KALEIDOSCOPE III
Cynthia Hatch

---

Part 3b

The sky was oppressively low, as if clouds heavy with snow might be hiding just beyond the featureless, grey expanse. A sharp wind rattled the leaves that still clung to the trees after the rough rains. The couple Kanin had told her about hovered close to a group of trash cans meant to encourage those entering the park to keep it clean. Kanin's message had said the man wore a red scarf, and except for the fact that it was the woman who was wearing it today, they fit his description.

"I'm Cathy Chandler," she said, to the thin, young man who eyed her warily. "Kanin told me about you."

"Yeah, Kanin. I'm Bill. This is my wife Sandy. He said you might be able to help us. Is that true?"

"I honestly don't know. I can't promise anything." The last thing she wanted was to stir up any false hope. She half expected a bitter retort to the lukewarm answer, but her candor seemed to reassure him. Perhaps he'd grown so used to discouragement that the most he could hope for was not to find it couched in lies.

"Have you got a job to offer--is that it?"

"Is that what you want, Bill--a job?"

"It would help. It would sure as hell help, but try to get one when you can't come up with an address or a phone number."

"We were working--both of us--for a while, until I got sick." The woman sat huddled on a bench, watching them with anxious eyes. Her face was pinched with the cold, but she didn't look particularly ill.

Catherine sat down beside her. "I'd appreciate it if you could tell me a little bit about yourselves--from the beginning."

"What for?" Bill said, suddenly defensive. He paced in front of them, slapping nervously at the sleeves of his ancient army jacket. "Who are you anyway? You work for the city--the welfare department or what? How do we know you're not just looking for some reason to have us picked up and thrown in jail?"

"Is there a reason?" she said calmly.

"No, of course, there isn't." The woman's voice sounded a little desperate. "Come on, Bill, Kanin said we could trust her."

"Yeah, and who's this Kanin? Some guy we met on the street."

"You said you liked him. You said he looked like somebody who'd been there." By "there," Catherine thought she meant his own private hell, and that was true enough. "What can it hurt to answer a few questions. We haven't done anything wrong."

Bill gave a short mirthless laugh. "Honey, if we haven't done anything wrong, I'd hate to think how we'd have ended up if we had." But he stopped his pacing, and his face softened as he looked at his wife apologetically. "Okay. . . I used to have a job--a good-paying job, strong-arming people into doing stupid things that were bad for them."

"Oh, stop it," Sandy said with a surprising show of spirit. "He makes it sound like he was dealing drugs or something, Miss Chandler, but he was with an advertising firm in Chicago. It was a pressure job, and Bill wasn't really cut out for it. It was destroying his health."

"No," Bill said, joining them on the bench. "I did that. I was drinking myself blind."

"Are you still doing that?" Catherine asked.

"Oh, sure, we have three-martini lunches every day, and liquor stores get a kick out of delivering to street corners."

Sandy ignored him. "That's when we met. I was just coming out of a bad marriage, working at a preschool, taking night classes. Bill started going to AA. He hasn't had a drink in three years."

"It takes a lot of strength to fight alcoholism," Catherine remarked.

"Yeah. Well, I thought my troubles were over when I got a handle on that. I couldn't have done it without Sandy. We were going to make a new start together. Get all the priorities straight."

"So you left the advertising business? What did you do then?"

There was an embarrassed silence, finally broken by Sandy. "This probably sounds a little weird--like a throwback or something--but we went to live on a communal farm in New Jersey. It wasn't any bizarre sect or anything like that--just a bunch of people who couldn't afford their own farms going in together. It seemed like such a neat idea--getting out of the rat race, growing our own food, being self-sufficient."

"But you didn't like it?" Catherine prodded.

"Oh, it was wonderful for a while. Everyone got along together. And the farm was successful. We were shipping all the produce that we didn't need, so money was coming in, but we seldom had to touch it. We made most of what we needed--clothes and all. Everyone pooled their resources."

"Till somebody drained the pool," Bill said wearily. "The guy that had organized the whole thing--a real charmer--was supposed to be investing the profits. The idea was that we'd eventually own the place among us, but one day he up and disappeared with the funds. That's when we found out the mortgage hadn't been paid in months. The bank foreclosed a week later, and we all had to leave."

"So Bill and I came here," Sandy picked up the story. "We both worked all kinds of jobs, trying to get the money together for an apartment--you know, security deposit first and last month's rent. It's a lot of money, but we nearly had it, and then I got hepatitis. There was no medical insurance. By the time I got out of the hospital, we were broke again."

"But you're fully recovered?"

"She's fine. . . for now," Bill said, suddenly agitated again. "Now we only have to worry about freezing to death--or starving. This Kanin--he said he was a stone mason. I didn't know there was still a calling for that, and I don't know anything about it, but I could learn. I like manual labor. I'm stronger than I look." For a moment he looked at her hopefully and then appeared to deflate again. "I guess those guys have some kind of union, huh? Its probably not that easy."

"Have you thought about asking your families for help?"

"Neither of us really has anybody," Sandy said softly. "The closest we came was our friends on the farm. It really was like a family for a while, but now everybody's scattered. . . everybody's gone."

A tearful note had come into her voice, and her husband moved closer, putting his arm around her, tucking the ragged scarf more snugly about her neck. "Hey, we've got each other," he reminded gently. "I'm going to find a way out of this. I am. Can you do something to help us, Miss Chandler--to help her?"

"I can try," she nodded. "I just need to know one more thing. . . if you'd trust me. I need to know your last name."

Bill offered it to her, as if it was the last of his meager possessions, as if parting with it might bring further disaster down around their heads. "Duffy," he said, "William Nathaniel Duffy."

***

"So who's this Duffy you're running a check on?" Joe asked, as he passed her desk. "Something to do with the Murdock trial?"

"Nope," she said affably.

"One of your other cases?"

"Nope."

"Just 'nope'? That's all you're gonna tell me?"

"Yep," she smiled, knowing she was driving him crazy, unable to repress the lightheartedness that accompanied all but the most sordid details of her work.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Radcliffe." He leveled a finger at her. "But if you're gonna try to tell me its nothing, you can save your breath."

"What, Joe--you don't think it's possible to be happy in your work?"

"In this place? Try again."

"Well, I'd have to say my boss made a wise decision in letting me concentrate on trials. It agrees with me."

"You might have to say it, but I don't have to buy it. Something's going on with you. Not that I'd expect you to tell me. Did it ever strike you as peculiar that as much as we've been through together, I know more about Bennie, the sandwich guy, than I do about you?"

"That's not peculiar, Joe. He feeds you more often than I do. There's a certain co-dependency. But as far as Duffy's concerned--he's a street person. I'm just running a background to see if there's a way to get him some help."

"Oh. Okay, what agency requested it?"

"None of them. I'm working from the other end. There's nothing wrong with that is there? It is in the city's interest to get people off the streets."

"True," he conceded, "but what I want to know is how you happened to run across this guy. And the one a while back--the Davis case? Umpteen years and who knows how many man-hours and nobody can locate the perpetrator. You come along and haul the guy in single-handed even though he's got no known address. What do you do, Radcliffe--moonlight as a bag lady?"

"Damn, you guessed my secret, Joe."

"Yeah, that'll be the day. Does Gucci make shopping bags?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm just an underpaid civil servant, remember? I really should get back to this brief. Its almost noon."

"Yeah--where is Bennie, anyway? I'm starving."

***

Saturday morning and a dull, grey light suffused the bedroom. It might have been the buttery glow of a summer morning, a tropic sun promising scented breezes and exotically feathered birds. She leaped from the bed, eager to embrace the day. There would be no counting the hours till nightfall, no wondering if he might come to her, no wrestling with her conscience over letting him feel her hunger for his presence. She was expected below. She was going to do something useful there. contribute in some small way to the lives of the people she loved.

Humming, she dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt and pulled her hair into a practical ponytail. Pausing to check her appearance in the dressing table mirror, she saw no hint of glamour, just a fresh-scrubbed look appropriate to the task at hand. This is the face he loves, the image that he carries in his heart, she thought with a rush of thankfulness to the fate that had decided it so. The knowledge made her happier with her own appearance than she ever remembered being, and she addressed her reflection, hoping the message would hit home. "I'm coming, Vincent. I'll be there in just a few minutes."

The elevator stopped at the 6th floor to admit another passenger. With relief she noted the overcoat that meant he'd be getting off in the lobby.

