Catherine lay in the quiet darkness, too content to open her eyes, and
wondered idly why she was awake. The November storm that had raged
earlier, rattling the house and sheeting its windows with rain, had
clearly stopped. Manhattan was never truly silent, even in the middle of
the night, but its unceasing background hum was so familiar to Catherine
it never would have disturbed her sleep. She smiled. Her mind might be
awake, but her body was still heavy with languorous satisfaction.
Something in the storm had triggered an answering wildness in Vincent,
and their loving that night had been fierce and prolonged. Thinking of it
brought an irresistible need to be closer, and Catherine turned to
snuggle against him as he lay beside her.

Her eyes snapped open in surprise as she encountered not the relaxed
muscles of a sleeper, but a tense rigidity that told her he was not only
awake but alert. There was just enough light in the room to reflect the
glitter of his open eyes. Moving her hand to touch his cheek, Catherine
whispered next to his ear. "Vincent, is something wrong? Did you have
another dream?"

Turning his head just enough to face her, he slipped one arm across her
body in a reassuring caress. "No, it's not that. I just ..."

"What? Tell me."

He sighed, then spoke slowly, reluctantly. "I heard something."

"Heard what?" she pressed him. "Where?"

"It sounds like it's coming from downstairs."

Catherine clutched his arm as a surge of adrenalin banished every vestige
of relaxation from her body. "You mean someone's in the house?"

"No." He spoke quickly, but his voice lacked complete conviction. "It
sounds more like someone at the door, trying to get in."

"But you can't be sure. Have you been hearing it long? Could it be
someone from Below?"

Vincent shook his head. "I doubt it, it's been going on too long for
that. If someone from the Tunnels needed to contact us in an emergency,
they'd come up right away and knock on our bedroom door. Many of them
know the house well enough to find their way around it, even in the dark."

As Catherine slipped from Vincent's arms and threw back the covers, he
quickly grasped her hand to hold her back. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going downstairs to see what's going on, of course."

"Catherine!" Vincent's whispered hiss was sharper than he intended. "You
don't know what's down there--it could be dangerous."

"Vincent, you know this house has the best security system there is,
that's one of the reasons I bought it. If someone's trying to get in, I
doubt they'll succeed. I'll look through the peephole, and if it's anyone
who looks suspicious, I'll call the police. No heroics, I promise."

Vincent pulled her close, partly so she could hear his words, partly from
his instinctive need to protect her. "I can't be sure the sound is coming
from outside. And no matter how well the house is secured, there's still
the Tunnel entrance. Some outsider could have found that."

"The way Mouse concealed it, that wouldn't be easy," she argued.
"Besides--I can't just lie up here wondering what's going on. And I'm not
about to let you go down there and risk discovery."

Vincent sighed, hugging her. "I don't suppose I could convince you to
leave that way," he asked, nodding toward the wall that concealed the
stairway to the Tunnels.

"Certainly not without you," Catherine replied emphatically, "and I don't
want to leave the house at the mercy of who-knows-what. It means too
much to me, to us. I can't stand by and see it violated." Vincent sighed
again in a way his wife recognized as capitulation. She knew he felt the
same way about their home,their refuge that was a bridge between Above
and Below.

Releasing her, he threw off the rest of the covers."We'll both go," he
announced, "and very carefully."

"I don't want you to risk being seen---"

Vincent picked up his robe from the chair where he had flung it hours
before. Its deep green was barely distinguishable from the surrounding
darkness. He pushed his golden hair under the hood,which he pulled far
forward over his face.

Catherine put on her own robe, somewhat reassured, and gently removed her
gun from the nightstand drawer. It had lain there,untouched, since she
had moved into this house nine months ago. She had hoped it would lie
there forever. Quietly, she and Vincent moved to the bedroom door.
Catherine opened it with great care, but its hinges were well-oiled and
made no sound. She moved slowly down the stairs, walking on the side of
the treads to avoid betraying creaks. Her right hand held the gun;
Vincent held her left as he followed her closely.

