KALEIDOSCOPE  III
Cynthia Hatch

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Part 2a

The world had changed a lot in a few weeks.

The apartment, as she flew in to drop her bags and change quickly from the rumpled suit worn on the plane, looked just as it had when she left it, though the atmosphere was stale. She longed to throw open the French doors and let in the crisp autumn air, to indulge in a long look at the park below, but the taxi was waiting--and running up a monstrous fare.

She'd caught a glimpse of the trees as they'd pulled up--the sallow green of late summer newly burst into bundles of flame. The people on the streets walked with renewed vigor, already sporting sweaters and coats. The air was clear and light again.

"So, where's all the goodies you brought us?" Joe queried, after a more genial greeting.

"I've got them--cartons of them. I'll bring them in tomorrow, but you didn't exactly give me time to prepare for this."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Radcliffe. We'll take a look at the stuff tomorrow, set up some training sessions, but we could only delay these cases so long. You gotta get into court--pronto."

She rifled through her desk, searching for the relevant case files. He made it sound like she'd been off on a pleasure cruise, holding up the works, and it had been none too pleasing when he'd phoned Cleveland to tell her that two of her cases were on the docket hours after her plane was scheduled to get in. She located the files in question, flipping through them quickly to refresh her memory.

"Joe, it's been over a month since I've even looked at these. When exactly was I supposed to prepare my case?"
"Piece of cake," he smiled. "Do it on the way. Rita's going with you. She can fill you in on anything that came up while you were off--scuba diving the great barrier reef, wasn 't it?"

"Not even close," she scowled, thinking some things hadn't changed at all.

"Mr. Conley, can you tell the court exactly what it was you were searching for in your employer's desk."

"Yeah, sure." The defendant shifted his meaty bulk in the chair, and for a moment she wondered if he might slip to the floor.

There was a vague greasy quality about the man that no amount of grooming by his attorneys could quite erase. "I was lookin' for the ledger. It was after hours, like I told ya, but this customer come in pissed as hell--claimed we never done all the work on the bill."

"So why didn't you tell him to come back the next day when the garage was open?"

"It was a customer service thing--you know."

"I see. What was this customer's name, Mr. Conley?"

"I don't remember." She stood looking at him in silence, and he added, "I can't remember everybody that comes in . . . we get a lotta jobs, you know. Business is good."

"Which is why there was a considerable amount of money in the safe?" she asked conversationally.

"I don't know nothin' about that safe. I told ya--I never touched it."

"You told us you never touched the desk either, until you found out we had your fingerprints."

Conley threw her a sour look. "I told ya, I didn't wanna say nothin' about that. Afraid the boss would get the wrong idea, ya know?"

"The wrong idea? About your taking a tire iron to his desk drawers, you mean?"

'"Yeah. I was just tryin' to get to the ledger, so I could keep the customer happy."

"I'm sure your dedication to customer service is very commendable, Mr. Conley." She paused regarding him pleasantly, and after a moment, he elaborated.

"I don't know nothin' about a key. Hell, I didn't even know it was supposed to be in the desk. Always thought the boss carried it with him."

"Did you spend a lot of time thinking about that, Mr. Conley--thinking about where the key to the safe might be kept?"

"Objection! Your honor, Mr. Conley may have thought about throwing his sweet, old white-haired mother down the stairs too, but it's not his fantasies that are on trial here."

"I withdraw the question. What kind of book was this ledger? Could you describe it for the court?"

Her quarry seemed relieved at the benign question. "It was heavy--about yea big. Had some screws holdin' it together."

"Let the record show that the defendant is indicating--what would you say, Mr. Conley? Something approximating the size of the metropolitan phone directory?"

'"Yeah, sure--maybe a little bigger."

"And it was this you were searching for."

"Right."

"Not the key to the safe."

"I told ya that. How many times do I hafta tell her that?" he complained to the bench.

The more irritated he became, the easier this all got, and she gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Conley. I just want to make sure we understand each other. Your honor, if it please the court, I would like to introduce into evidence exhibits 3A through 3C. These," she explained, retrieving them and returning to the witness stand, "are photographs taken by the police shortly after the robbery was discovered. Mr. Conley, can you identify this as the desk in question?"

"Yeah, that's it," he said with a cursory glance.

"And this is the way it looked just after you searched it?"

"Yeah, there's the book right on top there where I left it."

"And these marks on the open drawers. Those were made when you jimmied them, is that correct?"

"Yeah, a few gouges. It's a piece of crap anyway. I didn't figure anybody'd care. "

"Tell me, when you were looking through these drawers--for the ledger--did you happen to notice the key to the safe?"

His posture straightened in a display of moral rectitude. "Hey, it mighta been right there, but I didn't pay it no mind. That key was none of my business. I woulda just left it lay."

"All you wanted was the ledger, is that right?"

He fumed a silent reply at her obtuseness.

"Mr. Conley, how big would you say these two drawers are--the ones sticking out here?" she pointed helpfully. "Three, maybe four inches wide? Could you explain to the court exactly how a ledger of the size you described could possibly fit into one of these drawers?"

His eyes narrowed, as he stared at the photograph. A gratifying sheen of perspiration had appeared on his broad forehead.
"I dunno . . . it couldn't, I guess. It's been a while, ya know? I mean I opened some drawers, but just the big ones."

