She woke to the swiftly fading memory of sweet dreams of Vincent.She stretched languorously and then relaxed into her warm nest ofquilts, thinking of him. It was silly, a sober part of her warned, tofeel this way. All he'd done was walk with her. All he'd done waskiss her cheek. But a younger, bubbly, schoolgirl side ignored thewarning. He'd kissed her. He'd held her hand. He still wanted to bewith her.

The sound of Nicholas sliding from his bed brought her out ofdrifting reverie and she sat up. "Good morning," she greeted as hepushed his way past the curtain.

"G'morning," he mumbled. "Where's Samantha?"

"Samantha went to her own chamber a long time ago," Catherineanswered him, pushing her feet out and groping for her slippers. "Yousee? You didn't even miss me."

"I did," he maintained stoutly. "I missed you very much. I missedmy daddy, too."

"Well, you may have," she conceded, "but it didn't hurt you tostay with Samantha. She said you went right to sleep for her."

"I did," Nicholas said, his expression momentarily angelic. "I wasgood."

"I'm glad to hear it," Catherine answered. "I wish you would go tosleep that quickly for me."

"Sometimes I do," he defended himself, rummaging in a drawer.

"Sometimes," she admitted. "And sometimes you pop up and down likea jack-in-the-box." She raised her voice in falsetto imitation. "'Ineed a drink of water,' 'I need to go to the bathroom,' 'I wantanother story,' 'Please rub my back.'"

Nicholas giggled and laid a pair of patched corduroy trousers anda fringed sweater on her bed. "Can I wear these?"

Catherine eyed the clothing for size. "If you like," she said."The sweater looks a little big."

Nicholas looked at it, too. "It looks like my daddy's," heconfided. "He has one with strings like this."

Catherine gave the sweater a second look; it did bear a passingresemblance to the one Vincent had worn yesterday. "All right," shetold him. "I'll help you put it on."

Once dressed, they went to breakfast. Afterwards, Catherine soughtout Mary. "You said you would find me something to do."

"I know I did," Mary said, "but I can't seem to think ofanything."

Catherine let her breath out slowly. "Mary. You can't tell me ahundred people live down here, eat down here, work and have school,and there's nothing to do. What about the laundry?"

Mary looked faintly shocked. "I can't ask you to do thecommunity's laundry, Catherine."

"Why not? I'm one of the community now, aren't I?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Please, Mary. I told you yesterday. I need to be useful. Vincenttold me he doesn't wash his own clothes, and I'll bet Father doesn'twash his, either."

"Well, no," Mary admitted.

"I can do that, Mary. Or I can wash dishes in the kitchen."

"No, the children do that," Mary said.

In the end, she went to work sweeping the long corridor that ranthe length of the inhabited chambers.

"It seems odd, I know," Mary apologized, showing her where to finda sturdy broom. "Living as we do with rock walls and earthen floors.But the sentries bring loose dirt back from the upper tunnels and theconstant traffic loosens bits of rock and soil. It ends up trackedinto people's chambers and gets on the carpets. It's easier, in thelong run, to simply sweep this passage once or twice a week, and noone's had time to do it recently."

"I'm glad to do it," Catherine assured her. "Nicky, you can playover there with your truck."

"If you like, I could see if Natalie will watch him," Maryoffered. "I heard he and Brian played together yesterday."

"They did," Catherine admitted. She glanced at Nicholasuncertainly.

Nicholas himself settled her doubts. "I want to go play withBrian," he said firmly, and slipped his hand into Mary's. "Come andget me when you're done, Mommy."

"All right," she agreed, leaning on her broom. "I will."

After he and Mary passed out of sight, she attacked the passagefloor with a vengeance. As Mary had warned, there was a great deal ofloose grit and even some small stones. She left a trail of tidymounds of debris as she made her way along the passage. After awhile, she straightened, arching against the dull ache creeping upher spine.

"How about a cup of tea?" a voice asked behind her, and shewhirled to find Father leaning on his cane.

"No," she said, guiltily. "I'm not finished here..."

"The dirt will wait, Catherine," he said, stumping forward. "Comein for a few moments. A break will do you good."

It was the stiffness in her back that decided her. "Well, allright," she agreed, propping the broom against the tunnel wall. "Butjust for a few minutes."

