henchmen following close behind. 

Back off? Vincent had never moved. 

"Well," she said, releasing a breath. "Welcome to my world, Vincent." 

He looked at her and something very like embarrassment showed in his expression. "I'm sorry, Catherine." 

"For what? Isaac says we should use whatever means we have to defend ourselves. That's a very effective weapon, Vincent. You needn't be ashamed to use it." 

He drew in a deep breath, and she knew he was grateful that the incident had gone no further. "How do you do it, Catherine? How can you live in a world, where such things may happen at any time? There is so much beauty here, so much chance to do good, and yet there are those who think of nothing but destruction."

"I don't have a choice, do I?" she said, meaning it in the most obvious sense, suddenly conscious that it might sound like a challenge, a reminder that no one had invited her to live anywhere else. "That's just the way the world is. All we can do is try to help each other through it, and try to remove those people who pose a threat to law-abiding citizens." 

"Father's told me something of your prisons," he said with a frown. "They seem merely cages, places of punishment. He claims little is done to help those locked away to find a better way of life." 

"Well, that may have changed some since his experience, but probably not much--not nearly enough. Facilities are inadequate. There aren't enough trained people to work directly with the prisoners. I'm afraid, it all gets back to money again, Vincent--the root of all evil." 

"The lack of it seems to have consequences every bit as tragic as the lust to accumulate more. Perhaps Father was right to minimize our community's involvement with it." 

"I'm afraid Father is right about an awful lot of things," she said dolefully. "Oh, look, Vincent--Radio City Music Hall. I used to go there a lot when I was little--to shows and movies. It's wonderful inside, a lovely example of Art Deco, but you know what I think of first whenever I see it?" 

"What?" The mild blue eyes looked at her with total attention, as if her girlhood memories were more compelling than the impressive architecture that surrounded them. 

"I remember going there when I was eight or nine to see 'The Sound of Music,' and it may surprise you to hear who it was that took me." 

"Please, Catherine. Just don't tell me it was Elliot Burch." 

An impish grin leapt to her face, but no more impish than his remark. Not only was he still suffering the twinges of jealousy, he was admitting to it, and she found the idea perversely delightful. "No, it was Peter Alcott." 

"Peter . . . really?" 

"He took his daughter Susan and me. Isn't it funny, Vincent, to think he may have been below that very day? He may have seen you, talked to you within hours of being with me, and yet it would be almost a quarter of a century until you and I knew each other existed." 

He acknowledged the elusive workings of fate with a shake of his head. "Sometimes, Catherine, I feel as if I always knew you existed." 

"In the loneliness--me too. The feeling that there's something that would make your life complete if only you could find it." 

His hand slipping possessively around hers, was an acknowledgment of that search--and its shining completion. Their fingers intertwined in an unconscious need to touch more fully, as they turned their steps toward the plaza. 

"I used to skate here every winter when I was a girl." 

"Were you a good skater?" 

"Not bad," she said modestly. "I used to love the freedom of it, twirling so fast, the people and the flags, everything turning into a jumble of colors, and racing across the ice--almost like flying. It was one of my favorite things." The night wind was picking up, slipping through the tight confines of the buildings to whip freely down the mall. She brushed away the light veil that suddenly whirled around her. "I bet the children would enjoy skating--not ice skates, of course, but it would be fun to get some roller skates. There must be lots of places below where they could use them." 

"Would it surprise you to know, Catherine, that there are places below where even ice skating would be possible?" 

"Really?" She looked at him, intrigued. 

"There are caverns, far from the central tunnels, places so locked away from the pipes, the warm center of the earth itself, that the walls shimmer with ice. The pools remain frozen for several months of the year." 

"How strange. I never would have guessed that." 

"It is possible to find winter below . . . and spring. Near the ocean I have seen caves so green with moss, the rocks so soft with it that you might think you had happened on a meadow." The clear blue eyes shone with enthusiasm, and then he blinked, his expression tinged with apology, as if such reminiscences might be inappropriate on a night dedicated to exploring the world above. 