"Good morning--Miss Chandler, isn't it? I'm Ray Dunn--6D."

"I remember you, Mr. Dunn. How are you?"

"I'm fine, but I hope you're not planning to go far dressed like that. We've got some nippy weather out there."

"No. . . Just sorting out some things in storage."

"Well, don't work too hard." The doors opened on the lobby and he left her. No one else got on.

The box of books was heavier than she remembered, too heavy to lift, and she scooted it across the floor to the opening in the wall. Pushing the concealing cartons aside, she called down. "Are you there, Vincent?"

"I'm here."

She'd known it, felt it swirling like warm currents through her heart, but to hear his voice--it sent a delicious shiver up her spine. "This box is incredibly heavy, if I push it to the edge, can you get it?"

"Just let it drop, Catherine."

She did and heard it land with a solid thump. Pulling the cartons back into place, she hurried down the ladder, to find him holding the carton in his arms.

"Hi," she glowed. "I'm glad to see you."

"And I'm very happy to see you," he said with arch formality.

"How happy?" She gave him a provocative look over the obstacle that separated them, lips parting invitingly.

"How fragile is this box?"

"Not fragile at all." With studied innocence she ran the tip of her tongue slowly over her upper lip. "But it is full of books. I know what great respect you have for literature."

"You know a great deal more than that," he said pointedly. The box hit the ground with a resounding boom, and she was in his arms, accepting the consequences of her teasing, reveling in it, welcoming the fire that filled her. Somewhere in the midst of his kiss her bones turned to mush, and she emerged from it, clinging to him for balance.

"Is that the way you thank everyone who brings you books?"

"I'm very fond of reading."

Her appreciative laughter sounded like a giddy schoolgirl's. "Then we should do it together more often--reading, I mean. Better yet, why don't you just think of me as a particularly interesting book. One of those with the nice, soft binding that you love to feel." She brushed her lips fleetingly across his. "You know the kind I mean--the ones that even smell good." Her tongue darted briefly into his mouth. "The kind that just beg to be opened and enjoyed again. . . and again. . . and. . ."

His groan contained intriguing undertones of a growl as he pulled her more tightly against him, one hand clenched in her hair. "Catherine, if you don't stop this, I may read you right here and now."

"Oh. . . what a perfectly wonderful idea," she shivered, "it's safe here, Vincent. We really could."

With difficulty he released her, and she saw the familiar look of resolve that brooked no arguments. "Books are meant to be cherished, Catherine," he said gently. "They do not belong in the dust and rubble."

"I really wouldn't mind," she explained weakly, but he was already hefting the box back into his arms.

"We'll find a better way," he said, blue eyes soft with promise. "Father is expecting you."

"Right." She shook off the fog of yearning as best she could and had to content herself with taking his arm, as they headed toward their destination. "I hope he really doesn't mind my doing this. I know the library is very important to him. Do you think I'm being too presumptuous?"

"It is hardly in Father's nature to agree to something he doesn't want."

"Yes, I've noticed. I realize he doesn't have time to organize the place, but I'm a little surprised no one else has ever done it."

"I've offered to--many times, but he always refused."

"Then why on earth would he let me do it?"

"I don't think you realize, Catherine, how sincerely Father cares for you--not merely because of what you've done for me, for our community. He respects you. . . He loves you."

"I wanted his acceptance for such a long time. I used to think there was no way I'd ever get it. It's a wonderful feeling just knowing he doesn't mind my being around."

"He would be happy to have you spend more time with us."

She looked at him and slowed her pace. "How much time?" she ventured tentatively. Her inclination was to stop, but he ignored the hint, and she was obliged to keep walking. "Vincent. . . if he truly feels that way. . . and if. . . "

"If. . . what?"

"I. . . I guess this isn't the time to discuss it," she sighed. But she had been eager to bring it up, glad for the opening. Obscurely, it seemed his will that had squelched the temptation, and she was left to ponder the significance of the impression as they finished the journey in silence.

"Ah, Catherine," Father greeted her as they entered the study. "It's very good of you to do this. We've managed to purloin a few empty book cases, and I've found three people willing to help. They've promised to follow your instructions to the letter. Both Brooke and Jamie are on their way."

"Who's the third?" she asked, glad that it wouldn't be such a lonely job.

"Oh, a very enthusiastic volunteer. The. . . uh. . . good-sized one there with the box."

She swung around to face Vincent, delighted, and he inclined his head in a slight bow. "I think he'll do very nicely," she grinned.

"Yes, I supposed you might feel that way. I have several letters to write, but I'll be right here if you have any questions. Otherwise--do with it what you will."

"I thought we'd start with the children's books, getting them all in one place. Maybe under the stairway?"

"You're in charge here," Vincent reminded her. "The choice is yours."

"And you're supposed to follow my instructions to the letter," she whispered with a sly grin. "Father said so."

"Father has never seen that gleam in your eye. I assume these go under the stairs."

"Yes, thank you." She followed him across the room where he set the heavy carton near the shelves. "It's nice under here." she whispered as he straightened up. "Almost like being alone."

"Almost," he agreed, "except for Father staring at us."

"Is he?" She didn't dare turn and look. "I guess we should do something with the books then."

"That's a good plan," he said solemnly.

"I can think of better, but okay. . . if you could start pulling some of them off the higher shelves, we can get an idea of what's here."

By the time Brooke and Jamie joined them a few minutes later the upper shelves had been cleared. It was decided to begin by separating out the children's stories, and fiction from non-fiction, to be organized into further categories later. Dust flew and stacks of books sprouted up on every available surface.

It seemed to her that every time she glanced his way, Father, who was supposed to be concentrating on his correspondence, was peering over the rim of his spectacles, looking faintly aghast at the proceedings.

"Take care with that one, Brooke," he admonished, putting an end to her speculation about his eyesight, "it's particularly fragile. Someone obviously left it out in the sun at some point."

"I will, Father," Brooke cared cheerfully. "He takes a dim view of sunlight," she quipped in a whisper as she passed by them.

"And . . . uh, Catherine, you might want to give those shelves a good dusting before you load them up."

"Yes, I was planning to."

She thought he'd at last settled down to his letter writing when he suddenly added, "Before you decide precisely where everything is to go, you might consider that some of the volumes--art folios, atlases, for example--will require more space."

"We'll keep that in mind," Vincent told him placidly.

By the time they had cleared the shelves and begun cleaning them, Father had seen fit to add several other comments that convinced her he had given up the idea of letter writing altogether in favor of watching their every move.

"Jamie, there's no need to carry so many at once. You're only courting disaster."

"They're not heavy, Father."

"They are not indestructible either," he said irascibly. "Please. . . try to treat them gently."

Jamie didn't reply, but as she handed the stack to Vincent, she whispered, "I thought it would be fun--doing this with you guys. Father ought to be thanking us for cleaning up his mess." She picked up the children's books they'd found in this section and added darkly, "You know, Vincent, it's starting to remind me of that book we read last summer."

"What book was that?" Catherine asked, as Jamie headed for the stairs. Behind his silence she thought she'd caught the flash of a smile.

"I think she's referring to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Catherine, it's occurred to me that no one has emptied the shelves in the gallery."

"Someone should do that," she nodded, gravely.

"Of course, most of that area cannot be seen from Father's desk. It would mean working independently--without the benefit of his advice."

"Better and better," she grinned.

"Catherine and I will start on the gallery," Vincent told Jamie and Brooke as they passed.

They both nodded, but Catherine could have sworn she heard the word "chicken" as they made their way up the stairs.

At the top they moved automatically behind a wall of books, and she felt all the giddiness of a child escaping the detection of a sharp-eyed teacher, a feeling that was immeasurably heightened when he took her in his arms.

"Jamie was right the first time," she grinned. "This is fun."

"Yes, but. . . forgive me. . . you're the one who's supposed to decide what's done here."

"So I am. Well, let's see, we could start clearing these shelves, and dusting, and classifying and stacking. . . or. . . you could kiss me."

"Which would you prefer?"

"How about the one I dream about, the one that drives me crazy when I'm trying to sleep at night."

"Dusting."

"Wrong guess," she chuckled, supplying the right one with eager lips, pressing against him in dizzying delight. He took the hint magnificently, backing her into the corner. A book hitting the floor with the retort of a gunshot broke the spell.

"Vincent, what precisely are you doing up there?" A familiar voice rose in response.

