Catherine spent the next morning helping Rebecca in the candleshop, stirring wax and trimming wicks - and worrying about herclass.

The children who arrived at her chamber at two o'clock were intheir teens and included many of the young people she'd known before:Kipper, Samantha, Eric and Lana, Dustin and Geoffrey. She quicklylearned the names of the others and took a deep breath, stillwondering quite where to begin.

And then Eric solved her problem neatly by raising his hand andasking, in a voice that occasionally slipped to a deeper register,"What do we do if we get arrested?"

Catherine kept her jaw from dropping by great strength of will; itseemed Father was more accurate than he knew. "Excuse me?"

"Like Mouse did, that time. You remember, Catherine. You got himout."

"Yes, well, Mouse wasn't precisely arrested..."

"What was he, then?" asked another boy. "He said there werepolicemen."

"They weren't police, they were security guards," Catherineexplained. "But in any case, Mouse did the right thing. He asked tospeak to an attorney."

"An attorney?" one of the younger girls asked, rolling theunfamiliar word on her tongue. "What's that?"

"It's like a lawyer," Samantha advised. "Isn't it?" She appealedto Catherine for confirmation.

"That's right. An attorney is a lawyer."

"Catherine's an attorney," Geoffrey informed the rest of theroom.

"Too bad you don't live up there, still," Eric said. "We couldcall you. Like Mouse did."

Eric's unexpected remark sent a chill down Catherine's spine."Well, I'm not," she said briskly, to cover her reaction. "Ask for anattorney. If you can afford it, you can choose your own, and if not,the court will assign one."

They were deep in a discussion of post-arrest booking procedureswhen class time ended. "I'll see all of you tomorrow," she said, asthe young people gathered up pens and paper and prepared to depart."And until then, try not to get arrested!"

Nicholas's friendship with Brian grew, and it soon becamecustomary for Catherine to keep both boys in the mornings whenNatalie taught her primary class. Natalie would join them for lunchand afterwards would take the boys, leaving Catherine's afternoonfree for her own class.

In the evenings, Catherine and Nicholas shared most meals withVincent and sometimes Father; afterwards, Vincent accompanied them totheir chamber in order to take part in Nicholas's bedtime.

Catherine learned the teenagers considered it a privilege to bepermitted to watch Nicholas, so there was never a shortage of youngvolunteers on the evenings she and Vincent spent together, thoughthere were also evenings when Vincent's duties called.

She missed his company at those times, but she wasn't lonely. Notthe way she'd been before, living alone, afraid for her life and forher son's life. Visitors stopped by: Natalie, Mary, sometimes Jamieor Brooke or Rebecca or even Mouse. And even quiet evenings readingwere pleasant, accompanied as they were by stirrings in the passageoutside, and the constant, comforting sound of messages on thepipes.

Vincent developed the habit, on the nights they didn't spendtogether, of stopping by to say goodnight. She began to count on hishug, and the kiss, no longer shy or tentative, he always placed onher cheek.

If he noticed there were things she didn't tell him, topics sheshied away from, he didn't say, and with the determination that hadbrought her through so many things in the past, Catherine threwherself into being happy.

But time alone meant time to think, and that brought memories backto haunt her. And soon the deep, dreamless sleeps she'd enjoyed sincecoming back gave way to fitful, fearful dreams.

"Vincent. I need a favor." She paused inside his chamber door.

He looked up from his journal. "Of course."

She sank into a chair beside him and displayed a neatly addressedenvelope. "Is it possible to have this mailed... from somewhere faraway from New York?"

The look he gave her was keen. "Would St. Louis do?"

She nodded. "St. Louis would be fine. Make sure whoever mails itthere uses a post office or mailbox away from their home and wherethey work."

After the briefest of pauses while he assimilated her request, heheld out his hand. "I'll see to it."

She put the letter in his hand, and reflexively, he glanced at theaddress. She saw his mouth tighten almost imperceptibly.

"It's a letter," she hastened to explain. "To my friend Rick inSpokane. He was good to me, Vincent. He'll be worried."

