Part 6

Chapter Eleven: A Voyage With Water and a Star

"Oh, no," Catherine said, agonized. Vincent had worn his cloak but he hadn't worn his hood up since they'd arrived. He wasn't supposed to need to hide, not here. It's the damn Watcher all over again. And that thought alone was enough to turn her stomach to ice. Bad enough that the Watcher had seen them from a window in an apartment across the street. But the specter of someone watching them from the dense woods, where there was still plenty of cover, was even worse.

Vincent's hand tightened around her own. "We should go back to the cottage," he said. He released her hand briefly to pull the concealing hood up and Catherine felt the sadness of that gesture arcing through her. He shouldn't have to do this, not here. This was supposed to be our refuge.

"Catherine," he said quietly. "No place on earth can change what I am."

"I know," she said. "And I wouldn't want to change you. I just wish you didn't have to hide here."

When they arrived at the cottage, Catherine drew the concealing blinds as Vincent hung up his cloak. She sat down heavily on the couch in the living room. "Here's some tea," Vincent said, handing her a mug.

"Thanks," she replied, taking a sip. Chamomile, of course, soothing on her stretched nerves. Vincent would have sensed her tumult. "What do you want to do?" Catherine asked him as he came to sit beside her with his own mug of tea in his hands.

"Father would say it's prudent to return, that my place has always been below and this incident is merely the proof of it." Vincent sipped at his tea, his blue gaze distant as he marshaled his thoughts. Catherine had seen him like this many times, most recently over yet another chess match that Father had lost. "But...I do not wish to be prudent, Catherine." He smiled, a sweet, slow smile that melted the ice churning in her gut. "I need this place. We need this place. And perhaps our watcher is not as we fear."

Catherine crossed her legs underneath her, thinking. Had this been a sighting at the height of hunting season, there would have been no question. She would have bundled him back in the van and taken the fastest road back to the tunnels. But it was early fall, most of the houses were vacant, and their nearest neighbors were five miles away. Could he have sensed a solitary hiker, who maybe didn't realize what he'd seen? Could they be that lucky? "What did you sense, Vincent?"

He placed his empty mug of tea on a coaster on the carved end-table. "There was a...presence, watching. Not malevolent, but...confused." He shrugged. "It was far enough away that I couldn't catch a scent or anything more specific." Vincent gazed across at her, eyes warm and dark. "I think we should stay inside for a couple of days and wait and see."

Catherine considered this. Father would never forgive her if Vincent was injured up here, and yet, wasn't taking risks, moving beyond their barriers, what this whole trip had been about? Vincent would be at least as safe in the house with the curtains drawn and lights kept low as he would be in the tunnels, and Vincent had said the watcher didn't seem to be violent. A couple of days should prove or disprove that notion.

Her eye fell on an old seaman's chest near the fireplace. "Very well," Catherine said, trying to relax and hoping they weren't making a huge mistake. "Have you ever played Scrabble?"

***

By the end of their third day in the cottage, Catherine had learned a few thing she never would have suspected about Vincent. Despite his facility with words, he was an abysmal Scrabble player, but had a cutthroat knack for Trivial Pursuit. And as for poker---well, considering that their one game had ended up with her naked and him fully clothed, Catherine thought that it was a safe bet that he'd have been a skilled card shark in Vegas. The aftermath, as he claimed his "winnings," had been memorable, she recalled, smiling a private smile.

What had surprised her the most, though, was how much she enjoyed his presence on a day-to-day basis. After her disastrous relationship with Stephen Bass had ended, Catherine had had a few relationships, but none of them were with men who, she knew now, would have been good to have around permanently. Those men said all the right things, but if they'd gone through even half of the adventures she and Vincent had endured on this trip....well, Alex would have been on his therapist's couch in a New York minute and David would have tried to blame everything on her lack of planning. And Tom...Tom would never have consented to go in the first place.