"Classifying, Father," he called, head thrown back as if to direct an accusatory glance at the powers-that-be.

"I see. Well, try to do your classifying a little more quietly, would you please." 

"Classify this," she whispered with a gleeful smile, attacking his throat with small, hungry kisses.

He retaliated by capturing her arms, nibbling relentlessly at her neck until her helpless giggles threatened to carry to their chaperone below. "Shh," he whispered into her ear, "Father will think we're enjoying ourselves."

"Heaven forbid," she managed, as his breath continued to tickle her car. The giggles were close to erupting again. "I think I've lost control of my work crew."

"Never." He released her, dutifully scanning the cluttered shelves. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"The truth? Or do we really have to get back the work?"

"Work can be enjoyable too."

"If you say so." But in its own way, she found it was extremely enjoyable. Exhilarated by their brief diversion, she set to work with a vengeance. Aside from the glow of having him near, the frequent looks they exchanged, the singular thrill she felt just watching him move along the aisles or bend to pick up a book, there was the pleasure of discovering surprising treasures in the hodgepodge of literature.

"Vincent, look at this--a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. You won't believe where I found it."

"Between Thucydides' PeloponnesianWar, Book II and A Guide to New EnglandWater Fowl"he answered automatically, engrossed in a long, narrow folio.

"Well, yes. . . as a matter of fact. What's that you're looking at?"

"Paintings, Catherine . . . neoplatonists, allegories."

She moved to his side and cast a critical eye on the color plate, a lush rendering of young lovers, discretely draped in flowing fabric, the setting a veritable Eden of tangled blossoms.

"Not Daphnis and Chloe," she decided. "There aren't any sheep. Maybe Daphne and Apollo?"

"No laurel."

"I give up. Who are they, Vincent?"

"Psyche and Eros--see the arrows among the vines?"

"I don't remember that one. What happened to them?"

"Psyche was the most beautiful woman in the world, Catherine. So beautiful she captured the heart of love itself--in Eros--who kept her in a secluded palace where her every wish was carried out by magic."

"And how did she feel about him?" she asked, looping her arms around his waist and snuggling close.

"At first she was fearful, but he came to her each night and made love to her in the darkness."

"Sounds pretty good so far--I assume she liked it?"

"Very much, but she didn't know what manner of creature had made her his bride--a man, a monster, a god. She was never permitted to see his face. Still, she loved him, longed for the night to come."

"Well, it doesn't strike me as an ideal relationship, but I've seen a lot worse. I suppose it couldn't last?"

"Mm. Eros was the son of Venus. She was accustomed to having him at her beck and call, and this new allegiance aroused her fury. She was determined to use all her powers to punish Psyche."

"Uh-oh, in-law problems. What happened then?" She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, coveting the sound of his voice, wishing the story would go on and on, as she had as a child when her father held her close at bedtime, reading some favorite fairy tale.

"Catherine." A brusque voice rose from just below the gallery. "Could I have a word with you, please?"

"Poor Psyche," she sighed. "I think I know what she was up against. You don't suppose that's Venus calling?"

"I'm afraid not." Blue eyes looked down at her with droll sympathy. "But it's always possible that he played the part on stage."

Suppressing a snort of laughter, she pulled herself away and went to the railing. "Yes, Father?"

"You don't plan to. . . well. . . deface the books in any manner, do you?" 

"Deface them? What do you mean?" He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her, his brow knitted in anxiety.

"Well, I was only wondering if you intended to mark them in any way--put some sort of identifying numbers on them, perhaps. I would really prefer you didn't do that."

"No," she assured him solemnly. "I wasn't planning to."

"I see. . . good. . . well, go ahead, it's your project. Whatever you decide will be fine."

She watched him move back to the desk and turned to Vincent. "What does he think--that I memorized the entire Dewey decimal system so I could scrawl it all over his first editions?"

He looked at her, amused. "You must remember, Catherine, that he's never let anyone else attempt this at all. It's not surprising that he should be concerned." 

"No. . . I guess I shouldn't be surprised if he has reservations about my going through his stuff, when it took him such a long time to accept my influence on you. It's just frustrating when he doesn't trust me."

"He trusts you, Catherine. . . Come." He took her hand leading her to the back of the stacks, where he tilted her face up to his.

"Vincent," she asked breathlessly, forgetting all about Father. "Are you going to ease my frustration?"

"Probably not, but that influence you spoke of--would you care to try it now?"

"I'll do my best," she smiled, tingling from head to toe as she locked her arms around his neck. He was remarkably easy to influence, she found as her offered kiss drew a slow, deep response that had nothing of resistance in it. He ended it only for the pleasure of beginning again, and it took her a moment to realize that Father was once again calling her from the foot of the stairs. With a last hungry look into those mesmerizing eyes, she hurried to the railing.

"Yes, Father."

"If you should run across Mencken's Treatise on the Gods would you set it aside? It went missing months ago, but I could have sworn it was up there somewhere."

"I'll watch for it," she promised. When she returned to the stacks Vincent was calmly pulling books from an unsorted pile. "Now. . . where were we?" she asked, hopefully.

He glanced at the volume in his hand. "Nancy Drew and the Clue in the Old Album"

"I was afraid you'd say something like that," she grinned, but for a while visible progress was made. There was a definite deep pleasure in just working at his side, and Father stayed mercifully at his desk. Brooke and Jamie's voices floated up to them, punctuated by an occasional laugh or a question called up to her. Slowing down was tempting; the completion of this section would mean rejoining the others below, where the sidelong looks that passed between them would have to be kept to a minimum.

She rocked back on her heels, pleased with the logic of an entire shelf devoted to botany, and felt the unmistakable stir of his feelings. He was leaning on a shelf at the end of the aisle, head tilted, watching her.

"What?" she smiled, rising to her feet.

"I was thinking how beautiful you look with cobwebs in your hair."

She brushed vigorously at her ponytail. "But no spiders--tell me there aren't any spiders."

He stepped toward her, stroking gently at the top of her head. "No. . . no spiders."

She watched his face as his hands remained cradling her. It seemed she could almost feel the pleasure in his fingertips at the touch of her hair. His eyes were bright with the same love that flooded her being. "I would do anything for you," she whispered.

"You have done. . . everything for me, Catherine. Everything," and as if to thank her, he lowered his mouth to hers. It seemed to her no two of his kisses were ever the same. Unbiased by experience, led by his deeply instinctual nature and her own unceasing need, he continually unhinged her with his virtuosity. This latest variation was promising to bring her to the brink of dementia, when a horrendous sound exploded beneath them, and she found herself swaying dazedly, suddenly alone.

At the railing, he called down. "Jamie--what is it?"

"We're okay, Vincent, but the whole top shelf collapsed. There's books all over the place."

Catherine heard a loud groan that could only have come from Father, and hurried down the stairs after Vincent.

"Jamie, really I expected you to be more careful."

"I said we were all right. Nothing hit us."

"That's all very well, but what about the books? Some of the spines are old and brittle."

"It wasn't our fault. The nails just pulled out."

"Well, you should have had Vincent make sure it was secure before you trusted it to hold so much weight." Father's temper had nothing on Jamie's, Catherine thought, as she caught sight of her, surrounded by a haphazard pile of books, her face growing ominously red.

"It doesn't take a man to repair a stupid bookshelf, Father, I could have fixed it if I knew it was broken. Whoever built this did a damned lousy job!"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I built it," he said, gathering a bit of dignity around himself. "And it was not a sexist remark, Jamie. I only meant you needed someone taller to see that the shelf was unstable."

"I don't think anything's really damaged," Brooke offered hopefully. She was already on her hands and knees sorting through the mess.

"Jamie and I will deal with the shelf, Father," Vincent said, putting a placating hand on the older man's shoulder. "Isn't it time you checked on Toby--to see if his rash has worsened?"

"What?. . . oh, yes, I suppose I should." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. "Now, where did I put my bag?"

"Here, Father." Catherine retrieved it from its place behind the desk and handed it to him. "By the time you get back, we'll have everything in order again."

"I certainly hope so," he grumbled. "And if you find any damaged volumes, for goodness sake, get them out of harm's way until they can be repaired."

"We will," she promised. With a last despairing look at the chaos his safe haven had become Father stalked up the steps and out the door. His limp was clearly in evidence.

"God, I thought he'd never leave." Brooke groaned dramatically.

"He's not in a very good mood."

"It's unsettling for him Jamie--to have all of us rearranging his prized possessions."

