FULL CIRCLE

Fall 2022 - Spring 2031

A hundred little things make likenesses

In brethren born, and show the father's blood.

Euripides, Electra

Always when he counted his blessings, Vincent put his family atthe top. Though the joys were marked, here and there, with sorrow andtragedy, as in the death of youngest son Evan and his wife in a planecrash only a few months before, Vincent found things to be gratefulfor. Tonight, the family gathered for a shared meal, and that was ablessing in itself.

A barely checked excitement bubbled beneath the friendly banter,but Vincent wasn't able to pinpoint the source until Jacob tapped hiswater glass, making it chime.

"I have an announcement to make," Jacob said, when he hadeveryone's attention. "Well, actually, Amanda and I have anannouncement to make." He reached for his wife's hand. "We're goingto have a baby."

The electrified thrill that coursed the room was palpable, atleast to Vincent. Catherine, he knew, was delighted at the thought ofa grandchild.

There was a second thread of excitement running beneath the floodof emotions in the room, though, and after the hubbub died down,Vincent wasn't surprised when Carey remained on his feet, his handson Vicky's shoulders.

"We weren't going to say anything for a while," Carey began,sounding apologetic. "And we certainly don't mean to steal yourthunder, here," he said to Amanda and Jacob, "but..."

"You, too?" Jacob exclaimed, and Carey nodded sheepishly.

There was another flurry of excitement. Vincent was perhaps theonly one who noticed that Charles had not left his seat either time,and that there was a grimness underlying his forced smile.

Vincent kissed his daughter's cheek, as he had kissed hisdaughter-in-law's only moments before, and returned to his chair,where he reached for Catherine's hand. "I believe Charles hassomething to tell us, as well," he said, quelling the othervoices.

"What is it, Charles?" Catherine asked.

Charles's gaze lingered on each face as he looked around thetable. "I had a breakthrough in my private research this week," hetold them slowly.

Something powerful froze each of them into place.

"You've been working on that for years," Vicky said at last,softly.

"Since college," Charles agreed.

"What kind of breakthrough did you have?" Catherine asked him.

"I isolated the gene."

"The one we all carry?" Jacob asked, his glance taking in hisfather and sister.

"That's one of the things I found out," Charles said, and now hewasn't meeting anyone's eyes. "We don't all carry it. It's genderrelated."

"What do you mean?" Vicky asked, her voice small in the suddenhush.

"It seems to be very much like hemophilia, or red-green colorblindness," Charles explained. "It occurs only in males." He glancedat Vincent, who met his look with all the serenity he could muster."And is transmitted only by females."

Vicky never flinched. "Go on," she said steadily.

"I haven't been able to determine if the sterility in most of themales tested is related," Charles continued in a scientific dronethat fooled no one. Everyone present knew Charles himself wassterile, and that before his death, Evan had tested as sterile, too.Only Jacob's tests had shown signs of sperm production, although thecount was so low that Charles had pronounced Jacob's chances offathering a child as 'extremely low.' "The sterility shouldn't berelated, since as males, none of us have the affected X chromosome.It also shouldn't have anything to do with the cleft lip Jacob wasborn with, but there may be some other factor at work. I don't knowyet."

"But what does it mean?" Vicky asked, her mouth taking on astubborn set.

"It means," Charles told her, "that Jacob's and Amanda's baby willbe perfectly normal, at least where this particular gene isconcerned. It won't have it."

"What about our child?" Carey asked quietly.

"If Vicky's actually a carrier - and I haven't been able todetermine that yet - and the child is a girl, she will be normal inappearance, and have a fifty/fifty chance of being a carrier herself.If it's a boy, there's a fifty/fifty chance he will carry the gene.If he does..." He broke off and looked at Vincent.

"The child will look like me," Vincent said.

Charles nodded.

Vincent freed his hand from Catherine's hold and moved to hisdaughter's side. Vicky looked up at him, her green eyes wide withuncertainty.

"I'm sorry, Victoria."

She came to her feet and caught hold of his vest with both hands."Don't ever say that," she told him fiercely. "Don't ever be sorry.Not about being you." She opened her heart and the conviction behindher words poured into him as she put her arms around his neck. "Ilove you, Daddy," she whispered in his ear.

Gradually, her habitual barriers closed, shutting him out of herconsciousness. Only then did he become aware of a new, barelyperceptible sensation. He closed his eyes, blocking out distraction.Yes, it was there, clearly recognizable after seeing Catherinethrough four pregnancies. He stepped back and met Vicky's inquiringgaze.

"It seems you have a legacy from your mother's family, as well,"he said. "I believe you're carrying twins."

To Vincent's way of thinking, Carey and Vicky should have beenconcerned, worried, even. But they weren't. It puzzled him.

"Do you think," he asked Catherine later, as she brushed out herhair, "it's wrong of me to hope that Victoria's children aredaughters?"

Catherine paused in mid-stroke and looked at him. "I'm not worriedabout that," she answered. "I just want them to be healthy." Hervoice dropped. "To survive."

Unlike identical twins, fraternal twins ran in families, andspecifically, in Catherine's family. Catherine's mother had been afraternal twin whose sister had been stillborn. Catherine's own twinpregnancy had resulted in Jacob and a daughter who died only a fewminutes after birth. No wonder she feared for this pregnancy.

Vincent swallowed back the memory of the small, lifeless weight ofhis firstborn daughter, the pale, faintly unreal look of herdelicately drawn features, composed in eternal sleep. "Victoria'schildren will be fine," he said strongly.

"Whoever they look like," she answered him, with conviction.

Her eyes asked a question and he nodded briefly, sealing thebargain. He would try not to dwell on his greatest fear for theirgrandchildren, and she would attempt to be brave about hers.

The pregnancies, closely monitored by Charles and Samantha, bothdoctors, and Lena, the tunnel midwife, progressed normally. Vicky,taller than Catherine and less delicately made, had an easier timecarrying the bulk of twins. She stubbornly refused any tests thatmight reveal the babies' sexes, or even to determine if she carriedwhat Vincent persisted in thinking of as the defective gene. "We'llwait 'til they're born," she insisted with an infuriating serenitythat seemed to go along with being pregnant.

Charles's discovery posed a different problem, though, since Vickylived in her mother's world.

"There's a one in four chance that at least one child will be aboy and have the gene," Charles reminded her. "You can't go to ahospital to have your babies. If one of your children is different,you can't live up by Columbia in that dinky apartment with no tunnelaccess."

"We're planning on moving, Charles," Carey answered. "We justhaven't figured out where, yet."

"And I know I can't go to the hospital when my time comes," Vickyadded, rubbing her distended abdomen. She wrinkled her nose. "ThoughI'm not enthusiastic about going Below to have my babies,either."

"Why not?" Catherine asked, surprised. "I had mine there. ExceptEvan, who always had to be different." The little bubble of pain thatsurfaced in all of them when Evan's name was mentioned came and went,honored by the briefest of pauses.

"I know," Vicky answered. "Since I was born there, you'd think I'dbe more comfortable, wouldn't you? But the truth is, I want my babiesto have sunlight, and air, and openness. All the things missing fromdown there." Her voice dropped. "Even if one or both of them cannever have it again."

"You're talking about a home birth," Charles said.

"I guess I am," she agreed.

"That's safe, isn't it, Charles?" Carey asked.

"There's no reason why a home birth Above can't be as safe as oneBelow," Charles answered. "Depending, of course, on what your homeconsists of."

"Your new home will need more space than you currently have,"Vincent pointed out. "As well as tunnel access, should one of thebabies be affected."

"We know," Carey said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Vicky."We've been talking about it, and we've come up with a couple ofpossibilities. One's more attractive than the other, though, and wewanted to discuss it with you."

This last was said to Catherine, who nodded surprisedencouragement. "What is it?"

"What we need, as Charles said, is a place big enough for four,with tunnel access. What he didn't mention is that it also needs tobe affordable for a not-yet-tenured history professor. And his wife,who, despite a law degree and a modest number of even more modestparts in off-Broadway productions, doesn't contribute much to thefamily coffers."

Everyone laughed. Vicky's stage work was intermittent and paidonly scale. Her legal work, thus far limited to acting as plaintiff'sattorney in a few civil cases, generated even less income; as herclients were poor and amounts awarded minor, she generally waived herfees.

"You've got this big house," Carey went on. "Most of it's beenempty since we all got married and moved out. The third floor wouldmake a great apartment. What we're hoping is that you'll let us movein, at least until we see what our needs are. The only thing is, youmay be used to the peace and quiet, now, and unwilling to give it up.In which case, we do have another plan."

Catherine glanced at Vincent, and he gave a tiny shake of hishead. It might be his home, but it was her house. He never forgotthat. The decision would be hers. He had no objections, however, andcommunicated that with a squeeze of her hand.

"We'd love to have you up there," she answered. "Carey and Evan'sold room would make a good kitchen, don't you think? Or you couldjust use the one downstairs..."

Over the course of several weeks the details were worked out, andCarey and Vicky moved in. Vicky's old room served as their bedroom,while the room formerly Jacob's was converted to a comfortablesitting room, should Carey and Vicky wish to be alone. Charles's oldroom would be the nursery. They put a microwave and a smallrefrigerator in what was once Carey and Evan's room for snacks andsuch, but didn't convert it further. The kitchen downstairs, Careyaffirmed, was sufficient.

Catherine, already overjoyed at the prospect of grandchildren, waselated over having two-thirds of them living just upstairs. "I canspoil them rotten," she said happily, and made a good start by buyingso many toys and clothes that one would have thought they wereexpecting a dozen babies, instead of only three.