"I confess I was a bit surprised to find you out there," Fathersaid a few moments later, and she peered at him through the steamrising from the delicate porcelain cup in her hands. "Mary told meyou asked for work, but I expected her to find something moresuitable for you."

"I don't mind sweeping, Father," she insisted. "It's somethingthat needs to be done. I can do it."

"That's true, of course," he conceded. "But that sort of menialwork is usually done by the older children."

She frowned. "That doesn't seem fair."

"On the contrary. They all know that eventually, they'll grow upand won't have to do that sort of thing any longer. They'll haveearned larger tasks, and greater responsibilities."

Catherine sipped her tea while she mulled that one over. "I guessit makes sense," she conceded finally. "But the sweeping still needsto be done. I don't understand why you object to me doing it."

"Oh, I'm not objecting," he said. "I'm sure you are perfectlycapable of sweeping the passage. But you have other talents,Catherine. I'm surprised Mary didn't make use of them."

"To be honest, I think the sweeping was all she could think of,"Catherine said. "And I was pretty adamant about working."

"Yes, so I understand," Father said, his voice thoughtful. "As amatter of fact, I've been pondering since yesterday on how to put youto best use."

Catherine smiled. "Not much use for an out-of-practice attorneydown here, Father. Nor a video store clerk. As a matter of fact, youdon't have much use for anything I know how to do."

Father rubbed his palms together briskly. "Well, Catherine, Idon't believe that's quite true."

She paused in mid-sip. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I don't believe that's true. You have a great body ofknowledge that I'd like to tap."

She set her cup carefully on the edge of his desk. "Likewhat?"

"I've been thinking," he said. "Of the young people we send intothe world above."

Catherine nodded. She knew that perhaps as many as half thecommunity's young people chose to try their luck up top when theygrew up.

"We teach them many things," Father went on. "Math and science andhistory. We introduce them to poetry, and great literature, andfoster an appreciation for fine music. And yet there are many thingsour young people don't know when they get up there. Situations theydon't know how to handle."

"For instance?"

"Oh, something as simple as receiving a ticket for jaywalking, forinstance," Father said.

Catherine couldn't help a small, incredulous laugh. "You want meto teach them what they need to know in case they're everarrested?"

Father harrumphed gently. "Well, I hadn't thought of it in quitethose terms, but yes, I suppose so." He met her gaze grimly. "Afterall, it happens."

She remembered, and felt her cheeks coloring. "Yes, of course,"she agreed. "But I can teach them that in an afternoon. 'One phonecall, get an attorney.'"

"I believe there's a great deal more to it than that," Fatherargued. "Besides, you can teach them other things they need to know.How to register to vote, for example. What their legal obligationsare when they find employment, how to start or purchase a business,how to buy a house or rent an apartment."

"Well..." The wheels in her mind were turning busily as the chainof thought Father had begun sparked dozens of other possibilities. "Isuppose I could do that."

"I knew you could," Father practically crowed. "The older childrenhave a free hour from two to three each afternoon. I'll have themsent to your chamber. Is tomorrow too soon?"

"Tomorrow?" Catherine swallowed hard, and considered. She'd needto work up some sort of curriculum, but it didn't need to be hard andfast. She was sure if she could make the first class interestingenough, the kids themselves would ask questions which would lead toother avenues of exploration. Father was right; she had a wealth ofinformation she could share.

"Tomorrow will be fine," she said firmly, and got to her feet."Thank you for the tea, Father. Now I need to finish thepassage."

After she swept the tunnel, she spent time in the kitchen, whereWilliam didn't hesitate to hand her a knife and point her at a twentypound sack of potatoes.

"Peeled?" she guessed.

"And diced for stew," he answered. "I don't know what happened toSamantha this morning."

Catherine didn't know, either, but it didn't matter. She dove intothe potatoes, peeling patiently. She owed Samantha for watchingNicholas anyway. And William at least was not shy about putting herto work.

It was lunchtime before William glanced at her mound of peeledpotatoes and pronounced them enough. She set them to soak in coldwater and went in search of Nicholas.

She found him in the dining chamber, happily ensconced betweenBrian and Vincent. Natalie was nowhere in sight.