As they approached the lower floor, she heard the sounds that only
Vincent's ears had detected earlier. Clearly, they were coming from
outside, as if someone were trying to find a way in. Motioning Vincent to
stay behind in the shadows, Catherine approached the front door, rising
up on her toes to look through the peephole. After a moment, she returned
to where Vincent waited, tense and alert. In the darkness, Vincent could
still see that Catherine's face was puzzled.

"What did you see?"

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Someone's obviously out there, we both
hear it. But I can't see anything but the street." She was silent a
moment, considering, then spoke with conviction. "I'm going to open the
door."

"Catherine!" Vincent hissed. "The danger--"

Catherine put a reassuring hand on his arm as she spoke."Someone could
be lying there hurt. It's cold out tonight, and that storm was a bad
one--how could I face myself if some poor homeless person died on my
doorstep for lack of my help? Or someone who's been attacked, like I was?"

Vincent knew that Catherine could not turn her back on such a
possibility, any more than he could have left her bleeding in the park
three and a half years ago. "Let me--"

"No! You can't risk anyone seeing you! I promise," she argued
placatingly, "I'll keep the chain on; I'll just look. I've got my gun. If
it's someone who looks the least doubtful I won't let him in, I'll call
for help."

Vincent agreed--reluctantly--but stayed as close to her as he could
without being seen as she deactivated the security system and slowly
opened the door. Expecting to find a shivering or bleeding body on the
doorstep, they were slow to react as something shot through the small
opening and disappeared into the dark interior of the house. Vincent was
the first to recover, running after the mysterious intruder as Catherine
pushed the door shut with an expletive that would have surprised Father.
Not wanting to stop to turn on lights, Catherine followed the pursuit by
its sound, wishing she had brought a flashlight. She thought she heard
Vincent in the living room, but just before she reached it Vincent burst
out into the corridor almost in front of her, heading down the hall to
the library.

Close behind him as he followed his quarry into that room, Catherine had
the presence of mind to push the door firmly shut behind her. Whatever it
was wouldn't escape now. Vincent seemed to be all over the room; whatever
he was chasing moved quickly. She could hear her husband caroming off the
furniture. A crash and clatter in the far corner told her the table
holding the chessboard had gone over. Concerned for Vincent, Catherine
was about to abandon her post at the door when an unearthly screech
almost made her jump out of her skin, and sudden silence descended.
Fearful, she groped for the light switch.

As a lamp in the middle of the room illuminated the scene, Catherine's
jaw dropped. Carefully clicking the safety on, she put the gun into the
pocket of her robe. She needed both hands to clutch her stomach as she
began laughing till tears came.

"Catherine," Vincent grumbled as he struggled up from his ungainly
position on the floor, "I hope you are laughing in relief, because I find
nothing funny in this situation." Not only had the hood of his robe
fallen back; the belt had come undone, giving Catherine an unobstructed
view of one of her favorite sights. Vincent in his semi-naked glory was
normally no laughing matter,but--clutched to his chest, hanging on for
dear life, was a soaking wet and hissing kitten no bigger than his hand.
"If you can compose yourself," Vincent suggested, "perhaps you could help
me find a more effective way to restrain this creature before he damages
a portion of my anatomy you would sorely miss."

Galvanized by this frightening if unlikely possibility, Catherine ran
across the hall to retrieve some towels from the downstairs bathroom.
Returning quickly to the library, she carefully extricated the kitten's
claws from her husband's chest and wrapped the small, dripping bundle in
a towel, cooing softly all the while. Vincent gathered his robe and the
shreds of his dignity around him once again, looking more than a little
miffed.

Taking pity on him, Catherine made a prodigious effort to stifle her
laughter. "Let's go into the kitchen; it's warmer there. Besides, I think
we could both use a cup of tea."

Vincent ended up making the tea while Catherine continued to coo over the
little furry bundle, drying him off with one towel then wrapping him
snugly in a dry one and cuddling him close to her breast. Although quite
unable to recognize the source of his irritation, Vincent frowned to see
a spot which he regarded as his own usurped by the little hellion.
"Catherine, are you sure you should do that?  He might have fleas."