She'd imagined her characterization of Rick as friend wouldrelieve the tension; instead, Vincent rose abruptly and put theletter on a shelf.

"Vincent?" she asked, uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, but his voice was rough and the answer was a touchtoo long in coming.

"Something is wrong," she said. "Please."

He shook his head vigorously. "No. Please, Catherine. Let itbe."

"If something's bothering you, Vincent, I want to know it. I wantto help. Is it Rick?"

He shook his head again. "No. I am pleased you had friends."

"That's all he is," she said softly, trying to reassure. "Myfriend."

"But you are concerned," he spat, whirling to face her, his eyessparking with sudden fury. "Concerned that he may beconcerned."

She blinked in confusion, taken aback by his surprising anger."Well, yes. But I don't understand..."

He braced his hands on the table and leaned forward soaggressively that she drew back. "Three years, Catherine. For threeyears I did not know where you were. Did not know if you were safe.Did not even know if you lived. Were you concerned for me?"

Understanding broke over her and with it came a cold fury. Shedrew herself up rigidly. "How do you know what I felt in those years,Vincent? How do you know what I endured?"

"I don't," he answered crisply. "I can't. You have not told me. Iknow only that you were gone. And now, after only a few weeks, youwrite to your friend so he will not be alarmed."

He moved away from the table, his form blurring into a pool ofshadow lurking beyond the candles. The blistering retort on hertongue died unspoken. He always took refuge in shadows.

Unbidden, her imagination flicked to an image of herself, waitingthrough long years for Vincent, vanished without a trace. As suddenlyas it had come, her defensive anger vanished. "Oh, Vincent," she saidsoftly. "I'm so sorry. And I knew, even then, what you must bethinking, what you must be enduring. There was nothing I wanted morethan to reach out to you. You must know that."

He half turned, letting the light catch his shoulders, his hair.His bowed head hid his profile from her, and she wished she could seehis eyes. "But you did not," he said, his voice so soft she couldscarcely hear him. "Why?"

"One day," she said, her voice trembling, "only a few days beforeNicholas was born, I stood on Fifth Avenue, across from the park. Icould see the trees and the grass. I could see the path where itturned toward the tunnel. I was scared, Vincent. I'd been out ofGabriel's clutches for little more than twelve hours then. They werehunting me, all over the city. I wanted to come to you. I wanted, sobadly, to be in your arms, to be safe. And it was all I could do toturn away, to keep going. Keep running. Keep hiding."

She had his full attention now. His eyes, wide and blue, werefixed on her face. "You should have come."

She shook her head. "No," she said, conviction adding strength toher voice. "I shouldn't have. Because they might have seen me. Theymight have followed me. I might have led them right to you, to yourworld. And Gabriel would have destroyed it." She waved her hand, thegesture encompassing the room. "He would have destroyed all this. Andhe would have destroyed you."

"You sacrificed yourself."

Her mind shied away from the notion of sacrifice. She'd simplydone what was necessary. "I couldn't lead him to you, Vincent. Iwouldn't."

"And later? After you left the city?"

"I could never know how close he was. Whether he might bewatching. The simplest thing... a letter, a phone call, anythingmight have pointed to you. Or to someone who could be coerced intobetraying us. Rick's not a target, Vincent, but you are. As much asGabriel wants our son, he wants you. And a risk to you is a risk tothis world, to all your family. I couldn't take that chance."

The memories of those days reached for her, shockingly vivid. Shesuppressed a shudder, pushed the memories back, and avoided his gaze,afraid he would see the things she wanted to forget. "I didn't knowwhat you thought," she said. "I thought you must have found peace,must have found a way to deal with it. If you knew what those yearswere like, Vincent, knew of the fear, and the running, and all thetime worried for Nicky, for what would become of him..."

His hand gripped her shoulder, drawing her up. "Never again," hemurmured, crushing her against his chest. "You're safe here. You'llalways be safe."

She almost believed him. But there was a current of fear, nevertruly vanquished, still tugging at her senses, and when he bent hishead to brush his lips against her cheek, she reacted instinctively,turning her face towards his.