Vincent's opportunities to help came in other, smaller ways. Hewas relaxing beside the Mirror Pool one bright afternoon, watchingthe pattern of sunlight on the water and letting his mind wander,when Jacob came in.

"May I join you?"

It was an odd request, coming as it did from Jacob, who neverseemed to have time to sit and think. Vincent nodded toward a nearbyrock and Jacob took a seat, leaning over to dip his fingers in thewater.

"It's nice here," Jacob said presently. "Peaceful."

"Unlike your chamber, or the study?" Vincent asked.

Jacob grinned. In recent years, he'd assumed much of theresponsibility that had once been Vincent's, and Father's. It lefthim little time for leisure. "It's rare for five minutes to passwithout someone coming in," he admitted.

"Yes," Vincent agreed. But Jacob hadn't come to talk about thepeacefulness of the Mirror Pool. "How is Amanda?" he asked, thoughhe'd seen her himself not an hour before.

"Fine," Jacob answered. "She's great, really. Kind of anxious forthe baby to come."

"Yes. And you?"

Jacob gave a sheepish grin. "I'm not so good. I mean, I'm happyabout the baby and ready for it to be here, but..."

Vincent waited patiently for Jacob to go on.

"I'm worried, Dad. About Amanda. She's so little, and Lena saysthe baby's pretty big. Over seven pounds, probably."

"Your mother isn't a large woman, and Charles and Evan eachweighed over eight pounds at birth," Vincent said gently.

"I know," Jacob admitted. "Lena says that, too. But, Dad, I knowit's going to hurt, and it's probably going to take a longtime..."

"Most births do," Vincent agreed.

"I'm so scared, Dad. If something happens to Amanda..."

"I know," Vincent said softly, remembering.

"But you went through it four times, Dad. Four times."

Vincent spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Yourmother wanted children. What do you imagine she would have said if Ihad told her there would be no more because I feared for her?"

A slow smile crept across Jacob's face. "I don't know, but I'llbet it would have been loud and emphatic."

Loud and emphatic was probably an understatement, but Vincentmerely nodded agreement. "Amanda is in excellent hands," he said."Lena assisted at her first birth before you were born. She knowswhat to do. Amanda is going to be fine."

"I know," Jacob admitted, and got to his feet. "I just needed tobe reminded. Thanks, Dad."

It was only a few days later that a messenger came, summoning themBelow. Amanda had started labor. Vincent wondered, as he andCatherine made their way down, how Jacob was holding up. He had nodoubts about his daughter-in-law. She was strong and determined. LikeCatherine.

They waited in Vincent's chamber to afford the prospective parentssome privacy. It was some twenty hours after the initial summons thatLena's daughter Caty, a midwife herself and her mother's assistant,came for them.

"Congratulations," she said, beaming. "You're grandparents."

"Amanda?" Vincent asked quickly. "And the child?"

"Both fine," Caty answered. "Jacob, too," she added with asmile.

Catherine had been lying down, trying to rest, but popped up whenCaty entered. "Is it a girl or a boy?" she asked now.

But Caty wouldn't tell them. Instead, she led the way to Jacob andAmanda's chamber and stepped aside to let them enter first.

Amanda was propped up on pillows, a blanket-wrapped bundle in herarms. Jacob was beside her, but slid off the bed when they camein.

"Come see him," he said eagerly.

"A boy?" Vincent asked.

Jacob nodded, bursting with a weary pride tinged with relief at anordeal endured. Vincent spared him a sympathetic look before bendingto his grandson.

"Look," Catherine whispered. "I'd forgotten how little they are.May I hold him?"

"Of course." Amanda passed the infant over and Catherine broughthim around where Vincent could see him more easily.

His face was red, and wizened so as to make the detection of anyfamily resemblance difficult. Tufts of lightish hair stuck up on topof his head. He had a fist in his mouth and was sucking noisily.

"Is he hungry?" Vincent asked.

"We don't think so," Jacob answered. "Amanda tried to feed him,but he wasn't much interested. Lena says some babies just like tosuck on their fingers or thumbs."

"That's true," Catherine agreed. "Vicky sucked her thumb for along time." She looked up at Vincent. "Want to hold him?"

Vincent accepted the precious bundle carefully. It had been yearssince he'd held a newborn baby and he felt a brief awkwardness beforethe infant settled himself comfortably in the crook of his arm.Remarkable to think that this child, this tiny new scrap of humanity,was his blood, his flesh. His grandson.

The baby took his fist from his mouth and waved it damply,wrinkling his nose and squinching his eyes. Vincent smiled. "Has he aname?" he asked. "Or must we wait for his naming ceremony?"

"You don't have to wait," Amanda answered. "It's Daniel. After myfather."

Vincent looked down and addressed his grandson solemnly. "Welcome,Daniel."

Daniel yawned mightily, and went to sleep.

Three weeks later it was Vicky's turn. She was attended not onlyby Lena and Caty, but by Samantha and Charles, as well. If somethinghad gone wrong during Daniel's birth, Amanda could have been taken toa hospital. Vicky, with the uncertain heritage her children carried,didn't have that option.

Vincent and Catherine, alerted when labor began, waited downstairsin the study.

"You know, I think it's much easier to be the one having thebaby," Catherine commented as the hours passed.

"It's certainly easier to be a part of things," Vincent agreed. Hewas trying hard not to pace the floor. The motion soothed him, butCatherine found it agitating. "But I would not like to see you endurechildbirth again."

"No," she answered, smiling. "I suppose not."

Vicky was effectively blocking off their connection, but suddenlyhe felt it shift, a swift, undefinable feeling that was quickly gone.He lifted his head and listened. Faintly, audible only to his moresensitive ears, came the high-pitched wail of a newborn infant.

"There's one," he said softly, and Catherine came to her feet andreached for his hand. Minutes later, another cry joined thefirst.

"Both infants cried," he told her, and she answered with a smile.Another quarter of an hour passed, though, before Caty came to fetchthem.

They passed Charles and Samantha on the stairs. "Perfectly normalbirths, both of them," Charles said. "Lena and Caty did everything.I'll take Dr. Sam home and be back."

Catherine only nodded, anxious to get upstairs and meet her newestgrandchildren. Vincent paused long enough to express his thanksbefore he followed her.

"Mother and both children doing fine," Lena informed them as theycame in. She nodded toward the bed, where each proud parent held achild. The blanket-swathed bundle Vicky held was quiet, but Carey waspatting and murmuring, trying to soothe the fretful infant in hisarms.

Vincent paused, glancing from one baby to the other.

"You should meet them one at a time," Vicky said.

"In order of appearance," Carey added, raising his voice to beheard. "Start over there."

They were both so obviously pleased and proud that Vincentrelaxed, letting the long-held tension drain away from shoulders andback, neck and jaw. Catherine was already sitting on the edge of thebed and he moved to stand beside her.

"This is your granddaughter," Vicky told them, and surrendered theinfant to Catherine. "She's Catherine, but to avoid confusion, we'llcall her Kate."

Baby Kate was a perfect miniature of her mother, with sparsestrawberry fuzz across the top of her head. Her eyes werenewborn-dark, wide and unfocused. Vincent offered her a finger andshe grasped it strongly.

"She's lovely," Catherine said, beaming.

"Well-behaved, too," Carey commented. The child he held was stillgiving off intermittent squawks and wails.

"You should let Daddy hold him," Vicky said. "Babies never crywhen he holds them."

The second child was a boy, then. Catherine passed Kate back toher mother and stood beside Vincent as Carey approached and laid theunhappy infant into his arms.

The child quieted at once, gazing up at him with wide, dark eyes.It was like looking into a distorted mirror. The small face, toppedby an astounding mass of shaggy dark hair, was a near replica ofVincent's own. Dark fuzz shadowed the flattened nose, flaring intofinely arched brows. The upper lip was split and delicately padded,like a cat's.

"Look at his hands," Catherine whispered, beside him.

The baby's tiny fist was clenched. She took it gently and coaxedit open. Each finger was tipped with a tiny, pointed talon, damp andpaper-thin. When they dried and hardened, they'd be razor sharp.

"Do you suppose," Catherine murmured, "that you looked likethis?"

"I must have," he answered, and wondered how Father could havetaken in such an alien being. As if sensing his disquiet, the babybegan to wail.

"I'll take him," Catherine said, and lifted him into her ownarms.

Vincent observed the ease with which she handled him, putting himto her shoulder and patting his back. Catherine, at least, had nodoubts about this strange little newcomer.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"We wanted to call him after Evan," Vicky said. "But we didn'tactually want to name him Evan."

"Evan is the Welsh form of John," Vincent observed.

"We know. But we didn't want to call him John, either. So we'venamed him Ian."

"Ian," Catherine murmured into the baby's ear.

"The Gaelic form. It's a good name," Vincent approved. "A strongname."

Ian still fussed noisily, despite Catherine's best efforts tosoothe him.

"He was born crying," Vicky offered.

"So was Charles," Catherine answered. "But he didn't keep on likethis. None of you did when you were this little."

"Samantha and Charles examined him," Carey said doubtfully. "Theyboth said he was fine."

"Perhaps," Vincent said quietly, "he understands how different heis. How he will be set apart, always."

There was a brief, shocked silence, broken by Catherine -Catherine, who knew all the dark, hurting places inside him.

"No," she said firmly. "It's not like that for him. He's beenloved from the moment he was born. No one is going to take him awayfrom here. No one is going to abandon him. No one is going to leavehim alone, to die."