"Even if he had," Catherine smiled, "they've certainly all drowned by
now. The poor little thing looks awfully skinny--let's see if we can
find him something to eat."

"Yes. Let us do that," Vincent said in resignation as he got up to
search the refrigerator while Catherine continued to hug the kitten.
Warming some cream in the microwave, he set the dish before her.
Rummaging in the cupboard, he unearthed a can of tuna fish and put some
on a small plate. Setting it down on the table as well, he sat again,
pulling his chair closer to Catherine's.

"He's so tiny," she said softly. "I'm not even sure he's old enough to be
weaned--let's see what he thinks of the cream."

A comfortable silence settled around them in the warm glow of the
kitchen. As the kitten's fur dried, Vincent was surprised to see it was
almost the same tawny gold as his own. He watched as Catherine settled
the kitten on its back, against her breast, and carefully transferred the
cream from the bowl to the hungry little mouth with her finger. Happy, as
always, to watch his wife for hours,Vincent let his thoughts drift. The
two of them, sitting in their own comfortable home in the middle of the
night, steeped in the great contentment such togetherness always brought
... he smiled as Catherine made soothing noises. The kitten's eyes never
left her face as he greedily devoured the cream. How beautiful she looked
as she tenderly cared for it, almost as if it were ...

The sudden pang of longing that overwhelmed Vincent was so intense and so
unexpected he must have made some inadvertent sound. "Vincent?" Catherine
raised her head. "Did you say something?"

It took all Vincent's concentration to make his voice sound normal. "He
... seems to be taking that well. Why don't you see if he eats on his own?"

The golden fur stuck out every which way as Catherine unwrapped her
charge and set him on the table in front of the food. Devouring the
remaining cream in short order, he began to attack the tuna fish with
relish. "Well," Catherine exclaimed in surprise,"Seems like he can
handle solid food after all. I guess he's just small for his age."

Vincent cleared his throat. "What do you intend to do with him?"

"Well, for tonight I thought we could put him in the solarium; he can't
hurt the furniture in there. There's some sand in the basement for
plants, so we can make up a cat box."

"I hope he knows how to use it." Vincent frowned. "I wonder if this was
wise ..."

"Well, we didn't really have any choice, did we?"Catherine challenged.
"Besides ... " Catherine's voice became very soft. "I think it's a good
idea, as a matter of policy, to rescue small adorable furry things left
out in the cold. You never know how they'll turn out."

Vincent made the only response to this he could, leaning over for a long,
loving kiss. They broke apart only when a demanding yowl from the table
startled them back to reality. "Well!" Catherine laughed. "It appears our
guest is asking in no uncertain terms to be shown to his room."

After several trips up and down stairs, the kitten was installed in his
new quarters with a makeshift cat box, bed, and second helpings of food.
After warily examining every corner of the large room, he finally settled
down and yawned prodigiously. As Catherine smoothed down his spiky fur he
began to purr, and soon fell asleep. She rose and took Vincent's hand,
smiling fondly at her new charge.

They tiptoed away as quietly as possible, shutting the door gently behind
them. "Catherine," Vincent whispered, "this door doesn't latch very well."

"I know," she whispered back. "I keep meaning to ask Mouse to fix it. I'm
sure it'll be OK--our furry friend is much too small to open a door this
heavy."

Hearing the tiredness in his wife's voice, Vincent swept her up in his
arms and headed down to their bedroom. Sighing in contentment, Catherine
kissed the hollow of his throat as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Thank God, there had been nothing to fear tonight after all. Perhaps the
Fates were through testing them at last.

When they returned to bed, Vincent took Catherine in his arms as they
nestled under the warm comforter. "You're going to keep him, aren't you?"

"No, love," she replied. "We're going to keep him. Don't forget, we're
married now. What's mine is yours and vice versa."

"For better or worse," Vincent sighed in resignation.

"Think of how much the children will enjoy playing with a kitten ... and
he'll be company for me when I'm alone in the house."

"Think of what fuel this will provide Cullen's dubious sense of humor,"
Vincent winced. "It could be worse, I suppose. It could be a raccoon."