Their lips touched and Vincent paused, his breath catchingsharply. And then he was kissing her as he'd been too ill anddisoriented to do in the cavern, as he'd been too fearful to dobefore and too gentlemanly since. His kiss robbed her of breath, andblessedly, of her memories. She leaned into him, acutely aware hishold had changed from one of fiercely protective comfort to somethingaltogether different. Her body pressed his intimately, hip, thigh,and breast.

It was long moments later when he dragged his mouth from hers andpressed her head hard against his chest, his breathing harsh andragged.

She leaned against him, listening as the beat of his heart slowedbeneath her cheek. His hands, no longer urgent, stroked her hair.When her trembling eased, he moved her away from him, his hands onher shoulders.

They'd taken a quantum step in their newly revived relationship,and she could see, in his eyes, how shaken he was.

Time. They both needed time, to assimilate what had happened, toput it into perspective. She took a deep breath and summoned a lightsmile. "Nicky's birthday is next week," she said. "I wondered if wecould have a party for him, but I don't know your customs here."

He needed a long breath before he answered, but when he spoke, hisvoice was steady. "Parties for the children are usual. William willbe glad to provide a cake and proper refreshments."

"Should I have it in my chamber?"

"Or here, if you prefer."

She smiled. "Cake ground into your carpets by a bunch ofpreschoolers? It doesn't seem appropriate."

"I don't mind, Catherine," he replied. "He's my son, too."

She gripped his arms. "Of course he is. I don't forget that."

"No. What day..." His voice faltered. "I wondered what day,exactly, is his birthday?"

She stared blankly for a moment. "I haven't told you?"

He shook his head; unspoken sorrow touched his eyes and the set ofhis mouth.

"I'm sorry, Vincent. He'll be three on Thursday. NextThursday."

"Yes." His gaze seemed to turn inward.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something... unusual, I think."

She frowned in puzzlement and he disengaged himself gently fromher hands and moved to pluck a small book from a shelf near his bed.He brought it back and laid it in her hands.

She ran reverent fingers over the embossed leather binding. "Thejournal I gave you after your illness," she whispered, and opened thecover to read the inscription there. With love, all things arepossible. Forever, Catherine. "It seems so long ago that I wrotethose words."

"Yes," he agreed, and took the small volume from her to pagethrough the closely written pages. "Look at this."

He handed the volume back, opened near the middle. The date at thetop was that of Nicholas's birth, and she looked up quickly.

"Go ahead," he urged softly. "Read it."

There is a disturbance tonight, greater than the turmoil thataccompanies my every breath. Something is wrong. I know it, sense it.I am afraid it's Catherine, but I can't be sure. It's so distant, sofar away. I can't even tell where it's coming from. It just is. Itcomes in a surge, a strange, distressing restlessness, and ebbs justas quickly.

I don't know if it is Catherine. It is not the same as theconnection that is lost now... I have no sense of her... only thedisturbing sense of something wrong.

Later - it comes more often now, and lasts longer. I can't bestill. I must keep moving, to use the restlessness before it consumesme. I don't know what is happening.

Still later - It's gone now. It seemed to peak, rolling over mein waves... and now there's nothing but a sort of tranquility. Itfrightens me. I try to rejoice. If it is Catherine, then she is atpeace now. No longer troubled. But I fear what that maymean...

She looked up to find him watching her quietly.

"You knew."

He made a small, acquiescent movement of his head. "It seems thatI did," he agreed, and swallowed visibly. "I thought you must bedead," he finished, flatly.

She closed her eyes against his pain. "I'm so sorry, Vincent. Inever dreamed you would sense anything. Not from so far away. Notafter so long. Our bond..."

"I don't believe it was you I sensed," he said. "I think it wasNicholas."

"Nicky?" She stared, incredulous. "Can you feel him?"

"No. Not now. Not usually. If he were very distressed, Imight."

She offered a shaky smile. "It's all so strange, isn't it? The waywe're bound together."

"Strange enough," he agreed.

She closed the small book and offered it back to him.

"No," he said. "Take it with you. It chronicles my search. Mydesperation. I want you to read it."

"Oh." She stared at him, rather stupidly, she thought, and thencradled the small volume against her chest. "All right."