But Vincent...ah, Vincent. Catherine found that she enjoyed washing dishes with him, or making the bed, or folding clothes fresh from the laundry. Their days had assumed a certain routine, of quiet chatter or no talking at all, of making love and making beds, of playing music on her dad's old record player or simply watching the fire crackle. Now that their relationship no longer consisted entirely of stolen moments on her balcony or in his world, Catherine was delighted to find that they could and did work together on a more mundane level as well.

Will we fit together as well in his world? Catherine wondered. I'm not domestic. I barely passed Home Ec. I can't sew and the only thing I know about candles is how to light them. What will I do Below? She was no fool; it took a lot of concerted, hard work to keep the community running and she very much doubted they had need of a lawyer when there was so much hands-on work to be done.

It was then that Vincent's arms had come around her and pulled her close against the soft, furry warmth of his chest. He'd clearly sensed the direction of her ruminations, for he said, "Beloved, our relationship has always been about making a place between our worlds. We'll find a way that works for both of us." He kissed her gently, then drew her down onto the bed and reminded her that there were many other things they did well together.

***

That night, Catherine found Vincent on the roof. Not the arched roof of the cottage, but the flat roof of the porch addition. A harvest moon loomed large and the stars were bright and twinkling in the cloudless sky. "Hey, love," she called out from the bedroom window. "How on earth did you get up there?" She knew the words were absurd as soon as they left her mouth; if he could manage the climb to her balcony and the very top of a subway car, the roof of a porch likely posed no problem.

Cloaked, he was a figure of blackness, tall and solid and part of the night itself, except for the faint reflection of his eyes in the starlight. "I used the ladder," he said, gesturing to the ladder propped on the side of the house.

Catherine chuckled. "Of course you did. The stars must be lovely tonight. I'll be up there shortly."

The harvest moon had turned everything orange and eerie but none of that mattered as she settled under the warmth of his cloak. "Can you see any of this below?" she asked, hearing the soft, slow tread of his heart under her ear.

"In the mirror pool, sometimes. But we never see the moon quite like this." He smiled then, a smile of awe and wonder and she thought of the child he had been, going above with Devin to see the moon for the first time.

"Devin would be so pleased you saw this," Catherine said, remembering how she used to take such wonders, such times, for granted until she began to see things through Vincent's eyes. So many, many things she had never considered, now seemed like priceless gifts: the sunlight as it touched his hair for the first time, his joy at the colors of the leaves still pinned to the curtains in the library. Even his joy at simply being here, with her, was a gift she'd never thought to receive. How much more would it be for Devin, who had grown up knowing that Vincent could never leave the tunnels?

"Mmmm...hmmm," Vincent said against her hair. "But he would be even more pleased I took the risk to come here. He always said I should trust myself more."

"I'm glad you did," Catherine said. She glanced out into the darkened forest beyond them. "Do you still sense that presence you felt earlier?"

Vincent nodded. His hand felt warm and solid in her own. "Yes. It comes and goes, but whoever, whatever it is, is still out there. Watching."

She shivered at that. After the Watcher, after Spirko and Hughes and Gould, it was impossible for her to shut out the possibility that anyone who saw them might go running off to the local newspaper. Even wild reports could be taken seriously by someone, somewhere. Vincent's arm around her tightened. "Catherine, do you trust me?"

"With everything I am," she responded, smiling, trying to shake off the foreboding. "As if you need to ask."

"Then trust me on this. Whatever is out there...it means us no harm."

His empathic abilities were not to be disputed, and so, Catherine tried to relax, to shut out the ghosts of other times and dangers long passed. Whatever, whoever was out there, they'd meet it together.

They stayed on the porch until sunrise.

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve: Filled the Autumn Plentiful

They were in the kitchen washing dishes the following morning when the phone rang. It was, Catherine thought, going to be an unseasonably warm day; already, the sun peeking through the closed curtains was warm on the back of her neck as she put away the dishes. When the phone rang, it was startling in the morning stillness. The first call was from the mechanic, stating that the van wouldn't be ready for another week. Joe's just going to love that, Catherine thought. The second call was from Gertrude, who was going to the store and wanted to know if Catherine needed anything.

