She struggled, over the next few days, to develop a routine. Shewas determined to keep busy and not dwell on her losses. It wasn'teasy. As Mike had pointed out that first morning, she could tolerateonly so much reading, so much listening to music. As much as herloved ones, she found she missed the busyness of her life, the alwayshaving a task waiting to be done. Here, she could clean her smallroom in a half-hour if she dawdled; the bathroom might take anotherhalf-hour if she took pains to scrub the tub and its surroundingtile.

She found the facility's small gymnasium on her second day. Twentyminutes on the stationary bike left her glowing and breathless, butthe exercise felt good, and she resolved to make it part of herroutine.

Diandra Shaw and Malcolm Harris returned twice that first week toquestion her further, or have her elaborate on points already made.The case against Gabriel was going to be difficult to prove, and theinvestigation was proceeding slowly. They didn't, Diandra explained,want to blunder about and tip him off. Catherine suspected that bynow he already knew, and more, that he knew she was behind it. Shecould hope, though, that he didn't know yet where she was. She prayedthat when he found out, he wouldn't be able to reach her.

She wore Vincent's pouch around her neck, as he had done, althoughshe kept it tucked under her clothing. Wearing it openly would onlyattract curiosity and she wasn't inclined to explain it. It movedwhen she did, and its occasional subtle pressure against her skinnever failed to remind her she was loved.

The first week ended, and a second one began. Midway through it,the small hope Catherine had been nurturing, the one that had beenproviding her with strength, perished. There would be no secondchild. Not now.

She spent the rest of that day in bed, alternately crying andstaring at the ceiling. She hadn't known how much she had wanted tobe pregnant. She marshalled reasoned arguments during her lucidperiods, reminding herself of how much she longed to share apregnancy with Vincent and of how ill-suited the security facilitywas for either prenatal care or childbirth. None of it helped.

She didn't bother with dinner, and at length fell into anexhausted sleep.

She woke to a bright blue sky and streaming sunshine that seemedto mock her grief. She lay in bed, staring listlessly at a blankportion of wall, lacking both the strength and the inclination to getup.

After a while, someone knocked on her door. "Cathy?" She couldhear Mike's tense, worried voice, but couldn't summon a response.After a while he went away. She pulled the blankets over hershoulders and closed her eyes, hoping to drift back into painlesssleep.

"Cathy! Catherine!" Renewed banging on her door woke her from hazyhalf-sleep. The voice wasn't Mike's this time, and it took her amoment to place it. Arlen Miller.

She pulled the covers higher and tried to burrow back into sleep.The telephone began to shrill.

"Cathy!" Someone else shouted outside her door. "Answer thephone!"

Instead, she rolled over, plucked the noisy instrument from hernightstand, and threw it against the wall. It gave a last, startledsquawk and lapsed into silence.

"Well," Arlen said, her voice clearly audible through the door."We know she's alive."

The small tantrum had disturbed the layer of apathy, and now thatshe was roused, inbred good manners wouldn't allow her to furtherdistress those assigned to protect her. She stumbled up and pulledthe door open a few inches.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice brusque.

"No one's seen you since yesterday at noon," Arlen said. "We wereconcerned. Are you ill?"

"I'm fine. Just tired." Catherine slouched against the doorframeand tried to quench the resentment she felt.

"I see." Arlen glanced past her at the unmade bed. "May I comein?"

Something thin and vibrating snapped inside her. "No! I don't wantyou to come in! I don't want you here asking questions! I want you toleave me alone!"

If she'd expected Arlen to recoil, she was disappointed. Arlenmerely raised her eyebrows a fraction, then inclined her head in agracious movement that Vincent could have made. "Very well," shesaid, acceding. "I'll have meals brought to you in case you gethungry. And of course, you can call if you need something." Amusementflashed in her eyes. "If you haven't broken the telephone, thatis."

The phone, when Catherine picked it up, was undamaged. It hadstopped ringing, apparently, only because it was off the hook. Shereplaced it on the nightstand and then, after a moment's thought,unplugged it. She could plug it back in if she needed to.

Her body's needs forced her into the bathroom, but afterwards, shecame back and collapsed on the bed. A little later, she heard therattle of glassware and cutlery, and Mike tapped on her door toannounce he'd brought lunch and would leave it outside. She didn'tbring it in. She wasn't hungry, and if she wasn't pregnant, there wasno reason to eat. She similarly ignored the dinner tray brought byone of the evening guards, and lay instead watching the sky turn pinkand mauve and purple with the oncoming night.

