It was dark and cold, but there was security in the handholding hers and she wasn't afraid. Catherine looked up and smiled;serene and beautiful, her mother smiled back.

"You can't keep it, you know," a voice said. Cold and harsh, itechoed through the darkness. "You can't keep any of it."

The hand she was holding, her mother's hand, grew thin andslipped through her fingers. Frantic, Catherine turned and thrust outboth hands, but it was no use. Her mother was gone.

"Mom?" she heard herself say, her voice small and plaintive inthe darkness.

"Mommy!" another voice answered.

"Nick?" She spun around, searching for him.

"Mommy!" His voice was shrill with terror.

"Nicky!" Panic filled her as she groped her way through thedarkness. A pool of light appeared in the distance and she stumbledtoward it, shouting his name.

Nicholas stood alone in the center of the light. He wore hisfaded blue pajamas; his bear was held in a stranglehold under onearm. His face was streaked with tears. "Mommy," he sobbed."Mommy."

"I'm here, Nick." She tried to reach for him, but an invisiblebarrier held her back. "I'm right here."

He didn't seem to hear her.

She pounded on the barrier between them. "I'm here, Nicky!" sheshouted.

Disconsolate, chest heaving with sobs, he turned away. "Mommy,"he pleaded one last time, and wandered away, utterly alone.

"Catherine, wake up." Vincent's voice penetrated only slowly. Asshe struggled back to wakefulness, she realized Nicholas's sobs werereal, and that Vincent stood beside the bed with Nicholas in hisarms. "Catherine," he said again, his tone urgent. "Wake up."

She struggled out of the tangle of covers and pillows andautomatically fought to damp the terror sparked by the dream. "Here,"she said, reaching out. "I'll take him."

Despite the vestiges of fear from the dream and fuzziness causedby sleep, her maternal instincts were affronted when Vincent shookhis head and stepped away from the bed.

"No," he answered, almost harshly. "He's frightened, and you'llonly frighten him more."

She opened her mouth to protest, and realized her heart was stillracing, her hands still trembling from the images of her nightmare.She couldn't forget the small, distraught figure of Nicholas, turningaway. She pushed her damp hair back from her face and concentrated onbreathing deeply, on finding the calm center she'd clung to for solong.

It was getting harder and harder to reach that calm place, though,and Nicholas's sobs had wound down to the occasional shudderingbreath by the time she felt centered enough to approach him.

She knelt beside the chair where Vincent sat with their son in hislap and stroked the narrow back with tentative fingers. "Nicky?" shewhispered.

"Mommy," he said, and twisted around, reaching for her.

Vincent allowed him to come to her, and then took her arm, helpingher to take his place in the chair. Nicholas curled in her lap, hisarms tight around her neck.

"I couldn't find you," he said, his voice tremulous. "I looked andlooked and I couldn't find you."

The import of his words struck sharply and she flinched. Vincentbent over them, his expression one of concern.

"My dream," she whispered. "I think he dreamed it, too."

Nicholas had a stranglehold on her neck and refused to evenconsider returning to his own bed. "No," he whimpered, into her neck."I want to sleep with you."

She looked at Vincent, who nodded agreement, and carried Nicholasto the bed. Nicholas curled on his side, his back firmly againstVincent's torso, and grasped a fold of Catherine's nightgown in onedetermined fist. Then, as if simultaneous contact with them bothsoothed him somehow, he sighed and slept.

Catherine looked across his small, recumbent body and smiled."He'll be all right now."

"This time," Vincent answered. He didn't return the smile."Catherine, what did you mean when you said he dreamed yourdream?"

She wished he didn't look quite so forbidding. She swallowed,trying to relieve a suddenly dry throat, before she answered. "Whathe said about not being able to find me. That's what I dreamed. Theend of it. I could hear him calling me. I could even see him. But hecouldn't hear me and I couldn't reach him. He wandered away, into thedark and I couldn't reach him." The memory made her shiver and atlast Vincent reached out to her, his big hand cupping her cheek.

"Don't you see how you're hurting him?" he asked. "You have thesedreams and they frighten him. Now he's begun dreaming with you. Youcan't do this to him."

"What am I supposed to do? Stop dreaming?"

"You have to try, Catherine," he said, more gently. "You have totalk about them. It's the only way to get past them. You knowthat."

She closed her eyes and shuddered, glad he hadn't taken his handaway. She rubbed her cheek gently against his palm, steadiedimmeasurably by his touch. "I dream of things that happened to mebefore. Of being in the car trunk up at Stoney Point before you cameto rescue me. Of the water, and being trapped, and not being able tobreathe."