"It never occurred to me that there must be various climates below, just as there are here, but I suppose it would be different near the shore, wouldn't it?" 

"Where we live," he nodded, responding to her obvious fascination, "is only the edge of a world whose limits no one has ever fully tested. Our home is where it needs to be--near the pipes for communication, water. It allows us contact with our helpers, but past the manmade tunnels, below the passageways carved by rivers that still flow above, there is an endless labyrinth more ancient than our own." 

They stood side by side, looking out across the plaza. Before them rose the RCA Building, its gleaming panes and brass, winking with subdued, nighttime splendor, but it might have been invisible. Images of mysterious caverns, hidden from the eyes of even those who lived below, played across her mind. Undiscovered regions, each with its own secrets, whose only architect had been nature itself. "Vincent, here we are exploring my world--a place you know a great deal about, and I realize that there's so much I don't know about yours." 

"There are many places I'd like to show you, Catherine, but some of them are not easily reached. They may be several days' journey from the tunnels you've come to know." 

"And we always have so little time," she nodded sadly. 

"Tonight," he reminded, tilting his head to look at her with an expression that banished all regret, "is a night out of time. It's ours, Catherine, wherever we spend it." 

"You're right," she smiled, struck anew by the wonder of it--that they were standing here together, unafraid. "It's all that matters." 

He slipped his arm around her waist as they turned toward Fifth Avenue, pausing to look in the windows, finding everything displayed there uncommonly fascinating, talking softly together about trivial matters that suddenly soared with new significance. Living here so long, she thought, much of the city had receded from her notice, becoming simply the framework of her existence. Tonight it had not only form but contents blazing with new life, as she saw it through his eyes.

"Which way should we go?" he asked, as they stood in the shadow of the great cathedral. 

She thought a moment. "This may sound funny, but I'd really like to go toward the park." 

"Greensward," he smiled. 

"Greensward? Is that what you call it?" 

"That's what its creators called it when it was first designed." 

"I like it," she said, taking his arm as they turned toward the north. "It sounds more romantic. 'Central' is such a city sounding word for a place that doesn't seem to be in the city at all." 

Logic dictated that they take in as many landmarks as they could on this single, fated night--all the places usually barred to him or perhaps the places that for her held fond memories. She might show him those, weaving around each its own personal story, and she knew he would be pleased. 

Yet something about the park drew her--drew them both. The point in the universe where they had at last come together, the scenery they looked down upon from the sanctuary of her balcony, the site of so many encounters joyful and sad and terrifying, and most of all . . . home. His home, the home of her heart. To walk along the perimeter, unintimidated, to perhaps even stroll down one of its lighted roads and not jump at every sound, every suspect shadow. There was no need to explain its appeal. She knew he felt it all through the bond, through his own devotion to the same memories and motivations that stirred in her heart. 

They shared the streets with fewer people now; the traffic was more sparse. Yet this was still New York. The great machine might slow, squeezed between the antic gust of revelers, night workers and those who never seemed to sleep at all, and the hectic wakening that would come with the sun, but its wheels were grinding slowly just the same. 

Bursts of steam rose from manhole covers and lingered briefly before disappearing beneath the wheels of a taxi or a truck lumbering toward the garment district. An occasional siren wailed across the lowered volume of the machine's incessant humming. Pedestrians passed and ignored them or stared openly with the license of a night in which bizarre sights were to be expected. 

"It's is a dream come true--in so many ways," she commented, loving the tender strength of his hand holding hers, their arms swinging gently as they strolled. "I once dreamed that you and I were walking along this very street." 

"But the sky was blue," he reminded her, and she followed his gaze to the blackness overhead, smoky, starless. 

"You remember that?" 

"I'm surprised that you do." His eyes looking down at her held something of remembered pain. "And there was ice cream." 

