Part 5

Chapter Nine: In Your Most Frail Gesture

An hour, seven splinters and half a tube of antibiotic ointment later, Vincent was able to gingerly put on his pants and walk downstairs for his second cup of coffee. Catherine had put away the first aid supplies and was in the middle of pouring her own cup when the phone rang. Vincent sensed her alarm quite clearly through the bond as she picked up the phone. "Oh, hi, Father," she said and Vincent's eyes widened. Father? Calling them here?

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Father. We'd have gotten a message to you sooner but we had some mishaps on the way up; we just got here yesterday. No, nothing serious....I don't know when we'll be back, actually---the van is at the shop. Yes, we hit a deer. Or the deer hit us. But the front end is damaged, regardless. I'm going to call Mr. Ang this afternoon and let him know what's going on once I hear from the mechanic. Vincent? He's right here drinking his coffee. Do you want to talk to him?"

Catherine handed him the phone. Vincent picked it up. "Hello, Father."

"Vincent," Father's voice said. "Catherine tells me you've been having some adventures."

Absently, he rubbed his backside, which was throbbing lightly. "That's one way of putting it, yes."

Surprisingly, Father chuckled. "Was it still worth it?"

"Oh, yes, Father," Vincent replied. "I've seen the sunrise and the colors of the leaves and a thunderstorm and..." seen the green passion in Catherine's eyes, felt the feel of her body surrounding mine, smelled the scent of her arousal..."and it's almost too much to describe."

Vincent thought Father was smiling, but couldn't be sure over the miles separating them. "I'm glad, Vincent. I used to fear the day you'd decide that our world was not enough for you and want to see all the colors you'd only seen in books."

"And are you still worried, Father?" Vincent asked.

There was a pause, then, "Yes, and no. It's a parent's prerogative to worry. But I know you're in good hands."

Vincent smothered a chuckle at how literally true that had been, just hours before. "Yes, Father. I am, indeed."

***

Catherine had called the mechanic and left a message, then called Mr. Ang to let him know about the damage to his van. When she hung up the phone, she turned to Vincent. "What would you like to do today?"

"Something that doesn't involve sitting," Vincent said. "I think it's clear enough for a walk."

"It is, but your cloak isn't even close to being dry."

Vincent laughed. "Catherine, if there's one thing we learn in the tunnels, it's how to dress in layers."

"Okay, then," she said, chuckling herself. She grabbed an old Radcliffe sweatshirt and pulled it on over her turtleneck. "Let's go."

The storm had cleared the sky somewhat; but the leaves and the bark of the trees were still damp with rain and cold to the touch. She looked over at Vincent, who was totally absorbed by the woods and the lake around them. His hand completely covered hers as they walked and she could feel the faint hammering of his pulse through the contact.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, as a rain-drenched crow alighted on the trees, scattering raindrops around them.

He glanced up at the sky, at the clouds gathering in the far distance, at the lake so near to them. "I feel as if I am walking in a dream," Vincent said, "but then I realize my eyes are open. And I never dreamed something this beautiful." They walked under a narrow copse of trees, and a sudden gust of wind blew a layer of sodden leaves around them. A few landed on Vincent's mane and one slid down his face to land gently in his hand. The leaf was crimson, startling among the golden tones of his skin. Catherine smiled. "Keep that one, love. I have an idea."

Vincent looked at her, bemused, from under his ragged bangs, but did as she wished. Soon they had a whole collection—red, gold, brown, even a few last lingering green ones. "What are we going to do with them?" Vincent finally asked.

Catherine grinned. "You know what they say about curiosity, Vincent," she teased. "You'll see."

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes. Catherine glanced over to look at Vincent's face; the wind blew his mane behind him in long copper strands. "What does this place feel like to you?" she asked.

His eyes, wide and blue in the autumn sunlight, met hers. "Freedom," Vincent said.

***

They returned to the house just as the evening chill was beginning to set in. After they ate a late lunch and cleared the dishes away, Catherine gathered the leaves from where Vincent had placed them on the counter. "What are you going to do with them?" he asked. Through the bond, he sensed nothing but excitement and joy.