"Well, I don't quite understand that, Mr. Conley. According to your testimony, the smaller ones were open as well. The only reason I can see for opening them is to look for a very small object, like a key, for example."

"I told ya," he said, his expression a battle between confusion and resentment, "there wasn't no need to pop 'em if the key was in a big one, and now that I think on it I'm pretty sure it was . . . yeah, I seen it there, but I didn't touch it. Maybe somebody come in after I left and got the idea to open the little ones."

"Well, that's certainly possible isn't it?" she said ingenuously, as if striving to follow his shrewd hypothesis. "But what do you suppose they were hoping to find there?"

"I dunno. The key to the safe, I guess."

"The key which you've just explained to the court was lying untouched in a open drawer." They could, she thought, go on like this for quite some time, but Conley was beginning to sputter in his frustration. "I have no other questions, your Honor ."

The judge called a recess for lunch as she returned to her seat.

"Good job, Cathy," Rita complimented her.

"Well, our friend Mr. Conley doesn't present much of a challenge. So . . . where shall we go for lunch?"

Slipping the files into her brief case, she had the sudden sensation that someone was watching her. Not unusual, under the circumstances. One of the first things law students had to get used to was the unfamiliar sensation of being the object of scrutiny. The scrutiny of an intimidating judge, a jury trying to size you up, the opposing counsel hoping to throw your game off balance, hostile witnesses, defendants with looks that could kill--and often police records to match, the spectators, all with their own agendas for being there. She had long sense developed the concentration that kept that awareness at bay, only to be used to her own advantage.

But this was different, and she glanced across the room. The rows were emptying into the noisy hallway, and she caught the flash of a blonde ponytail, as a girl in T-shirt and jeans was momentarily blocked from her vision by the people fling toward the door.

"Excuse me a minute, Rita. I'll be right back." She tossed the briefcase on the table and hurried into the aisle. "Jamie?"

"Hi, Catherine."

The odd sensation of seeing someone from that secret world right here in the heart of her own gave way to a fear of why she might have come. "Jamie, is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong." The girl looked slightly uneasy in this unfamiliar environment, but not particularly upset. "Vincent's back."

"He's been gone all this time?"

"Yeah. He came back this morning. Well, that's not completely true," she amended, throwing curious glances at the people who squeezed past them. "He came back once--when the sentries discovered that somebody'd gotten past the perimeter--down near the Soho entrance, but nobody saw him except Josh and Donald, and he disappeared again once they got the place secured."

"How is he, Jamie? Is he all right?"

"He's fine. Antsy as all get out. He kept asking Father about how you were, and Father told him how Dr. Alcott had heard from you and all, but it didn't seem to satisfy him."

"Did he ask you to come here?" Her heart was already beating harder at the first news of him in weeks--that he was well, that he was thinking of her.

"Not exactly. He wasn't saying much, but you know how it drives Father nuts when he paces, and I thought maybe it would calm things down a little if I came up and checked for myself, so I followed you from your office."

"But how did you know I was even back in town?"

Jamie's expression was not quite scornful. "I didn't know. Vincent knew." Of course. Their connection was unscathed by time or the repression of emotions, and he was still well aware of it. Her happiness threatened to bloom into full-fledged elation, but she cautioned herself. There were too many unknowns to let optimism cloud her judgement. "Did he say anything about wanting to see me--about possibly coming above tonight?"

"No . . . but you know how he is, Catherine. He doesn't tell everybody what he's thinking. Maybe he'll come."
And maybe he won't, she told herself sternly. Whatever had happened to precipitate their parting had yet to be explained. There was no guarantee that this estrangement was at an end just because he was concerned for her welfare. Should she send a message with Jamie asking him to come? How could that be necessary when they'd been apart for so long? Surely, he'd want to see her. But his strange behavior on the terrace that last night--almost as if he was afraid of her. She couldn't bear a repeat of that, and what if he refused her invitation? Maybe she should be the one to make the first move--go below tonight, uninvited.

When to push and when to give him space. Suddenly, she felt as unsure as Jenny in her new, untried relationship, but Jamie was waiting for her to say something, and she clutched at a possible compromise.

"I bought a little present for Lena's baby while I was away. Do you think it would be all right if I came down tonight and gave it to her?"

Jamie looked slightly mystified that she would even ask. "Catherine, we were all really happy to have Vincent back. Everybody'll be happy to have you back, too." Catherine smiled her gratitude and gave the girl a brief hug.

"Thanks, Jamie. I'm glad you came."

'"Yeah, me too." Jamie started to move away and stopped, glancing back at the door through which the defendant had disappeared. '"That guy, Conley--he's guilty isn't he?"

"As all get out," Catherine confirmed solemnly.

She had hoped Joe would have mercy on her, after the dawn flight that had allowed her to complete her responsibilities, but any chance of escaping the office early was thwarted by the game of catch-up her long absence had put into play. When she got back to the apartment she tried briefly to take a nap, to ready herself for the challenges ahead, but sleep was impossible with adrenaline pumping through every vein. The feelings and questions and fears that had been dutifully suppressed for an agonizing length of time were demanding to be heard. The anticipation, the uncertainty almost threatened to make her sick, and the only alternative to letting them get the upper hand was to charge ahead with the rather feeble plan she'd devised.
Tucking the flat package under her arm, she descended the ladder beneath her building with more speed than usual. This was no time to savor the magical transition it represented, no time to see in her mind's eye that incomparable face looking up at her, no time to let the memories or this place set free her emotional turmoil.