She hated being here. She hated being away from Nicholas, ofknowing he was growing and changing without her. She wanted to bewith him and with Vincent, loving them and being loved. She wanted tohelp William with dinner, and meet with her class. She wanted tovisit with Natalie over a cup of coffee, or browse through Father'slibrary in search of just the right book. She wanted to wear her ownclothes, topside or tunnelwear, not these formless, colorlessone-size-fits-all sweatclothes. She wanted to tuck Nicholas into bed,or kiss Vincent with all the passion she'd repressed for so long. Andmost of all, she wanted to be out of here!

Reciting the litany of grievances started the tears flowing again,and she didn't try to stop them. Once again, she cried herself tosleep.

No one disturbed her the next day. She got up once and brought ina tray one of the guards had left outside her door, but lost herappetite after only a few mouthfuls of food. The rest of the time,she huddled under the blankets on her bed.

Arlen came again on the afternoon of the third day. "Cathy?" shecalled through the locked door. "Are you all right?"

Catherine pressed her lips together and stared stolidly at thewall.

Outside the door, Arlen gave an audible sigh. "Fine. I have anenvelope for you. I'll leave it out here."

Catherine waited until she was sure Arlen was gone, then rolledoff the bed and went to fetch her letter. The envelope was square andbrown, rather than slim and white as she'd expected, and shehesitated a moment before picking it up.

Her name was inscribed across the front in Vincent's bold hand.Fresh tears coursed down her face, and she pressed the envelope toher breast.

Only when she had stopped crying did she tear open the flap. Asmall book, covered in smooth brown leather, slid out. Catherineflipped carelessly through the pages; all were blank. She picked upthe folded sheet of paper that accompanied it.

My Catherine, the letter began. Your unhappiness reachesme clearly, and I want so much to come to you. Since I cannot, I sendyou instead this small gift. I have always found comfort in recordingmy deepest sorrows and darkest despairs in my journal. May you findthe same comfort in writing of the things that make you sounhappy.

Nicholas is well. It's difficult to believe, but I think he'sgrown taller just in the short time you've been away from us. We'vespent the evening practicing counting. He knows the names of thenumbers from one to ten, and we're working on the concept of "howmany." He learns quickly.

There are so many young children, Mary's started a preschool.They sing songs and draw pictures. Nicholas loves it. Today, Mary andBrooke traced the children's hands on a sheet of paper as aremembrance for their parents. I'm assured that in years to come,we'll be amazed at how small they are.

We miss you, Catherine, as much as you miss us. You must bestrong and must not allow this despair to overcome you. Know, as Ido, that you are doing what you must. Know, too, that I am with youalways, in spirit. And that I love you.

It was signed with the usual V.

The second sheet bore the blue crayoned outline of a pair of smallhands. Catherine sniffled and reached for a tissue to blow her nose,then settled in to examine each finger, the thumbs, the delicate lineof the wrists.

For the first time in four days, she made an effort to pictureNicholas, and managed to conjure an image of him kneeling in a chair,pressing his hands down and giggling as a fat blue crayon woundthrough his fingers. And the image made her smile.

She still had no appetite, but made herself eat dinner that night.Afterwards, she took a shower, donned fresh clothing, and changed thesheets on her bed. When that was done, she dusted and vacuumed. Onlywhen both she and the room were fresh did she settle down with thelittle book.

She hesitated a long time before she began. She'd never kept ajournal, and somehow the notion of writing to herself wasn'tappealing. Finally she touched her pen to the first pristinepage.

Dear Vincent. I know I can't send this, but I'm writing to youanyway. Writing to myself seems silly; I already know what'shappening to me. But perhaps telling you will help me put it all intoperspective.

I miss you so much. It's a dull, terrible ache inside me allthe time. I almost gave up this week, Vincent. I almost decided, deepinside myself, that if I couldn't be with you, be with Nicky, then Ididn't want to be anywhere. That scares me. If my hold on myself isso tenuous, then what is to become of me in the long monthsahead?

I know I must be strong. And I will try, Vincent. I reallywill. So that later, when it's all over, I can come home.