"Well, I could fix that dumb shelf."

"I know you can. Why don't you get your tools? We'll see to the books." 

"Okay, Vincent, but I hope Toby's got chicken pox or something, so we can finish this in peace."

In fact, Father was gone such a long time that Catherine began to worry about his patient.

"You don't suppose he took the hint and decided to stay out of our way?" Brooke ventured.

"It's more likely he found the ordeal too painful," Vincent told her. "But he'll be pleased when he sees the results. Catherine," he drew her aside, as Jamie and Brooke continued sorting through the shrinking stacks, "I'm needed by one of the work crews soon. It may take some time. Perhaps you can find someone to replace me."

"I doubt that," she said meaningfully, "but don't worry about the work. It will get done. Will you come back afterwards?"

"As soon as we've finished. . . I promise."

"Well then, I'll have something to look forward to. I'm so glad you were here, Vincent. I wish you could kiss me good-bye," she added sotto voce.

"Perhaps later."

She had to be content with the look he swept over her, loving and intensely blue, as he backed away, miraculously negotiating the obstacle course of scattered books. Brooke and Jamie were both looking at her when she turned around. Their smiles struck her as a little wistful, but no one said anything, and the three of them went back to work.

The offending shelf was back in place and newly stocked with history books, when a delicious smell announced a delivery from the kitchen--deep bowls of a thick aromatic stew that they ate sitting around the desk, planning their next move. They were back at work again when Father returned. He appeared reassured by the order that was slowly taking place around them.

"Are there really so many volumes on electronics?" he said, amazed, as he inspected the work completed.

"Probably ones you've never seen before," Brooke confirmed with pride.

"Well, it's not a subject I often turn to, but if you've unearthed so many, there will no doubt be discoveries among more intriguing subjects as well. This is very good of you, Catherine--of all of you. I apologize if I've seemed ungrateful."

"Not at all, Father, and the book you were looking for--Treatise on the Gods--it turned up behind a copy of Anthony Adverse. I put it on your desk."

"Thank you, Catherine. By the way--Brooke, the class begins at half past. Perhaps you should run along and clean up."

"I'm going to have to get going, too," Jamie said. "I promised Mouse I'd help him rig a chute for some food that's coming down later."

"Not pumpkins, I hope," Catherine smiled.

"You hope? Do you know we've had pumpkin bread and pumpkin cookies and pumpkin soup. . . I'm surprised we haven't all turned orange. I'm sorry about leaving in the middle but it shouldn't be hard to find someone else who's willing to help."

"It's okay, Jamie. You guys were here for the worst part. Now it's just getting everything back on the shelves. I can manage."

When the two girls had left, Father went to a pipe that ran unobtrusively behind his desk and pounded out a brief message. "Sit down for a moment, Catherine. Have you had time to contact the people who so interested Kanin?"

"Of course," she said decisively, wondering if he thought it might have slipped her mind.

"I had every confidence that you would. It was Kanin I just summoned. I feel he should be here when we discuss this."

"That seems fair." She felt unaccountably nervous just sitting here across the desk from Father. This morning he had been querulous, an elderly man upset over this incursion into his private territory. There had been something of the fussbudget about him then, but now he had slipped effortlessly back into his position of authority, and there was that maddening sense that he entertained some private amusement where she and Vincent were concerned.

"I assume Vincent has rejoined the work crews?" he said with such uncanny timing that it did nothing to case her discomfort.

"Yes, he left some time ago."

"Well, it's good of you to continue the job without the. . . uh. . . pleasure of his company."

"Father, I'm not doing this for Vincent. I was doing it to make things easier for everyone in the community. There's a difference."

"Yes, Catherine, there is a difference." He regarded her steadily, one finger rubbing absently across his upper lip. "I'm pleased that you see it."

She was at a loss to understand what he was getting at, but Kanin's entrance made it a moot point. He appeared vaguely anxious as he pulled up a chair to join them.

"You talked to them, Catherine? What did you think?"

"Well, what I think is probably less important than what was said and what I was able to find out later." Experience had made it relatively easy to repeat the conversation she'd had with the Duffys verbatim.

"I ran checks on them in Illinois and New Jersey, as well as here, and everything they told me checked out. They're definitely down on their luck, but there's nothing to indicate any criminal behavior or any serious moral lapses, unless you consider Bill's drinking problem, and that's a thing of the past."

A pained sigh from Kanin told her she had strayed into sensitive territory, and she looked at him sympathetically. "It doesn't matter if he drank for years," he said heavily. "All it takes is one time."

"What is far more important is the ability to put such folly behind one." Father pointed out. "It's difficult to access a person's moral character if it has never been tested."

"I just had a gut feeling about them. I don't know why, but what Catherine said--about the two of them going in together with a group of people to live off the land--doesn't that sound like they'd get along fine here?"

"Need I remind you, Kanin, that farming is not one of our chief industries? But yes, the fact that they've lived in a communal society, found that fulfilling, is of course a recommendation that we seldom run across these days. You should have seen it in the '60s, Catherine, people coming to us who wanted nothing more than to expound on the beauties of life, while doing absolutely nothing to contribute to it. Had we accepted everyone the helpers sent our way, we would have no doubt expired in a cloud of incense--or worse, starved to death while making wild and indiscriminate love to each other."

Portions of the scenario were not without charm, but she smiled at him, sensing some interesting stories might lie in that era of the tunnels' history.

"Surely, there were sincere idealists as well. I would think you might have found some kindred souls in the flower children."

"Well, as a matter of fact, Catherine, did you know--"

"Excuse me, Father," Kanin interjected, "but about the Duffys. . . "

"Yes, forgive me, Kanin. You're quite right, but you, Catherine, are wrong when you say your opinion of these people is a minor consideration. Had we known of Kanin's crime prior to his coming here, we would no doubt have refused him sanctuary," and he added, clapping an affectionate hand on the man's shoulder to ease the painful truth of the words, "we would all have been deprived of a dear and trusted friend. What was your personal impressions?"

"I think Bill is cynical, understandably so, but not bitter. There was nothing to indicate they were materialistic, and I had the impression they were sincere about their willingness to work. The fact that they've been part of a small society where the members help each other can't be discounted, but it was primarily. . . "

She stopped, wondering if her assessment would appear to Father to have wandered into the realm of female intuition, and then decided--so what if it did. "I liked the way they looked at each other. There was genuine concern--despite the desperate circumstances. If two people can care deeply for each other, then I think they have the capacity to open their hearts to others. That may not be the kind of expert evaluation you were looking for, but it's what I felt."

"On the contrary, Catherine. I can think of no one with more expertise in that regard than you, and if you feel this couple would fit in, then I think we should move forward with all speed. It's freezing up there. Will you speak to them, Kanin? Explain what we're about, feel them out before you go so far as to compromise our security?"

"Sure thing, Father. Catherine, thanks. I seem to spend a lot of time thanking you and not doing anything to repay you."

"Well, I'd love to baby-sit Luke again sometime," she smiled.

Kanin laughed, shaking his head.

"I sympathize with your dilemma," Father told him. "She's a difficult woman to repay."

"What did you mean?" she asked him when Kanin had gone.

"Precisely what I said, Catherine. With everything you've done for us, for Vincent, for me, for others in the community, I have never found a means of expressing my gratitude."

"Oh, but you have," she said earnestly. "Your acceptance, your friendship--the understanding and insight you gave me when I needed it most. . . those things are more valuable than anything I can imagine."

He nodded, visibly touched. "That's very gracious of you, Catherine, and I promise not to make a nuisance of myself if you care to continue with the library. There would be any number of people willing to help you. All I have to do is put out the call."

"No, really. This is the interesting part, putting everything in its place. I'm amazed by some of the things in this collection."

"Yes, I imagine I'll be amazed myself--to see what you've unearthed."

He smiled at her fondly, and she rose to get back to work, surprised when the afternoon sped by despite the absence of the one who had made the mornings chores so uniquely rewarding. There was only one bookcase yet to be filled when her concentration was pierced by a sensation she only could have described as a "whoosh," and Vincent was moving lithely down the steps toward her.

"It's remarkable how much you've accomplished," he said, surveying the neatly ordered shelves.

"There's just one to go. It won't take long."

"No, Catherine." Father had come and gone so unobtrusively throughout the afternoon, that she'd been unaware he was back in the room. "You've worked long and hard. Someone else can put the remaining books in place--myself, or the next hapless person to wander in here. You run along with Vincent."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. These figures must be tallied, and I scarcely need the distraction of you two playing hide and seek among the shelves. Go on, now."