"Oh, it's getting way too chilly for ice cream," she smiled. "But the important part--that's come true." 

He tilted his head back, and it occurred to her that the myriad smells borne on the night wind--a subtle montage to her own senses--must be magnified to him, pungent and distinct. "There will be rain," he said. 

"The sun will rise, too, but not yet. I won't let it happen."

"A princess with unlimited powers." 

"Do you doubt it?" she teased. 

"Not for a moment." His look beneath an arch of golden brow warmed her, made her feel, in fact, as omnipotent as she pretended. The shop windows slipped by like so many display cases in the vast museum the city had become. Shoes and books, jewels and pictures of far-off places, all infused with new meaning because they looked at them together, yet strangely trivial. Objects and places, however tantalizingly presented, seemed in themselves sterile, pale beside the intangible splendor of the love that flowed between them in every glance, each touch, in the simple indescribable joy of being together. 

"The children must come here," he said as they paused before a panoply of toys and games, stuffed animals and dolls. "So near the park." 

"They probably do," she nodded. 

"Yet they never speak of it. Do they wish for these things, I wonder." 

"Perhaps sometimes they do, but, Vincent, all these things are meant only to stimulate a child's imagination and too many of them can have the opposite effect. I remember Christmases when I got so many presents I hardly knew what to play with. There were only a few things--usually simple ones, like a favorite doll--that came to have great meaning to me. I think the children below learn to value what they have and to find enjoyment in their own resources, their own imaginations. Surely, that's more lasting." 

Blue eyes swept their tender admiration over her. "It's remarkable, Catherine, that you can feel that, when your own childhood was so very different." 

"Maybe that's why I can see it so clearly," she said, treating herself to a gentle stroke of the hair that flowed unrestrained over his shoulder. "I've come to realize, Vincent, that for everything that might seem a deprivation in your world, there is some other quality, something else of value, that is worth so much more." 

His eyes held hers for a long time as they started slowly on their way again. She was barely conscious of the muted clamor around them. The flags on the hotel's marquee were snapping sharply as the wind increased, and it wasn't until they stood poised to cross into the park that another sound separated itself from the complex backdrop of noise--the hollow clop-clop of horse's hooves very near at hand. 

Turning, she found herself staring at the glossy black boots of a mounted patrol, the sleek chestnut flesh of an animal that trembled, suddenly side-stepping with alarm, as his rider tried to bring him to a quiet halt. 

"Hey, boy, what is it? Settle down." 

The horse reared back, eyes rolling frantically. Dry-mouthed, Catherine noted the name--Officer Tuttle--on the young man's jacket, as he fought for control, a puzzled look on his face. Vincent had released her, and for a moment she thought he might vanish, hoped he would, safely away from the unexpected encounter, but he had moved instead to stand in front of the animal, saying nothing, merely holding out his hand. 

Unable to move, though she thought there must be some way to forestall disaster, she watched dazed as the horse stopped its agitated movements to stand suddenly quiet, his nose resting softly against Vincent's palm. 

"He's not usually like that," Officer Tuttle said by way of apology. "These guys are chosen cause they're easy-going around people." 

Catherine hurried to slough off her fear, to do something to defuse the threat. "I imagine the costumes might make him nervous." 

"Well, they shouldn't. You know, theoretically they go by smell. They shouldn't even notice people looking weird. Maybe they're just smarter than we give'em credit for." 

"Oh, I'm sure they are," she agreed. "I love horses. I used to ride a lot when I was a girl." 

"So, how are you folks doing tonight? Those are great costumes. My sister-in-law does costume design for a couple of theater groups out on the island." 

"Really?" she exclaimed, scarcely knowing what she was saying, aware only that she had to hold his attention. "These came from Greene Brothers--it's a very old, established company. I'm sure if she's interested, they'd be glad to let her look through their stock sometime." 