She walked with determined steps through the opening in the bricks, willing herself not to replay the many cherished moments associated with it. A month had seen changes in the basic route, but unlike a chance intruder, she knew there was a logic at work here, and found the alternate accesses with little trouble.

A gentle emotion crept into her awareness as she walked, one that seemed safe to feel, to examine. The dark walls slicked with phosphorous, the sudden appearance of a rivulet cascading from its creviced hiding place, even the warm mists that hung smoke-like over the old pipes. None of it struck her as foreboding. All of it was familiar, welcoming after her travels. It gave her a sense of homecoming far stronger than that she had felt reentering her own carefully decorated apartment.
Nearing the populated tunnels, the feeling increased. Here where the warm lights burned, there was an aura of comfort, almost of coziness, that rendered the stark, rugged scenery strangely hospitable. Several people greeted her cordially as they passed, no one she knew very well, no one to whom she felt obligated to pause and chat, and for that she was grateful. Her intent extended no further than a visit to Lena: she dared not think past that single goal, and it was with a sense of relief that she found herself at the entrance to the girl's chamber, calling out a tentative "hello."

"Catherine?" Lena appeared around the doorway, obviously surprised. "I didn't know you were back in town. Father said you had to go away on business."

"I just got back--this morning," she nodded. "I hope you don't mind--I bought a little something for the baby while I was in
Ohio."

"Ohio?" Lena stepped back to motion her inside. "You went all the way to Ohio? The farthest I've ever been is Philly." She made it sound as if the Midwest might be every bit as exotic as Australia--or Switzerland. "Look at Cathy's new toy. Isn't that something? She really loves it."

In the center of the chamber sat a strange triangular object fashioned from a hodgepodge of pipes and cylinders, and suspended from its center bar, in a sturdy sling of sheepskin. Baby Catherine rocked rhythmically to and fro.

"I've seen swings like this above, Lena, but this was made right here, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, Mouse did it. It works on hydraulics. Cathy really gets a kick out of it. Look who's here, Honey. Catherine's got something for you." Lena slid what looked like an ordinary door bolt embedded in one strut of the apparatus, and the swing slowed gently to a stop.

Smiling at this latest proof of the tunnel dwellers' resourcefulness, Catherine went to kneel beside the baby, holding out her offering. "This is for you, Sweetheart. See, the bunnies? I think your mommy will probably have to help you open it."
Two chubby hands patted the gaily wrapped package with approval, as Lena pulled off the ribbon and parted the paper carefully, already adopting the frugal practices of a world that discarded nothing lightly. "Oh, look, Honey--books!"

"I thought she might like some of her own that she could throw on the floor if she wanted," Catherine explained as Lena opened them for her daughter. One of sturdy cardboard revealed the mysteries of the alphabet in bright, colorful objects; the other contained pictures of animals on tough fabric pages. "She can teethe on them all she likes, and it won't hurt."

"Thanks, Catherine. This is really nice of you. See, Sweetie, that's a ball. Can you say 'ball'?"

The baby's brow was furrowed in concentration on this new attraction. Her lips pursed, bubbling, and she smacked the picture. "Bah."

"She said it!" Lena exclaimed, a look of astonished pride lighting her face. "She really said it. That's right, it's a ball . . . and this . . . this is a top. Can you say 'top'?"

"Bah," repeated the baby joyfully. Lena shrugged, laughing, and Catherine joined her. "Well, at least she's learned a word. She's a little young to have to figure out more than one at a time.

"What's this, Cathy?" She pointed at the picture of a spoon.

"Bah--bah--bah," her namesake decreed with delight, as her audience giggled their approval.

And it was then she felt it--so strong, so unmistakable that for a moment she knew what it must be like to be him, to know the full empathic powers of their bond. Turning slowly, she looked up to where he was framed in the doorway, filling it, a glorious vision in leather and dark corduroy, golden hair streaming carelessly over the broad shoulders, his eyes . . .

"Am I interrupting?"

Interrupting? like food interrupts starvation. . . a drink interferes with thirst . . . the way waking up might dispel a nightmare. The thoughts churned in a wash of emotions that made movement impossible and speech beyond her ability to master.

"Did you see what Catherine brought for the baby, Vincent? Books. That's an ABC one she's chewing on now."

"It's wonderful, Lena."

"Oh, and thanks for slowing this thing down." She reached up to unlock the bolt again, and the gentle swinging motion resumed.

"She no longer appears in danger of flying out the door," he observed, though Catherine was certain his eyes had never left hers.

"Yeah, well, the way Mouse had it going, it was more like a sling shot. She likes it the way it is."

There was something almost surreal about the casual conversation passing over her, the sure sensation that some deeper form of communication was going on in the unbroken gaze between the two of them. Rising, she shook out her skirt and moved resolutely toward him. With her approach his diffident manner changed, as if the connection between them grew tauter with each step. The breath he drew in seemed to her an almost painful contraction of that tension. Neither spoke, and after a moment Lena's voice broke the silence.

"I really need to get Cathy to bed now. Thanks again for the books. Catherine."

The dismissal was clear and not without an undertone of melancholy. Lena had long since accepted the futility of her own strong feelings for Vincent, bowing before the undeniable power of their bond. It had taken immense strength of character for her to do that, Catherine thought, to make a life for herself here, accepting the friendship of a man who had defined for her the meaning of love. It was asking too much to expect her to stand by with any degree of comfort, an unwilling witness to the passion that wove a palpable aura between them.