Vincent could feel Catherine's smile as she snuggled into the hollow of
his shoulder. Soon afterward, she was asleep. It had begun to rain again,
but a soft quiet rain as gentle as a lullaby. The warmth of Catherine's
body beside him, and the sound of the rain, soon sent Vincent into the
same sweet darkness.

A welcome winter sun poured through storm-washed air and the gauzy
curtains of their bedroom. Catherine could feel the brightness on her
eyelids as she slowly woke. When she finally opened her eyes, she had to
clamp her jaw firmly shut to keep from laughing out loud and waking her
husband. The poor man certainly deserved his rest after his exertions of
last night. Between lovemaking and cat-chasing, neither of them had
gotten much sleep. Lying on her side facing Vincent, Catherine kept as
motionless as she could, unwilling to disturb the priceless scene before her.

Vincent lay on his back, his face turned toward her. During the night the
covers had migrated downward, and his furred torso was pale gold in the
winter light. The tilt of his head caused part of his hair to spill
gloriously over the pillow next to her; the rest swept over his cheek and
the upper part of his chest. Nestled there, so close in color he was
almost invisible, curled one very contented sleeping kitten.

It was too good to last. As he shifted in his sleep, Vincent's nose began
to twitch as it encountered a small furry tail. The tail in question
began to switch even more at this stimulus. A rapid escalation of
switching and twitching soon caused Vincent to jerk awake, sneezing. His
eyes opened as a small golden tornado launched itself off his chest,
bounced off his thigh and leaped to the floor. It suddenly reappeared in
one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace. After several loud
complaints, the kitten ignored them and began washing its tiny face with
vigor.

Vincent sat up, glaring first at the feline terror and then at Catherine
as she dissolved into giggles at last. "Catherine, this is not amusing!
Did you see where he landed? He could have ..."

Pulling the bedclothes down all the way, she leaned over to inspect her
husband's thigh very closely. "Looks fine to me, dear, but just in case
..." She bent even lower. "I'll kiss it and make it better."

Vincent drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to concentrate on
feeling indignant instead of ... "Catherine," he began firmly.

Restraining herself, Catherine moved back to Vincent's side, propping up
on one elbow to caress his chest where it had been used as a launching
pad. The thickness of his fur there seemed to have prevented any damage.
"I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I should have removed him before you
woke up ... but he did look so sweet there, curled up on your hair like
he'd made a nest in the tall grass."

"Do you consider it flattering to compare your husband's body to... the
African veldt?"

"Actually, it's more like northern California ...beautiful hills and
valleys all covered in gold ..." Her hand moved slowly, sensuously, down
its favorite landscape. "Why look, I must be right about the location ...
there's a redwood tree!"

"Catherine," Vincent said hoarsely, "you are taking an unfair advantage
in this discussion."

His wife continued her caresses. "I'm a lawyer, dear. I was taught
there's no such thing as an unfair advantage."

Vincent was finding it increasingly difficult to marshal cogent
arguments; it seemed his blood was finding better things to do than
nourish his brain. Reaching for Catherine, he gave in. Why fight it, when
capitulation would be infinitely more pleasurable? As her lips began to
follow the route of her exploration, Vincent began stroking her naked
skin with the furred backs of his hands. When he thought he could bear no
more, she knelt above him then lowered herself slowly as she guided him
into her, eyes never leaving his face.

As her strong legs lifted and lowered her in a rhythm that sent fire
along his nerves, he slid his hands up her sides to support her, letting
his thumbs caress her sensitive nipples. With a small sound, Catherine's
head leaned back at his touch. Vincent never could decide what excited
him the most when they made love—her caresses and the indescribable
feeling of her welcoming body accepting his, the look on her face as
their passion built, or the inarticulate sounds of pleasure she couldn't
control. As if this were not enough, their bond flooded him with all her
feelings as if they were his own. Sometimes the intensity was so
overwhelming he feared he would die from the sheer joy of it, but could
not bring himself to care.