The room was quiet. Even Ian had stopped crying.

"He won't be set apart, Vincent," Catherine went on. "He hasparents who love him, aunts and uncles, a sister, a cousin. He hasyou, Vincent. He will never be alone."

The stories said that as an infant newly arrived in the tunnels,Vincent had cried for three days and three nights. Ian outdidhim.

"At least he stops when he sleeps," Carey said wearily, when thetwins were a week old.

"If only he'd sleep longer than two hours at a stretch," Vickyadded. "Kate does, thank goodness."

Vicky looked tired, but then, they all did. Ian cried in burstslasting anywhere from fifteen minutes to three hours. They all tookturns trying to soothe him. Vicky rocked him; Carey walked him backand forth; Catherine took him on tours of the house, showing himanything bright or shiny or apt to catch his curiosity, even if onlyfor a moment. But what seemed most effective was when Vincent tookhim for walks in the tunnels. He'd follow a long, circuitous route,keeping to the upper passages, explaining each of the twists, turns,and offshoots, talking of the places they led. Just as if Ian couldunderstand.

Perhaps Father had taken Vincent for walks during those firstthree days, or later. If he had, Vincent wondered if Father had everspoken of the wonders to be found beyond. He still thought itpossible that Ian cried because he somehow knew of the aloneness hewould someday bear, and wondered if he, himself, had understood that,too. Perhaps he had somehow known that at that moment, in the wholegreat world, there was no one for him. For there was that brief,half-remembered time at the beginning of his life when he had livedin a world in which Catherine did not exist.

Time passed, and Vincent wondered if he could ever have imaginedsuch happiness. Once, he had been certain his life was to be a lonelyone. Now he watched Catherine, surrounded by their grandchildren, andremembered the words he had spoken forty years before, on the daythey were married. "...that with that fair form forever our destinymust be entwined; that there is no more joy but in her joy, no sorrowbut when she grieves..." His destiny and Catherine's wereinextricably linked now. Her joy was his joy, always; her grief, whenit came, was his grief. They were one.

Their surviving children were settled in fulfilling lives. Charlesand Elizabeth lived in a small apartment in Greenwich Village.Charles was one of the few city dwellers who commuted off the islandeach morning, travelling across the Hudson River to the New JerseyInstitute of Medical Research in Jersey City, while Elizabeth dividedher time between home and archaeological digs abroad. With nochildren of their own, they were all too willing to play doting auntand uncle.

Jacob and Amanda lived Below, where Jacob, chronicler of tunnelhistory, legends, and stories, had also taken on most of the dutiesof administrating that world with patience and wisdom. Amanda, shy asever, was content to sew and knit and raise her son.

Carey and Vicky still lived on the top floor of the townhouse.Carey was now tenured in the history department at Columbia. Vicky'ssuccession of parts, small and large, in off Broadway theater kepther from giving full attention to her law career, though it didn'tprevent her from occasionally twitting her mother by threatening tojoin the public defender's office.

While these marriages were not as blissful, perhaps, as Vincent'sown, he understood that his union with Catherine was a rare andprecious thing, not easily duplicated. What mattered was that hischildren were happy, that they loved and were loved.

His grandchildren had grown and changed, developing into distinctindividuals. Vincent delighted in each of them, loving them as he hadloved his children.

Daniel was sandy haired and green-eyed, his delicate featuressaved from prettiness by his long, square, stubborn jaw. He wasgentle and thoughtful, and already showed signs of his father'swisdom and quiet courage. Daniel would be a leader someday, a strongone. Whether he chose to try his wings in his parents' world or inthe world Above was still uncertain, but Vincent liked to think ofDaniel following in Jacob's footsteps someday, guiding the tunnelcommunity with patience and care. Daniel lived with his parents inthe tunnel community, but as he grew older, he began spendingweekends at the townhouse to allow him to experience the differentenvironment and enjoy occasional topside excursions.

Kate was like her mother - bright and mercurial, occasionallyimperious. Her hair was the bright strawberry Vicky's had once been,her eyes a clear, vivid blue. With her mother's wilfulness, shebossed her playmates until they refused to obey, and then changedtactics, coaxing and pleading prettily. Sometimes it worked. When itdidn't, she sulked and pouted. Kate, Vincent recognized, would neverlive in his world. Already she was impatient with limits. Kate longedto fly, and someday, maybe she would.

Vincent didn't worry about Kate or Daniel.

But Ian. Ian had grown from fretful infant to defiant toddler tocontentious child, and regularly tried the patience of all who knewhim. He had the sharp, feline face Vincent had as a boy, made all themore startling by the vivid contrast of dark fur on nose and hands.His shaggy dark mane was cut short because he wouldn't brush it andshrieked when his mother tried to do so. Nearly as wilful as hissister, he was restless and reckless and stubborn, all traits thatmarked him as Devin's grandson. Like Kate, Ian longed to stretchhimself, to try new things, but unlike Kate, Ian's choices werelimited by who he was.

Ian chafed at restrictions imposed, and would, Vincent feared, allhis life, even more than Vincent himself had done. Ian would somedaydefy the very boundaries of safety. Vincent worried about Ian.

When Kate and Ian were very small, Vicky stayed home with them. Asthey grew older, Vincent took them Below, where they played in thenursery as his own children had done.

When they became old enough for school, Kate was enrolled Above.Ian cried when Kate left him behind that first morning. When thatdidn't bring her back, or cause him to be included, he found scissorsand cut the ears off all her stuffed animals, and made her cry,too.

"It's not Kate's fault you can't go to school," Carey tried toexplain to him.

Carey was so much the image of his paternal grandfather thatsometimes Vincent ached with it. Carey had Father's wisdom, but moreimportant, he had the patience Father had never been able to summonwhen dealing with Devin. With Carey to help, Vincent could hope thatas he grew, Ian would come to understand his differences, and whythey must set him apart.

That was the year Vincent began taking Ian to the park at night.Vicky argued against it, fiercely, a mother protecting her cub, butCarey and Catherine both spoke to her and finally, grudgingly, sherelented.

For Ian, the park was like a treasure trove where he foundsomething new, something fascinating, each time he went. Endowed withpreternatural senses, he quickly learned to detect interlopers, tomelt into the shadows without being seen.

Kate and Daniel were not, to their mutual annoyance, permitted togo on these outings. This was more from a sense of fairness thananything else; after all, it was Ian who sulked by the windows whenKate and Daniel played outside on temperate days.

Vincent wanted to think of Daniel as Ian's Devin, but it didn'twork; Daniel was too quiet - and Ian most definitely had a strongstreak of Devin, himself. Still, as had been the case two generationsearlier, and again with Carey and Evan, the two were fastfriends.

One Saturday when the grandchildren were seven, Catherine andVicky took Kate out for lunch and an afternoon of shopping. Girlstuff, Ian said derisively, but Vincent knew he felt left out.

Daniel came, though, and the boys settled down to play cards in acorner of the study. Carey sprawled on the couch, his feet propped onthe coffee table, devouring a history of the French Revolution.

Vincent relaxed at his desk, leafing through old journals. He wasengrossed in his own description of a boyhood Winterfest, smiling atthe memories it provoked, when the sounds of quarrelling reached hisears.

"I did not!" Daniel said hotly, pushing aside a tumble of playingcards and coming to his feet.

"You did too! I saw you!" Ian scrambled up, too.

"You couldn't see me, because I didn't do it!" Daniel snapped.

Ian fairly seethed with frustration. "You did, too!" he shouted,and pushed Daniel hard in the chest.

Daniel, bigger and heavier, shoved back harder, and Ian stumbledbackwards and nearly fell. He came up with a low, vicious snarl anddrew his hand back to strike.

Vincent was still struggling from his chair when Carey caughtIan's arm and pulled him away. Carey knelt, speaking to Ian fast andfurious, his voice too low to hear.

Vincent beckoned to Daniel, who was backed against the fireplace,his face ashen. The boy came quickly, giving Ian a wide berth.

"Did you see that, Grandfather?" Daniel whispered. "He was goingto hit me."

"I think perhaps he was," Vincent admitted. "He was veryangry."

"He said I cheated, but I didn't. There was a card under my leg,but I think I must have dropped it. I didn't put it there onpurpose."

Far easier to suspect Ian, or even Kate, of such duplicity. Danielnever lied, not even to protect himself. "I am certain you didn't,"he assured Daniel now. "And when Ian calms down, he'll realize it,too."

"Okay." Some of Daniel's defensive bristling began to subside. "Doyou think he really would have hit me?"

"I'm very much afraid he would have."

"He's stronger than me, you know," Daniel confided. "He couldprobably beat me up."

"He could hurt you badly, Daniel, if he forgot himself," Vincentsaid. "You must always remember that. I know he pushed you first, butperhaps, next time, you should refrain from pushing back."

"My dad wouldn't like me fighting, anyway," Daniel confessed. "Hesays words are stronger than fists."

"He's right," Vincent agreed, and brought Daniel close enough tokiss his brow. "While your uncle Carey speaks to Ian, perhaps youshould get your things together. It will be time to go homesoon."

Daniel nodded and went to pick up the scattered cards.

Carey and Ian had moved to the wall where family photographs weredisplayed. Carey spoke rapidly, emphatically; Ian nodded frightenedagreement. "I know you will," Vincent heard Carey say, finally. Heruffled his son's hair and kissed him before crossing the room tospeak with Daniel.