"Is that always what you dream?"

She shook her head.

"What else?"

"Sometimes I dream of the van. They're holding me down; I can feeltheir hands on my wrists, my shoulders. The razor comes closer andcloser..." She shivered. "Sometimes I don't wake up until afterthey've cut my face."

"What else?"

"Sometimes I dream about you. I know you're in danger but I can'tfind you. No matter how hard I look." She closed her eyes andshuddered. "Isaac and me in a cab, riding up and down the lower eastside, looking and looking..."

He heaved himself up to lean across their son and take her intohis arms. "It's all right now," he murmured into her hair. "None ofthose things can hurt you anymore. They're over."

"I know that. I keep telling myself. But they won't go away,Vincent. I dream them over and over and each time it gets worse. Ihaven't dreamed about those things for years, and I don't understandwhy I'm dreaming about them now. Or why they frighten me somuch."

"Those aren't the things that frighten you, Catherine," he saidgently. "You dream about them because it's safe. They're over now andthey can't hurt you. It's the things you don't dream about that youmost fear."

She was afraid to meet his eyes.

"Catherine?" he said softly, after a while. "Did you hear me?"

She nodded, feeling fragile and isolated.

"This man still looms as a terrifying figure in yoursubconscious," he went on. "Whether you recognize it or not."

His gentle persistence was wearing on her, grating againstsuddenly raw nerves. "I don't know, Vincent. Maybe. I don't want totalk about it."

Evading his hand, she scrambled up and out of bed. The air in thechamber seemed insufficient, the walls narrow and confining. Gaspingagainst the tightness in her chest, she leaned against the nearestwall.

When Vincent caught her arm, she spun, trying to wrench it out ofhis grasp, but his hold was firm and he didn't let go. "Please,Catherine," he begged. "Don't do this to me. Don't shut me out."

"I can't bear it," she gasped. "It's crushing me, Vincent. Make itstop! Make it go away."

He caught one of her hands, pinning it between them. "Don't youknow I would if I could?" he said. "But the only one who can vanquishthis fear is you, Catherine. And in order to do that, you must faceit."

"Face it?" Even to herself she sounded on the edge of hysteria."Do you know what that means, Vincent? It means I'd have to go upthere. Where he is. I'd have to face him."

He was silent, his expression unreadable.

"He's waiting for me, Vincent," she went on, fighting the panic."He'll kill me. Don't you care about that?"

Something that spoke of deep, unfathomable loss flickered in hiseyes and his hand that was holding hers tightened in a crushinggrip.

She tried to wiggle her fingers and failed. "Vincent," she said,her voice small. "You're hurting me."

Only then did he seem to realize what he was doing. He releasedher and stalked to the far side of the chamber where he braced hishands against a table in an achingly familiar stance.

Fleetingly she wondered how Nicholas could sleep through all theturmoil, both verbal and emotional, that flooded the chamber, but aswift glance showed him utterly relaxed, one hand flung up over hishead.

"Do you think I want you to go up there?" Vincent's voice wasrough and half-angry. "Do you think I would rest if you werethere?"

The anguish in his stance, in his voice, was unmistakable.

"No," she answered reluctantly. "I don't think that's what youwant."

He spun to face her. "What I want, Catherine, is for you to befree of the fear. To be free of the nightmares." He gestured towardNicholas. "I want our son to have a mother who is strong. Who canteach him to be unafraid." His voice softened. "I don't think yourealize how much you've changed, Catherine. The woman I loved beforewas different. Brave and intrepid."

"That was before she spent six months in a room, treated asbreeding stock," she flung back at him. "That was before she foundout just how bad things can get. That woman is dead, Vincent. Gabrielkilled her."

His gaze softened, but didn't waver. "You're wrong," he said."That woman is the one who found her way out of an inescapableprison. She had the strength and the courage to protect our son andkeep him safe for three years. She's still there, Catherine. She'sbeen steadily fading these past weeks, but she still lives in you.But only you can bring her back."

"Maybe I don't want to," she retorted. "Maybe I'm tired of beingbrave. And maybe if the person I am isn't good enough for youanymore, you should just get out."

He froze, his eyes wide and incredulous. "You don't meanthat."

"Don't tell me what I mean!" she shouted, infuriated beyond allcontrol. "This is my chamber and I want you out!"

He drew himself up, cloaking himself in the reserved dignity sheknew so well. "Very well," he answered. "But Nicholas goes withme."