"You're welcome, Lena. I'll see you soon." She moved past Vincent into the dim corridor, acutely conscious of his presence behind her, finally turning to meet his eyes.

"You are well," he said formally.

"Yes . . . and you, Vincent." It was difficult to define the slight alteration she thought she sensed in him. Was he thinner? Possibly, but it was less a physical change than an impression that he was somehow fine-tuned, honed to a clean edge, focused. Perhaps it was only the contrast with his erratic behavior the last time they'd been together.

The silence between them lengthened, and she fought down the rising fear that this might be the end of the discussion.

"Catherine, my conduct when we last met was unforgivable. I know that. To hurt you so . . . to refuse you an explanation . . "

"Whatever else I may have felt, Vincent, I never thought you meant to hurt me."

"No." For a moment there was an echo of the haunted look she'd seen in his eyes that night. "Explanations are not always answers. What I could have said then, what I could say now may satisfy nothing, salve nothing."

"You could be right," she acknowledged. No, she was not going to push at this moment. It was he who had retreated, and he would have to take the first step forward, not out of some need for retribution on her part, but because whatever was in him that had caused that retreat had to be conquered. The choice must be his in order to have any meaning.

"Catherine, would you be willing to stay a while? There is so much I'd like to say, so much I long to know about this time apart."

Did he honestly imagine she'd had no other mission in mind than delivering a baby gift? The defenses he'd spent a lifetime perfecting were sometimes appalling. Walls so high he couldn't see over them to note how devastated she would have been had he suggested anything else. Such humility could be as maddening as arrogance, but she knew too well the circumstances that had built those walls. It only touched her with a kind of outraged pity to be reminded how sturdy they really were, but all she said was, "I think that's a good idea. Where should we go?"

"It's been a long while since we visited the Chamber of the Falls. Would you like to see it again?"

"I'd love to," she answered honestly.

Usually these long walks together were a time to talk about anything, everything that came to mind. The vast distances that separated so many interesting places in the underground seemed like nothing when they were deep in conversation, exchanging smiles, reveling in the simple act of holding hands.

Tonight he was strangely silent, and she kept her own counsel, determined to follow his lead. It hadn't taken a trip to Cleveland to teach her that a wise attorney doesn't plan his plea without learning what he can about the opposing side's case. Here she was totally in the dark. She couldn't hope to guide him. She could only trust that their love would do it.

There was a long stone staircase in the cavern just above their destination, and they were halfway down with Vincent proceeding her, when she suddenly stopped. A wave of emotion broke over her inexplicably, at once daunting and exhilarating, and she searched her thoughts for a reason with no success.

"Catherine? What is it?"

"I . . . I don't know. I just suddenly had the strangest feeling." She laughed sheepishly, "I guess it was one of those sensations--when they say a duck walked over your grave."

"Isn't the trespasser supposed to be a goose?"

"A goose, yes. What did I say--a duck?"

"I'm sure one kind of poultry is as good as another for such an ominous superstition," he assured her, smiling.

For the first time he took her hand as they completed their descent, and he didn't release it until they'd reached their destination, perched high above the churning water that spilled from the massive falls. The acoustics here were such that the sound was muted, though it must have been incredibly noisy closer to the source.

A few feet back from the edge of the precipice, he stopped, lowering himself with easy grace to the smooth stone floor. She sat down beside him, curling her skirt around her legs, noticing for the first time odd bits of shell embedded in the rock. Once--centuries ago, this ledge, so high above the water, must have been under it. Time. Time could change so many things.
The spectacle seemed to demand a moment of silence, of wonder at this impressive phenomenon of nature that few eyes ever saw. The image of its cool, billowing waters was soothing, and she willed it to wash the anxiety from her mind.

"Father told me of your trip," he said at last, casually hooking an arm over one knee, turning his head toward her. "Was it successful?"

"I think so. We needed someone from our office to bring back the latest information that might help us do our jobs. New laws. Obscure cases that have been lately used as precedents, workshops on how to interface with other departments. I brought back notes and training manuals, so I can conduct some seminars for our own staff. Joe thought I was the logical person for the job."

He nodded. "'You have great insight, Catherine--and the patience to help others understand."

She accepted the compliment without comment, hoping that it was true, calling on that patience now to keep her from blurting the hundred or so questions she would like to ask.

"Is it an interesting place," he said curiously, "this Cleveland?"

"I couldn't really say. When there was nothing official going on, we met in small groups, and I spent the weekends getting my reports together. I didn't really see much of the city."

He nodded, turning back to the view. For someone who wanted to talk, she thought, he was being remarkably reticent, and after a moment she couldn't resist prodding. "What about you. Vincent? What did you do in your time away?"

There was no hesitation in his response. "I lived," he said quietly, "like an animal. "

The words were simple, devoid of painful undertones, but their meaning . . . "How . . . how do you mean?"

"Alone. . . in the darkness. Roaming the forgotten places, seeing no one, speaking to no one, clearing my mind of human thoughts." He picked up a stone and idly scratched a pattern in the dust.

"Were you actually able to do that?" she said carefully, chilled by the vision he so casually described. "Not think any . . . human . . . thoughts?"