"She needed to pick up some thread for Ruth's weaving from ahelper," Vincent explained, offering her a seat. "She brought theboys to me."

"You've had them all morning?" Catherine asked, glancing atNicholas, who had yet to acknowledge her presence.

"Only the past hour or so. They've played quietly while I read achapter of Great Expectations to my literature class."

His glance said he expected her to smile at the book's title, andshe did. "Not the last chapter, I hope," she said softly.

"No." He hesitated, then plunged forward. "If you like, I couldbring it tonight. We could go somewhere and read..."

"I'd like that."

His relief - and his pleasure - was almost palpable. "I'll arrangefor someone to sit with Nicholas. After he's gone to bed."

"You'll come before that, though, won't you? He'll be disappointedif you don't."

His nod was brief, but she thought he was pleased. "Then I willcome."

Vincent had promised Kanin to help with a current project, so heleft Nicholas and Brian in Catherine's care after lunch. She tookthem with her to Father's chamber, where she perused his extensivelibrary, finding several volumes on the structure of government,constitutional law, and even a battered tome on civil procedures. Allwere terribly outdated, but would certainly serve to jog her memoryand act as primers.

By the time she finished, the two boys were bursting with energyso she gave up all thought of giving them a nap. Instead, followingdirections from Zach, whom she'd encountered outside the PipeChamber, she found a little-used passage with a wide, smooth floorand turned the boys loose to run and shout while she settled in acorner with her books and a pad of paper, taking notes.

Natalie came, after a while, and took the boys to Grandma Ruth'schamber for cookies and milk while Catherine retreated to her ownchamber to sketch out a lesson plan for the following day. She hadjust set the books and papers aside when Nicholas burst into thechamber. Vincent was outside, he informed her, waiting to escort themto dinner.

With a guilty start she remembered she'd never gone back to dicethe peeled potatoes, but William smiled as he ladled some of thesavory stew into a bowl for her. "I caught Geoffrey," he confided,"and put him to work."

Dinner conversation consisted largely of Nicholas relating theafternoon's events to Vincent, who had apparently picked him up fromNatalie only moments before coming by Catherine's chamber. After themeal, they cooperated in Nicholas's night time ritual, both kissinghim goodnight and tucking him in. Tonight's babysitting recruit wasKipper, who brought a cardboard box of wires, batteries, and an arrayof tiny light bulbs.

"My science project," he explained in answer to Catherine'sdoubtful look. "I promise I won't electrocute myself while you'regone."

His cheeriness was contagious and she was still smiling when shefollowed Vincent out of the chamber and slipped her hand into his. Heguided her through a maze of narrow, twisting passages thatterminated near a place she recognized. The Mirror Pool.

He led her to the water's edge and spread his cloak for her tosit, waiting until she was comfortable before lowering himself besideher.

"I brought the book," he said, and showed her the familiar volumein his hand.

She stared. "That's mine."

He stirred uneasily and glanced at the book, as if he'd forgottenits origins.

"You gave it to me," she persisted. "It was in my apartment."

"On your bedside table," he agreed after the briefest ofpauses.

"You went there," she guessed. "You took it."

He bent his head and refused to meet her questing gaze. "I wantedit. It was something that was yours. I believed it meant something toyou."

"It did. It does." She put her hand out and touched the familiarsmooth binding, then slid her hand up and over his. "It's all right,Vincent. I don't mind that you have it. I'm just curious, I suppose.That you went up there, went into my apartment." She smiled. "Youwere always shy about entering my apartment."

"Terrified of entering your apartment," he confessed.

"Yes," she remembered. "One of us had to be sick, or hurt."

"Or missing."

Her fingers tightened over his. "I'm sorry."

"I went there," he said, his voice distant, "because it was filledwith memories of you."

"I'm surprised it's still there," she said. "Intact." Sheremembered the familiar rooms, the comfort of beloved possessions,and wished, momentarily, that she could go there.

"It's not. Not anymore."

Even though she'd expected it, it was a wounding blow. "Where aremy things?" she asked, her voice small in the stillness.

"In storage, I believe. Peter and your friend Jenny arrangedit."

She hoped her shrug looked lighter than it felt. "Well, I haven'tany use for those things down here, anyway."