Before she could react, he'd bent over the bed and gathered thelittle boy up in his arms. Nicholas roused enough to put his armsaround Vincent's neck and went back to sleep with his head on hisfather's shoulder.

"You can't take him," she stuttered. "He's mine."

"Mine as well," he reminded her, his voice brittle. "You'reoverwrought, Catherine. You'll only upset him. I'll bring him back inthe morning, when you're more composed."

Stunned, she watched him stride out of the chamber. Only when thesound of his footsteps faded did she think of rushing after him. Butthe vision of trying to wrest Nicholas away from him was horrifying.Nicholas would wake and probably cry; he couldn't help but be upsetby such a thing. And even though it was late, there was always thechance someone might come by and witness the entire event.

It hurt dreadfully, but it was clearly best to let Vincent go fornow. Nicholas was safe with him. She should try to sleep and in themorning they could sort things out.

The bed looked cold and lonely, so she collapsed into the chair,her face wet with helpless tears.

She was still sitting there when morning sounds - footsteps,increased tapping on the pipes, voices - heralded a new day. Her eyeswere dry now, and gritty from lack of sleep. She should get up, getdressed, but she lacked the will to do so.

"Quiet, Nicholas." The voice in the corridor was Vincent's, mutedbut clearly recognizable. "People are sleeping."

Catherine sat up straight.

"Mommy's awake," Nicholas answered with confidence. "She needsme."

With the words, he trotted into the chamber and straight to herarms. She gathered him up without thought, burying her face againsthis neck.

"Oh, Nicky," she murmured. "I missed you."

"Me, too," he answered. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Fine. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," he answered. "But guess what?"

"What?"

"I went to sleep in your bed and I woke up in Daddy's bed!" Helaughed in delight.

"Did you?" She tried to sound interested, but a tightness in herthroat lent a deadly note of tension to the words.

Perhaps Nicholas picked up on it, because his delight faded and asmall, puzzled frown puckered his forehead. "How come I was inDaddy's bed? I thought Daddy slept with us now."

Movement in the chamber entrance caught her eye and she glancedover Nicholas's head to see Vincent standing stolidly in theopening.

"No," she said clearly, defiance blazing through her. "Notanymore."

She knew he must have heard, as she'd intended him to, but Vincentdid not react. Instead, he inclined his head gracefully. "Goodmorning, Catherine," he said. "Nicholas was concerned about you.Shall I leave him here, or would you rather come for him after you'redressed?"

"Leave him," she said. "He's fine."

Vincent tipped his head again in formal acquiescence andwithdrew.

Nicholas wriggled in her fierce hold. "Mommy," he said. "Letgo."

With a conscious effort she relaxed her grip, but kept him in herlap.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked.

She looked at him closely for the first time, but his expressionwas only mildly curious. "No, Nick. What makes you think I'm mad atanyone?"

"I feel it," he said, and shivered. "I don't like it when you'remad, Mommy."

"I'm sorry. I'll try not to be," she promised, and drew a deepbreath, marshalling the calm that seemed so fleeting these days."Better?"

He gazed at her critically and nodded. "I guess," he said. "Can wego to breakfast now? I'm hungry."

Catherine half dreaded their arrival at the dining hall. WouldVincent be there? If he was, would he expect them to join him? If shewent to another table, what would Nicholas say? What would the othersthink? For perhaps the first time, she regretted the communal livingarrangements that made one's private life virtually public.

She paused on entering the chamber and swept her gaze over thediners. She wasn't certain whether to be relieved or disappointedwhen Nicholas's observation confirmed her own.

"Daddy's not here."

"He probably had things to do this morning," Catherine said withforced cheer. "But look, there's Brian. We can go sit with him."

A helper had sent down a crate of fresh eggs and William stood bywith omelet pan in hand.

"What can I fix for you, Catherine?" he asked. "I've got mushroomsfrom Mouse's garden. There's cheese. Oh, and Long sent me fresh,garden ripe tomatoes and onions and even a few peppers." He gave abroad wink. "I've been saving the peppers for those who mightappreciate them."

Catherine forced a laugh. "Well, that wouldn't be me, William. I'mafraid I never acquired a taste for them. But an omelet with cheeseand tomatoes sounds wonderful."

"Coming right up," William promised, and began to sprinkle therequested ingredients onto the eggs he'd begun cooking when shewalked in. "And what about the little man?"

Catherine glanced at Nicholas, who was watching the omelet makingwith undisguised fascination.