Her face revealed nothing as she led him into the library, which was nearly dark now that the sun was setting. "There should be some stick pins in the cabinet there by the lamp," Catherine said ...

Vincent pulled at the reluctant top drawer, and turning, held up a cardboard box. He gave it a little shake. "Are these the ones?"

She nodded. "We're going to pin these leaves on the curtains. Tomorrow morning, you won't believe what they'll look like."

"You've done this before?" Vincent asked, handing the first leaf to her.

"Yes," Catherine said. "This cottage was my grandmother's house; when we came to visit her in the fall, she'd always have me do this."

"What was she like?" He'd heard so little in the way of family reminiscences from Catherine, aside from her stories of her mother and father.

Her mouth quirked as she pinned the first leaf to the curtain. "Like Father, only crustier."

He chuckled, a raspy laugh that stirred the edges of the leaves. "I find that hard to picture."

"Believe it," Catherine said, pinning the second leaf on the diagonal from the first. "She was old money and quite proud. And fierce too; she'd take anyone on over a principle. I can still hear her arguing with my father."

"Over what?" Vincent picked up another leaf, a green one just turning auburn, and handing it to her.

"She wanted to be a lawyer, you see," Catherine replied. "But women just didn't do those things when she was a girl. So when my mother---her daughter---married a lawyer, she would debate him endlessly over dinner." She laughed. "Poor Dad. He thought he was getting a vacation, coming up here." Catherine's eyes danced merrily. "Grandmother didn't like to lose."

Remembering how fierce Catherine had been in their relationship, how often she'd fought Father, her own fears, and himself to keep their dreams alive, Vincent thought her grandmother would be proud. "What of your grandfather?"

"He died quite young," Catherine responded, pinning another leaf to the curtain. "My mother was seven and her sister---my Aunt Jane---was 14."

"I didn't know you had an aunt," Vincent said.

"I never told you about Aunt Jane?" Catherine asked.

Vincent shook his head. "She's a college professor in England," Catherine said. "And she also got a good dose of the family crusty genes. Every few months I get a call from her asking when I'm going to settle down. Dad used to say she had a one-track steamroller. They never did get along."

Vincent tensed slightly, feeling the ghosts of ancient fears rising within him like a far distant storm. "And what do you tell her?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.

Catherine placed the leaf she'd been about to pin to the curtain on a side table instead. She turned to him and placed one small hand on the side of his face. "Vincent, what I tell her is the truth. I'm happy and content in the life I've chosen."

It was true, it had always been true; he could feel that through their bond. Whatever obstacles they'd conquered to come to this place in their relationship, he did neither of them a favor by holding on to the shadows of old pain. "I'm sorry," he said softly, turning his mouth to the palm of her hand and pressing a quick kiss there.

"Don't be," Catherine smiled. "I did enough questioning for both of us, as you well remember. But all the Aunt Janes in the world can't change what I feel for you. You need to trust that."

He smelled the rain-fresh scent of her hair and it was a balm to his worries and his fears. Vincent touched the raw silk of her hair and kissed her gently. "I do."

Chapter Ten: Walking Forth from the Bower

The next morning dawned cool and clear. Vincent, startled out of sleep by the bright sunshine on his face, felt the sudden horrifying rush of I am in the park in daylight I will be seen I must not be seen fade as the scent of the woman in his arms rose to greet him. He rubbed at his face a bit; he liked the sun very much, but the intense warmth on his face was strange and somewhat unnerving.

Catherine stirred and Vincent stilled his motion, not wanting to wake her. Her hair fell over his arm in a silken river and her scent still bore the tang of leaves and damp earth from their walk the previous day. She turned towards him, her head nestled against his chest. Vincent smiled; this was a usual, ordinary thing, lovers waking up together, and it seemed magical to him that in this place, he, too, was normal and ordinary.

"I'd never call you ordinary," Catherine murmured against his chest.