At night, I dream of being in your arms, and while I'm there,I'm safe. I see what's wrong with the dream, now, though. I can'tdepend on you to keep me safe. I have to do that for myself.

I can do it, Vincent. I can be as strong as I have to be. Andsomeday I'll come home.

She forced herself out of bed the next morning, determined toreclaim the routine she'd developed that first week. After a lightbreakfast and a half hour's reading, she took herself to the gym fora workout. Twenty minutes on the treadmill warmed her muscles andlifted her spirits. Encouraged, she stepped onto a floor mat topractice some of the moves Isaac had so carefully taught her.

"Hey, there."

She spun sharply. She hadn't heard anyone approach.

Mike lounged in the gym door, a mocking grin on his face. "Youdon't really think that'll work against the kind of weapons a man'dhave to have to get up here, do you?"

His body language was so completely non-threatening that Catherinegave a sheepish smile. "Not really," she admitted. "Never can tellwhen you'll have to fend off an insolent guard, though."

His grin widened. "Point taken." He peeled himself from thedoorframe, kicked off his shoes, and stepped onto the mat.

Catherine stepped back warily. It occurred to her that what she'dlearned from Isaac probably wouldn't be much use against someone withMike's training; for a wild instant she wondered if he could breakher neck and pass it off as an accident.

He stood perfectly still until she let out her breath and allowedsome of the tension to bleed away. "What do you do," he asked then, abit too casually, "if somebody grabs you like this?"

At the last word, he lunged. Catherine countered the move neatly,delivering a stinging blow to his head in the process.

"Ow!" he yelled, going to his knees.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, bending to look. "Did I hurtyou?"

He swung his arm in a hard arc that would have caught her acrossthe knees if he hadn't pulled the blow at the last instant. "Word ofadvice," he said evenly. "Never let down your guard."

Catherine stepped back and nodded. "You're right. I won'tagain."

He grinned and got to his feet. "Nice move. You had a goodteacher."

"Isaac Stubbs," she told him.

His eyes lit. "Isaac? I know him. How's he doing these days?"

Catherine shrugged. "I haven't seen him recently."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. You still interested in learningself-defense?"

"Maybe."

"I'll bet I know some moves old Isaac never taught you. Plus I'llbet you're rusty."

"You'd win the second bet," Catherine agreed, laughing.

"Win the first one, too," Mike said, with confidence. "You wantsome lessons?"

She eyed him with interest and came to a quick decision,

guided more by instinct than by logic. "Sure."

His broad grin widened. "Great. You'll liven up my mornings."

After that, he came by for a half hour or so every morning,usually timing his arrival for the end of the aerobics workout - on atreadmill, stair stepper, or stationary bike - with which she beganher gym time.

Most of his workouts left her breathless and dripping withperspiration.

"You know what, Chandler?" he asked one day.

She paused in the act of swabbing perspiration off the back of herneck with a towel. "What?"

"You need more upper body strength."

She glanced down at herself, damp and glowing in tank top andsweatpants. "What do you mean?"

He took a pinch of her upper arm between his thumb and forefingerand squeezed gently. "Here. There's no muscle."

"Got to be some muscle or I wouldn't be able to move my arms," shecountered and reached for the Evian water on a nearby bench. "What'syour point?"

A speculative gleam came into his eye and she leaned away fromhim.

"What?" she repeated suspiciously.

"You ever lifted weights?"

"Me? No."

"Want to?"

"Not particularly," she answered. "I don't think theSchwarzenegger look is for me."

"No, no. Nothing that intensive. Just a little lifting to toneyour upper body. What do you say?"

She gave a wary glance at the weight bench lurking in the corner."Well, I guess," she said reluctantly. "I can try it."

"Great!" He clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. "Come onover here."

"Now?" she asked, half in surprise, half in protest. "I'mtired."

"Your arms aren't tired," he countered. "You didn't do anythingwith them. Get over here."

Reluctantly she put down her water and crossed to the bench. "Whatdo I do?"

"First, watch me," he instructed. "We'll do chest and back today.Arms and shoulders tomorrow. Oh, and abs. Can't forget those."

She was afraid to ask, so she didn't. Instead, she watched himpick up a pair of moderately sized dumbbells, one in each hand, andthen lie down on his back on the narrow padded bench. "These arecalled dumbbell flies," he told her. "Some people call them flatflies. They work your pecs. Those are the muscles across your chest.Watch."