"Oh, thanks, Gertrude, we do need some supplies. Our van's been laid up another week, something about having to special order parts," Catherine said, feeling Vincent's warm presence behind her. He brushed aside her hair and began to nuzzle the side of her neck. The warmth uncurled, low in her belly and she nearly lost track of the conversation. She reached up and felt the back of his neck and the rough silk of his hair flowing over her hand. "Just the staples will do just fine. I don't think we need the oysters. Thanks so much, Gertrude. Keep the receipt and I'll pay you when you get back, okay? Yes, I insist. Thanks again."

Catherine hung up the phone and started laughing. "Obviously, you're hungry," she said, kissing him. "But be careful when I'm on the phone. For all I know, Gertrude could be bringing us pickles and ice cream for us to eat for the next few days."

Vincent looked at her from where he leaned against the copper sink. It was that look, the one that made her have a hard time remembering that they'd spent years without ever kissing. He was certainly a fast learner. "So I disrupted your conversation, then?"

"And short-circuited my brain," Catherine replied, throwing a handful of soapy bubbles at him and laughing when he ducked. She didn't entirely miss him; a crown of soapy bubbles rested at the top of his head and slid slowly down his long nose. So quickly she nearly didn't see it, one clawed hand flung a wet soapy mess at her, hitting her square in the chest.

"Oh, this means war, buster!" Catherine laughed. She grabbed the hose from the back of the sink and turned the water on full blast, soaking him in the chest.

Vincent was too quick again; he turned the faucet off and advanced on her slowly. He touched the hem of her turtleneck, which was soaked clear through. "Catherine, you're all wet."

"Yes, so what else is new?" she said, and kissed him hard. She felt his hands roam underneath her sweater and shivered when he rubbed the soft fur on the back of his hands all along her spine.

"Why don't we get you out of those wet clothes?" Vincent said, silken against her mouth.

Catherine smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

***

Later after their loving, Vincent read in the library while Catherine took a shower. She'd insisted on taking one alone this time. He had to admit her judgment was correct; if they'd taken one together, neither of them would have actually gotten clean. Looking at the bookshelves, he found an old volume of poetry and began to read, content in the sunlight and the peace of the fall that was enveloping him.

A faint sound from the entryway drew his attention, the distinctive sounds of a lock being turned. Who can it be? Vincent though frantically, looking for a place to hide. There were some shadows clinging to the edge of the library, but it wouldn't be enough. Perhaps if he went upstairs....Vincent sprinted for the stairs, and just as he reached the top of the upstairs landing, the door opened.

"Oh, hello there," an older female voice said. "I was just coming to drop off the groceries; I didn't mean to disturb you."

Vincent stood frozen on the landing with his back to the woman, afraid to turn around, and at that moment, Catherine opened the bathroom door, her eyes wide---clearly, she'd sensed his fright---and stepped out to look down the staircase at what had frightened him so. "Vincent, what is it?" She gathered her towel more securely around her and came to stand next to him to look down at the bottom of the stairs. Incredibly, she smiled.

"Oh, hello, Gertrude. Let me get dressed and I'll help you with those groceries." Catherine placed one hand on Vincent's shoulder. "Vincent," she said for his ears alone. "It's okay. Really. I promise."

Trusting her as he did, he turned to look down at the woman. There was a strange intent rigidity to her expression and Vincent abruptly realized why.

Like Narcissa, Gertrude was blind.

***

Sometime later, after the groceries had been put away and Gertrude's husband had called to say he'd be back to pick her up in a few minutes after making a quick return trip back into town, Vincent and Gertrude were sitting at the kitchen table while Catherine made a quick lunch. "I'm so sorry for startling you both," Gertrude said. "I didn't know anyone was here; I just figured I'd put the groceries away and wait for Matt to come back."

"It's fine," he said. "Thank you for bringing the groceries."

Gertrude smiled. "You're welcome. I've never met any of Cathy's...friends. How long have you known her?"

"Three years this April," Vincent said, liking her. He didn't know how much she could see, but since she hadn't run for the hills yet, he decided to trust his instincts. His sense of her was faint, but still present. Gertrude might ask questions, but she meant neither of them any harm

"He met me soon after the attack," Catherine said, tossing a salad and casting a quick, nervous glance at Vincent. He knew what she was concerned about, that Gertrude's curiosity might open the door to questions that neither of them could answer.