Ian stared at the photographs a moment longer, then came toVincent's side.

"Daddy says I might have hurt Daniel," he began, withoutpreamble.

"Yes," Vincent agreed quietly.

There was a brief, thoughtful silence. "Did you really do that?"Ian asked finally. "Did you really make those marks on my othergrandfather's face?"

So that's what Carey had been telling him. Vincent noddedconfirmation. "Yes, Ian. I really did." He looked down at his hands."I was angry, just as you were with Daniel a moment ago. I struck outin that anger, but it was your grandfather who paid the price. Hewore the scars I gave him until the day he died."

"Daddy says I have to learn to control my temper," Ian confessed."He says I can't strike out when I get angry. Someone might gethurt."

"That's true," Vincent told him. "You are already stronger thansome men, Ian." He cupped Ian's hands between his own. "Your handshave the capacity to do great harm. You must always be careful. Youmust always maintain control."

"Daddy said to think how I would feel if I hurt Daniel."

"How would you feel?"

"Bad. Really bad. I'm going to try, Grandfather. Really hard.Daddy says he'll help me."

As Father helped me, Vincent thought.

"I'm never going to hurt anybody," Ian vowed. "Never."

Vincent laid a hand on his desk and placed one of Ian's beside it.His own was large, broad-palmed and long-fingered. Thick fur, fadedfrom the dark reddish gold it had once been, covered the back, and adeadly talon tipped each finger.

Ian's was smaller, slimmer, the back sprinkled only lightly withdark hair. Only later, when he reached puberty, would the dense furcome. It could have been any boy's hand... except for the fine,needle-sharp claws.

Vincent knew the horror of discovering what his hands could do,knew the grim necessity of using them.

"There may come a time," he told Ian slowly, "when someone youlove is threatened."

"Like when that bad man stole my mom's purse?" Ian asked. Vicky'spurse had been snatched only a few weeks earlier, and the incidentwas fresh in Ian's mind.

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "Like that. Or worse. You may need thesehands to protect the ones you love, perhaps even our world. It is agreat burden, Ian. A great responsibility."

Ian gazed at him, his expression serious, giving Vincent hope thathis words were penetrating.

"When that time comes, if it comes, a darkness may rise up. It mayfrighten you."

"I'm not afraid of the dark," Ian asserted.

"This is a different kind of dark. It comes from inside and it isa dreadful, powerful thing. But you are stronger, Ian. Alwaysremember that. You control the darkness."

Ian nodded solemnly, his dark eyes wide, and a little puzzled.

"You must not be afraid to use your strength to protect those youlove," Vincent went on.

"Like Mommy and Daddy," Ian said confidently. "And Gran."

"And Kate," Vincent agreed. "And Daniel. Your friends. Someday,Ian, there may even be a girl."

Ian's small nose wrinkled. "A girl?"

Vincent smiled. "When I was your age, I felt as you do. But I grewup. Now, I cannot imagine what my life would have been like withoutyour grandmother to love, and to love me." He grasped Ian's wrists,turning the hands palm up. "Someday, you may hold the most preciousof all things, a woman's heart. You may hold your own child. Neverforget that these hands that protect may also love."

Ian nodded. "I won't."

"These are my journals, Ian," Vincent went on, pointing out twoshelves of little volumes. "I began writing in them when I was notmuch older than you."

"I've seen you write in the one you have now."

"There is much of me in them, Ian. My thoughts, my feelings. Mymost desperate moments. All saved here, on these pages."

Ian nodded again, his face puckered in a small frown.

"I want you to have them. Perhaps knowing the difficulties I facedwhile growing up will help you."

"Okay," Ian said, eyeing the volumes doubtfully. After sixtyyears, there were nearly a hundred journals. Reading them all wouldbe a formidable task for anyone.

"You needn't read all of them," Vincent told him, and was rewardedby the look of relief that Ian couldn't hide. "But when somethingtroubles you, try to think if the same thing might have troubled me.If it did, I wrote of it."

"And I could read about it and it might help me," Ian said, hisface brightening.

"It might," Vincent agreed.

"Grandfather?"

"Yes, Ian?"

"Which book has the part about where you scratched my othergrandfather's face?"

Vincent reached back and touched the spine of the appropriatevolume. "This one."

Ian nodded with a transparently feigned indifference and scootedacross the room to help Daniel pick up the last of the scatteredcards; only later, when he thought no one was looking, did he slipthe little volume out and carry it off. It reappeared on the shelf afew days later and Ian never spoke of it, but Vincent noticed thebarest edge of new-found maturity.

Only days later, as Vincent and Ian made their nightly trek fromthe tunnel world to the townhouse, Vincent stumbled to a halt. "Ian.Wait."

The boy turned back. "What's wrong?"

Vincent leaned against the tunnel wall, breathing hard. Theredidn't seem to be enough air in the close confines of the tunnel tofill his lungs.

"Are you all right, Grandfather?" Ian asked, sounding suddenlyanxious. "Are you sick?"

"I'll be fine," he managed. "I just need a short rest."

Ian's small face puckered in a frown. "You never needed a restbefore."

The tightness in his chest was easing and he pushed away from thewall. "I needed one then," he told Ian, "but that was enough. Let'sgo on."

Usually Ian scampered ahead, but now he hovered at Vincent'selbow, looking worried. Ahead loomed a rough, sloping passage. Theincline wasn't steep and Vincent had climbed it almost daily for thepast forty years, but today it looked formidable. He paused,gathering his strength, and Ian moved into position beside him.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," Ian advised, looking suddenly wisebeyond his years. "I'll help you."

There was a certain indignity in accepting assistance from a sevenyear old child, but as they mounted the rise, Vincent was gratefulfor his grandson's help. "Thank you, Ian," he said when they reachedlevel going.

"I really helped, didn't I?"

"You did," Vincent confirmed. "May I ask another favor?"

Ian puffed out his chest importantly. "Sure!"

"Don't tell your grandmother of this."

Ian's eyes widened. "Don't tell her I helped you?"

Vincent nodded.

"Why not?"

"It would upset her needlessly," he explained.

"Why?"

Vincent sighed. A child's insatiable curiosity was all well andgood, but there were times he could do without it. "She might thinkI'm ill. It would worry her."

"But you don't get sick," Ian reminded him. "Just like I don't getsick. Because we're different."

Vincent stopped in mid-passage and regarded his grandsonbalefully. "Why can't you remember that when you're in the park andsomeone comes?"

Ian grinned impishly, showing the gap where he'd recently lost afront tooth. "Because I don't want to, then. You're not really sick,are you, Grandfather?"

"No." At least, he didn't think so. Not the way Ian meant.

"I'm not supposed to keep secrets, you know," Ian went on,challenging.

"You're willing enough for me to keep them for you," Vincentreminded him.

Ian scowled. "You wouldn't really tell my dad about that time inthe park, would you?"

"If I did, he might forbid you to go again."

"If I tell Gran about you getting tired, she might forbid you togo again," Ian countered.

"And if I cannot go, you can't either."

Ian could think of no reply for that. He stuck out his lower lip."Okay," he conceded, grudgingly. "I won't tell."

Vincent reached out and ruffled the thick mass of dark hair."Scamp," he said, with affection. "Have I told you there's a greatdeal of your other grandfather in you?"

"All the time," Ian sighed, and ran ahead to open the barrierseparating the tunnels from home.

Ian helped him up the two flights of steps hidden behind a falsewall. At the top, Vincent paused to hang up his cloak. Ian,unfettered, pushed open the sliding panel and plunged happily intothe bedroom.

"Hi, Gran," he said cheerily.

"Hello, Ian," she answered. "How was your day?"

Vincent stepped into the room, carefully avoiding Ian's eye, andturned to close the panel.

"Pretty good," Ian answered. "In science, we're learning aboutdifferent kinds of rocks."

"That sounds interesting."

"Yeah," Ian agreed. "I like mica the best, because you can peel itoff and look through the pieces."

"I remember that about mica," Catherine said. "I've always beenfond of quartz, myself."

Ian grinned. "That's because quartz comes in crystals," heaccused, and Catherine's hand went to her necklace.

"I suppose you're right," she told him, and kissed his hair. "Runon upstairs, now. Your mother's there, and Kate."

"My dad's not here yet?"

"Not yet."

"Oh." Disappointed, Ian went out.

While Catherine was distracted, Vincent made his way to a chairnear the carefully-curtained window. By the time she turned herattention in his direction, he'd arranged himself comfortably andcaught his breath. She paused to kiss him, then kicked off her shoesand began to remove the carefully tailored suit she wore.

Vincent watched her. Her greyed head was bent, but he didn't needto see her face. Couldn't have seen it clearly from this distance,anyway. Not anymore. But it didn't matter. He knew every line, everycrease, every soft fold of skin. And he knew, an instant before ithappened, that she was about to lift her head, to smile at him.

He felt her joy clearly; it was the one sense that was stillundimmed by age - his sense of her. It was difficult, sometimes, forhim to believe that it had been forty-three years since that coldApril night when he'd found a young woman bleeding to death in thepark. Forty-three years. It was a long time.

He knew her intimately, body and mind, heart and soul. Despite thefact that she moved more slowly nowadays, or that her joints ached inthe mornings, despite the silver in her hair and the lines on herface, Vincent never thought of Catherine as old. What he saw was hersmile when he entered a room, the way her eyes shone with love. Whathe knew was that she was beautiful.