"Do you suppose he meant anything by that?" she asked, when they'd taken their leave. "Do you think he knew what we were doing this morning?"

"If he did, I would not expect him to accept it so casually. His vision for me, Catherine, has always excluded any possibility of. . . of. . . "

"Of who you actually are," she finished firmly. "I think in his zeal to protect you, he concentrated on certain of your attributes at the expense of the others, but I'm not sure he doesn't realize that now, Vincent. When we had our talk last summer--he said things that . . . well, he didn't exactly come out and say it, but I felt very strongly that he was rethinking his position, acknowledging the possibilities."

"It's interesting, Catherine, that he would choose to indicate as much to you, but never speak a word of it to me."

"Maybe because I was so upset? Or maybe he's finally realized you have a right to make your own decisions--without pressure from him." She could empathize with that position. Decisions had been made that could only have come from his confidence in himself as a man. There were others yet to be made, and she wished fervently that he would approach the subject.

"You must be tired. Would you like to rest?"

"No, actually, I've been bending and stooping so much--it feels good to stretch my legs."

"A walk then?"

"A walk would be great." She smiled as he took her hand, wishing that her pulse wouldn't race so relentlessly at his touch. It was, after all, heaven just to stroll beside him, but her body seemed to have a memory all its own, every cell demanding a return to the ecstasy that had awakened it.

She knew without looking at him that he felt the same ache of longing, and she treasured the strange, new perception even as she wondered if it was apparent to the people they passed in the tunnels. Everyone greeted them naturally enough, but it seemed to her their smiles were particularly affectionate, as if they shared a secret, and she finally decided it was because he was openly holding her hand.

They must look like a couple, which she thought was very different from two people casually walking side by side. The distinction might be a fine point, but apparently it had escaped no one.

"The past seems so very far away," he said suddenly.

"Yes, to me too."

"And the future. . . " Her senses, already exaggerated, jumped a notch, but he only shook his head. "Who knows what the future holds."

"Madame Zola," she answered, more to calm the rush of anticipation that had been left hanging than to answer his rhetorical question.

He looked at her, interested, and she explained, "Madame Zola was a fortune teller that Jenny had at her party--complete with crystal ball."

"Did she predict your future?"

"Oh, absolutely. Let's see, I'm going to marry a tall, dark stranger, have three children and, I think she said, a country house as well as an apartment in the city." She expected a smile, but he didn't look at her at all, and it was something else entirely, something newly forged and organic, that told her he was flinching inside at her words. "Vincent, for heavens sake, it was a party game. . . a joke. You don't think there was a word of truth in it? The woman was just playing a part. She works at Jenny's office."

Mollified, he favored her with a loving look. "Forgive me, Catherine. For a moment I thought this was someone with a genuine gift."

"I'm not convinced there really are people like that."

His expression didn't change, but she felt his smile. They had been down this road before. "Catherine, not everything can be explained in terms of logic. Have you forgotten--"

"Don't say it. I know what you're going to say, and I wish you wouldn't." 

"What?" He stopped, a challenge twinkling in his eyes.

"You're going to say that Kristopher's painting was dry when he gave it to us. I just know it, and it confuses me. I don't know what to think."

"But you knew what I was thinking."

"Yes, I did," she grinned. "Does that make you uncomfortable--knowing I might begin to read your thoughts?" She hoped he'd see fit to curtail her teasing with a kiss, but he only took her hand again and resumed walking.

"You are welcome into my thoughts at any time, Catherine, but I would think it was you who would be uncomfortable--it would mean, after all, that you yourself have a psychic gift."

She laughed, appreciating the deftness with which he turned the tables in a debate that she thought might go on a delightfully long time. It was less a debate with him than with herself, with the long ingrained skepticism that was a part of her profession and even a necessary component of survival in the treacherous world above. "It isn't that I'm not open to the possibility of other powers outside the ones we typically know--I'm really not. It's just that I haven't seen many concrete examples that would convince me of it."

"Perhaps you've seen then, but not recognized them," he suggested mildly. She thought he could be right about that. Where things couldn't be explained, it was easier to assume that a logical explanation existed, that she just couldn't see it, than to accept the existence of the paranormal. But there were Jenny's dreams. Vincent's, the sweet conviction buried deep in her heart that she would someday bear him a child. And there was the indisputable reality of their bond. With the remaining piece of its puzzle so gloriously fitted into place, she felt its power as never before. "Maybe it isn't so much that I don't accept psychic powers as that I don't understand them," she admitted.

"It's only the fact that they defy understanding that separates them from the faculties we do know."

"That's one of the things I admire so about you," she said suddenly, "your ability to accept things that are beyond understanding, to know which ones deserve your acceptance. That's hard for me to do."

"Is it?" He stopped, caressing her face with a sweep of gentle blue. "You've accepted me, Catherine, this place, the dream of all that we are to each other. Your faith in what you cannot understand, the strength of it, astounds me. It has changed my life."

The intensity of his look and the feelings behind it rushed through her, disordering her thoughts, unraveling the fibers of her being and knitting them up again in single taut line. She moved into his arms and he clutched her close, his body reflecting the desire that claimed her own. "Whatever you do, Vincent," she sighed, muffled against his chest, "for God's sake, don't kiss me right now."

"No," he agreed with pained sympathy, "that would be extremely unwise. Perhaps we should concentrate on another goal."

She forced herself to step back, her mind blazing with images of what such an unwise move could precipitate--the two of them against the stony wall or lost in each other's need on the tunnel floor. . . and the interesting spectacle this might present to the next person who happened by. "What do you suggest?" she asked courageously.

"I wondered if you might care to meet Narcissa."

Her only contact with the mysterious old woman had been at the ill-fated Winterfest, when she had lain horribly wounded, but he had spoken of her often, of her peculiar way of life . . . and her powers. He had an obvious affection and respect for this most eccentric of the tunnel dwellers. "I would love to meet her," she said without hesitation, "but will she want to meet me? Isn't she a little suspicious of outsiders?"

"Whatever gifts Narcissa possesses, Catherine, however unlikely they may seem, she would never take you for an outsider. And it's possible that she may be able to tell us something. . . of the future."

"I said I had an open mind," she smiled, "and if she's fond of you, then I like her already."

He took her hand again, his eyes remaining on her face longer than was strictly comfortable for her roiling nerves, but the look was beyond price and worth every bit of the agonized longing it stirred. Their course took them deep into a rugged area that she'd never seen before. The only sign of habitation was the glow emanating from an opening just ahead. "It might be best," he whispered, "if you stay back a moment--until I can prepare her for your presence."

As they moved quietly through the entrance, she felt no inclination to do otherwise. It was definitely spooky. The chamber was steeped in shadows that seemed unusually black, unusually dense. In the center was a ring of uncertain light created by candles whose undulating flames seemed alien to the cheery glow that lit the rest of the tunnel world.

She told herself it was only her imagination that imbued the place with an air of other-worldliness. The weird array of objects, placed here and there around the circle in no discernible pattern, nevertheless spoke of some arcane purpose. But it was the woman herself, standing silent and still in the center of the scene, who dominated the atmosphere despite her diminutive size.

She suppressed a shiver, as he squeezed her hand and stepped into the circle of light. "Narcissa," he called softly.

The immobile face cracked into a slow, bright smile. "Vincent! Come here. . . let me look at you. How big you've grown!"

Catherine wondered if the poor creature was senile, forgetting perhaps her encounters with the full-grown man to recall only the child who had charmed her long ago. From her place in the shadows she watched the two figures draw together, a study in contrasts. The old woman dark and bent, her milky gaze fixed wide on the graceful apparition that towered above her, golden and clear-eyed, head lowered so that she might peer into his face.

"Have I?" he said, accepting her comment as rational.

"Very big. The one that was small, the one crushed by the terrible black wings. . . stretches the boundaries of your soul."

"What do you mean?"

"Two!" she said abruptly with such unexpected force that Catherine jumped. "Always two. One with great power pushing and tearing at the one who is trapped in the darkness--so afraid, believing in it."

"The darkness is real, Narcissa," he said gently. "I cannot deny its existence."