"We can get them for you, Catherine. Anything you like. Peter hasthe key."

Wistfully she thought about objects with sentimental meaning, likefamily photo albums and small gifts from her father. "Maybe I'll askhim to do that," she decided. "Next time he comes. Did he get thebook for you?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. When I learned your things were to betaken away... I went back, one last time. I didn't think you wouldmind if I brought away this one thing."

"I'm glad you have it," she said honestly. "It was yours to beginwith, anyway."

"Yes," he agreed. His thoughts seemed to be turned inward. "It wasyour balcony I missed most of all." He looked at her. "I used tovisit it," he said. "When you were gone."

She imagined him sitting there in the dark, cold and lonely andaching inside, and reached to touch his arm.

"I would sit there for hours. Sometimes I walked in the park,taking paths we once walked together. Night after night."

"Even after you'd given up looking for me?" She smiled faintly athis look of shock. "Father told me. It's all right, Vincent. Iunderstand."

"I never gave up hoping you would return," he said. "I only gaveup the hope of finding you, and bringing you home myself." His voicedropped. "I was afraid I would forget you. After the first year,after it became apparent we wouldn't find you... minutes went by...hours, sometimes... when I didn't think of you. Time when I could beabsorbed in teaching a class, reading a poem, talking to Father. Andthen I would remember, like a shock. It frightened me. That I couldforget you, even for a moment. That all we'd been to each other couldbe lost."

A surge of tenderness rushed through her; his misery was palpableand he so clearly expected her to react badly. "'But how could Iforget thee,'" she quoted softly. "'Through what power? Even for theleast division of an hour.' You see, Vincent? It happened toWordsworth, too. It's nature's way of helping us heal, I think."

"Did it happen to you?" he asked, studying her intently. "Did yousometimes forget me?"

She hesitated. "No," she said at last. "I didn't." He stiffened,and she hastened to elucidate. "How could I? With Nicky looking at meevery day with your eyes?"

After a moment he relaxed and looked away. Catherine settled backonto his cloak and tucked her knees up under her chin. "I knew whatmy situation was. I used to wonder, though, sometimes, what youthought."

The pause that followed lasted so long that she wondered if he wasgoing to speak at all. Then, with a sudden shifting of weight, hedid. "I wondered. I knew, in the beginning, that you had been takenforcibly. But later, I began to doubt. Myself. You. Us. Once...perhaps more than once... I even wondered if you might have beenrescued, somehow. That you were safe, but that it had become too muchfor you... if you hadn't had the strength to come and tell me."

"And I'd left you?"

He made a tiny affirmative move of his head.

"Oh, Vincent."

She slipped into his arms then, and rested her head on hisshoulder in the old way. "It was easier for me, I suppose. Because Iknew where I was, knew I was all right. Pretty much all right," sheamended. "And I knew you were probably okay, too. Hurting, but safe.You couldn't know that about me."

"It was easier to imagine that - that you'd been unable to goon... than to picture the alternative." He shuddered and held hertighter. "You're safe, though. And you're here, now. That's all thatmatters."

"Even," she asked in a voice that seemed terribly small, "if wenever reach the place we were? If we can never be like thatagain?"

"Even then," he affirmed softly, into her hair. "Even then."

They never did read Dickens that night. After a while, Vincentrose to his feet and offered a hand to help her up. They walked backin silence. Catherine wondered, after the things they'd talked about,if Vincent would repeat his tentative kiss of the night before. Ifanything, he seemed less certain of himself tonight. She bracedherself for disappointment as he paused in front of her doorway andturned to face her.

"We have talked about many things," he said softly.

"Things that needed to be said, Vincent," she reminded him.

"Yes," he agreed. He gazed at her, his expression thoughtful.

"What is it?"

"I was thinking about something you said earlier."

"What?" she whispered, suddenly breathless.

"That we might not be able to come together again the way we oncedid - that we might not find the true meeting of hearts and minds weonce shared."

"I remember."

He leaned toward her.

Catherine closed her eyes, savoring the touch of his lips on hercheek, the faint prickle of whiskers on her skin. He lingered there amoment after the kiss, holding his cheek carefully against hers. Whenhe drew back, he was smiling. "I was thinking that perhaps in this,Catherine, you are wrong."