"It isn't hard to do--not when the single purpose of being is survival. The next drink of water, the search to appease hunger, to find shelter from the extreme climates that exist even here, Catherine, if you know where to look. "

She was suddenly sure, he had sought those places out, challenging himself in every way he could to prove. . . what? That this was his true nature? The concept was so unnerving, so unjust, that it was all she could do not to unleash a stream of protest, but his sincerity was unmistakable. There was a subtle clarity in his voice, his manner--that focused quality she had sensed before. Fearfully, she searched it for any sign of resignation.

"Every so often" he continued calmly, "I willed myself to think, to remember those who look to me for protection and return to the pipes. After a while, they seemed foreign to me, Catherine, their messages almost meaningless."

"Did that kind of existence make you happy, Vincent?"

"Happiness is a human emotion. It rises from thought, from feelings. I expected to find no happiness, only perhaps a kind of peace."

Not peace, she thought--denial, denial of everything you are, but she remained silent, waiting for him to pick up the thread of this singular narrative, to weave some pattern that at last might become comprehensible to her, and finally he went on.

"There's a simplicity in reducing the world to its most basic requirements. After a while, I thought nothing, dreamed nothing. I felt only the most fundamental needs."

"And did that bring you the peace you were looking for?"

"No." He sailed the stone out over the edge of the cliff, where it fell silently from sight. "Because one of those needs, Catherine . . . was you. Not a moment passed that I didn't feel a . . . fragmentation, a sense of being parted from myself. It's not possible to find peace within, to explain yourself in even the most basic terms when part of that self is missing."

She released a cautious breath. "Vincent, I can't pretend am not glad about that."

"Instinct, Catherine--that is what remains when thought is banished, and instinct is for me a dangerous thing. It must be kept separate from what I feel for you."

She wanted to argue the point, felt absolutely that he was wrong, but she sensed there was more he had to tell her, and she couldn't discourage him now, not when he was confiding things she suspected he would have told no one else.

"So you lived that way--by instinct--all this time?"

"No . . . not all this time. It was my plan, but gradually thoughts began to steal into my mind--no matter how I tried to will it otherwise--snatches of poetry, of books I have read, pieces of favorite music playing almost out of reach . . . thoughts of you, Catherine. The walls refused to remain simply the confines of my existence. They became all the things I knew them to be--granite and shale and clay. The river began to sing to me of far off places. Its origin came to mind, the history of the shores it's touched. And I embraced those thoughts. I could not help but welcome them in the emptiness."

"That's because you're not an animal, Vincent. People need more than basic survival to be complete. Everything you know and feel is part of who you are. You had no choice."

"No choice." he repeated pensively. "Wherever I turned within myself, I found you . . . my love for you. . . . and yet I had broken my promise, turned away when you had every right to expect me to be there."

"Why was that?" she asked at last, gently, her hand aching to reach out and smooth back the gilded hair that tumbled over his downcast eyes. "Father said you had a dream."

"Yes." For the first time tonight the serenity she had sensed in him was shaken. He might have come to terms with many things on his sojourn into nothingness, but not with this. "It was ugly, Catherine . . . shameful."

"And powerful enough to come between us? Did it seem to you a vision of the future?"

"I don't know." He shook his head.

"'Vincent, even the dreams you've had that seemed to be foreshadowings--they weren't necessarily literal--they didn't all come true."

"Because I accepted their warning and made sure they had no chance to do so. I needed to do that again."

"By leaving me?"

He turned to her, meeting her eyes for one of the few times since they'd arrived here. "I could never leave you, Catherine. But there are limits I was in danger of forgetting, perhaps deceiving myself of their very existence."

"What sort of limits?" she coaxed. "Maybe I could understand better if you told me about this dream?"

His gaze fell away. She could feel the resistance in him and wondered briefly if it was too much to ask. Everyone deserved their private thoughts. Was it pushing too hard to demand that he share every secret with her? There were people who smothered their loved ones, insinuating themselves into every corner of their lives, clinging like vines. But this crisis most assuredly involved her. He had been willing to share some very private experiences in this conversation--real experiences. Surely, the involuntary images stirred by his sleeping mind were less meaningful than that.

"Vincent, I know you said it was ugly, but we can't control our dreams. We're not responsible for them, so how can they be shameful? Don't you think I have a right to know about something that affects me very much?"

He turned his head toward her, but his gaze settled only on the hands loosely clasped in her lap. "Perhaps . . . Perhaps, it is, after all, the only way to make you understand. It was beautiful at the beginning . . . You and I . . . on your balcony. We were happy, Catherine . . . You were in my arms . . . We kissed, and it was magical, powerful. I wanted you to feel all the love, all the unfathomable joy that I had no words to express. It seemed that love would carry us safely . . . anywhere . . . we chose to go, and then . . . and then I . . . did something and everything changed. A blackness rose up inside of me, swift and venomous, and utterly beyond my power to control. I lost myself. I lost all sense of you."

"And you hurt me," she finished for him, "like Lisa."

"No. . . not like Lisa. I had no sense of you, Catherine, none. You were no longer even a . . . a person to me. Only an object . . . to be dominated . . . to be destroyed."

His voice had fallen to a harsh whisper, and he started when her hand caressed his shoulder, glancing at her with eyes full of pain. She returned his look with an expression of sympathy, but no shock, no fear, no revulsion, continuing to rub his shoulder lightly for a moment, noting the knotted muscles beneath the soft, suede patches of his cloak.