"But you would deny the existence of the light." The denouncement was delivered with a snort. "You would let fear blind you to it, like a terrible shadow smothering a flame. The shadow is real. . . You are right to believe in it, but you no longer believe in the fear. The light, Vincent, the bright spirit--it has bloomed. The darkness cannot banish its power."

"Narcissa, if this is so. . . if you knew it to be true--that it was fear that empowered the horror--why did you not share your knowledge with me?"

"Would you have believed me?" she huffed.

"I have always had great trust in you."

"What good is trust in a crazy old woman if you have no trust in yourself? Now. . . the one whose sorcery has freed your spirit--where is she, child? Bring her to me."

He turned and with a little thrill of fright, Catherine stepped into the circle of limpid candlelight, slipping her hand into his.

"This is Catherine."

"Hello, Narcissa."

Crooked fingers flew to the woman's mouth, and she uttered a low, keening sound. Trembling, her hand slowly rose to describe an arc in the empty air encompassing them both. "So bright," she mumbled. "So bright . . . It hurts the eyes."

There was none of her own uneasiness in Vincent. He stood quietly accepting Narcissa's odd behavior as if it were normal, and perhaps for her, it was. Catherine found herself torn between the undeniable charisma that rose from the unlikely little figure, whose words had made an odd kind of sense, and the guilty speculation that the woman might be as addled as Father said.

"Here, child. . . let me. . . feel your power." She reached out and laid one hand on Catherine's cheek, gingerly, as if the touch might burn her.

"My power? I don't think--"

A rich, throaty chuckle cut her short. "You are like this one--you think too much. Father . . . Father and his books." She shook her head scornfully, and however difficult it was to follow her train of thought, it was clear she considered Jacob Wells' lifestyle every bit as eccentric as he found hers. "But sometimes the power is too great. . . the magic. . . and then thinking is impossible. Isn't this so?" Catherine had the eerie feeling that the woman's clouded eyes were nevertheless piercing straight through her. "Oh, yes," she continued with satisfaction, "yes, far too powerful for thinking. But why do you visit me now, Vincent?"

"There have been changes, Narcissa--in my life. The present is dazzling-- unrecognizable. I seek your wisdom about what the future holds."

"And where would this wisdom come from?" She turned, holding out both arms as if to take in the entire cavern with its baskets of pebbles and bones and shells, the occasional glint of some mysterious amulet in the gloom, the flash of liquid in a shadow dish throwing back the wavering candle flames. "Mirrors, Vincent," she said suddenly, looming toward him. "Even as a small boy there was no mirror in your chamber." She shook her head as if this oversight could explain a great deal. "Reflections are real. Without them how will you know what other things are true?"

"I know what's real now, Narcissa. . . what is important," he assured her, and Catherine felt the sweetness of the conviction in the gentle pressure of his fingers as they entwined with hers.

"She is the mirror." Narcissa reached out to stroke Catherine's hair with a tenderness surprising in one so fiercely foreboding. "Your Catherine is the beauty and the strength in which you find your own. It is not the future that holds something for two such as you. It is you who hold the future. You must recognize the power when it is yours. . . use it." Abruptly, she dropped her hand, stepping back a pace. "You will come again and visit me?"

Until then, Catherine had not suspected that their stay was coming to a close, but Narcissa appeared restless, anxious to get on with whatever strange pastimes occupied he in this forbidding place.

"I will come back," Vincent promised.

"And your Catherine, too. Oh, yes. . . she will return first, I think. . . to berate an old woman for her foolishness." She chortled with delight, either not caring that she had lost her visitors with these oblique pronouncements, or perhaps enjoying the illusion of her own secret knowledge. In any case, she turned away, hobbling to a flat rock on which several odd relics had been enshrined. She was soon engrossed in rearranging them, and Catherine doubted she was even aware of their withdrawal to the yawning passage that had brought them here until her voice rang out, stopping them where they stood.

"Not that way, children. There--behind the stone."

Catherine looked at him, uncertain, but Vincent hesitated only briefly before leading her to the rock that clung to one cleft wall like a pillar. On the other side, a narrow gap angled back so unobtrusively that it was doubtful anyone would notice it unless they were deliberately examining the formation. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she smiled agreement. Her curiosity was as great as his, and with a sense of adventure she followed him as he squeezed sideways through the narrow opening.

"What is this place?" she whispered, as the way widened just enough to allow them to walk side by side.

"I have no idea--a shortcut perhaps?"

"She enjoys being mysterious, doesn't she?"

"No doubt. But she has her own kind of wisdom, Catherine. I have often thought that if she and Father were to combine their knowledge, their separate ways of looking at the world, it would be of great benefit to us all."

"Somehow I can't see that happening."

"No. Their ideologies are poles apart. It makes them chronically suspicious of each other."

"Basically, you're telling me that any thoughts of matchmaking on my part would be futile?"

She caught the flash of his smile in the dim light whose source was yet to reveal itself. "Probably fatal."

"Oh, well. . . you'll have to excuse me, Vincent. I just have this sudden urge to see everyone in love and happy. Can you imagine how wonderful it would be if everybody in the world felt the way we do?"

"Catherine, my imagination can scarcely grasp our own feelings. They overflow every means I know to define them. Listen. . . do you hear it?"

She shook her head. "No, what?"

A few steps farther, and she caught it--the unmistakable sound of rushing water. It drew them forward until the passage opened on a rugged cavern. The walls, the gently arched roof, were a deep, rich brown, streaked here and there with lighter shades and with occasional patches of green. Moisture clung to the smooth facets of the rocks giving them the appearance of bronze. The floor sloped gradually to the right where a pool of clear water churned beneath a small but vigorous cascade, pushed by unseen forces through a channel in the rock. To the left a single ledge held a bevy of candles that were the room's only light.

"Have you ever been here before?"

He shook his head, scanning the chamber with sharp-eyed precision. "I never knew this existed. But it must be below the Chamber of the Falls, close to the source. It would account for the force of the water." There was no exit apparent, but a careful perusal of the far wall revealed a hidden crevice much like the one that had led them here from Narcissa's lair.

"Is it a shortcut?" she asked, knowing he had probably already calculated where the next passage would lead them.

He nodded, but made no move to enter the narrow opening. "Narcissa has given us a means to escape," he said thoughtfully.

"Escape? That's a rather strong way to put it, isn't it?" Something in his expression drew her up short, and she stared at him, adding in a softer voice. "That isn't what you meant by 'escape,' is it?"

"Narcissa concerns herself with matters of the spirit of the powers she honors. . . not the physical world."

"You think she meant for us to find this place. . . so that we could be alone where no one else ever comes?"

"It's clear she comes here. The candles are newly lighted, but. . . yes, I think it is what she intended."

Her heart had begun to pound at the thought. The temperature in her blood had risen considerably. "Then she must have extraordinary perceptions. . . and great understanding. Can we stay, Vincent? You don't think she'll return here, do you?"

"I think it is the last thing she would do. . . and yes, it would be rude to reject her hospitality," he said with a gleam in his eye that shot the temperature several degrees higher. "Would you care to walk along the shore, Catherine?"

"I'd love to," she laughed. The shore was only a few yards long, a flat surface of smooth rock frothing with the agitated water. They approached it hand-in-hand, and she didn't let go as they reached the water's edge. "Pretty cold," she announced, bending to dip her fingers in the foam.

"Are the waters above so much warmer?"

"Sometimes, but not the ocean and not the lakes up in the mountains. They're every bit as cold as this."

He released her hand to unfasten his cloak, spreading it out of reach of the tiny surf, inviting her to sit down. He leaned back on his elbows, and she sat hugging her knees, eyeing the pool speculatively. "I've gone swimming in water as cold as this. It would probably feel good after the kind of work I've done today, and I'm sure I could stand to be a little cleaner."

She stole a glance at him, and his unfaltering look caused something within her to mimic the churning waters. "Did you go skinny-dipping when you were a boy, Vincent?"

"Often. It's one of the favorite pastimes of children here below."

"And the teenagers, too, I'll bet."

"I. . . I don't know. There came a time when I. . . thought it was best, if I did not join the others. I usually swim alone."

"Well, that was probably a wise move on your part," she said, pulling the rubber band from her ponytail and shaking out her hair. She turned to see that uncertainty had crept into his gaze in response to her remark. "It was," she insisted. "I've seen you, Vincent. Can you imagine what horrible inferiority complexes the other boys would have grown up with, if you hadn't been so discreet? There might be a whole generation of sexually dysfunctional males in the tunnels. It could have been disastrous."