As he felt Catherine nearing her peak, Vincent relinquished the last
vestige of his control, thrusting powerfully upward as she pushed
downward. Swept away by sensations too primal to be named, he knew
nothing more until Catherine collapsed on top of him, too weak with
pleasure to support herself any longer. As soon as his own limbs would
respond he wrapped his arms around her, caressing her back as the world
slowly took shape around them again. He turned his head a little to kiss
her hair. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking into two green ones
staring unblinkingly back at him from the top of the bedside chair.
Disconcerted, his hand groped for the sheet to pull it up.

This unexpected movement caused Catherine to raise her head. "Vincent,
what?--" Following his gaze, she spotted the little voyeur, then turned
back to her husband in amused surprise. "Dear heart, he's only a cat."

Vincent reluctantly tore his gaze from their observer to face Catherine.
"I wonder. Perhaps I should take him to Narcissa and ask her opinion."

Catherine traced the unique line of Vincent's lips with her fingers, then
kissed him thoroughly. "You can hardly blame him for watching. He's
probably just impressed."

"Catherine ..." Vincent lowered his eyes. Even after almost a year of
loving her this way, and seven months of marriage, he was never quite
sure how to respond to compliments of that sort. The need to do so was
obviated by a peremptory yowl from the doorway.

"I wonder if he's hungry," Catherine speculated, looking toward the
bedside clock. "Oh, good grief!" Leaping out of bed, she tugged Vincent
after her. "I had no idea it was so late," she gasped as she threw on a
robe and slippers. "Don't you remember? We've got a horde of Tunnel
children due in less than an hour for the next Story of English tape."
Catherine scooped up the cat with one hand and propelled Vincent toward
the bathroom with the other. "I'll feed this feline vacuum cleaner and
take my shower downstairs."

"We could shower together," Vincent offered.

"Oh, right," Catherine answered drily. "Today's lesson is supposed to be
literature, not sex education."

Vincent drew himself up in affronted, if naked, dignity."Don't you trust
my self-control?"

"Always," Catherine replied as she treated herself to one more quick
kiss. "But I can't say the same for mine."

It was a near thing, but Catherine managed to get everything ready just
as a familiar knock sounded on the cellar door. "Just a minute!" she
called out, securing her four-footed guest before opening it to Brooke
and the children. As they poured into the kitchen, they were immediately
entranced by the kitten. All asking questions at once, they jockeyed for
the best petting positions.

"Children, this is supposed to be a lesson in English, not animal
behavior." A slightly damp but reasonably kempt Vincent entered the
kitchen and regarded his pupils with mock disapproval.

"But he's so cute," Samantha insisted.

"Which, of course, excuses everything," Vincent laughed."Why don't you
all help Catherine carry the food into the living room, and we'll tell
you how we acquired our new boarder."

Still a little awed by Catherine's house, the children were very careful
as they carried the platters and baskets across the hall. "Wow, there's a
lot of food here." Zach sniffed appreciatively at a basket of
apple-cinnamon muffins. "We all ate breakfast, you know."

“And I'll bet you can still manage to eat more,” Catherine countered.
"You look an inch taller every time I see you. Besides, Vincent and I
haven't had breakfast yet."

"Oh?" Catherine was startled by Brooke's speculative grin. She was
growing up, and Catherine made a silent promise to herself not to forget it.

"Yeah, we wondered what happened to you guys last night," Eric announced
through a mouthful of bagel. "You usually come Below on Friday nights."

"Well, we kind of got involved with other things," Catherine explained
lamely, avoiding Brooke's eyes. "And it got to be pretty late, and since
we had to be here this morning for your English lesson ..."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't come last night." Teresa was happily
petting the kitten, delighted by his ecstatic purr. "Otherwise nobody
would have been here to help him."

Her sister Maria watched, wide-eyed, as Teresa's lap was mercilessly
kneaded. "Where did he come from?"

Catherine and Brooke brought hot chocolate from the kitchen while Vincent
began a dramatic, if heavily edited, account of the kitten's rescue.
Sensing he was the center of attention, the furry dynamo exhibited his
feline prowess by mercilessly chasing a grape around the floor. At the
conclusion of the narrative, Kipper asked the sixty-four-dollar question.
"What's his name?"