"She'd love that." The young man leaned forward in the saddle to get a better look at Vincent. "That's one hell of a make-up job," he said admiringly. "Wonder if they'd be willing to show her how it's done?" 

She thought of Rab and the sudden dawning on his rather dull face. This man wasn't dull. He was trained to observe, and her heart seemed to have relocated in her throat. So far, her own quick chatter had obscured Vincent's silence. His attention was seemingly on the horse that now nuzzled worshipfully against his chest with an insistence that would have knocked anyone else off their feet. 

"I don't know if they would or not," she went on. "It's very involved. You can just imagine they might want to keep such an incredible art to themselves, but I'm sure they'd be willing to share their dress designs. Does your sister-in-law ever do Shakespearean productions?" 

"Oh, sure, a lot of 'em. She loves that period stuff." He was speaking to her but still studying Vincent who kept his head casually lowered, murmuring quietly to the adoring animal. 

"Then you should tell her about the dress." Quickly, she unfastened the heavy cape, flinging it back over her shoulders. "See how intricate the beadwork is around here." She stepped closer, pointing out the complex design of the girdle. Obligingly, Officer Tuttle leaned down to admire the handiwork. She smiled up at him. "And the gems around the neckline." Her fingers traced along the edge of the bodice, and she stepped back a pace, whirling to show the gown and petticoats to best advantage. 

"It's very nice, ma'am," the policeman said appreciatively. "Is it the same people who do that kind of thing that do the make-up?" He started to turn again toward Vincent, and she stepped closer once more, catching him with her most dazzling smile. 

"Oh, you know, nearly everyone in New York has some interest in show business--costumes, acting, or they're secretly writing the next Broadway hit. What about you, Officer? You look like you might spend your free time doing commercials--or maybe soap operas." She could not remember when she'd given a man such a blatantly coquettish look. 

"Me?" He laughed, flattery clearly scoring a hit somewhere in the carefully cultivated demeanor of friendliness appropriate to his profession. "No. I'm happy in this uniform with Blaster here, making sure folks like you can be out at this hour without becoming statistics." 

"It certainly makes me feel safer," she beamed, almost ashamed of herself for distracting him so totally that he hadn't yet noticed her companion had disappeared, materializing several yards away in the shadows of an old elm. Blaster stood so tranquilly he might have been one of the equestrian statues in the park. "Well, I better catch up with my date. Be sure and tell your sister-in-law--Greene Brothers Theatricals. Good night!" 

She twirled off before he could say more than "Thank you, ma'am," joining Vincent and taking his arm. They began to walk, slowly but determinedly in the opposite direction. 

"Sorry about that," she said breathlessly, feeling a little foolish, wondering if he'd even noticed the outrageousness of her tactics. 

"About what, Catherine? We must all use whatever weapons we have at hand. Isn't that what your friend taught you?" 

The irony in his tone released her, and she laughed. "As long as you understand." 

There was no warning--no space at all between the first rumble of thunder and the first cold plop of rain against her upturned face. "Oh, Vincent, no!" They had turned onto a path from Central Park South, bearing close to the trees which a moment seemed to offer shelter but quickly bent under the cloudburst, spilling rivulets of rain over them. 

"It won't stop, Catherine." 

Perhaps he had been reluctant to disturb the charming fantasy that she could prevent this from happening, but now that the storm had begun, he offered no illusion that its duration would be brief "I'm not afraid of a little rain," she reminded him. "We can try to make it to the threshold." 

A flash of lightning followed almost immediately by an ear-splitting crack of thunder rendered the statement foolhardy. "It's too far. Already you're beginning to melt." Her hand went to the cloth-covered cone on her head. It felt alarmingly mushy. "You could take a taxi, Catherine, back to your apartment." 

"No," she said emphatically, forced to raise her voice over another volley of thunder. "This night isn't over. I'm not leaving you, and we said we were going to the park." Water streamed down her face as she spoke, as it did over his, lending an absurdity to the argument that did not escape either of them. 