He lifted the weights until his arms were extended above hischest. He slowly spread his arms to horizontal before bringing themback up. He sat up. "See? Nothing to it. You try."

He cleared the bench and she took his place, straddling itreluctantly.

"Not these," he said, when she reached for his weights. "These arethirty pounds each. You'd lose control halfway down and hurtyourself. Use these." He replaced the weights he'd used with smallerones. "Eight pounds each."

They felt laughably light when she hefted them. "Are you makingfun of me?"

"Absolutely not," he assured her solemnly. "You try those, and ifthey're too light we'll go to ten pounders. But I think you'll findthe exercise is more difficult than you think."

She resisted the impulse to snort and instead lay back on thebench, centering herself carefully as Mike had done. "Now what?"

"Bring the weights up over your chest," he instructed. "Don't lockyour elbows. Pretend you're hugging a tree."

She did as he told her, and waited while he inspected herposition.

"Now lower your arms slowly. Keep your elbows loose. Feel thestrain in your chest?"

She really didn't but she nodded anyway.

"Breathe in rhythm with your lifting," he advised. "Do at leasteight reps - that's repetitions - without stopping. Ten if youcan."

She nodded and started on her second rep. By the sixth, she wasfeeling the strain.

"Slowly," he cautioned as she tried to hurry through the seventhrep. "It's the resistance that gives the benefit."

She finished eight and glanced Mike's way.

"Two more," he encouraged. "You can do it."

She did one more. The muscles in her chest and arms started toquiver.

"Come on," he said, goading. "Don't be a wimp."

"Huh!" She expelled her breath with a derisive grunt and loweredthe weights one last time, panting to counteract the strain. With aneffort, she brought the weights back up and then lowered themtriumphantly to her chest. "Did it!" she crowed.

"Good," he said. "Rest for a minute, then do ten more."

"What?" She glared at him.

"Two sets of each exercise, to begin," he said. "Later, we'll workup to three or four."

"Three or four?" she repeated in disbelief. "I'll die."

"No, you won't," he disagreed cheerfully. "You'll get stronger.Now lie down and give me ten more reps."

She could only manage nine before her arms wobbled alarmingly.Mike snatched the weights from her hands before she dropped them."Wore those muscles out, huh?" he asked. "No problem. We'll do someback work, then come back to the chest. Here, let me show you..."

He made her work what he called her "lats", which, she gathered,were the muscles on either side of her spine. And when those muscleswere too tired for further work, he had her do some bench presses tofurther work her pecs.

By the time he finished, Catherine was exhausted. She oozed backto her room, where she took a long, hot shower and tumbled into bed.A nap refreshed her, however, and she woke in time to write in herjournal to Vincent.

This had become a daily habit. They were long letters, full of herthoughts and wishes, both for the present and for their future. Sheasked after Nicholas, and told how much she missed them both, andsomehow, the pouring out of words onto the pages lightened herheart.

Mike's talked me into weight-lifting, she wrote today.He says it will make me stronger. Next time you see me, we can armwrestle.

She meant it as a light-hearted tweak at his habitual solemnity,but once written, she found the words had the power to affect her, aswell.

Next time you see me.

It was something she tried not to think about too much. Next timehe saw her. Next time she saw him. Saw Nicholas. Because it was atime that, if she examined it closely, might prove to be animpossible distance away.

The next morning, the muscles of her chest and back were so soreshe could hardly roll out of bed. A hot shower helped a little, butit was sheer stubbornness that made her show up in the gym for herworkout.

To her surprise, Mike was already there, pumping away on thestationary bike. "Warm up," he said, his breathing even despite thesheen of perspiration on his bared arms and neck. "Little treadmill,maybe?"

His cheerfulness grated. She glowered at him and went to the stairstepper instead.

Mike grinned. "Whatever," he said agreeably. "Twenty minutes,okay? Then we'll try some more weights."

"What, no mat work?" she asked, the rhythm of her words matchingthe pumping of her legs.

"Can you lift your arms?" he countered, still grinning.

She tested them and winced. "Not very well," she admitted.

"So no mat work. A couple days off won't kill you. If you'llexcuse the expression," he added hastily at her pointed look. "Let'sget you used to the weights."