"I see," Gertrude said. "You have such a lovely voice, Vincent. Do you work in the theater?"

Vincent nearly laughed. His voice, that lisped when he was tired and growled when he was angry---beautiful? Catherine put the salad plates in front of them, along with the sandwiches. "I keep telling him his voice is wonderful," Catherine said. "But he doesn't believe me. Even his students listen to him." Her hand played with his hair and Vincent relaxed, minutely. After a lifetime of believing himself as something less than human, it continued to be a source of wonder that Catherine found anything about him beautiful.

"Oh, so you're a teacher? That's fantastic. I taught some before I had the girls, and now our eldest is a teacher. What do you teach?"

Vincent thought fast. "Literature, mainly. Though I fill in where I'm needed."

"And he does a fantastic job of it," Catherine said, clasping his hand under the table. It occurred to him then that this was the first time he'd met someone who also knew Catherine but who didn't know about the tunnels. Catherine's friend Jenny had been brought into the secret some months earlier and was settling into her role as helper quite well, but she knew about the tunnels and understood about the secrets she had to keep. Gertrude knew only that he was Catherine's friend, and the thought was somewhat unnerving, like he was swimming in very unfamiliar waters. Am I being foolish, risking this much on a gut feeling that she means us no harm?

"Gertrude," Catherine asked, turning the conversation to safer matters, "have you seen anyone on your land recently?"

"You mean, like a trespasser?" Catherine nodded. "No," Gertrude replied, grinning, "but then, I wouldn't. But Matt hasn't seen anything and the dogs have been quiet. Why, has someone been lurking around here?"

Catherine nodded. "We thought we...saw someone recently."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Cathy," Gertrude said. "Every so often, we get some break-ins, that sort of thing, but it's pretty rare. Usually what we get up here are lost hikers. Just lock your doors, and if you see anything suspicious, call the sheriff "

"Thanks, Gertrude, I will," Catherine replied, but Vincent knew she would do no such thing. The risk was simply too great.

They talked back and forth for a few minutes and Vincent slowly became astonished at Gertrude's ability to draw him out of himself. She didn't ask where he lived or where he taught or anything too specific; indeed, she avoided the entire topic with an adroitness that reminded him of Catherine, back when they were still getting to know each other. He found himself telling stories of the children he taught, of young Samantha being entirely too realistic in her role as Katharina the shrew, when Geoffrey had annoyed her too much one winter day; of Eric, announcing with all the gravity a nine year old could muster that Caesar should beware the ides of March; of Michael, who had made the dean's list for the second year in a row and who was thinking of becoming a teacher himself.

"I loved teaching," Gertrude said, "and I can tell you do too." The sound of a car's wheels on gravel broke up the conversation. "That'll be Matt. Vincent, Cathy, it's been a pleasure. Call us if you need anything and both of you, don't be strangers."

***

After Gertrude had left and the lunch dishes were dry and put away, Catherine sank onto the couch next to Vincent. "It's been quite a day, hasn't it?"

Vincent pulled her close, the sort of hug she had longed for and received on many nights on her balcony. "Yes. Gertrude was...surprising."

Catherine laughed. "She has that effect on people. I think about all she's managed to do and she's really quite amazing." At Vincent's questioning look, she continued, "She wasn't always blind. When I was a kid, she used to take me hiking in these woods along with her daughters. But as Gertrude grew older, her vision began to fail. I never heard her complain. She and Matt just adapted and went on with life."

"Catherine, she saw me," Vincent said.

"She couldn't have," Catherine responded. "All she can see now is light and shadows."

"Narcissa is blind from cataracts, but she's always been able to see me and the world she lives in. Gertrude is the same way."

Despite occasional visits from Kristopher Gentian, Catherine was still no great believer in the supernatural. But Vincent's own abilities she trusted absolutely. "Are you sure?" she said.