Her hand fell back in her lap, and she looked out over the tide of rushing water, as he gave every appearance of doing. "You know," she said as if they had been discussing the most trivial events of everyday life, "one time--I guess it must be three or four years ago now--I was at a party--at the Waldorf Astoria--and the subject of dreams came up. We were talking about nightmares, and a young attorney--I think he'd just passed the bar--told us about one he'd had several times.
"In it, he was running through the corridors at the university--a student again. He knew he was very late, and he was searching desperately for a classroom. I asked him if there was a final exam going on, and he said that yes, that was it, and then I said I bet he hadn't studied--all semester--possibly never even attended class, and he got the most astonished expression on his face. He asked me if I was psychic."

Drawn momentarily from his despairing vision, he looked at her. "I laughed and told him, no, that it was just that I'd had similar dreams myself, and then some of the other people at the party said they'd had variations on the same dream. Sometimes they'd lost their notes or forgotten to purchase textbooks for the class, but basically there was the same fear and guilt, because they weren't prepared for the final test. They were all professionals who'd been to college, and here they were years afterwards sharing a nightmare."

"That's remarkable," he acknowledged, though she was sure he didn't understand why she'd brought it up.

"The really remarkable thing was what happened about a year later. I was reading a magazine, and there was an article called "The New Dream." It referred to this very same theme as one that's become almost universal--like dreams of falling or going out in public with no clothes on."

She had his full attention now, and she welcomed the warmth of those blue eyes, as his interest in her story dispelled the shadows from them. "Vincent, the point of the article was that among all the people interviewed who'd had some version of this dream not a single one of them had ever experienced anything close to it in reality. In fact, the author said that a student who had actually lived something like it would never have the dream at all, that its entire purpose was to rid the mind of unfounded fears and anxiety."

She knew he'd grasped the moral of her story and reached out to take his hand before he could retreat, before he could search for some way to reject it.

"What you dreamed, Vincent--it's your greatest fear. I know how it's haunted you since the first time we kissed. I know the pressure you've been under, having that fear always churning inside you. No one can take that kind of stress forever. Your mind found a way to get it out. Your nightmare wasn't about what's going to happen or what could happen. It was about taking that fear and making you look at it--in its worst possible form--and then letting it go."

"I woke, Catherine. I woke myself before the worst could happen." The statement was an offering, a grasping for some remnant of reassurance to give her, some small evidence that, in fact, he did not accept the insidious scenario offered by his subconscious.

"Of course. Of course, you did . . . because you don't want it to be like that-- even in your dreams--and it won't be, Vincent . . . It won't be."

She could no longer restrain herself. The need to comfort him was so great, the need to feel his arms around her again, and she reached for him, tears welling in her eyes as his arms encircled her, pulling her close. His gasp of relief, of astonishment at the bright wave of feeling that broke over them with this contact, was echoed in her own throat, as she held him tighter and felt the longed-for coolness of the silken gold in her fingers.

"Catherine . . . Catherine." His whisper in her hair, the incredible strength of him as he rocked her gently, spun through her like a spell, dissolving the last weeks into insignificance. All partings were an illusion, this the reality. All paths, no matter how divergent, how treacherous, would lead here, to the two of them together. The minutes stretched out, and still they sat just holding each other, reaffirming the miracle of their togetherness. If hours passed . . . or days she didn't notice or care. The world had no existence beyond this embrace. Nothing was stronger than the fortress of his body, nothing more tender than the wordless communication in his every touch.

It was only the longing to look at that face, merely an indelible image in her mind for the long weeks apart, that caused her finally to release her hold. In his eyes she saw the same hunger, as they moved over her hair, her face, as if he were bent on memorizing every detail at close range.

"Is there no end to your courage? That you could accept all I have to say even after I disappointed you, frightened you . . . "
Their hair had become entangled as they sat, faces close together, and she started to brush it apart, but stopped, deciding she liked it that way. "It wasn't courage," she said, as she had once long ago, and his response told her that he remembered as well.

"A love so strong you could forgive my turning away?"

"It's our love, Vincent. The same love that gave you the strength to turn from me when I know it wasn't what you wanted." Her fingers came up to softly touch his cheek. "You said that something happened in the dream. . . that you did something that made you lose control. Can you tell me what it was?"

"Catherine." A deep mortification swept his features. He dropped his gaze and would have turned away, but the tenderness of her touch on his face seemed to have all the power of a command. His eyes were drawn back to hers. The discomfort she saw there made her feel almost guilty for asking.

Bending forward, she placed a small, chaste kiss near his mouth. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't ask, if I didn't think it was important." Her fingers continued to stroke his cheek, willing the caress to soften the impact of her probing. "What did you do? Did you . . . touch me . . . in some way you've never allowed yourself to do before?"

His eyes told her the answer even before she felt the tension gathering in him, the labored breath he drew, marshalling all the forces of guilt and denial that seemed always poised for battle in his troubled mind. Their rush to fill the vulnerable spot shook him from his habitual calm, spilling out words with an impulsiveness he rarely showed. "Please, Catherine--it was a dream . . . a nightmare. You said yourself we have no control over the images of our sleeping. It was not what I wanted to do . . ."

She hadn't dropped her hand, and now it seemed the whirlwind of his emotions had swept along the contact, reaching somewhere deep within her to scoop up a wild array of words whose origins eluded her. "Yes, it is, Vincent. . . it is what you wanted to do. There's a part of you that wants that very badly . . . that would like to love me right here and now and never let me go back to that other world at all."