What still staggered him, even after all these years, was that shefelt the same about him. He could see, on the rare occasions when heconsulted a mirror, that his once golden mane was mostly silver now.His face, despite its oddities, showed his age. But Catherine neverseemed to notice. In her eyes, he, too, was beautiful.

As if she could read his thoughts, she hung her suit jacket in thecloset and crossed to kneel at his side. "We're so lucky, Vincent,"she said. "Do you ever stop to think how lucky we are?"

"Every day of my life," he answered, and pressed a kiss into herhair. "Every day."

After a good night's sleep, he felt marginally better. It wasSaturday, which meant Catherine would be home all day. Carey andVicky had plans for the afternoon, but the grandchildren would behere, even Daniel. He looked forward to it.

After breakfast and a leisurely hour over the morning paper, hecrossed the hall to the bedroom. It was a lovely place in thedaytime. French doors faced south, opening onto a wide, sunlitterrace. Today, with spring stirring, the doors stood open to admit afresh-scented breeze.

Kate sat at Catherine's dressing table, watching in the mirror asCatherine braided her hair. Vincent lingered in the doorwayunobserved, watching them, storing the sight away against a time whenhe might need it to comfort him.

Catherine tied the last ribbon and finished off with a hug. "Thankyou, Gran," Kate said, and slipped down from the chair. "Hi,Grandfather," she greeted him, skipping past. "'Bye."

"Goodbye, Kate," he answered, and watched her run upstairs.

Catherine smiled and held out her hand. "Come here. I want to showyou something."

He allowed her to lead him toward the open french doors, stoppingautomatically at the imaginary line separating safety from risk.

The terrace was crowded with large pots and planters of shrubs andclimbing vines in various stages of growth. Catherine pointed towardone in a fat clay pot. "Look."

The bush there was fuller than the others. Even from here, hecould see a handful of buds. One, half-hidden by a profusion ofleaves, was beginning to open.

"The first rose of the year," he murmured.

She touched his arm. "Wait here." Out in the sunshine, she bentover the little bush, returning a moment later with a pale pink budin her hand. "For you." She tucked the stem into the weave of hissweater, like a boutonniere.

He touched the soft, warm petals. "It's lovely. Thank you."

"It doesn't have much scent yet," she confessed. "I'll get you abetter one, later in the season."

"It's early for roses," he consoled her, and looked beyond, at thesundrenched terrace. "I wish, just once, we could stand out theretogether," he added wistfully. "In the sun."

Her flaring burst of longing was swiftly squelched. "So do I," sheadmitted sadly. "But at least we can share this." She fingered therosebud on his chest.

"And we can stand here together and see spring coming to thetrees, hear the birds, feel the soft breeze." As they had done eachspring for the past forty years.

She nodded agreement and tucked herself under his arm. "Of coursewe can."

Vincent could have stood there forever with his cheek againstCatherine's hair, watching the sun glinting on newly opened leavesswaying in the breeze, but after a while she stirred.

"Joe called this morning," she said. "He sounded lonely so Iinvited him for dinner."

"Joe's a fine man," Vincent answered.

She shot him a curious look. "Yes, he is."

"And Elliot."

"Elliot, too, but we're not having him for dinner. He can go toCharles and Liz's if he's lonely." A small frown of puzzlement marredher face. "What are you trying to say, Vincent?"

"We aren't as young as we once were," he pointed out.

"You don't need to remind me," she answered. "My mirror does that,every morning."

He kissed her hair. "You're lovely."

"Even now, with my hair gone gray and the rest of me wrinkled andsagging?" she asked wryly.

"'When you have loved as she has loved, you grow oldbeautifully,'" he said softly, quoting Somerset Maugham. "I don't seethose things."

She smiled and kissed his chin. "I know you don't. What does allof this have to do with Joe and Elliot? Who are also gettingolder."

"If something should ever happen to me..."

Her arms around him tightened convulsively. "Nothing's going tohappen."

"Catherine," he reproved, gently. "None of us are immortal. Ifsomething should happen to me, I want your promise."

He could feel the resistance in her. "What?"

"That you will keep yourself open to possibilities."

"Possibilities?" she echoed, in horror. "You mean like Joe? OrElliot?"

"Please. It's important to me. That you not shut yourselfaway."

"You're being silly," she said emphatically. Denial flared throughtheir connection. "I'll probably go first, anyway. I've alreadyoutlived both my parents."

"Didn't you have a great-grandmother who lived to beninety-seven?"

She nodded reluctantly. "My mother's grandmother."

"You could have many years before you, Catherine."

"And I want to spend them with you. Not with Joe. Or Elliot."

"I want that, too," he admitted, and did not tell her of hisgrowing belief that it was not to be.

That same afternoon, Vincent was reading when Kate came in fromthe alcove where the toys were kept. Her face was a study ofunhappiness.

At the other end of the couch, Catherine looked up from her ownbook. "What's the matter?"

If Kate's lower lip had drooped any more, she'd have tripped onit. "The boys are building a castle," she complained. "With theblocks."

"Won't they let you help?" Vincent asked.

Kate sighed theatrically. "They would," she admitted, "but I don'twant to. Blocks are boring."

"Why don't you play with Jennifer?" Catherine suggested. Jenniferwas Kate's doll, and a beloved companion.

Kate sighed again. "Jennifer's lonely," she said. "She doesn'thave any friends."

"I thought you were her friend," Vincent said.

Kate scowled at him. "I'm her mommy. I think Jennifer needs asister, but Mommy says I can't have another doll until Winterfest.That's months away from now."

"Yes, it is," Catherine agreed solemnly. "But you know what? Ithink I might be able to help."

Kate brightened visibly. "Really? Can we go to the store, rightnow, and pick out a new doll?"

"No. I don't think your parents would like that very much,"Catherine said, and Kate's face fell. "But if your grandfather helps,I think I can solve your problem."

She stood up and waited while Vincent got to his feet. It was amore involved process than it used to be. His body, which used tofeel light and powerful, now felt heavy and clumsy. Standing was moreeffort than he allowed Catherine to know.

In the basement, she pointed to a trio of cardboard cartons on ahigh shelf. "What I'm looking for is in one of those," she said, "butI can't remember which one."

"You want them down so you can look," he guessed, and she smiledand nodded her reply.

"Catherine, those cartons have been there for years," he pointedout. "Look at the dust."

"I know. They came from my apartment. They're the ones Iwant."

As an explanation, it wasn't much, but it was evidently all he wasgoing to get. He reached overhead for the first box and lifted itdown. Catherine knelt beside it, brushed away the years' accumulationof dust, and delved inside.

What she looked for wasn't there. Patiently Vincent put the cartonback and reached for the next one.

He didn't think the second box was actually heavier, but it feltthat way. The once powerful muscles across his back and shouldersburned with effort.

"I'm sorry, Vincent," Catherine apologized, after looking throughit. "It must be in the last one."

He nodded and picked up the carton, holding it against his chestas he gathered his strength. The effort required to lift it smoothlyand push it into place on the shelf brought a sudden flush ofperspiration to his forehead and the back of his neck. He paused,breathing deeply, before taking hold of the final box.

He got it down and leaned against the wall while Catherine andKate bent over it. Catherine dug for a moment and gave a small cry ofsatisfaction as she removed a roughly cylindrical object wrapped in ayellowed shawl.

Tenderly, she unwrapped the shawl; inside was a doll. "She'spretty, Gran!" Kate cried in delight. "Can I hold her?"

"You may." Catherine passed the doll over with a care similar tothat with which she treated a small child. Kate accepted the dollwith equal care, cradling it against her heart.

"What's her name?" she whispered.

"I called her Adele," Catherine answered, "but that's oldfashioned now. You can change it, if you like."

Kate looked up in astonishment. "You mean, she's mine?"

"If you want her." Catherine's smile was wistful. "I always hopedI'd have a little girl who would love her as much as I did, but yourmother never liked to play with dolls."

"I do," Kate reminded her. "Oh, thank you, Gran! I'll take care ofher, I promise. I'll call her Addie. That way she can still be Adele,but not sound so old." She started toward the stairs, calling backover her shoulder. "I have to show Jennifer her new sister!"

"You've made her very happy," Vincent said, watching Catherinerearrange the items remaining in the box before closing theflaps.

The brief rest gave him hope that he could restore the box to itsplace on the shelf, but as he lifted it above shoulder height, hisstrength failed. The box wobbled and he tried to bring it down, topull it against his chest and regain control. It was too heavy, tooawkward. It twisted out of his grip, striking his shoulder heavily onthe way down. Something inside shattered when it hit the cementfloor, and he tried to gasp words of apology, of regret.

Catherine was beside him, steadying him. "Vincent? Are you allright?" She shook him, and he blinked hard to clear whatever wasclouding his vision. His brow was damp with perspiration and hislungs couldn't draw in enough air.

Catherine's concern escalated into alarm. He knew it, felt itkeenly, but was helpless to reassure her. It required all hisstrength to simply remain standing.

Her arms were around him, her own frail body holding him up. "It'sall right," he heard her say, though he knew she didn't believe it."It's going to be all right. Just rest a minute. You're going to beokay."

She might have been comforting a child with a scraped knee. Theidea made him want to smile, but he didn't have the energy. Not yet.But his breathing was slowing and the trembling was gone from hisarms and legs.

Catherine looked up, peering desperately into his face. "Are youall right?"

He managed a nod. "Give me a moment," he gasped out. "To catch mybreath."

She nodded, obviously frightened, and then cocked her head.Vincent listened hard, but could hear nothing beyond the harsh soundof his own breathing. "Carey and Vicky are home," she said. "I heardthem come in. Will you be all right if I leave you for a moment?"