When she finished on the stair stepper, he helped her stretch andloosen her upper body so her chest and back didn't feel so sore, thencoached her through a series of exercises designed to strengthen herarms and shoulders.

"Biceps," she grunted through clenched teeth as she struggled tofinish a set of ten curls. "Who'd have thought I'd ever needbiceps?"

Mike regarded her mildly. "Shut up and breathe."

The workouts helped her sleep at night and even gave her somethingto look forward to each morning. The soreness in her muscles wentaway, and soon she was lifting heavier weights with less effort. Newlines of muscle appeared in her shoulders and arms and she could feelthem across her back. It didn't make her strong enough to overcome amale assailant, but it made her feel good about herself and that madeall the effort worthwhile.

Her afternoons varied. She devoted a great deal of time totracking the progress of the cases against both John Moreno and theman she now knew as Gabriel Vandt.

Moreno had been arrested on the basis of Catherine's affidavitbringing charges against him and had already been indicted; theevidence against him was clear. Simply knowing he had been corruptedmade the investigators take a hard look at incidents in his past, andonce they knew what to look for, it was easy to see the pattern ofcorruption; key prosecutions bungled because the wrong personnel wasassigned, plea bargains that should never have been made. BecauseMoreno had been a strong and forceful D.A. when it came to morecommon criminals, no one had noticed.

The case against Gabriel proceeded more slowly. Investigators werehaving trouble tying him to any wrongdoing. A search of the buildingwhere Catherine had been held for those many months had turned upnone of the things she remembered; everything - the banks of videomonitors, the cameras, the sophisticated medical equipment, even thesmall, sterile white room - was gone. The upper floors, like thelower ones, were filled with offices, and no trace of herimprisonment remained. Catherine sometimes suspected that if itweren't for her zealous insistence, the official investigators mightbe tempted to give it up.

She asked for copies of Gabriel's financial records and pored overthem, but he laundered his funds well. Like the officialinvestigators, she could find no trace of illegal activity. She spenthours, as well, forcing herself to relive every moment of the timeshe'd spent as his prisoner, searching her memory with painstakingcare for anything that might prove useful.

What they really needed was the black book; at odd moments,Catherine wondered fiercely what Elliot had done with it.

Odd moments were rare, though. Catherine worked hard to fill hertime and keep her spirits high. She kept her living space clean,although since she was by nature a tidy person, that never took long.She made frequent forays to the library for books and videos. Shelistened to the radio, especially some of the late night talk shows,and on occasion she even watched TV.

She was on the floor of her room one afternoon, surrounded by ahodge-podge of poetry anthologies. A few scattered lines of poetryhad been running through her head and her inability to identify themwas aggravating. She wished Vincent were here; he'd probablyrecognize the lines instantly.

She closed her eyes and let the remembered lines play again. Therhythm seemed familiar. Frost, maybe? Or Conrad Aiken? An Americanpoet, surely. A knock on the door roused her.

"What?" she demanded. The interruption made her surly.

"Good afternoon to you, too," Arlen replied. She stood in the opendoorway, smiling.

Catherine bounced up from the floor.

"Sorry," she said, a bit sheepishly. "I was thinking."

"I could see that," Arlen agreed. "What happened to yourdoor?"

Catherine glanced at it. "Nothing. Why?"

"It was open. I thought you kept it locked."

"Oh, that. I used to. I still do, when I'm not here. But there'sonly Malek, and the guards. The prisoners are kept at the other endof the building and can't go anywhere unescorted. I guess I feelsafer now."

"I'm glad," Arlen said. "It will be easier for you if you'recomfortable here."

"Yes."

"But always remember there is a reason to be cautious."

Catherine absorbed that, and nodded slowly. "I will."

"Here." Arlen held out a fat brown envelope. "I have something foryou."

Catherine accepted the envelope eagerly. "Thank you." She grinned."You really enjoy delivering these, don't you? It's almost the onlytime we see you. When you have something for me, or for Malek."

"Seeing your faces when you receive letters or packages from homereminds me of who you are, and how necessary it is to keep you safe,"Arlen said pragmatically. Then she smiled. "And yes, I do likebringing your mail. Enjoy."

"I will," Catherine said fervently.

For letters, she wanted privacy. After Arlen was gone, she pushedthe door closed and turned the deadbolt. Her fingers were tearing atthe glued flap of the envelope even before she sat down.