"Cool," he said, as William expertly slid the steaming omelet ontoa waiting plate. "Can I do that?"

"Afraid not, little guy," William said. "The pan's pretty hot.Wait a few years and I'll be glad to teach you."

"What do you want in your scrambled eggs, Nicky?" Catherine asked,to divert him. "Some cheese?"

Nicholas wrinkled his nose. "Yuck. I want ketchup."

It was Catherine's turn to express distaste. "Ketchup? Oneggs?"

William handed over plain scrambled eggs without so much asflinching. "You've been spending time with Brian, haven't you,youngster?" he asked with a twinkle. "He's got the ketchup bottleright over there."

Catherine and Nicholas joined Natalie and Brian at their table andCatherine watched in mild horror as Nicholas proceeded to pourketchup all over his eggs. Brian's eggs were already smothered inthick red sauce.

"I know," Natalie said, in sympathy. "Try not to look."

Catherine took the advice and cut into her own tender omelet."When did they get a chance to compare notes on how to eat scrambledeggs?" she asked. "Nicholas never wanted ketchup before."

"Last week," Natalie chuckled. "I don't know where you were, butVincent brought Nicholas to breakfast and they sat with us. We hadeggs that day, too. Brian always eats his eggs that way, and Nickjust had to try it, too."

Catherine glanced pointedly at Natalie's plate, which showed signsof having held a mushroom and onion omelet with no ketchup in sight."Where'd Brian learn it?"

Natalie chuckled again. "From my mama. She eats them that way,too. So did I when I was little, but I got over it." She leaned backin her chair and sipped her coffee. "Where's Vincent this morning?"she asked. "He was in and out of here in about ten minutes earlier.Hardly took time to chew."

Catherine managed not to flinch at the question. "I don't know,"she answered, trying to keep her voice casual. "We didn't talk thismorning."

Natalie gave her a long, level look. "Didn't talk, huh? That'scurious."

"Why?" Catherine heard the defensive note of challenge in hervoice, and tried to dampen it. "I mean, why do you expect I'd talk tohim?"

Natalie smiled. "Catherine, you haven't lived here very long, somaybe you don't know this, but we're like a small town down here. Avery small town. There are no secrets. Everybody knows whereVincent's been spending his nights."

She felt heat rush to her cheeks and bent her head to hide it."Oh."

"Everybody's really glad about it, too," Natalie went on. "Nobodydeserves to be happy more than Vincent. Except maybe you."

The sincerity in her voice was too much. Catherine bent her headto hide the sudden rush of tears.

"Mommy?" Nicholas's voice was high with alarm.

"Your mommy's okay, Nick," Natalie said, her voice calm, evencheerful. "Geoffrey, could you sit with Brian and Nicholas untilthey're finished, and then take them to my mama?"

"Sure, Natalie," Geoffrey agreed, moving over from a nearby table."Is Catherine all right?"

"Catherine's going to be fine," Natalie said. "Don't worry." Shebent over and took Catherine's arm. "Come on. Let's get out ofhere."

Half blinded by tears, Catherine allowed herself to be guided fromthe chamber. The act of walking gave her a focus, though, and by thetime they reached Natalie's chamber, she'd dried her eyes andregained a measure of control.

"I feel so silly," she said, sinking into a chair. "I made aspectacle of myself... crying like that in front of everybody."

"No one will think less of you," Natalie promised, filling hercoffeepot. "As much strain as you've been under the past few years,it's surprising it hasn't happened sooner."

"Oh, it has," Catherine said with a strained half-laugh. "In theprivacy of my chamber, thank you very much."

"And with Vincent to comfort you," Natalie guessed.

Tears prickled again and Catherine looked away.

Natalie stopped fussing with the coffee and sat down, reachingacross the table to take her hand. "What is it, Catherine? What'swrong?"

Catherine shook her head mutely.

"You can tell me," Natalie coaxed. "Whatever you say, it won't gobeyond that door over there. You know that."

"I do know," she whispered. "But I can't."

"Sure you can," Natalie told her. "Everyone needs to talksometimes. I'm a good listener."

Catherine glanced up. Natalie's eyes were dark and soft and fullof warm sympathy and she felt a sudden longing to pour her heartout.

"Last night," she began, "we had a terrible argument. At the end,I told him to get out."

"Oh." Natalie seemed nonplussed for a moment. "Well, you know,things like that happen in the best of relationships. People aredifferent, that's all, they get upset, angry, say things they don'tmean. There's nobody more forgiving than Vincent. If you tell himyou're sorry, he'll tell you he is, too."