"Mommy!"

Catherine surfaced from restless, dream-filled sleep, blinkinghazily in the light of the single candle flame.

The voice came again, plaintive and edged with genuine distress."Mommy!"

Pushing aside the covers, she slid out of bed and padded barefootinto the little cubicle where Nicholas slept. The smell assailed heras she pushed back the curtain. She lit one of the tapers on a shelfover his bed and quickly transferred the flame to other waitingwicks.

A glance confirmed what she already suspected; Nicholas had becomeill and had vomited all over himself and his bed. His hands weresmeared and his pajamas soaked. His lower lip quivered at herinvoluntary groan of dismay.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," he said, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Nicky. It's not your fault. It's okay. Come here." Carefullyshe folded back his blankets and helped him stand, keeping areassuring hand on his shoulder - one of the few parts of him stillclean. She pressed her palm to his forehead; he felt cool. "Do youfeel sick?"

He shook his head and she noticed his hair hadn't escaped soiling."Not anymore."

"Does your tummy hurt?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No."

"Well, that's good, anyway." She breathed carefully through hermouth - the pungent odor threatened to make her gag.

Despite her best efforts, Nicholas noticed. "I'm sorry, Mommy," hesaid again, plaintively. "I didn't mean to." The sorrow in his voicewas heartbreaking.

"I know you didn't. Let's get you out of those pajamas." Sheturned and was reaching for a towel to stand him on when the whisperof cloth on cloth and the soft sound of hurrying footsteps made herlook up. Vincent, looking rumpled and mussed from sleep, halted inthe doorway.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sick, Daddy," Nicholas announced, his voice stronger andsounding much like his healthy self. "I threw up."

Vincent surveyed the bed and their son in alarm.

"It isn't serious," she assured him quickly.

"You're sure? I can get Father..."

"Unless he wants to help clean up, it isn't necessary. Ipromise."

He wavered a moment, then let out a long breath of relief. "Whatcan I do?"

The offer of an extra pair of hands was a blessing. "If you couldgive him a bath..."

Vincent didn't hesitate. "Of course." He held out his hand toNicholas.

"Wait," she said, and spread the towel on the carpet. "Here,Nicky, stand on this while I take your pajama shirt off."

Nicholas obliged, wincing as she carefully extricated him from thecaked pullover shirt.

"Go with Daddy," she instructed. "When you get back, I'll haveyour bed all cleaned up."

He took Vincent's proffered hand and they left the chamber.Catherine took a moment to wonder where Vincent would find hot waterat this time of night, then turned to the bed. Everything would haveto be laundered, she saw, and set about stripping the bed, foldingthe sheets and blankets toward the middle to contain the mess. Sheadded the towel and Nicholas's pajama top to the pile and bundled itinto a corner. Fresh sheets and clean blankets and quilts were storedin a trunk in her own chamber and she fetched them, making up the bedquickly and efficiently. She took the basin from her washstand andset it on Nicholas's small bedside table in case he should be sickagain. Everything was ready when Vincent carried Nicholas back,damply clean and wrapped in an oversized towel.

"We forgot clean pajamas," he explained ruefully.

Catherine managed a smile at the charming sight of the small, damphead nestled beside the larger, disheveled one, and produced freshnightwear from a drawer. "Can you stay with him for a little while?"she asked.

"Of course," Vincent answered, surprised. "Where will you be?"

She waved toward the bundle of soiled linen. "If I don't rinsethose things out now, they'll be crusted and stained in the morningand it'll be impossible."

His response was to deposit Nicholas into her arms. "I'll doit."

"Vincent, please," she protested. "It's not necessary."

"I'll do it," he said again, and gathered up the bundle. "I'll beback shortly."

She managed a flustered nod. "All right. If you insist."

He went out and she put Nicholas down. He swayed sleepily and shesteadied him with one hand while she dressed him with the other. Hedidn't protest when she carried him to bed and tucked him betweenclean sheets.

"'Night, Mommy," he murmured.

"Goodnight, Nicky," she whispered, stroking his head. "Sleepwell."