His shocked expression should have stemmed the reckless flow, but although it seemed capricious, even to her, there was something irresistibly liberating about saying these things. Never could she recall having thought anything of the kind, and he certainly hadn't expressed it, yet beneath the outrageousness of what she was saying, there beat the tantalizing conviction that it was all true. "I think there's a part of you, Vincent, that wants that, and what's more. . . I think--deep down--a part of you knows that's exactly what would happen--that it would be everything we've dreamed of, and I wouldn't want to leave."
He still sat, transfixed, immobile, but as the words hung in the vast chamber, they were joined by no protest of denial.

"Vincent, don't be ashamed of those feelings, Don't be so fearful of the implications that we can't get on with our lives."

"Our lives," he repeated, groping, she thought, for some familiar issue, "Catherine, I have no right to wish your life away. Those desires you've sensed in me are shameful when they disregard the life you've chosen, the commitments you've made."

"No," she said softly, running her fingertips over his parted lips. "As things are now, I have no choice. I'm living the life I chose when we first met. I don 't know if it's meant to be the path I'll always follow or not, but as long as we stay in this limbo, I have no choices at all." Amazing how the words seemed lucid, the reasoning sound. Watching her finger play across his mouth, feeling the well of longing take shape within her, she felt herself very much a creature of instinct.
Fingers, tufted with amber, caught her hand, moving it gently away from his mouth and he drew her to him, inviting her lips to complete the tender exploration. With the first taste of him, she felt almost dizzy, a traveler in the desert suddenly coming upon some life-giving spring. His power shuddered through her, rousing all the censored responses of her body, like courtiers released from an enchanted sleep.

The limits he felt bound to honor seemed irrelevant, as his kiss worked its sensuous magic through her, an impossible blending of tender reverence and erotic command that doomed any possibility of resistance.

And there was none in her. Only an exquisite, fluid yearning that molded her body to his. The doubts that armed the boundaries of this land had no place within it. Here he held back nothing, his passion filling her, dictating her responses as surely as it did his own.

His kisses left her mouth only to travel languidly over her face. Her pulse beat recklessly beneath his lips, as her head arched back, inviting the sweet, hot trail they singed down the length of her neck.
"I love you," he whispered, tilting her to him again--the words as intensely touching as they were unnecessary, her answer, a fragile moan as he took her mouth again, and when he released her, gasping, her lips, throbbing with his kisses, could only breathe, "Touch me, Vincent . . . please, touch me."

His convulsive grip around her came too quickly to be a response to the words. The battle already raged within him, and his voice cracked on the wildly whispered words, "I don't know . . . the dream . . . what made it wrong . . . touching, seeing. . . I don't know."

Her kisses rained on his fevered face. Her hand left the tangle of his hair to slip between them. Pressed close against his chest, her fingers nearly stopped their trembling, scarcely fumbling at all on the round, pearl buttons that slipped--it seemed almost eagerly--through their knitted buttonholes. She had only to lean away from him, and the soft angora parted. The cool breeze from the falls played easily through the delicate camisole of blush lace, and his eyes flared briefly cobalt in the instant before he closed them.

"Catherine. . . no." The words held an agony of desire, a paroxysm of fear, but his hands still gripped her shoulders.

"Impossible . . . to think. . ."

"This isn't a time for thinking . . . it's a time to listen to your heart, Vincent . . . to trust it . . . to let our love guide us." Her hushed voice quavered only slightly in the misty breeze. Her hands shook only slightly as they caressed his face, willing him to look at her.

"I must think . . . it's the only thing . . . reason is the only thing that stands between me and that . . . instinct." He bowed his head, his hair brushing across her lips with the motion.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" she whispered, stroking his hair, his face. "You throw up walls against all instinct, all feeling. You're torturing yourself, Vincent, trying to fight the natural desires of a man in love, your desires. You're denying a very human part of yourself. There's nothing to fight here but your own fear." She pulled his hand to her mouth, kissing it.

"There's nothing trying to overpower us but our own love." He raised his head, his eyes flicking reflexively over her before they fastened on her face. "It's all right," she whispered, smiling. "It's only me."

"Only you." His voice gave the words an ironic twist, ironic and deeply satisfying. "Only you," he repeated, folding her closer. Fingers spread wide, his hands seemed almost to cover her back, still at first, then moving slowly, warming her through the soft wool, as she nuzzled against his neck. The caress was hypnotic, at once soothing and exciting, the subtle movement pressing her into his chest.

As his hands slid beneath her arms, she shifted slightly away from him, letting her warmth skim across his palms. She trembled at the vague touch, leaning toward him, stilling the keen intake of his breath with her mouth. He received her kiss with a deep groan, losing himself in this expression of love he understood so well, finding only her eagerness, her implicit trust, and with it the courage to step beyond the boundaries.

At the first sense of herself, warm against his hand, it seemed the simple contact might have accomplished what centuries of the earth's movements, the perseverance of abrasive waters, had not and that the cliff had fallen away beneath them, plunging her weightless into a universe where none of the primal forces rolling through space had yet found its steady orbit.

With the movement of his hand, his fingers, a cadence arose from the chaos, a rhythm indefinable except by her own needs that seemed to ordain every motion, every touch, and she gave herself up to it. His murmured words, fractured by unsteady breaths, were inarticulate to her ears, or perhaps she was simply incapable of translating them in any common way, but she grasped their import, knew their meaning as if touch alone could tell everything worth knowing.