He nodded again, reaching behind to brace himself with the wall.She hurried across the basement and was back a moment later withCarey and Vicky in tow. They looked apprehensive, but already he'dregained enough strength to stand on his own, to offer a reassuringsmile.

Carey relaxed, but Vicky scowled, looking remarkably like her sonwhen she did so. "Let me in," she demanded.

"Victoria," he began, keeping his voice low, husbanding his meagerreserves.

"I mean it, Daddy," she said, her very presence commanding. "Rightnow. I want to see if you're really okay."

She did mean it, that much was clear. He could keep her out, ofcourse. After thirty years, it was so automatic that the effort itrequired was next to nothing, but Vicky was persistent. She couldwear him down in other ways. And besides, his very refusal was anadmission. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his empathic barriers andlet her touch him.

She caught her breath, and quick tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh,Daddy," she whispered, and put her arms around him.

He hugged her gently and kissed her hair. "I'm all right,Tinkerbell," he murmured. "I'm just not young anymore."

"No," she agreed sadly. "You aren't."

Catherine called Charles. "Dr. Sam will be here as soon as she'sdone at the hospital," he said briskly, when he arrived. "Tell mewhat happened."

"It's nothing, Charles," Vincent said from the chair in thebedroom. He'd steadfastly resisted Catherine's attempts to put him tobed.

"It's not nothing," she countered swiftly. "He nearly collapsed.He seemed to have trouble with his breathing, his balance. He droppeda box that I could have lifted if I was a little younger. Now I thinkhe has a fever."

Charles folded his arms and leaned against the dresser. "Thathardly sounds insignificant, Father," he chided. "Don't you think anexamination is in order?"

Carey had taken the children off to play, but the members of thefamily here - Charles, Catherine, and Vicky - were all giving Vincentimplacably stubborn looks.

He sighed. "All right, Charles. You may examine me." Brushing offanxious efforts to help him, he pushed himself to his feet and beganunlacing his vest. Vicky discreetly vanished, closing the door behindher.

He could ask Catherine to leave, but he wasn't certain she'd go;though she put on a brave front, she was clearly worried about him.He stripped to his trousers and Charles began to poke and prod.

"Are you finding anything?" Catherine asked after a while.

Charles removed the stethoscope from Vincent's chest and added acareful note to a growing list. "I don't know yet." He offered a wrysmile. "Too many years in research have eroded my diagnosticskills."

A knock on the door heralded Samantha's arrival. She breezed inwearing a white lab coat and greeted Catherine with a hug and Vincentwith an affectionate kiss before plunking herself down beside him onthe bed. Charles handed her the record he'd made of hisexamination.

"Hmmm. Temp's slightly elevated; rales in the left lung..." shetrailed off, reading silently to herself. Finally she put themakeshift chart down, frowning, and put a cool hand to Vincent'sforehead.

"Very clinical, Doctor," Charles teased her.

"He's awfully warm. Vincent, how do you feel?" She fixed him witha steely, brown-eyed look. "And don't tell me 'fine.'"

"I feel chilled," he admitted. "Breathing is more difficult thanusual. I tire easily."

"Catherine said you had trouble with your balance?"

He shook his head. "No. I had trouble standing because my legswere suddenly very weak."

"I'm not surprised," she answered. "Do you need help getting intoyour nightclothes?"

"I'm not going to bed."

"Yes, you are. You're sick."

"Vincent never gets sick," Catherine protested. "Never."

"I know," Samantha answered. "But he's sick now."

Charles helped him into his nightshirt and leggings and pulledback the covers on the bed. Vincent wanted to protest, but Catherinewas watching him, her expression a mixture of implacable firmness andoutright terror. Sparing her more distress seemed the important thingnow, so he lay back reluctantly and allowed her to smooth the quiltover his chest.

Samantha approached with a needle and some small glass tubes."Give me your arm, Vincent," she instructed. "I want to get someblood." She glanced over her shoulder at Charles. "You can do the labwork, can't you?"

"Sure," he agreed, his voice sounding faintly unsettled."Samantha?"

She paused and looked at him expectantly.

"Get a couple extra for me, would you?"

Samantha's tentative diagnosis was bronchitis. "I don't want togive him any medication right now," she told Catherine. "We don'tknow how he'd react. He needs lots of rest, lots of fluids. I'll comeby tomorrow to check on him."

Sometimes, he had a hard time seeing Samantha as the competentdoctor she was; he kept remembering her at twelve, quarrelling withGeoffrey or charming Father. When she turned a speculative gaze hisway, he returned it sternly.

She grinned back, undaunted. "Father always said you were aterrible patient," she told him.

"Do you think I should stay?" Charles asked. "In case?"

"I don't see the need," Samantha answered. "I'm sure Catherine andVicky will take good care of him. Besides, I want you to get busy onthat blood work."

Despite his protests to the contrary, the day's activity had tiredhim and Vincent slumped back on the pillows while Catherine sawCharles and Samantha out. Catherine was back a moment later, though,seating herself gingerly on the bed beside him, stroking his browwith her hand.

"Don't worry, Catherine. I'll be fine."

The little pucker between her eyebrows didn't go away. "You'venever been truly sick. Not in all the years I've known you."

He managed a smile. "There's always a first time."

She gave him a wan smile. "Can I get you anything? Somejuice?"

There was a little refrigerator in the alcove, put there a fewyears ago when Catherine decided they were too old to trot downstairsevery time one of them wanted a cold drink. It was stocked, he knew,with fruit juice for the children.

He nodded. "Some pineapple juice. But first..."

She paused expectantly. "Yes?"

"A kiss."

Her smile broadened, and much of the anxiety slipped away. Sheleaned forward and pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth."I love you, Vincent."

He sipped some chilled pineapple juice, then took a nap, quiteagainst his will. When he woke, Vicky was beside him, reading. Shelooked up when he stirred.

"Am I so ill? That I must be watched?" he demanded.

"I don't think so," she told him. "But Mom does. She wouldn't godownstairs to eat unless I promised to sit with you. She should beback soon. Do you need anything?"

"No." He lay back and, after observing him a moment, Vickyreturned to her book.

The nap didn't seem to have helped. He felt worse now than before.He was chilled, and ached all over.

"Victoria."

She looked up quickly. "Yes, Daddy? Do you need something?"

"Just the answer to a question."

"If I know it," she temporized.

"Is it usual to feel so badly," he asked, hearing the plaintivenote in his voice but unable to prevent it, "when one is ill?"

He hadn't known it was possible to look simultaneously alarmed andamused, but Vicky managed. "I don't know. How bad do you feel?"

In answer, he opened their connection to let her experience it forherself. "Hmmm," she said, absorbing what he gave her. She laid ahand on his forehead. "Drawing strictly on my experience as a formersick person, I'd say you're mostly feeling the fever. Do any of thecommon fever reducers work for you?"

"It's been years since I had fever," he told her stiffly, andgroaned as his aching body protested a shift in position.

"Don't evade the question," she instructed sternly. "Have you evertaken aspirin? Or Tylenol?"

"Aspirin gives me a headache," he said, and was rewarded by herincredulous smile.

"You're kidding."

"No. It truly does. But I can take Tylenol. Father used to give itto me sometimes..." He trailed off. A recital of the times he'dneeded a pain reliever might frighten her.

"We have some," she told him. "I'll get it." She went into thebathroom and returned with two red-and-yellow coated tablets in herhand.

Catherine came in as he was settling back into his pillows.

Vicky murmured an excuse and went out; Catherine took her place inthe chair. "You're awake," she said softly. "How do you feel?" AsVicky had done, she laid a diagnostic hand on his forehead.

"Victoria tells me my symptoms are typical of this kind ofillness," he said. "She gave me Tylenol for my fever."

Catherine frowned. "Was that wise? Samantha said..."

"I've used it before," he interrupted, reassuring her. "Long ago.It's effective, and I suffer no side effects."

"You should feel better soon, then," she told him. "You alwaysread to me when I'm sick. Shall I read to you?"

She looked so earnest, so tender, that he wanted to smile.Instead, he nodded. "Please."

"Do you have a preference? Or shall I choose something?"

"The Maze in the Heart of the Castle," he answered.

She frowned. "What?"

"The book I want. It's called The Maze in the Heart of theCastle."

"I never heard of it."

"It's in the study. In the children's section, on one of themiddle shelves. The spine is black."

She went through the door that led to the alcove, which in turnopened onto the study, and returned a moment later with the book inher hand. "I haven't seen this before," she commented. "Where'd weget it?"

"Devin gave it to Evan for Winterfest one year. It's the book Evanalways wanted me to read when he was sick."

She read the blurb on the dust jacket. "Haunted castle? Wizard?Even a maze. Sounds fascinating."

"It's a tale of high adventure." It was also a tale of grief, andof overcoming that grief, but he would let her see that for herself.He turned on his side and adjusted the pillows so that he could watchher face. "Go ahead."

*"'Colin was sixteen, a golden boy, when his mother and fatherdied, both on the same day. Some said it was by a magicspell...'"

He loved listening to her, the rhythm and flow of her voice; heloved watching the expression on her face change with the mood of thebook. Her very presence soothed him. After a while, he floated tosleep on a sea of words.

After three days, he'd made only marginal progress in hisrecovery. Enforced bed rest made him feel stronger, but his chest wasstill congested and his fever soared without medication.

With Charles assisting, Samantha examined him again, morerigorously this time. She brought portable machines along to measurevirtually all his bodily functions and carried away samples of mostof his body's fluids.