Discovering he had none, the children insisted no more time should be
wasted. Suggestions were tossed out thick and fast. In short order,
Marmalade, Leo, Kzin, Cuddles, Aslan,  Pumpkin, and Surprise were
discussed and discarded. A silence fell in which the sound of mental
wheels turning could almost be heard. Naming a cat was an important matter.

Vincent cleared his throat. "What about Bulwer-Lytton?"

Catherine looked blank. "Who, or what, is a Bulwer-Lytton?"

"A relatively obscure and largely untalented Victorian novelist," Vincent
explained. "Originator of that deathless phrase--"

"It was a dark and stormy night!" The children shouted in unison.

"Vincent makes us read his stuff to help us learn how not  to write,"
Zach explained.

Catherine grinned. "I like it. It's certainly appropriate to the
circumstances." She regarded Vincent fondly. "You're probably one of the
few people in New York who knows that didn't originate with
Snoopy." Catherine knew Vincent's cultural literacy was sufficiently vast
to encompass the legendary beagle as well as minor Victorian novelists.
What a remarkable man she'd married.

"That's a pretty long name for a little cat," Zach objected.

"Well, obviously, he has to have a nickname too," Samantha informed him
in a superior tone.

"You could call him Bulwer for short," Teresa suggested.

"Or Bull," Vincent amended, his gaze firmly fixed over Catherine's head.

"I think Bulwer's perfect," Catherine announced, in a tone that did not
invite disagreement. "It's kind of dignified—maybe he'll grow into it."

Samantha bounced up and down in excitement. "We should have a naming
ceremony for him, just like we do for babies!"

A sudden flicker of emotion, gone almost before he felt it, caused
Vincent to turn quickly to Catherine. Her head was bowed, and she seemed
inordinately interested in the pattern of a sofa pillow.

"That's dumb," Kipper scoffed.

"Did you have one for Arthur?" Maria asked.

"Nope," Kipper pointed out.

"We wouldn't want to hurt Arthur's feelings," Vincent suggested softly.

"I guess not," Samantha reluctantly agreed.

"Well," Vincent continued, "I think it's time we learned about English in
Shakespeare's time. Do you think you'll be able to pay proper attention,
or shall I take Bulwer upstairs?"

Faithfully promising Vincent they would not be distracted, the children
settled down and remained on their best behavior throughout the tape and
their teacher's subsequent lesson. Afterwards, they all helped Vincent
and Catherine clean up so they could go Below without further delay.
Unwilling to leave Bulwer on his own, Catherine found an old picnic
basket that could be pressed into service as a cat carrier. As they made
their way, they decided it was much too dangerous to let Bulwer loose in
the Tunnels. However, they were at a loss to decide how to limit his
wanderings in a place that lacked real doors. To any Tunnel resident, a
curtain closing off a room was as inviolate as a locked door would be,
but how to explain that to a kitten? Catherine finally concluded
they would have to trust to Mouse's ingenuity to come up with
something. Kipper found the idea of a Mouse helping out a cat very funny.

Vincent and Catherine spent the rest of the weekend absorbed in the life
of the Tunnels. Vincent spent every day there when Catherine was at work,
but Catherine was seldom able to manage more than one or two nights a
week Below in addition to weekends. Since the loss of her father, and her
marriage to Vincent, Catherine had become an integral part of the
community, and when she was Below she seemed to spend all her time
inundated by people wanting to show her what they'd been doing since her
last appearance. The children, especially, were as fascinated with
"Vincent's Catherine" as ever, but less in awe of her since her presence
had become so familiar.

As he and Catherine prepared for bed that evening,Vincent watched Bulwer
test the web-like contraption Mouse had rigged over the the door of their
outer chamber. Fortunately, it seemed to be one of his successful
inventions. The kitten didn't seem to mind--perhaps he saw it as a cat
gym provided for his amusement, rather than a means of restraint.
Entering the inner room, Vincent found Catherine already in bed, gazing
fondly at Kristoffer's portrait of them where it graced the wall next to
the door. She smiled as the artist's rendition and the even more
beautiful original stood side by side for a moment; then Vincent moved
forward to settle gratefully beside her in the large bed. "If you don't
mind, Catherine, it would probably be a good  idea to spend tonight sleeping."