Always, when she received a package, there was a letter fromVincent, but others of her tunnel family took turns writing. Todayshe had letters from Geoffrey, Father, Natalie, and Zach. There werealso sheets of lined notebook paper, each with a paragraph or two inlaborious block printing; apparently writing her had been a schoolassignment for the primary grade children. On the bottom lay ahandful of primitive crayon drawings, an offering, it seemed, fromthe nursery school set.

She laid everything out in separate piles, smiled in eageranticipation, and picked up a letter.

Dear Catherine, Geoffrey wrote. Mary says we should alltry to write to you once in a while so you don't get too lonely, ormiss us too much. I'm not sure that makes sense, though. If I was upthere all by myself, I don't think I could keep from being lonely, ormissing the people here. But I know letters would help, so I'mwriting this.

I'm a sentry now. My post is up near Broadway. It's kind ofboring, just sitting and watching through a little hole, and so far,nobody's come by while I was on watch except Vincent a couple oftimes, but I know it's important work and I have to be alert for whensomeone does come.

In science, we're studying anatomy...

He went on for another page and a half, updating her on his lifewith such painstaking detail that she could almost imagine she wasthere with him, dissecting a frog under Father's exacting eye, orstumbling in the kitchen and spilling an entire pot of soup acrossWilliam's freshly scrubbed floor.

Zach's letter was similar, although his also confided he wascourting the seventeen-year-old daughter of a Helper. I don't knowif we can make it work, he wrote. She wants to go to collegeand become a veterinarian; I've spent years training in the PipeChamber and I know Pascal expects me to be his successor. Andbesides, this is my home. But then I remember you and Vincent and howyou were before. And I figure if you could do it, with one of youliving above and the other one here below, then maybe we can,too.

She wondered if Zach had any idea how few her moments with Vincenthad really been, or the difficulties they'd faced, especially duringthe last months before her kidnapping when she'd ached for him,longing almost constantly for the sound of his voice, the touch ofhis hand, the wonderful light in his eyes when he looked at her. Shehoped Zach and his Ariel could find an easier path.

Father's letter was predictable, but she devoured every word. Hespoke of plans to extend a tunnel near the Mirror Pool, and theconstruction of a chute from a storeroom near the surface to anothersuch room near the kitchen. To facilitate the moving ofnon-fragile foodstuffs, he said. He talked of the latest illness- a mild cold virus - making the rounds of the tunnel community, andthen hastened to assure her that Vincent and Nicholas were both well.Vincent misses you very much, he said finally. Not a daygoes by that he does not speak of you. He's brought out the portraitKristopher Gentian made of the two of you and hung it in his chamber.For Nicholas, he says, but I know better. More than once I've foundhim staring at it, and I know he's not looking at himself. Take careof yourself, dearest Catherine, so you can return to himsafely.

She couldn't resist a small smile as she laid the letter down. Asalways, Father's foremost concern was for Vincent, although shesuspected he'd be appalled and utterly embarrassed to know howclearly it showed in his letter. She didn't blame him, though. With ason of her own to love and protect, she now understood Father all toowell.

Natalie's letter was a lively contrast to Geoffrey's and Zach'sdutiful missives and Father's slightly pompous dissertation. LikeNatalie herself, the letter was breezy and upbeat.

Hi, Catherine, she began. Nicholas is here, playing withBrian. He's doing great. He's grown at least an inch since you'veseen him and he's losing some of that baby pudginess. He's decided hewants long hair like Vincent. It's too short to tie back and it won'tstay combed, so I'm tempted to take the scissors to it, but Vincent'sallowing him to grow it out.

Catherine paused and tried to imagine Nicholas taller, thinner,and with a shaggy mane to his shoulders. She couldn't quite pictureit, but memories of working a comb through his wild tangle of hairwhen it was short made her almost glad she wasn't the one dealingwith it now.

Vincent's okay, too, Natalie's letter went on. He missesyou - you can see it in his eyes when he talks about you - but he'shandling it. Nicholas being here helps.

He's a terrific father, Catherine. I suppose you know this fromwatching him with Nicholas before you left, but the rest of us areseeing it now. They're together constantly when Vincent isn't neededelsewhere; Pascal even caught them running a footrace in the longtunnel between the dining chamber and the pipe chamber. Nicholaswon.