It wasn't the first time she'd caught his thoughts, but it always startled him when she did. The bond between them was growing and changing in ways that not even he could predict. "What would you call me, then?" Mindful of his claws, Vincent stroked the smooth, soft warmth of her back. This, too, was freedom, the ability to love her, to touch her.

He groaned as she nuzzled his neck. "Mine."

"You were asleep," Vincent said, turning to kiss her.

"I was," Catherine said, voice lowering to a near-purr, "but now I'm not. See?" Her green eyes were verdant in her passion as she gazed up at him.

"Yes, I see very well," he rumbled. His fingers traced the faint roughness of her one remaining scar, then trailed down the softness of her skin. Her scent changed slowly, coiling around them and Vincent understood; she had arisen from her sleep wanting him. The miracle of that was enough to halt his breath---that she had seen, and accepted, all that he was and wasn't, and still wanted to share her life with him. Still wanted--needed--to share this with him. "You need this," he said wonderingly.

"'This' is more properly termed 'making love,'" Catherine said as primly as any Victorian schoolmarm, or at least as primly as a schoolmarm could sound, naked with the sun casting halos on her fair hair. "I want you, Vincent." Her hand drifted lower and she chuckled, a full, joyous, wicked sound that he'd never tire of hearing. "I see that you...need me too."

"Was there a doubt?" Vincent murmured against her throat and felt the last need for words withdraw as the bond opened full and bright between them. That soft warm scent just there, the scent that was just hers, rose in a wave and he inhaled it, tasting the sweetness of her desire. It was addicting, her desire, and it fed his own as he nuzzled against her, tasting the warmth of her skin and all her secret places. Her nails dug into his scalp and back and the low moans she made rose over him like the tide, pulling him in the undertow as he moved within her. They came to that brightness and it was like falling, but not, as the light shimmered and danced between them.

The echoes of his own roar and her hoarse shouts were still vibrating in the room when Vincent put his head upon her chest and listened to the fast galloping of her heart. "Am I heavy?" he asked.

Her hands wove a comforting, soothing rhythm in his hair. "No, love," Catherine breathed. "You're light. You're always light for me."

***

They had lain together, talking of inconsequential things, for nearly an hour when Catherine remembered the leaves pinned to the drawn curtains downstairs. She sat up and tugged at his hand. "Come downstairs with me, love." To his surprise, she didn't move to put a robe on and at his bemused glance, she chuckled. "Vincent, we're five miles away from anyone else and if you're worried about scaring the wildlife, we've already done that today."

Vincent looked down at himself and suddenly felt as ungainly as he had that day, long ago, when he'd first realized that the other boys weren't getting fur and didn't have claws and couldn't roar. But he made an effort to shake off the feeling. Catherine loved his differences. "Very well," he said, walking with her down the stairs, the hardwood cool under his bare feet. He heard the muted whirr as the central heating came on. It would be a chilly day today.

Catherine took him by the hand and led him into the library. What he saw stunned him. The leaves, pinned to the background of their linen curtains, filtered the incoming sunlight into the soft, muted colors of fall, reflecting gold and red and green on the hardwood floors. "It's like stained glass," he breathed, drawing her close to him.

"Yes," she replied, her face nestling against the soft fur of his chest. "My grandmother wasn't particularly religious. But she always said we should be thankful for creation and for the miracles it brings us." Catherine stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "As I am for you."

She was small, she was slight, yet she had brought him back from the brink of madness and despair more times than he cared to remember. And Catherine was grateful for him? The wonder of that struck him anew. "Catherine, I..."

One finger pressed to his lips stopped his words. "Don't make me out to be a hero, Vincent. I love you. I saved you because in losing you, I would have lost the best part of myself. Everything I learned about being strong, about what it means to truly love, I've learned from you."

"I was going to say I love you," he said mildly. "And you are my heart's core."

Catherine smiled and the impishness was back in her eyes. "Now that we're done complimenting each other, how about you kiss me again?"

And so he did.

***

Vincent towel-dried his hair, listening to the sounds of Catherine puttering in the kitchen. They'd made love once more after their first shower. Catherine had laughingly chucked her towel at him, insisting now she needed another. Later, while finally she dressed, he tried in vain to wring the moisture from his thick dense hair.