Catherine couldn't help a small, ironic smile even as she shookher head. "I'm sure he would. But it's more than that."

"More than that, how?" Natalie asked, caution creeping into hervoice. "What happened?"

Haltingly, Catherine told her about the dreams, and aboutVincent's conviction that she needed to face her fears. "He told meI'm not the same woman he used to love," she said, talking throughtears that had begun flowing again as she described theirquarrel.

"Well, I don't know about that," Natalie answered. "I didn't knowyou then. But Vincent would know, wouldn't he?"

"I know I've changed... he's different, too, in some ways." Angerdried her tears and she wiped her eyes impatiently. "It's unrealisticfor him to expect me to be the same. And anyway, what difference doesit make?"

"I doubt it makes any real difference to him," Natalie reflected."From what you've told me, I think he's concerned about thedifference it makes to you."

She stared at Natalie in puzzlement. "I don't understand."

"You told me he remembered you as brave and intrepid. You didn'tcontradict him, either last night or to me, so you must rememberyourself the same way. But, Catherine, I think he sees these dreams,and the fear behind them, as eating away at your courage."

"Yes, I know," she said impatiently. "He's said that. Severaltimes."

"Don't you see?" Natalie asked. "It's not changing the way he seesyou. It's changing the way you see yourself."

Catherine struggled through the morning, watching Brian andNicholas, washing clothes, giving Nicholas a much-needed haircut.Natalie's words haunted her at every turn. She tried to resist them.They weren't true, she told herself, and even if they were, whatdifference did it make? So she wasn't the same person she'd been fouryears ago. So what? People changed as they got older. She wasn't theperson four years ago that she'd been three years before that. It washer father who had objected to that change. Because it threatened totake his little girl away from him. Vincent was just unhappy becausethe changes didn't suit him. Well, that was just too bad.

Except that she knew, in the deepest, truest part of herself, thatVincent only wanted what was best for her. What was right.

The question tormented her without pause, and after lunch she wentto see Father.

"Good afternoon, Catherine," he greeted her. "How are you?"

His solicitous query reminded her that only yesterday, Vincent hadsent Nicholas scurrying to his grandfather for safekeeping whileshe...

Relentlessly, she shoved the memory aside. "I'm fine, Father," shesaid defiantly. And then she remembered why she'd come, and herresolve faltered. "No. Actually, I'm not fine. Not fine at all."

He came around his desk and guided her to a chair, but sheresisted his efforts to persuade her to sit.

"No. Please, Father. I just need..."

"Anything," he agreed. "Anything at all."

She swallowed. "To cancel my class this afternoon. If youcould."

"Of course. Are you ill?"

She shook her head. "No. Not ill. Just... heartsick."

Her admission clearly unsettled him. "My dear. Please let me makeyou a cup of tea."

"Tea won't help, Father."

"No, but talking might."

She choked on a sob that was half a laugh. "I've talked, Father. Ineed to think. I need time to think."

To his credit, he didn't press her. "Very well, Catherine. I'llget word to the children. Is Nicholas all right?"

She stared, and then realized he was asking, in his gentle way, ifshe needed help with him.

"He's with Natalie," she said. "He's fine."

"That's good," Father said, and she could see he was at a loss asto what he should say or do. "He's a fine boy."

The thought of what she might be doing to Nicholas, if the thingsVincent had said were to be believed, cracked through the implacablewall she'd put up. "I'm sorry," she managed, before her resolvefinally broke. She rushed from his study and sought refuge in theprivacy of her own chamber.

There, she curled on the bed and cried for a long time; tears ofhate and anger, followed by ones of grief and loss. When her tearswere spent, she lay quietly, gazing at nothing at all. After a whileshe grew chilled, and stirred to take a folded quilt from the foot ofthe bed and pull it over herself. It warmed her body as it couldn'twarm her heart. She lay within its folds until the last candleflickered and went out.

She stumbled up in the darkness and groped for matches. She lit afresh candle, and then another, and examined her reflection in themirror. She looked gaunt and hollow-eyed, as if pursued bydemons.

It must be past dinner, she thought vaguely, and then wondered forthe first time why Natalie hadn't brought Nicholas to her. Areflexive spark of fear kindled, but was quickly doused by commonsense. Father knew where Nicholas was; he would have told Natalie tokeep him. Or Vincent had him. Either way, he was safe. She could besure of that.