"I've been studying your old medical records," she said before sheleft. "It looks like Father did find some antibiotics you couldtolerate. I'm going to leave you some."

Catherine, who had scarcely left his side the past three days,ensured that he swallowed the innocuous-looking capsules faithfully.By the time Charles and Samantha returned a few days later with theresults of the tests, he was feeling better. Enough better that, overCatherine's half-hearted protests, he had dressed and was reading inthe study for the first time in a week.

He and Catherine were the only ones home. Carey and Vicky hadtaken the children Below, to a marionette show of, improbably enough,Great Expectations.

Charles and Samantha refused Catherine's offer of something todrink; to Vincent, each was clearly disturbed, though Catherineseemed unaware of it. They glanced at one another uneasily.

"Say it, Charles," Vincent advised his son. "There is no way toease it."

Charles slumped on the edge of one of the big chairs, elbows onknees and hands knotted in front of him, and studied his fingers withinordinate interest. He needed a haircut and his shirt collar wasrucked up on one side. Vincent wondered if that was a product of thenews he was about to deliver, or just the result of Elizabeth'smonth-long absence on a dig in Spain.

Beside him, Catherine stirred restlessly and slid her hand intohis. "Tell us, Charles," she urged.

Charles lifted his head, unable to hide the sorrow in his eyes;Catherine's grip tightened on Vincent's hand. "You're dying,Father."

Catherine quivered slightly, but curiously little response reachedhim through their bond.

Vincent nodded slowly. Charles's words only confirmed what he'dalready instinctively known.

His calm acceptance encouraged Charles to speak more freely. "It'snot any one thing," he explained. "Your body's systems are shuttingdown, all at once. Your heart rate's down, your pulmonary capacity isdiminished..."

"His heart rate's always been abnormally slow," Catherine said.Grasping at straws, Vincent knew.

"We know that, Mother," Charles answered gently. "Last time weexamined him, eight years ago, it was twenty-nine beats per minute.Now it's down to twenty-four. His respiration is up. With thedecreased heart function, he's not getting enough oxygen. That's whyhe gets so tired. And look at his immune system. That's obviouslyfailing, or he never would have gotten sick. His muscle tissue isbreaking down; there are signs his kidneys are failing."

"But why?" she whispered. "Why now and all at once?"

"Charles thinks he has the answer to that," Samantha said.

Charles nodded. "It's the gene. You know, I've learned a lot aboutit since I isolated it..."

"Yes," Vincent encouraged him. "I know."

"There are lots of theories on aging," Charles began. "And none ofthem are proven yet. But one of the more popular ones is that we'reall genetically programmed to die. After a while, we just wear out.In humans, it seems to happen slowly. Over decades. But in somespecies, the Pacific salmon, for example, it happens much morequickly. That's what I think is happening to you."

"My genetic program has triggered these changes in my body?"Vincent asked.

"I believe so."

"Is there any way to reverse the process?" Catherine asked, hervoice little more than a whisper. "Stop it?"

Charles shook his head slowly. "I can't even isolate the processyet, Mother. So, no. There's not."

Later, in bed, Vincent braced himself on one elbow and leaned overher. Her face, lit only by the pale moonlight streaming in the frenchdoors, was indistinct to him now, but it didn't matter. He knew it asintimately as he knew his own hand.

He touched her cheek and she turned her head to kiss his palm. "Ilove you, Vincent." Her murmur was low, heartfelt, suffused withgrief and shock.

"I know." He smoothed her hair back and kissed her. She answeredhis kiss gently, but when his hand drifted down, touching her, shestiffened.

"No, Vincent," she whispered. "Please."

He drew his hand back instantly. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "You're ill," she reminded him, and lookedaway.

He laid his palm against her cheek and brought her back to facehim. "If you truly do not wish it, you know you have only to say so,"he said softly. "But I am not so ill that I cannot love you. That Ido not wish to love you."

He wondered what she saw as she gazed at him through the silvereddarkness, and then she brought her mouth to his and there was no morethought.

The news spread quickly. Soon every member of the tunnelcommunity, all the helpers, and even the few friends who wereneither, like Joe Maxwell and Elliot Burch, knew of his illness.Vincent found his friends regarded him differently now, springing toassist him when once they would have enlisted his help.

And Catherine. Catherine wanted, he knew, to restructure her lifearound him, to spend every moment, waking and asleep, by his side,but he wouldn't allow it. When he was gone, she would need thecomfort of a life, a rhythm, a routine. She would need herfriends.

And so they compromised. Mornings were spent together. Afternoons,he went Below and Catherine went out. Sometimes she met a friend forlunch. Other times, she went by the small office she and Vicky sharedwith two other part-time attorneys, doing pro bono work. Always, shehurried home for dinner.

Their evenings were sometimes spent alone, but more often theywere joined by Charles, and Elizabeth, who was home now from Spain,or by Carey and Vicky. Joe Maxwell dropped in at least once a week.Even Elliot Burch, whose relationship with Vincent was one of guardedrespect, made excuses to visit.

It was dark when he woke, the moon's pale light gone from thenight sky. Something was wrong and it took only an instant toidentify it.

He had no sense of Catherine.

She was always his first awareness upon waking, and now she wasgone, utterly and completely. He put out his hand and found she wasabsent from their bed, as well.

He paused long enough to pull on his socks, because it would upsether if he wandered about the house barefoot. He padded into the halland stopped there, listening, trying to locate her and trying hardernot to fear that this severing of their bond was permanent - a resultof his illness. A soft, muffled sound told him where she was and heturned toward the study.

She had drawn the drapes back from one tall window and stoodbefore it, arms crossed as she hugged herself, rocking slightly. Heapproached silently, not wanting to disturb her if she was merelylost in thought. The soft sound reached him again, and he realizedshe was crying.

A faint wash of peach colored light came from a streetlamp downthe block; its glow was enough for him to see the gleam of silenttears.

He paused uncertainly; she didn't see him and she wouldn't havecrept so silently from their bed if she hadn't wished to hide herpain. Her breath caught in a painful half-sob, deciding him.

"Catherine." His voice was low, pitched so as to barely carryacross the space between them, but still she jumped. She choked backa sob and ducked her head, swiping furtively at her cheeks.

"Vincent. I didn't hear you come in." Something about the way shestood, half turned from him, kept him from approaching her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, feeling faintly awkward without thebond to guide him.

She nodded, too vigorously. "I'm fine. Really."

"You've been crying." He stated the obvious, hoping it wouldtrigger a confidence. "Catherine, I am not so old nor so frail that Icannot listen to what's troubling you."

"No." Her stance was rigid, unforgiving, her breathing harsh andunsteady.

"I don't know how to help you, Catherine," he pleaded. "I don'tknow what you're feeling."

She looked at him then, a quick, furtive glance that spoke ofsurprise.

"Our bond. It's gone now." He paused; she seemed to be listening,though she didn't speak. "I miss it," he finished softly.

She flinched. "I'm sorry, Vincent," she whispered, and a breath ofthat sorrow touched him briefly before fading away. "I nevermeant..."

The shock staggered him. It was Catherine. Not his illness atall.

He reached out blindly, catching her arm and turning her towardhim. "Don't," he pleaded. "Don't shut me out."

She tried unsuccessfully to extricate herself from his grasp."Please, Vincent," she whispered. "Please. Let me go."

Stung, he released her. She moved away and stood trembling beforethe window. Even without their connection, he felt her pain."Catherine. Don't do this. Let me help you."

She rocked herself silently, giving the impression of one fightinga fierce inner battle. "Oh, Vincent," she burst out, finally. "I'm soashamed."

He stared at her, too astonished to move. "Ashamed?" he repeated."You?"

She nodded miserably and he quelled an impulse to go to her."Why?"

She was a long time answering. "I have been... so angry."

"Angry," he repeated. She'd never, by word or action, given anysign. There'd only been the gradual, intermittent dimming of theirbond. He'd put it down to his illness, but now he knew better. "Atme."

She nodded. "As if you were doing it on purpose. As if you had achoice."

"Catherine..." She flinched and he stopped.

"Don't. Don't be kind. Don't be forgiving. What I've been feelingisn't fair to you, Vincent. Be hurt. Be angry with me, too."

He watched her standing there, an indistinct blur in the shadowsof the room, and spread his hands helplessly. "I can't."

A shudder swept her, shaking her in violent tremors visible evenin this murky light. He went to her, and as he brought her againsthis heart, she melted against him. Once he would have lifted her intohis arms. Now he simply guided her to the nearest chair and drew herinto his lap.

He stroked her back and kissed her hair while she wept. Shemurmured something, so low he had to bend his head to catch it. Itwas his name, and she was repeating it over and over.

"Hush," he soothed, rocking her. "I'm here. I won't let yougo."

At last the storm subsided and she was left trembling butbreathing quietly, both hands clutching his shirt. He no longerwondered what troubled her; their bond had sprung back to life whenhe'd touched her, flooding him with overwhelming grief.

"What will I do?" she asked now, her face still buried against hischest. "Without you. You've been a part of me for so long. How can Ibe without you?"

He felt her desolation, her sense of loss, and pressed a kiss intoher hair. "You're strong," he told her. "You're the strongest personI've ever known, did you know that?"

She made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, and shook herhead.

"You are. You can do anything you choose to do, Catherine. I knowyou."

"I can't. Not this."

"Yes, you can. You won't be alone. You'll have our children. Ourgrandchildren. Your friends."