His hand as it slipped beneath the woolen fabric seemed drawn as much by wonder as by passion. Surely, the filmy fabric with its fine, silk lace would melt, caught between her fevered skin and the warmth  of his fingers. Her sense of him was sure and deep and stunning, the bright sphere of their bond lit by the radiance of two fires, indistinguishable from each other. The tremor in his hand echoed the fluttering of the heart beneath it as it closed over her, a tremor that reverberated throughout her body in melting, widening waves, and at once she felt the heat of her own longing and his tumultuous response as she bloomed in his hand.

She sank against his chest, sensing in the frenetic pounding of his heart, the beat of her own pulse, her faltering breath; yet his caress was unhurried, a gentle quest of discovery that defined her body in some undreamed of way, giving to it a reality that had never existed before.

His mouth skimmed her shoulder, and he lowered his head to the soft rise beneath it, hesitating suddenly, his eyes meeting hers. She looked at him, half dazed, trying to grasp the question that burned in the turbulent blue, so full of love. Rational thought was beyond her, and what she understood now had no rational basis anyway; it could only be felt in the intense, subtle language of their connection. He mistrusted his impulses, questioned their origins. The realization, not so much a thought, as a deep intuitive knowing, added a poignant ache of compassion to the storm of desire, and tears welled as she whispered. "Yes, Vincent . . . oh, yes."

Her head fell back in his arms, as his kisses claimed the soft, yielding flesh as his own, dissolving her into an agony of surrender, so sweet that when at last his mouth closed over her, wetting the tissue-thin lace, the instinctive caress of his tongue, his lips, pierced to the very heart of her passion, and she cried out.

It was almost a sob, and he pulled her to him, his arms around her shaking, even as she quivered against him. They held each other in an embrace that for all its unsteadiness, seemed to her the most secure haven imaginable, and after a moment her giddiness incredibly turned to laughter. He looked at her, unsurprised by her reaction, and she saw in his eyes the same joyous sense of relief, of triumph, the same hint of tears that marked her own chaotic emotions.

His expression became almost shy as he murmured, "Catherine, there are no words . . . "

"No," she agreed, smiling tremulously. "There's no need for words when you can show me so clearly how . . . how you love me."

"How I love you," he breathed, pulling her close again, stroking her hair with a steadier hand. "To hold such beauty . . . " His sigh said the rest, and she hugged him, reveling in the softness of his hair against her face.

It was only as the trembling in their embrace subsided that she noted the sharp breeze drifting over them, and he raised his head. "It must be past midnight. Each night they come--sea breezes from somewhere for beyond this chamber."

"Reaching this for down into the earth?" she said, amazed.

"There are a thousand mysteries in our world, Catherine. I long to share them all with you, to show you all the secret places, all the wonders . . . but somehow, they seem insignificant tonight." She sensed he wanted desperately to express feelings that defied his vocabulary, and she smiled, caressing his hand, pressing a kiss into his palm. "You must be cold," he said suddenly, though she knew a simple search of their connection could have told him otherwise. She took the hint, buttoning her sweater, as he glanced away with studied chivalry.

"Vincent, I know I . . . pushed you a little bit tonight."

"Pushed?" He looked at her, the clear blue eyes absolving her of guilt. "I felt no push, Catherine. Only a sublime pull, stronger than fear or doubt."

"And how do you feel now?" she ventured softly.

"Like a man on the edge of a cliff." A small smile told her he was not just referring to the ledge they sat on, "part of me feels that one misguided step could be fatal. One step more could mean a plunge to certain destruction on the rocks below."

"And the other part?" she coaxed.

"The other part . . . " he said wistfully. "The other part tells me that it might be possible. . . to fly." .

She hugged him, grateful tears behind her eyelids, and his arm came around her. Leaning down he kissed her cheek. "I should take you back."

"I know."

They rose, and he took her hand. It was true the cool breezes eddying around them smelled faintly of salt and the open sea, but she felt wrapped in layers of warmth, each one fashioned of some new sensation, provocative and rich with meaning. The long walk back was so different from their trek below, the silent communion between them full of things which did not easily translate into conversation. Twice he stopped, only to hold her, overcome, she thought, by extravagant memories that needed the simple confirmation of her physical presence to attain reality.

"I'm glad I returned to New York when I did," she said, as they neared the opening beneath her building. "Do you realize what's coming up next week?"

He nodded, smiling. "Halloween."

"Do you think it would be possible to spend some time together--above?"

"I'm certain of it."

"I don't suppose Father will exactly be thrilled with the idea."

"Thrilling Father is not my first priority," he informed her dryly, and she grinned. "Catherine." His look had turned earnest. She sensed his effort to give voice to some of the fantastic emotions stirred by this night. "I long to be the man you wish me to be."

"You are," she said emphatically. '"You always were--long before you came into my life. I've never doubted that for an instant, and tonight . . . tonight, Vincent . . . I never knew it was possible to feel so loved, so . . . " Words failed her, and she escaped to the overwhelming comfort of another embrace, as he clasped her tightly to him, clearly as reluctant to let her go as she was to leave.

But leaving was necessary. It had always been persistently, depressingly necessary. And tonight, as she finally wrenched herself away, it was with the scintillating conviction that there was so much more now to leave.