He swept an arm around her, shielding her as best he could with a cloak that was already sodden. In the wildly tossing shadows the intermittent lightning showed dueling emotions on his face--amusement, admiration and concern. "This way," he said finally, his eyes seeking something beyond her shoulder, and together they hurried from the path across the wet lawn in the direction of the zoo. She ran almost blindly as the rain continued to stream down, guided only by his arm around her. At a low stone structure, not quite a building from the size of it, he released her. His cloak billowed in the rising wind, as his fingers grasped the heavy iron grillwork that served as one wall, ripping it away in one violent tug, and motioning for her to follow. It was all she could do to lug her waterlogged skirts over the threshold and down the short flight of concrete stairs. Behind her, he wedged the grill back into place and turned to descend the steps. 

Light from the park came only dimly through the rain-lashed bars above their heads. It was only in the brilliant flares of lightning that she noted the mass of meters and pipes that constituted the purpose of this oddly buried room. A far cry from the opulent surroundings where the evening had begun, but she thought as he approached her, water streaming unheeded down his marvelous face, that there was nowhere she would rather be. 

"This is only a temporary solution," he pointed out, regarding her with a troubled look. 

"That depends on what you think the problem is," she answered, unperturbed. "We wanted to be together tonight, and we are. Anything else is unimportant." 

"Catherine, please--you're cold, wet. You could become ill." 

"I'm really not all that cold, Vincent. I guess it's the excitement, but I don't know if this outfit can be salvaged. I have a feeling my next two paychecks may be going to the Greene Brothers." She fumbled to remove the once-proud hat, now a curiously misshapen mess, trailing a bedraggled rag. "Looks like Cinderella has been reduced to tatters after all. Between this and the rain I think I should consider firing my fairy godmother." 

He smiled despite himself. "A princess as indomitable as you are, Catherine, hardly needs a fairy godmother." 

"You could be right. After all, I still have the prince." She shrugged off the cape that had soaked up the worst of the rain, laying it across one of the jutting pipes. Vincent too removed his cloak, and she caught the hint of an odd smile in a sudden burst of light. 

"What are you thinking?" 

"It's nothing." He shook his head, flinging the cloak across another pipe. 

"That isn't fair," she challenged. "You can all but read my thoughts. I can only guess at yours. For all I know you're laughing at me." 

"You don't believe that," he said, unruffled, his attention directed to the scene beyond the iron bars, though there was nothing to see but the occasional strobe-like flash of green behind the driving rain. "If you must know, I was thinking that Elliot Burch would have taken you somewhere warm and safe and comfortable." 

"Vincent." Her voice was soft, the flippant manner gone, as she went to slip her arms around him. "This place is warm and safe and comfortable, and even if it weren't, I'd rather be here with you than anywhere with Elliot--or anyone else. You know that's true." 

"Yes." He nuzzled gently at her wet hair. "But you wouldn't be in danger of pneumonia." 

"No one can warm me like you can," she whispered, and he bent to give her the warmth of his mouth, the sweet, sensual heat of it radiating through her nerves. His embrace seemed to enclose every inch of her. Body heat from the strong arms surrounding her rose through the voluminous sleeves, only one of which was slightly damp. 

Her heart--pounding wildly against his chest as if it would escape her own body and join with his--sent the hot blood flowing. The chill disappeared. 

"Better?" he whispered. 

"Oh, so much better." A blast of light showed her his face, the lashes fringing deep shadows beneath his lowered eyes. 

"I would warm you with my last breath," he murmured, so quietly it was a miracle that she could hear it at all against the cacophony of thunder. 

"I know . . . I know you would." 

Outside the world was splitting apart--the darkness of night rent by a light brighter than day, the rumbling that shook the earth, the rain hammering and splashing through the wind-tossed trees, yet inside the world was bounded by his embrace, defined by the soft sound of their kisses, the murmured words of love. He brought the soothing heat of his kiss to each place the cold rain had chilled, slowly, tenderly, kindling her own inner fire in response. 