"I won't have you."

"You will. Do you think I could ever truly leave you? I'll behere, Catherine, in your heart. For always."

There was a long silence and he could sense her thinking aboutthat, imagining it. "I know," she admitted at last, and he tactfullyignored the trembling in her voice.

"Why were you here? By yourself?" he asked instead.

It was a long moment before she answered. "I didn't want you toknow."

"How much you hurt?"

She nodded; he felt the movement of her head against hischest.

"I already know," he said gently. "Even without our bond. BecauseI know how it would hurt if I were the one left behind."

Carey began walking down in the late afternoons, meeting Vincentand Ian halfway, but even with his help, the journey was becomingincreasingly impossible for Vincent's failing body.

He gave up his afternoon poetry class and began taking napsinstead. At last came a day when he knew he could make the trip nolonger.

Carey helped him upstairs and onto the bed that last afternoon andpulled off his boots so he could rest. He was still lying there whenCatherine came home.

"Kate tells me I have to be quiet so you can rest," she greetedhim. She bent to kiss him before sitting on the edge of the bed andtaking his hand. "Are you all right?"

He spent a moment just gazing at her in the waning rays ofafternoon sun, knowing he would never do so again. "When I go downtomorrow," he told her finally, "it will be for the last time."

Much later, she lay beside him, breathing quietly. He knew shedidn't sleep, though it was late, and reached for her hand in thedarkness.

She laced her fingers with his and squeezed. "Forty years we'veslept together in this bed," she murmured. "It's hard to believewe'll never sleep in it again."

"We'll have nights together Below," he reminded her. "In mychamber. We've spent many nights together there, as well."

She released a soft sigh of reluctant assent. "I'm thinking aboutlooking for an apartment," she said presently. "After."

He wanted to roll toward her, to look into her face, but lackedboth the strength and the agility. Instead, he turned his head on thepillow. "You love this house," he said. "It's your home."

"It's been my home, but I'm not sure I can bear to sleep here bymyself," she admitted. "I think I might be more comfortable someplaceelse. Someplace neutral."

"And leave all the memories behind?"

"I wouldn't be losing them, Vincent. Vicky and Carey would behere. I could come whenever I wanted. Besides," her voice dropped sohe could scarcely hear it. "My memories will be with me wherever Igo."

Now he did turn on his side, slow lumbering process that it was.When he was settled, she came to him, putting her arms around hisbody and burying her face in his neck. He held her close, until atlast, sleep claimed her.

Vincent's chamber had changed little since his youth. The bookswere more varied, and took up more space, even spilling onto thefloor in the corners. His mantel held a row of small bottles, eachone containing soil, sand, or silt from a far away place. The bed waswider, to more easily hold two people, and on the shelf beside itstood a framed photograph, taken by Evan, of their family.

He and Catherine settled quickly into life Below. Catherine choseto wear the clothing of his world here, something she had not donefor years, and he thought of how much more they suited her now, thanwhen she was young.

Without the long journey twice a day, he had more energy. Hismornings were spent teaching literature to the older children. In theafternoons, his grandsons came to visit; more often than not, Katejoined them after school. The evenings generally brought one or moreof his children, or old friends like Pascal and Joe Maxwell.

The nights were for Catherine. His nights had always been forCatherine. She would bring him his nightclothes and turn her back soas not to see how his hands trembled when he worked the fastenings onhis clothes, or notice how often he had to stop to rest. When he waschanged, she brushed his heavy mane free of tangles.

Sometimes, as they lay together in the light of a single candle,her defenses broke down and she wept. Those nights he gathered herclose and stroked her hair.

"My Catherine," he murmured one night, and felt her smile throughher tears.

"You so seldom call me that," she whispered.

"Do you mind?"

"Of course not. I like belonging to you. It makes me feel...honored."

"My Catherine," he repeated, softly. "Don't you know? The honorhas always been mine..."

"I've often thought," she said, "that it should be myepitaph."

"What? 'My Catherine'?" he teased.

She lifted her head from the pillow and quoted softly:

Twas my one glory

Let it be

Remembered

I was owned of Thee.

He recognized the quote. "Emily Dickinson."

"Yes."

"You mean that. Truly."

She turned her face up to him in the dim, guttering light of thechamber's single candle. Her eyes were shining with infinite love."Emily knew everything," she told him. "Yes, I mean it."

He woke only slowly, sluggishly. His eyelids seemed too heavy tolift. Someone somewhere moaned softly, as if in pain. In the bedbeside him, Catherine stirred, and he sensed her bending over him,felt her hand on his arm.

"Vincent?" She whispered it low, in his ear. "Are you allright?"

He could sense her distress, but try as he might, he couldn'tforce his sluggish body to respond. And then he must have slept,because when he came to awareness again, his children were there. Hecould sense their worry, their grief. With a supreme effort, heopened his eyes to find them pressed close around the bed. Charles'swas the first face he saw, smiling sadly.

"My son," he managed, his voice weak and thready. His gaze movedto include them all. "My children. I love you all. So much."

He closed his eyes, husbanding his meager strength. Breathing waspainful now, each breath an effort. "Where's your mother?"

"She's right here," Jacob answered.

"I want... to be with her."

"Of course," Charles answered smoothly. "She can sit withyou."

Charles bent to press a filial kiss against his brow. "Goodbye,Father," he whispered in a voice intended for no one else to hear. "Ilove you."

One by one his children - by birth and by marriage - kissedhim.

Jacob's goodbye was wordless, choked by grief, but eloquentnonetheless as he squeezed Vincent's hand.

Vicky wept softly and he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. "Don'tcry, Victoria," he managed. "I've had a good life."

She sniffled. "I know, Daddy. I love you."

The children filed out and Catherine took up her now-customaryplace in the chair beside the bed, taking his hand and pressing it toher cheek.

Words were not necessary between them. They simply gazed at oneanother, until, quite against his will, his eyes drifted shut.

"Vincent."

He didn't recognize the voice. It was low-pitched, but somehowinsistent and reluctantly he opened his eyes. The chamber was quiet,lit by only a few fat candles. Catherine sat beside him, cradling hishand in both of hers.

"Vincent. It's time."

"What?" He thought he asked it aloud, but Catherine didn't stir.She looked tired, her face drawn with the certainty of impendingsorrow. He wanted to reach up, to touch her, but his hand wouldn'trespond.

"Vincent," the voice said, more urgently. "You must come.Now."

"I can't leave Catherine. She needs me."

"She's strong, Vincent. You know that, better than anyone.Catherine will continue. Come."

He rose obediently, unsurprised that his body obeyed him soeasily; after all, it always had. He paused in the doorway to lookback.

Catherine still sat in her chair, holding his hand. Her head wasbowed, and she was weeping. He started back, but the voice checkedhim.

"You cannot help her now."

"Not even to say goodbye?"

"No, Vincent," the voice said kindly. "You must come now. They'rewaiting."

"Who? Who's waiting?" He lingered in the entry; Catherine knew,already, that he had left her.

"Your father. Your brother. Your son. Your daughter. Yourfriends."

He swung toward the voice, astonished. "Father? Devin and Evan.And baby Rose."

"Yes. All waiting."

He couldn't forget Catherine, but the voice was right; he couldn'thelp her now. For the last time, he stepped through the narrowadit.

Instead of the passage outside his chamber, he found himself inFather's Study. His surviving children were gathered there. As hewatched, Vicky gave a small cry of despair and crumpled into herhusband's arms.

"He's gone," Charles said, half-questioning.

"Yes," Carey affirmed, and bowed his head.

Amanda and Jacob turned to each other; Elizabeth moved behindCharles's chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, bending topress her cheek to his.

"Come," the voice said. "We must go."

Vincent hesitated. "You're certain they'll be all right?" he askedthe voice.

"Quite certain," said the voice.

"But how can I be sure?" Vincent argued. "I have to be sure."

"Come," the voice told him. "I'll show you."

The space before him misted and shifted, dissolving into newshapes, new angles of light. Vincent stood now in a corner of thestudy. Catherine was there, visibly older, more tired. Thegrandchildren gathered around her had changed, too. They'd grown. Ianhad his front teeth back now, while Kate had gaps where hers used tobe. Daniel's hair was longer, tied at the nape of his neck with aleather thong.

His children were there, too. His family, together. Withouthim.

"I miss Grandfather," Kate said sadly.

"We all miss him," Daniel pointed out. "But we can make him aliveagain when we remember him, can't we, Gran?"

Catherine smiled at him fondly. "Yes, Daniel," she said softly."We can. I remember him every day."

"What do you remember, Gran?" Kate asked.

"Things we did together. Things he said. Sometimes I remember whathe looked like."

"I remember his stories," Ian said. "He told the beststories."

"You know his stories, though, don't you, Gran?" Daniel asked.

"I know some of them," she answered. "Not all."

"Tell us one you know," Daniel urged.

"One with Grandfather in it," Kate added. "From the olden daysbefore my mom was born."

Across the room, Vicky smiled.

"All right," Catherine agreed, and waited as they settledthemselves to listen. "Have you ever heard the story of how yourgrandfather and I met?"

The grown children exchanged knowing glances; the grandchildrenshook their heads. "Tell us."

Catherine drew in a deep breath and her face softened withtenderness, and memory. "Once upon a time," she began, "in the cityof New York..."

God's finger touched him, and he slept.

- Tennyson

*Excerpt is from "The Maze in the Heart of the Castle," by DorothyGilman.

The End, of the story, of the 'zine, and of the series. Thank youfor reading!