While his hair dried, Catherine finished making breakfast. "It's toast today," she said. "We're out of eggs."

"Toast is fine," Vincent replied. "What would you like to do today?"

"Well, your cloak is finally dry. How about a walk around the lake?"

Vincent thought of Devin and Huck and Jim on the Mississippi. "I'd like that."

She touched his hand. "Devin made me promise to take you there."

"I'm not surprised," Vincent said. "We made this raft out of the spare wood that not even Solomon—our carpenter, at the time---would touch. It turned out there was a good reason—the wood wasn't dry enough. We got on the raft, and it sunk about three minutes later." He shook his head at the memory. "Devin was furious. It'd taken us the better part of a week to scavenge the materials and it all went to waste."

"But it wasn't totally a waste, was it?" Catherine asked softly.

"No. Devin made me a part of his dreams, and for that, I'll be forever grateful."

***

The autumn sky was a bright, stunning blue, the colors of the leaves reflected in the still lake water. "So what other things did you and Devin get into when you were a kid?" Catherine asked as they walked.

Vincent's mouth quirked. "The usual. Water balloon fights. Cowboys and Indians. Father rued the day he'd read The Three Musketeers when he caught us playing with real swords."

Catherine's eyes opened wide. "Real swords? How on earth.....?"

"I used to go exploring when the other children were Above. I found them in an old chamber that's long since flooded. Devin and I thought they were prop swords, of the kind our helpers used to bring down when a theater production would end. They weren't. They were very old and very real."

"Did you hurt yourself?" Catherine asked.

Vincent nodded. "I still have the scar—that hairline scar on my right shoulder. I don't know who was more frightened, Devin or I."

Catherine thought of all the kids below, and the inherent dangers of the place. "No wonder Father's all grey. I'm surprised he has any hair left at all."

"I often wonder how he survived us," Vincent said wryly. "Devin and I weren't the only children raised in the tunnels. There was Pascal and Livvy and Winslow and Rebecca and Ike and Stuart and Janelle, and others as time went on. We had some injuries but for the most part, we all survived with no more than the usual bumps and bruises."

Catherine chuckled, remembering her own childhood of prim and proper dresses, of dance lessons and horse lessons and debutante balls. Sword fights, real or imagined, had never played a part in her childhood. "You will hide the knives when we have children, won't you?" she asked..

He smiled. "Yes, and I won't read The Three Musketeers until they're at least 30."

A light breeze stirred the ends of Vincent's mane as they walked. They stopped once, while he skipped a stone across the lake. "Who taught you that?" she asked, bending to tie her shoe. "Devin?"

"No," Vincent said. "Winslow."

He bent his head then, hiding his face under the copper curtain of his mane. The brief wash of guilt reached Catherine through their bond and disappeared. "He was a good man," Catherine said, remembering the gruff blacksmith.

"He was," Vincent said. "I miss him still."

"Of course you do." She pulled on his wrist to make him stop walking. "Vincent, you do know it wasn't your fault, right?"

He didn't answer for a bit. Finally, he said, "I know it wasn't my fault, that the fault lies with Paracelsus and those who served him. But I wish I could have left Winslow behind."

Catherine's hand tightened on his. "He wouldn't have left you alone to face that risk."

Vincent did stop, then, his blue eyes dark as the storm clouds beyond them. "I know. After Devin left...he took me under his wing, more or less. I just wish I'd been able to protect him."

They walked in silence for a time after that. The wind had picked up, coming off the lake in deep cooling drafts. Catherine shivered; she had forgotten how frigid the breeze could be. Vincent stopped and drew her closer to nestle her under the warmth of his cloak. "Better?" he asked. She nodded. How many nights had they spend on her balcony in the late fall and winter, with only his cloak as shelter?

Vincent tensed, shoulders stiffening and head tilted. It was a posture of extreme alertness and Catherine had only seen its like before when danger had threatened. "We're being watched," he whispered.