"You were right," she whispered at last. "I am melting." 

"Then I'll hold you tighter," he promised, "so that you don't slip away." Another crack of thunder and the wind changed, driving the icy rain slanting through the open grill. In the confined space with its twisted pipes and dials, it was impossible to escape a further drenching. Water poured over the concrete sill, dripping down the steps. He had turned his back to the opening, shielding her as best he could from the wind-driven drops. 

"I suppose after a while this whole place will fill up, and we'll just float to the top," she surmised, not particularly caring if it happened. His arms were around her, and she was enjoying the way his damp hair curled obligingly around her fingers in enchanting ringlets. 

"That may be the solution," he said, moving her gently aside. In the next full glare of light, he found the explanation for why they were not already standing knee-deep in water. In the center of the floor was a circular grid, and she caught a brief glimpse of puddles swirling toward it. He picked up his discarded cloak, swinging it indifferently over his shoulders and knelt, ripping the steel disk from its moorings, tossing it aside like so much cardboard. "Wait here, Catherine," he said, and though it seemed to her the only option for either of them, in the next flash of light he had disappeared. 

"Vincent?" She peered into the blackness, and for a moment imagined that the magic of this night must have taken its toll--that the prince had vanished, leaving her in rags with her dreams. 

"There's a ladder." His voice floated at her feet. "Step down carefully. I'm right behind you." 

Trusting, she retrieved her own bedraggled cape and moved to the darkest part of the shadowed floor, feeling for the rim of the hole with a wet, satin slipper. His hand came up to guide her, and she lowered herself onto the first rung of the invisible ladder, aware that he was just below her; he would not let her fall. The last step ended bewilderingly short of any foothold, but strong hands came up to swing her downward onto a wet and sloping floor. 

"Where are we?" she whispered into the pitch darkness. Her voice bounced back to her with eerie efficiency. 

"A storm drain. Take my hand. Can you walk here?" 

"Well, I can wade here," she said gamely, as cold water rushed around her ankles. "Why is it so dark?" 

"I suspect this section has been blocked off somewhere ahead. Just enough has been left to transport the rainwater, if we can make our way to the end of it, we may have the solution to our problem. I'm sorry, Catherine. I know you don't like the darkness." 

"Who told you that?" she asked, still having difficulty seeing anything about this night as a real problem. 

"You did." 

"Oh, you mean when I was little. I've changed, Vincent. I think the reason the darkness frightened me so much then was because you weren't in it. Now that you are, and we're together, I think it's wonderful." 

His small expulsion of laughter whispered close to her face. "Catherine, surely you are the only woman on earth who could stand in the ruins of a beautiful gown, cold and wet, trapped in the darkness, and call it 'wonderful'." 

"That's because I'm the only woman who's with you," she murmured lightly, slipping under his arm. "There's nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so, and I think I'm having a marvelous time." She stretched to find his mouth, or perhaps he had bent to meet hers, and she emphasized her point with a kiss that automatically drew his arms around her. "You must admit," she sighed as it ended, "we couldn't ask for a more private place to kiss." 

"Or to drown," he said pointedly, taking her hand. "Come." 

It was an odd sensation, moving confidently ahead without being able to see a single thing. The cold, swiftly moving water tugged at the hem of her dress. The remnants of the proud, lovely hat had been left behind to be found by some city worker who would no doubt puzzle mightily over its significance. Reason told her the present circumstances had all the earmarks of a disaster, but all she could feel was the thrill of adventure, the deep, unrestrained joy of being with him.

"Wait." He stopped suddenly, releasing her hand to move away from her, and after a short interval he called from somewhere just ahead. "Stand back, Catherine."