"After last night, I'm forced to agree. I could hardly keep my eyes open
after dinner." She snuggled close to her deliciously warm husband.
"Besides, I read someplace that the average married couple makes love 6.2
times per month. We're way ahead."

Silence. "Vincent?"

"I was just wondering how one makes love .2 times."

"Too quickly for my taste!" Catherine laughed.

Vincent rubbed his cheek against Catherine's hair. "I'm afraid we take
advantage of your generous nature. You give so much in your work Above,
then come Below where we demand even more. No wonder you're tired."

"Don't be silly--I love it; especially the children."

Vincent held her closer. "I noticed."

"I can't believe how fast little Cathy's growing—and Lena's such a good
mother. I was so worried whether bringing her down here was the right
decision. Thank God it worked out so well."

"Catherine--have I told you how happy I am to be married to you?"

Catherine lifted her head to look at his face. "Regularly. But I never
get tired of hearing it." She gently traced his cheekbones, and the line
of golden fur from his nose to where it disappeared under his hair. "I
love you."

Vincent stroked her hair as she settled back against his chest, not
trusting himself to speak for a moment. "And I love you."

Several days later, Vincent meandered along the familiar route towards
what Cullen had dubbed "the Chandler-Wells Residence." Slipping through
the well-concealed entrance, an engineering triumph of Mouse and Cullen,
he made his way up the narrow winding stair concealed inside the wall of
the house. He paused, concentrating on the bond. Catherine was near, and
alone ... she was always careful to warn him if it wasn't safe to enter.
As he drew his attention back to his other five senses, he realized
something smelled quite wonderful. His long fingers went unerringly to
the hidden trigger. As the wall pivoted, Catherine turned to smile at his
entrance.

"Catherine," he exclaimed in astonishment. "You're ...cooking?"

"You don't need to sound quite so surprised. It's hardly the first time
you've seen me do it."

"It isn't something you ... er ... choose to do often." In the interests
of diplomacy, among other things, he bent to kiss her. "Mmmm."

"What?"

"You have something very tasty on the corner of your mouth."

"You're just trying to distract me. I happen to be quite a decent cook,
if you don't expect anything too complicated."Catherine began stacking
dishes on the counter. "My mother liked to cook. I used to help her in
the kitchen, before ... well, then my dad had a very grandmotherly sort
of housekeeper who let me do the same with her. I'm sure she felt sorry
for me."

"You must have been very lonely, with your father working so hard."

Catherine took off her floury apron, the better to embrace her husband.
"Dear heart, don't sound so sad. That's all in the past ... and you've
given me an even bigger family to replace the one I've lost." They stood
there for a long moment, until a peremptory buzzer from the direction of
the oven called Catherine back to her responsibilities. Vincent sniffed
appreciatively as she carefully took four loaves out of the oven.

"Is there some particular reason," Vincent queried, "for this sudden ..."

"Domestic fit?" Catherine smiled and turned back to begin loading the
dishwasher. "Part of it's the holidays coming up. Thanksgiving's pretty
close, and pumpkin bread seems just the thing for this time of year.
Besides, we had a shower today at lunchtime for one of the paralegals.
Maybe that got me in the mood."

"A wedding shower?" Vincent asked idly, as he began putting away
containers of baking supplies.

"No. A baby shower." Catherine's voice was even—too even. Through the
bond, all Vincent could sense was a smooth, impenetrable surface. Her
absence of emotion told him more than its presence ever could. She never
tried to hide her feelings from him, unless they might cause him pain. He
stood still, irresolute, at a loss for what to do. Her back to him, she
calmly continued with her task like an automaton. Stretching out a hand
to her, Vincent was about to speak when a knock rapped at the cellar
door. Catherine quickly moved to open it, and the moment was lost.

"Jamie! We didn't expect to see you tonight."