"Catherine." He dropped his eyes, looking frankly scandalized by her outrageousness, a fact which failed to stir the slightest guilt in her bosom. He'd get past all that and arrive at the inevitable conclusion that he was pleasing to her, and that couldn't help but make him happy.

She grinned and took the opportunity to whip the sweat shirt over her head. She didn't look at him again, even after the rest of her clothes had created an untidy pile at her feet and she stepped to the water's edge. The temptation to plunge in was great, but there was no telling how deep it might be, or how treacherous the bottom, so she eased her way out slowly--stepping carefully, gratified to find that the rock beneath had long since eroded to smoothness. At the center she took a deep breath and sank beneath the surface, shot through with the exhilarating chill and the bubbles that fizzed around her.

She emerged back into the air, and took a deep breath, smoothing her dripping hair from her face, smiling, but the smile faded when she saw the cloak lying deserted on the slope. He was nowhere in sight. Blinking, she searched the cavern for some sign of him. There was no sound except the noise of the water--the water and the involuntary shriek that erupted as strong arms came around her from behind.

Strands of wet, golden hair licked across her as he bent his head to nuzzle her shoulder. "How can someone so small make so much noise?" he murmured into her ear.

Gasping, she wriggled slickly around in his embrace to face him--a sea god, as innately at home in this element as he seemed everywhere else. "How did you do that? Where are your clothes?"

"Was I supposed to wear them?"

"Uh--uh," she grinned, locking her arms around his neck. The water no longer felt chill at all. The delicious burning that ignited instantly at his touch was sufficient to warm even the cold, primal stream. She let the currents move her at will against his body, hard as the rocks surrounding them, soft with the thick tawny covering that, even underwater, teased at her with excruciating results. Suddenly, the easy confidence in his manner faltered. The intensity of his gaze broke, and he blinked uncertainly. "What?" she encouraged gently, knowing her heart was in her eyes, knowing he could not look away.

"It seems beyond belief, Catherine. . . that I should have the right to touch you this way."

"Everything you touch is yours," she reminded him with breathless fervor. "Of course you have the right. You don't think Narcissa heard me scream, do you?" 

"No. . . don't worry." He smoothed a hand slowly over her slicked-back hair.

"How exquisite you are . . . like a sculpture."

"Cold and hard?" she teased, dizzy with the sensation of being buffeted gently against his chest.

"No. . . not even cold," he bent his head, mouthing at her ear. "And certainly not hard."

Her breath wound out of her in an aching sigh. "Statues don't make any noise," she mumbled, hardly knowing what she was saying. "But you know how to keep me quiet."

He took the hint, following the line of her cheek to capture her mouth, holding back nothing in this unexpected interlude of freedom. She shivered against him as he released her. "There's an even better way," she said, vaguely noting that the words sounded slurred.

He acknowledged her meaning with a low, unfettered growl that spoke to all the most vulnerable parts of her body, demanding an instinctual response that was instant in coming. "But it is not strictly true," he added, sliding a kiss over her arched throat.

"It isn't--really? Do I. . . did I. . .make noises?"

"Not noises, Catherine--music, the most beautiful music I've ever heard. I ache to hear it again."

"You're the only one who ever will . . . the only one who can play it," she whispered. It was unbearable, the wanting him, but, of course, he knew, and huge hands slid down her back, cupping the softness that sent shivers through his massive body, the body that she was sure would be unmoved by tempest or tidal wave. He lifted her high and buoyant in the waves.

"Hold tight." His mouth sealed the promise of his intention, and the execution of it, as he slid her downward with excruciating slowness, shattered all sense of the element they moved in.

Everything was one, everything existed only in the force they created together, the universe pulled inward. The rough-hewn rock, the crashing waters, that moments ago had surrounded them in a semblance of solidity, dissolved to join the only reality she knew--the one within. Gravity had vanished, taking with it any need for conscious movement. She had only to flow freely, one with him and one with the vital energy that had consumed form and substance.

Only in the scaring, primordial fires, could nature hope to redefine itself, as she felt herself redefined, led like a bride to be wed with the deepest truths of the soul they shared, and it didn't reconstruct itself until long moments after her ecstatic cry had joined the crashing thunder of the little falls, the roar he made no effort to restrain.

He slid beneath the waves, pulling her willingly with him, and they floated to the top together. With fascination she saw that the stony walls were back in place; the waters pumped again from their craggy channel, all new and strangely splendid. It was only then she noted how close they were to the cascade, wondering if he had maneuvered purposely in that direction so that the sounds they made might be obscured by a more modest force of nature.

The shore was only yards away, but in her present lassitude it might have been miles, and she was still trying to remember the basics of swimming, a skill she could have sworn was instinctive, when it became clear that he had lifted her again, carrying her out of the pool. He laid her gingerly on the cloak and stretched out beside her, silent and wet and too beautiful for words.

For a long time they lay just looking at each other, letting their eyes convey again the message so thoroughly expressed by their bodies. "Amphitrite," he whispered at last, catching with one gentle fingertip a droplet that clung tear-like to her lashes. "With eyes the color of the sea."

"Who was she, Vincent?" she coaxed, longing to have the velvet voice go on and on.

"One of the Nereids--the sea nymphs--wife of Poseidon himself."

"But not a mermaid?"

"No." His eyes left hers, and he trailed his hand tenderly down her outstretched body still shimmering with moisture. "Happily. . . not a mermaid."

She shivered deliciously at his touch, and he added. "Are you cold? Would you like to get dressed?"

"Maybe a little, but no, I don't want to. I'd rather you keep me warm." Drenched, his hair had darkened. It fell in heavy ropes across her, as he cushioned her head in the crook of his elbow, moving over her without letting her take all of his weight.

"This isn't the softest of beds," he apologized.

In fact, she took little notice of the hard slab beneath her. "It doesn't matter--the covers are exquisite." She ran her hands over his shoulders and let her fingers play through the damp skeins of his hair. Miraculously, the scratches she had inflicted only days ago had disappeared, and she was pleased to see there were no new ones.

"I filed my fingernails," she whispered, blushing, "just in case."

"Perhaps, I should do that as well."

His tone was light, but behind the small joke she sensed a vulnerability in the oblique reference to the shadow that had for so long overwhelmed them.

"No," she said, touching his face with fingers that ached to reassure him, "you shouldn't."

The specter had been raised, and he made no effort to hide his need to confront it, to know where it fit into her concept of him now. Eyes clear as summer skies gazed into hers ready to accept whatever verdict, however painful, she might pronounce. We are, she thought with a thrill of boundless love, truly the mirrors of each other.

"Sometimes," she said gently, "I have had to carry a gun--for survival, for self-defense. I hate it, Vincent. I hate the thought of ever having to use it. In the best of all possible worlds I never would, but we both know there are times when it's necessary to protect ourselves. . . and those we love. Your doing that would be like. . . like me not putting bullets in the gun."

"I want never to feel that fury again, that terrible blankness," he protested with quiet vehemence.

"I want that for you, too. I hope it never happens, but it might, Vincent. We have to face that. If someone were to threaten this world. . . if there was a life at stake--Father's, for instance, or anyone here that you love. Would you use that fury to save them?"

Or yours. She felt his automatic leap to place her own life at the top of the list as surely as if he'd spoken the words aloud. "In less than a heartbeat," he answered grimly.

"Then it's best to be prepared. It's only realistic, and besides, I don't know how you. . . do what you do. . . but you've never hurt me in the least."

"I would die first," he said with stark simplicity.

Her hands roved over him with soothing, soul-deep pleasure. "Let's not talk about dying--not when I feel more alive than I ever thought was possible." She sighed at the unimaginably sweet sensation of his fur against her breasts. "You make a wonderful blanket, Vincent. . . so magical. . . warming me from the inside out."

"I would be everything to you, Catherine--your warmth when you are cold, your comfort when you're sad, your strength when you are tired."

"How about when I'm hungry?" she asked, lifting her head to tease at his lower lip.

"That too," he promised, pressing her back into the strong curve of his arm, giving her the kiss she craved. The languor faded with the freedom of this precious opportunity--to look, to touch, to taste. She knew with absolute certainty that she would never get enough of it. What seemed too much for her senses to bear only begged to be repeated in an endless spiral, their bodies pulsing to the same rhythm, souls in perfect rhyme, until he took her again, driving them both to the brink of madness, only to find--when they were hurled into its beckoning depths--that it wasn't madness, after all, but the sweetest and purest truth.