He was asleep within moments and she returned to the largerchamber where she hesitated, wondering if Vincent would come back, orif he would simply return to his own chamber after rinsing thelinens.

He'd probably come back, she decided, to be sure Nicholas was allright. She made a circuit of the room, lighting candles to replacethe ones she'd extinguished in Nicholas's alcove. She was circlingthe bed when she stubbed a bare toe on something that slid away fromher on the threadbare carpet.

Holding the candle in her hand upright so it wouldn't drip wax,she bent to retrieve the object.

Vincent's journal. She'd been reading it in bed and rememberedplacing it beside her on the quilt, thinking she'd close her tiredeyes for just a moment. The next thing she remembered was Nicholascrying out. The journal must have fallen to the floor when she pushedthe covers back.

She set the candle down and sank onto the edge of the bed,fingering the embossed cover of the journal thoughtfully. She'd readwell past her own abduction, experiencing Vincent's panic and horrorand, as pages turned, his growing desperation.

The entries changed after the ones chronicling Nicholas's birth.The frantic quality gradually vanished, replaced by a deep, sorrowfulresignation.

That's where she'd fallen asleep and it explained the sense ofhalf-guilty dreams half-remembered. Her going had caused Vincentuntold anguish, and even though it hadn't been her fault, she feltresponsible.

Her feet were cold, so she drew them up and tucked them under therumpled bedclothes.

She'd hurt him terribly by her absence and for an unhappy moment,she wondered if she could ever make it up to him. Then Nicholasturned in his sleep, drawing her attention to his curtained alcove,and she knew she already had.

It must be very late, she guessed. Or early. Her sense of time wasdulled down here, away from the rhythms of the sun and moon, so shecouldn't be sure. There were hours left in the usual sleeping period,though. She was sure of that.

"Catherine."

The soft sound of her name jerked her upright and she blinkedrapidly in the flickering candlelight. "What? Yes, I'm here."Half-drunk with sleep, she was babbling, trying to regain some senseof equilibrium.

Vincent appeared in the doorway, his eyes shadowed. "I'm sorry.Did I wake you?"

Catherine pushed her hair back vigorously, hoping to drive awaysome of the disorientation. "No. I mean, yes, I guess you did. Ididn't mean to fall asleep, but I think I must have."

The bare glimmering of the tips of his long, pointed teeth showedhe was smiling. "I'll leave you, then."

"No!" She called him back hastily, without thought. "I mean,please don't go."

He let his breath out in a long, quiet sigh, and stepped forward."I'm here."

She touched the journal that still lay in her lap. "I've beenreading..."

"Yes," he agreed, his glance flicking downward to the book. "Iknow."

"I thought I understood what I put you through," she said. "But Isee now that I was wrong. I didn't begin to understand. I'm so sorryI hurt you."

"No apology is necessary, Catherine," he answered. "You did whatyou believed necessary."

"It was necessary," she said, her voice low. "I will alwaysbelieve that."

"Then I believe it, too," he said.

She stirred restlessly. "It's hard to think, now, that yourconnection is with Nicky," she said wistfully. "Not with me."

Surprise showed plainly on his face. "Who told you that?"

"You did. This afternoon, and in here." She pointed to thejournal.

"Because I sensed his birth?"

She nodded. "And because you came tonight, when he was sick."

His laugh was so soft she barely heard it. "Catherine, it wasn'tNicholas's distress that drew me just now. It was yours."

Her breath caught painfully in her chest. "Mine?" she whispered,echoing him.

He gave a tiny nod. "It's been growing slowly since your return.It's been tenuous... sometimes I wasn't even sure. But tonight, Ifelt it cleanly. There was no uncertainty."

"And you came."

"I will always come, Catherine, you know that."

She closed her eyes, briefly envisioning those long, painfulmonths when he hadn't come. "I know," she whispered, forcing thewords through a constricted throat.

His hand on her shoulder made her eyes fly open again and he drewher up and cradled her against his chest. "Never again," he promisedsoftly. "I'll never not come again."

She clung to his words as she clutched at the loose folds of hissleeping tunic. There was safety and comfort in both and she letherself be lost in them. "I told you," she said suddenly.