"Yes, as sure as I am of you. She...sees things in pictures sometimes, I think. Gertrude saw me when I came back down the stairs." He shrugged. "I can't explain it."

"You don't have to," Catherine said. "I believe you. If you're sure, you're sure." She kissed him. "She must have found you as beautiful as I do." She laughed then. "Vincent, you're blushing."

"I don't," he said.

"Yes, you do," Catherine replied, chuckling. "It's quite the lovely shade of red. I can't believe I finally found something to make you blush." He gave a short chuff of amusement and pulled her closer.

She glanced through a crack in the closed curtains, at the sunlight shining brightly. "Normally, I'd suggest we take a walk but..."

"But you still wish to be cautious," Vincent finished.

She ducked her head briefly. "Yes, I guess I do. I know Matt would have called if he'd seen trespassers, and we've been locking our doors every night, but I still worry."

"Catherine," he said, touching the side of her face with one warm hand, "it's quite all right. Besides, there are...things we can do inside, are there not?"

Catherine pulled back to look at him. "Why, yes," she nearly purred. "How about a game of Scrabble?"

***

As the sun was setting, Catherine put away the Scrabble board. "Vincent, does Father play this game?" she asked, innocently.

"No, I don't think he does. Why?"

"Because it might rescue him from his depression when you always beat him at chess." She shook her head, smiling. "I cannot believe how bad you are at this. I mean, really. Doesn't anyone in the tunnels do crossword puzzles?"

Vincent thought for a minute. "Mary, I believe. And Pascal, sometimes."

"Pascal? Really? I thought he spent all his time in the pipe chamber."

Vincent smiled. "He does. But the crosswords are to help him pass the time when things get boring."

"Things get boring down there?" Catherine asked, genuinely surprised. "I guess I never thought that you all might have your dull days too."

"Sometimes," Vincent said, smiling. "I've done a stint or two on the pipes when Pascal's been sick. Once you get used to the sounds of the routine message traffic, the whole thing can be quite...repetitive."

"Show me," she said. "I've always wanted to learn pipecode better; right now I can manage an emergency message and most of the shorter ones, but longer messages are harder."

"They're harder for most of us, including people who have lived there for years. Pascal is constantly working to shorthand the system even further so that it's easier for our newcomers to learn. You've learned quite a lot already, Catherine."

"But I want to learn more," she replied.

"Very well," Vincent said. "Is there a pencil handy?"

She walked over to the desk and pulled one out of the drawer. Catherine handed it to him and sat down next to him. "Give me your hand," he said. "On longer messages, the first code is the name of the person, then the location where you want the message to go. So if you were sending a message to me, and you knew I was in the Commons, you'd start by tapping this message out." He tapped a brief rhythm into her hand. "That's 'Catherine to Vincent—Commons.'"

"But what if I didn't know where you were?"

"Then you'd tap this rhythm." A different beat, a longer tattoo of sound, with some similarity to the first message. "That's 'Catherine to Vincent-query location.' Pascal would pick that up right away and route it along with another message asking anyone who'd seen me to route the message back to him with my location. I would then relay it to you and then you'd send the message back to me with the location code."

"That must be...inconvenient," Catherine said wryly. At his raised eyebrows, she said, "Always having someone around who can find you. What if you don't want to be found?"

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Pascal is the keeper of many, many secrets. So is Mouse. If I've gone down below the level of the pipes or to the nameless river, he sends the message to Mouse and Mouse finds me if the matter's urgent. If it's not, it waits."

"And that's accepted?" Catherine asked, thinking that Father for one wouldn't have been happy to have his son completely out of reach.

"Father accepts it. Having no choice," Vincent said, dryly, and Catherine wondered just how many battles were hidden behind that simple phrase.

The rest of the evening, Vincent took her through the shorthanded Morse of the tunnels' pipecode until she was able to follow most of the longer messages he tapped into her hand. "Wait, I got it. That one was, 'Vincent to Catherine-Chamber of the Winds-need avocados for guacamole. Dinner tonight. Suggested meal?' Right?"

Vincent nodded. "Very good. You're quick at this."

"I have a good teacher," Catherine said, and kissed him.