Afterwards, they lay gasping for breath, as if the shore had only been reached by a strenuous ocean swim, but still he held her fast, pledging his love in syllables broken only by the reflexive instinct to survive.

"I want . . . I want to tell you how much I love you and keep telling you," she responded, adding ruefully, "only . . . I'm exhausted."

"Sleep then," he whispered, rolling her over to lie across him, tenderly kissing her hair.

She really didn't want to, didn't want to miss a moment of awareness when he was here and so gloriously and completely hers, but her sated body was in full rebellion, and as though she'd been drugged, she fell instantly asleep.

When she awoke, his arms were no longer around her. She lay curled on his cloak. The other half had been pulled over her. He had bundled up her sweat shirt to pillow her head. She blinked slowly, still feeling as if she'd been sedated, but the same torpor had crept over her before when they made love, and it had disappeared quickly enough the moment the opportunity presented itself again. Sitting up, she noticed that the candles on the ledge were noticeably shorter than when they had entered the cavern. How long had she been asleep? Basically, she didn't care. Her only concern was to find him again and she did so easily enough without moving from the spot.

He stood poised on a rock some distance away, and as she watched, the powerful body arced through the air with perfect grace and cut cleanly into the center of the pool. Maybe her new sensitivity to his feelings had wakened her just in time to witness what was to her a spectacular scene. It would have been a shame to miss it.

She stayed where she was and watched, enchanted, as he broke the surface, the deep-chested torso gleaming with water, his hair streaming as he shook it from his face, head thrown back, like some imperious god of nature. Yes, the sleepiness was totally gone now, chased by the familiar throbbing of desire that rushed in to take its place.

It was curious, she thought, with a stab at objectivity. She had never thought of herself as a particularly lustful person. Loving him for so long, denied the natural expression of her passion, it had not been surprising that longing had reached such a fevered pitch. But once the longing had been answered--satisfied beyond her wildest dreams--she might have expected it to become more manageable. Instead, the very fulfillment of it had rendered her more insatiable.

Anyone watching might think she was chronically lecherous, but then anyone watching could not know the stunning sense of rebirth--of her heart, her spirit, the rapt sensation of flowing through the essence of his soul that was one and the same with receiving his love. He had disappeared below the foam again, and her heartbeat counted the seconds until she caught the flash of his golden back, the long arms pulling him gracefully through the troubled currents.

She said a silent prayer of thanks to the fate that had brought them to this extraordinary cavern. Without it there was no telling when they might have found a time and place to truly be together, and watching him challenge the ferocious little tide with perfect ease, it occurred to her that a second prayer might be in order. He seemed virtually tireless, and for that she was grateful. Their time together was necessarily brief, but his stamina had allowed them to put it to the best possible use, making love not once, but twice.

Once again he rose, shaking out his hair, and she wished halfheartedly that he didn't look quite so breathtaking--like some fierce pagan deity with the power to enslave any mortal woman whose good fortune it was to catch him at his revels. Her slender body, so newly satisfied, seemed hell-bent on responding to his unconscious summons, eager to worship the primitive supremacy inherent in every line of the vision before her--virility incarnate.

The fantasy was irresistible, wildly titillating, as it expanded to include herself, an eager sacrifice, kneeling on the altar of smooth stone, waiting only for him to claim her. He no doubt felt the stirring that she was woefully unsuccessful in repressing. His eyes caught hers and even from this distance, their blue magic toppled any resistance she might have mustered to the incessant desire. Mentally, she gave up the fight and let her emotions join the physical craving in single-minded intents hoping he wouldn't be dismayed by its persistence. But as he moved toward her with the same powerful grace that had always set her heart pounding, it was apparent that the fear--of intimidating him with her demands-- was needless.

There was no self-consciousness, no hint that he was aware of the awe-inspiring image he presented as he strode out of the water. She watched the movement of his powerfully muscled legs, transfixed. As he drew near she brushed the concealing cloak from her body, staring at him with undisguised hunger, and reaching up, whispered, "Vincent. . . please. . . let me. . . "

It was much later when reluctantly they disentangled once again from each other, if not from the blissful spell that wove them inexorably together. She knew, because some of the candles on the little ledge had burned to mere stumps. With one last resonant whisper that he loved her--a statement that unaccountably struck her with as much impact as if he'd never said anything of the kind before--he helped her to her feet. Hand in hand they plunged briefly again into the roiling waters and when they emerged, he patted her dry with his cloak. The gesture seemed at once erotic and vaguely sacrilegious.

"We have no towels," he reminded her practically. "And I'll wear it all the more gladly, remembering how it caressed your skin."

"And you'll think of me wrapped around you," she murmured, deciding she liked the idea.

"Whether or not I'm wearing it, I will think of that. . . yes." He brushed a kiss across her forehead and with obvious reluctance released her to retrieve his clothes from among the rocks.

When they had dressed, he took her hand again leading her with a last nostalgic look around the cavern to the slitted wall. Like the passage at the other side, this one quickly widened out, allowing them to walk comfortably side-by-side, but it was darker and soon sloped steeply upwards, depositing them through another unobtrusive opening in a vaguely familiar space. The muffled roar of the greater falls told her his reading of their location had been correct. It could not be far away.

There was still quite a walk ahead of them, and the thought provoked mixed feelings. The prospect of parting, always difficult, seemed suddenly impossible and worse--reprehensible, as if doing so constituted a violation of some primal code. But she was so tired, wonderfully and utterly exhausted.

"Would you like me to carry you?"

"No," she smiled, loving her charmed position within his thoughts. "I just feel like I'm made of rubber, that's all, but I can make it. We'd only start the sentries speculating, if they found you carrying me."

He slipped an arm around her, inviting her to lean against him. "And what will they think of our wet hair?"

There'd been little they could do about that. "Maybe they'll think we got caught in the rain again. It will give them something to gossip about."

"Everyone was happy for us, Catherine. Halloween is a special night. The attitudes toward it are not so different here from those in your world. But on an ordinary night. . . the news that I'd gone above would not be so easily accepted." His conversational tone held a note of somberness at the reminder that people in neither world would accept lightly his decision to move between them.

"But we know this was no ordinary night," she whispered, drawing him back to the warmth. "This was a night beyond dreams. We have Narcissa to thank for that."

"You no longer feel frightened of her."

Had she been frightened? Yes, she admitted. Meeting the fabled figure had been an intimidating proposition, and, of course, he had recognized the feeling in her. "No, not frightened, though I can't say she makes me absolutely comfortable. Why did she insist that I would come back--and be angry with her? Considering what she's given us tonight, that's the last thing I'd do."

He shook his head, smiling. "I do not pretend to understand her, Catherine. . .only to respect her sincerity."

"There are a lot of different ways to look at life, I guess. . . to try and explain it." She felt willing to embrace them all in her state of soft euphoria. "When I was at Jenny's party, I was talking to a psychologist about my dreams, and he said something intriguing about water as a symbol."

His look of open interest was so beguiling that she reached up and kissed him swiftly without slowing their measured pace. "He said it can symbolize a wish for change, for rebirth. After tonight, I believe him."

"Yes." This time they did stop, and his hand came up to caress her face. "To be reborn. . . in you," he said softly, and kissed her with the gentleness that always stole her breath away.

"I wish I didn't have to leave you." There--the words were out, and she was not entirely sorry they had escaped. She expected a regretful cataloguing of why it must be so, hoped for the slight possibility that he would throw caution to the winds and invite her to stay once more in his chamber, but he did neither.

"It would be wonderful." His arm was supporting her again, and he said no more until they reached the ladder. "Every moment. . . until I see you again will be a lifetime."

"No," she whispered, "not a lifetime. I want to spend every lifetime. . . however many we're given. . . with you. . . loving you."

"I am yours, Catherine--throughout all of them." His kiss was the soaring confirmation that no power in the universe could make it otherwise, and as she tore herself away from him, she thought how long she had secretly wished for those impossible words--that he belonged to her. Only now did she understand why they had been so long in coming.

It was his sense of himself as a man, able to love her with all the tender passion of his great spirit, master of the darker furies in his soul, that at last made him feel worthy of the giving. Reflections. In accepting her love, he had found his own redemption, and that redemption was the single greatest treasure of her life, the source of a happiness that couldn't be described. Perhaps, she thought, Narcissa--that wise and wonderful sorceress--had been right about the importance of mirrors.