"Told me what?" he asked, into her hair. "When?"

"Before. When you were recovering from your illness."

"Ah." He chuckled. "'Have faith that it will,'" he quoted.

"Yes," she agreed. "And I was right, too. Our bond is back. Strongas ever?"

"I believe so," he said. "I haven't tested it."

"Don't," she told him. "I don't want you to go that far away."

"I won't," he promised. "I'll be here always."

In the morning, Nicholas felt fine, but Father came to examine himanyway.

"There you go," he said when he finished, and patted Nicholas onthe head. "You can put your shirt back on."

"This is my pajama shirt," Nicholas complained. "I want mydinosaur shirt."

"Well, certainly, if you like," Father agreed. "But cover up; wedon't want you to catch cold on top of everything else."

"What is it, Father?" Vincent asked, a thin thread of anxietycoloring his voice.

Father stepped to the waiting basin of warm water and washed hishands briskly. "He's fine, Vincent. Perhaps a touch of virus, buthe's certainly showing no ill effects today."

"I'm hungry, Daddy," Nicholas said. "Can we go to breakfast?"

Father shook his head. "I'm sorry, Nicholas. I think it's best ifwe keep you away from the other children today. We don't want them toget sick, do we?"

Nicholas's lower lip crept out, but he shook his head. "No," hesaid. "I guess not."

"Your daddy can bring you something to eat," Father suggested."What would you like?"

"Oatmeal!" proclaimed Nicholas, pleased to be the center of somuch attention. "And scrambled eggs and toast and muffins andwaffles."

"Nicky," Catherine protested. "You couldn't possibly eat allthat."

"Yes, I could," he maintained stoutly. "I threw up," he added, incase she'd forgotten. "All over my bed. I'm really hungry."

"No doubt," Vincent agreed. "I'll see what William has available.Catherine? Shall I bring you a tray?"

"Please," she answered. "And something for yourself, if youhaven't already eaten."

Vincent nodded briefly and went out. Father turned from drying hishands.

"Vincent seems to have slipped into his role as father quiteeasily," he commented.

"Yes, he has," she agreed. "I think Nicky scared him a little,last night, but he handled it well."

"Our children are seldom ill," Father explained. "Isolated as theyare, they don't come in contact with many forms of infection."

Catherine frowned. "I don't know where Nicky got this. He's beendown here for nearly four weeks. That's too long for him to havecaught it up top, isn't it?"

Father nodded. "It may not even be a virus. Children his age eatall sorts of things they shouldn't. The isolation is merely aprecaution."

Catherine glanced toward Nicholas, who was energeticallystruggling into his favorite blue sweatshirt emblazoned on the frontwith a realistic drawing of a Tyrannosaurus Rex in full battle mode."I'm sure he'll be fine," she agreed.

"Quite." Father tucked his stethoscope into his black leather bagand snapped it closed. "Have I told you, Catherine, how very muchyour coming back has affected Vincent?"

"No," she said, long-held caution rising defensively. "In whatway?"

Father folded his hands on top of the bag and smiled. "He'srelaxed, he's cheerful, he's full of joy. Kanin claims to have heardhim humming last week on a work detail. I don't think I'veever seen him quite so happy."

Catherine relaxed. "It's Nicky," she said. "They're so wrapped upin each other..."

"Of course it's Nicholas," Father agreed. "His mere presence hasdone more for Vincent than I could ever have imagined. Not that I'dever imagined Vincent fathering a child in the first place."

Father brought his hand up and cupped her cheek gently in itspalm. "But it's you, too," he said. "The walks you take, the booksyou read to one another. The hours you spend together in theWhispering Gallery, or here, or in his chamber."

"You forgot the Mirror Pool," she said lightly.

"The Mirror Pool, too, I've no doubt," he agreed. "I've seen whatthat's done for him, Catherine, having you near. He seems yearsyounger, and the terrible weight he seemed to carry for so long, evenbefore you left us, seems to have vanished."

"And you think I did that?"

He bent to press an affectionate kiss to her cheek. "I am certainof it."