Briefly, she sensed him coming near again, then after a moment there was a horrendous sound mixed with a roar, and a dusty vapor rose up before her. Blinking, she saw that a wall of cinder block had all but disintegrated ahead, letting in a pale, grey light from somewhere beyond. He stood on the other side of the opening, a hulking shadow in the haze.

He motioned for her to wait until the last of the powdery rubble had subsided and gingerly she stepped over the pieces, her wet skirt trailing dismally through the wreckage. Before them a long stretch of tunnel ended in a feeble glow. A second passage crooked off to the left. It was blessedly dry. 

The place was only marginally less dark than the one they had left. To her he was little more than a solid shape, but she suspected the meager light was sufficient for his eyes, and she couldn't resist asking a question she'd never posed before, not when she'd been trying her best to look lovely for him. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," he said with marked sincerity. 

"I'll bet," she laughed, perfectly aware that her gown was rumpled and mud-stained. Her hair had come lose from the careful twist that had fit so nicely under the hat. "It must be darker than I thought." 

"Catherine, your eyes are sparkling. Your face is alight with enthusiasm," he admonished softly. "How can I not find you beautiful? That you can smile . . . despite the circumstances . . . " 

"It's because of the circumstances," she assured him, moving into his arms. "I'm having a good time, aren't you?" Her face, tilted up for his kiss, delayed any answer, drawing his lips to hers as if he were powerless to resist, as if the strength that allowed him to smash through concrete walls had been an illusion. 

"Yes, I'm having a good time," he confessed as they parted, "but you're shivering. It should be possible to follow the smaller tunnel to your building." 

"I'm not shivering from the cold." She leaned back in his arms, wishing to see him, hoping it was enough that he could see her, read the truth in her expression. "I think you know that." It wasn't necessary to see his face. She could feel the warring emotions in the rhythm of his breathing, in his taut body holding her close. "This is our night out-of-time, Vincent. I'm not ready for it to end." 

Like many of the junctions she'd come to know here below, this one had at its crossing a small brick-walled chamber from which the utility pipes branched. Dark it might be, and dusty from the demolition of the wall, but after all, what difference did it make? "Let's stay here for a little while . . . please." 

The appeal was enough to tip the balance, enough to draw him down beside her in the cozy angle of the corner. "You're comfortable?" he asked, as she snuggled against his chest. 

"Very. We can still hear the storm. It's like being in a cave." 

"But you're dressed for a palace," he reminded her, reaching down to brush some substance totally invisible to her from the hem of her skirt. 

"You forget I can't see it. This could be an exquisite salon with gilded murals on the wall or maybe a rustle cottage in the woods where we can listen to the stream tumbling by." Wrapped in the magic of his arms, she found it easy to visualize the fanciful thoughts. The rainwater sluicing down the culvert beyond could easily have been a sylvan brook. The violence of the storm echoing clearly to them only emphasized the comfort of their peculiar shelter. 

"A night when nothing is what it seems," he murmured against her hair. 

"Or only what we want it to be . . . but then you can see it, can't you--for what it really is? Maybe that's a disadvantage." 

"You are my light, Catherine. How can I help but see you . . . and what more could I wish to see?" 

There was only one answer to such a question, and she gave it to him, feeling the shattering clash of the thunder above reverberating through her with the sweet shock of his mouth on hers. Only his kiss had a reality that no amount of pretense could alter. It was unique, demanding of her heart and spirit a perfect harmony, blocking out all other awareness, yet the turbulent magic seemed at once to contain everything--as if everything worth knowing or feeling was encoded in its power. As he pressed her back into the soft circle of his arm, his intensity feeding on her own passionate response, they might have been one with the tumult of the storm, one with the silky, gliding stream--flowing into each other. 