She washed her face in the tepid water left in her pitcher fromthe morning, dragged a brush through her tangled hair, andstraightened her rumpled clothing.

Everything had finally crystallized for Catherine. The defensesshe'd erected against the things Vincent and Natalie had said werewashed away by the torrent of tears and she saw clearly what herconscious mind had tried so hard not to recognize. In the quiet hoursthat followed, she had come to face the stark reality of what shemust do.

Tapping on the pipes told her it was not yet late enough for mostpeople to be in bed, but curiously, she encountered no one on her wayto Vincent's chamber. The entrance was dark and unwelcoming, though,and she didn't go in.

Father's chamber was nearby and it was possible Vincent was there.If not, it was equally possible Father knew where he was. But aftershe'd disgraced herself by weeping and rushing out, she didn't feelup to facing Father. Not with the other thing she had to do.

She turned into a tunnel that would take her to the Pipe Chamber.If Pascal didn't know where to find Vincent, then he wasn't to befound.

"He's in the Chamber of the Winds," Pascal told her. His kindlylook told her he'd heard some of the gossip that must be flying rightnow, but he didn't allude to it. "Shall I call someone to guideyou?"

She shook her head. She hadn't been there many times, but it hadbeen only a week since her last visit and the route was simpleenough. "I can find it," she said. "Thank you, Pascal."

Catherine had grown accustomed to cloaking her feelings in orderto keep them from Nicholas, so she wasn't surprised that Vincentdidn't sense her approach until she had him in sight. Then, despiteher best efforts, something sweet and painfully poignant swelled upinside her, bringing tears to her eyes and Vincent to his feet. Hestood halfway down the stone staircase, watching her.

She picked her way carefully down to stand two steps above him. "Icame to say I'm sorry."

The guarded look in his eyes wavered, but there was still a noteof reserve as he answered. "Your apology is not necessary,Catherine."

"Yes, it is," she insisted. "I said hateful things last night,Vincent. Things we both know aren't true. You didn't deservethat."

He inclined his head. "Very well. I accept your apology."

"There's more."

He seemed unsurprised, and she wondered if he already knew. Heoffered her a hand. "Come sit down."

"No." She shook her head. "I think I can say it more easily if I'mstanding."

He waited.

"You're right, Vincent," she admitted. "About everything. I seethat now. I have to go back."

His indrawn breath was sharp with pain. "When will you go?"

Panic fluttered and for an instant, Catherine wanted to change hermind, to stay here, where she was safe. She answered him quickly,before she could lose her nerve. "I thought... tomorrow."

He closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again, theywere filled with a sorrow that mirrored her own grief."Tomorrow."

Despite her fear, making the decision to go seemed to bring thepeace that had eluded her for so long. Oddly, now that she'dcapitulated, it was Vincent who seemed troubled. Catherine emergedfrom Nicholas's alcove, where she'd sat with him and sung to himuntil he fell asleep, to find Vincent seated in the big chair,staring at his hands.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

He didn't look up.

Certain there was something wrong, she knelt beside the chair."Tell me."

His hands flexed and curled; the candlelight glittered off thesharp nails. "I have thought," he said, his voice low and harsh,"that I could take this burden from you."

She caught his meaning instantly, and covered his hands with hers."No, Vincent," she said, and her voice rang with conviction.

His eyes were full of pain. "I could do it, Catherine." Heswallowed. "I could spare you the fear. The risk."

"I know," she said. "I know you could. I know you would. But itisn't right."

"You know this man's guilt," Vincent argued. "To expose him is torisk your life. How do I bear it, Catherine, if the worst happens andI have done nothing?"

His anguish was almost palpable and she longed for the words tocomfort him. "You've done everything, Vincent. You've helped me findthe strength to do this. Helped me find myself, when I was so closeto losing." She smoothed the thick mane cascading over hisshoulders.

"I could find him," he repeated, as if he hadn't heard. Thetoneless quality in his voice scared her.

"And do what?" she asked, intentionally brutal. "Hunt him down?Like an animal?"

He flinched and she squeezed his fingers. Her voice softened. "Hemay be that, Vincent, but you aren't. You never have been. If youtake it upon yourself to seek justice, you'll risk your sanity. Yourhumanity. What will become of us then?"

"You'd be free," he answered softly. "You and Nicholas. Free tofind a new life or take back your old one." But his voice lackedconviction.

She brought his hands up and laid her cheek upon them. "Any life Itry to think of for myself has you in it," she said. "And I know nowthat I can do anything, as long as I have you to come back to."