Catherine could picture it: Nicholas pelting pellmell down thewide passage, no doubt giggling all the way, while Vincent, his pacecarefully gauged to Nicholas's, made a good show of being outrun.Natalie's letters were always wonderfully vivid and evocative.

She read the children's letters next. Dear Catherine, How areyou, I am fine, was the general message in all of them, but manyof the letters were also illustrated. Catherine took particularpleasure in an intricate flower border around one girl's letter, andthe interestingly tinted animals cavorting along the bottom of aboy's - especially the purple bear.

She laid the letters aside and reached for the crayoned drawings.Laboriously block-printed across the top of the first sheet, inbright pink crayon, were the words, "My Famly." Underneath thiscaption stood a pair of stick figures, one short and one tall. Bothhad flowing yellow hair and blue smears of color where their eyesshould be. The name at the bottom, printed carefully in green, said"Cathy." That would be Lena's little daughter.

The second drawing had the same heading in blue, spelled correctlythis time. It showed a tall figure with short brown hair, a slightlyshorter figure wearing a lumpy brown dress and holding a blob of blueand pink, and the shortest figure of all standing in the middle. Thename on this one was Luke, which made it easy for Catherine toidentify Kanin, Olivia, and their new baby Jonathan.

The third picture had no heading, but the name, scrawled untidilyin brown, said "NICH," and she bit her lip. She'd taught him to makean N herself, and for a long time he'd thought any word beginningwith that letter must be his name. Someone must have been workingwith him, showing him how to form the other letters. She wondered ifthe abbreviated form was because he hadn't learned the rest of theletters yet, or if it just meant the person helping him didn't knowthe proper spelling of the diminutive. But it didn't matter. It wasenough to think that perhaps as recently as yesterday, he'd touchedthis paper.

She could almost see it, Nicholas bent forward over the paper,holding it down with a forearm, tongue thrust between his teeth as hecarefully made marks with the crayon clutched in the fingers of hisother hand. His left hand, that would be. Children weren't supposedto prefer one hand over the other until their second year, butNicholas had apparently never read that part of the baby book. He'dbeen decidedly left-handed since he was old enough to reach forthings.

Through misty eyes, she examined his drawing. It contained threefigures. The tallest one was mostly a black blob, topped with a massof yellow that spilled down over the black. The smallest figure, alsosporting a profusion of yellow hair, was placed close by, with linesrunning from the upper quadrant of the tall figure to the same areaon the smaller one. It took her a moment to decide they were supposedto be holding hands. Another figure flanked the little one. It woremostly brown, and the abbreviated mass at the top that was meant tobe hair was the same color. A black line ran from the figure'smidsection to the ground. Catherine stared at it for a long timebefore she figured it out. The line was a cane. The figure wasFather.

She tried to tell herself he'd drawn a picture of the family helived with; that definition would naturally exclude her. But shecouldn't persuade herself to believe it.

It was a long time before she could bring herself to pick upVincent's letter. As usual, it was caring and thoughtful; he made nomention of Nicholas's omission.

My Catherine, he began as always. It is late. Nicholasis asleep, and I should be, but I cannot rest. I left our son inFather's care this evening and went above. I thought the night airmight clear my head. It rained earlier in the day, and the air wasfresh and carried the scent of damp earth. There's a building quitenear the one in which you are living. I go there, sometimes, and gazeacross the open space at the lighted windows, wondering which one isyours and hoping I might catch a glimpse of you.

She stopped reading long enough to cast an involuntary, startledglance at the wide window.

It is a useless gesture, I know, and yet there are nights whenI cannot help myself. I tell myself I wish to be nearby in case youshould need me, but the truth is, if I cannot be with you, I want tobe close to you. Somehow, an hour or two on this nearby rooftopsoothes the endless ache in my heart.

Our son is well. He grows so quickly that sometimes I imagine Ican see him getting taller. Natalie is teaching him to write hisname, and he tells me that when he's mastered "Nicholas," he wishesto learn to spell "Daddy."

There are no words to tell you how I treasure knowing him,Catherine, and the miracle that he is.

Keep safe and well, and return to us soon.

That night, in defiance of warnings not to expose herselfneedlessly, she spent a long time at the window, staring out at theblackness.