His whispered words of love sounded seductively hoarse in her ear, and her own voice stumbled giddily as she touched his face with trembling fingers. "I can only see you with my hands . . . touch you. I wish I could see your face. I wish I could see all of you and touch you and kiss you . . . " 

One huge hand caught hers in the dark, and he pressed a kiss into the palm before pulling her close against his chest--almost as if to still the torrent of her words. "Catherine," he whispered, "be careful what you wish for. Even in the darkness there are some things that do not change. No dream--however much you may wish it--can make your prince an ordinary man."

"And no ordinary man could be my prince, Vincent. It's only you I long to love . . . you the way you are, not the way you aren't . . . not the way someone else thinks you should be. I'm not aching to touch an ordinary man. I'm aching to touch you. I want to be close to you, see you, kiss you--" 

"Catherine--" This time the admonition went no further, cut off as their lips came together again, though she would have been helpless to sort out just who had initiated it. Had she drawn him to her in an effort to staunch his reply? Had he silenced her reasoning in the most effective way he knew how? Or had it been something less unite, their own mounting desire that had pulled them back into this silent communication from which neither really wanted to escape? 

Pressed against him, willingly drowning in the sea of sensation they were creating, she felt a momentary sense of alarm. Some part of her, standing guard over the passion she wanted so desperately to express, told her it was a mistake not to stifle the soft moan that rose like smoke from the swiftly spreading fires within. But smoke-like, it was difficult to restrain, and she was afraid it betrayed too clearly how deep the need was becoming, burning too brightly, gathering at the core of her existence, when it should have been enough just to luxuriate in his kiss. 

Sure enough. He moved back, one hand still caught in her hair. The hand was not entirely steady, nor the breath whose uneven pace she could detect even over the rushing of the stream. It almost seemed she could hear his heartbeat, unnaturally loud and hurried, or maybe it was her own. Once more she wished she could make out his expression in the darkness. "What? What are you thinking?" 

For a moment there was no response, only another slam of thunder, bellowing down the storm drain. "That . . . perhaps the time for thinking is past." 

Had she heard him right? Even with the elements setting up a racket, his hushed tones had a way of reaching her with perfect clarity. Perhaps she'd misunderstood the inference, but there was no time to consider. Already he had risen to his feet, reaching for her hand. She stood up, slightly unbalanced from the abrupt change of course and the temptation to interpret his words in an almost unthinkable way, and with the first step, she stumbled. 

"Ow! Damn it. Vincent, my shoe's falling apart." Fumbling for it, she found the sole half separated from the soggy silk and lobbed it down the tunnel in frustration. 

"Here, give me the other." He was kneeling in front of her, that much she knew, and she allowed him to remove the remaining slipper. "This one too is ruined, Catherine. Your feet are freezing." She hadn't noticed until now, as his hand enveloped her foot in welcome warmth. The feeling was nice, but the mood that had been interrupted . . . "Come, I'll carry you." He stood and in the same motion lifted her smoothly into his arms. 

"It isn't necessary," she said, immediately regretting that she'd said it. 

"Do you mind?" 

"No . . . no I don't mind at all." The uncertainty came with the hope, the apprehension. Here they stood at the crossroads of two passages. One, he had said, led to her building. Even hope couldn't conjure any picture of what awaited them there other than the vision of another good-bye, an image of herself climbing the ladder to leave him standing below. And the other direction? Surely, it would lead eventually to the depths of the park--to his kingdom, to . . . what? "Vincent, where are we going?" 

"Where do you wish to go?" He remained stolidly in place. Had the resolve she imagined she'd sensed in him wavered, or was it possible her own anxiety was giving him second thoughts? 

"With you," she said breathlessly, burying her face in his hair. When she lifted her head again, it was to see the light growing closer, to recognize with a rush of emotion that he had chosen the path that led to his world--not hers. With the realization came gratitude that he had offered to carry her. The tremors that started in her heart and raced along every nerve ending made it unlikely that she could have walked this route. No, she decided. She could have walked . . . could have crawled . . . could have flown. He had made a choice, a choice that included her, and she would have done anything to comply with it.