"I'm sorry. I know you were just Below last night and you must have lots
of work to do ..."

Catherine patted Jamie's shoulder. "Nothing that can't wait another day.
How can we help?"

"It's the play we're working on for Thanksgiving. Mouse has come up with
some terrific special effects, but they're kinda complicated. I told him
we needed to do a trial run, a kind of ...what do you call it ..."

"Technical rehearsal?" Vincent prompted.

"Right! Well, you know Mouse, he insists Vincent and Catherine are the
only ones outside the cast who can see what he's got planned. He wouldn't
pay attention to anyone else's advice anyway." Jamie sighed. "I told him
you were probably busy, but he can't stand waiting 'till Friday."

"Of course we'll come," Catherine said brightly. "Won't we, Vincent."

"Of course."

Relief was obvious on Jamie's face. Getting Mouse to accept "no" for an
answer could be very trying. "Why don't you come Below for dinner?
There's still time. I'll help you carry the pumpkin bread."

Vincent shook his head in dismay. "Jamie, that is the most blatant hint I
have ever..."

Smiling, Catherine began wrapping the warm bread in towels while Vincent
unearthed a basket. "I hope William won't think I'm after his job."

"Don't worry, Catherine," Jamie reassured her. "Even if your bread is
better than his, nobody would dare say so."

After a short but spectacular demonstration of Mouse's
latest inspirations, all concluded that more work was necessary. A
little nervous about her responsibilities as head of the costume
department, Lena begged for Catherine's advice. Vincent encouraged
Catherine to accept the task, claiming a good long visit with Father was
overdue.

"Vincent! How good to see you again so soon. How was the rehearsal?"

"Fine, Father." Vincent sat wearily in a chair opposite him. "We were
able to put the fire out right away."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Alerted by something in Vincent's voice, Father looked sharply at his
son. "Is something wrong? You came for more than a visit, didn't you?"

Vincent sighed and leaned back in the chair. "I cannot bear to see
Catherine hurt ... but she is in pain, and I am the cause."

"Surely not! I can't believe you ..."

"Father, she wants a child. My child."

A charged silence hung in the air for a moment, then the older man spoke
with great care. "She's told you this?"

"Not in so many words. We haven't really discussed it since we first
became lovers, but that was almost a year ago. I was unwilling to risk
it, but Catherine has such courage ... I'm sure she agreed because of my
fear, not her own."

"Has she said or done anything recently," Father asked, "that leads you
to believe her desire for a child is more intense?"

"It is less what she says than what she avoids saying--and feelings she
takes care to block from me." Vincent leaned forward, his head in his
hands. "But I know it's true--and I don't know what to do."

"How can I help?"

"I know the story of how I was found, but I thought perhaps ... some
small thing, some detail you thought unimportant, anything that might
tell me ..." Father started as Vincent's fist pounded the table in
frustration. "If only I knew!"

"One thing I'm sure of--Paracelsus' story was a total fabrication, meant
only to manipulate and hurt you. You must put it out of your mind."

"But--"

"Vincent, it makes no sense! Higher species require the care of parents
to survive--it would be evolutionary suicide to destroy one's mother at
birth."

"Women die in childbirth," Vincent said hoarsely, regretting the words as
soon as they left his lips.

A look of pain passed over his father's face like the shadow of a cloud
over the ground. "I know that only too well." Father sighed. "Vincent, no
matter what I've told you, you've convinced yourself that you were the
cause of your mother's death in childbirth--or that she abandoned you
because she couldn't bear the sight of you."

"Both likely possibilities," Vincent insisted bitterly.

Father reached over to lay a hand on his son's arm. "No more likely than
a number of others. Yes, your mother may have died in childbirth, but for
reasons having nothing to do with your uniqueness. She could have been
sick, or poor, with no medical care. Such women die giving birth at a
disgraceful rate, even today."

Vincent remained silent, so Father was emboldened to continue. "She could
have been in the control of others, who took you from her without her
knowledge. It may even have been kindly meant—you were left at a
hospital. The rags you were wrapped in gave no clue, nor did your
condition. You were small, and very sick at first, but we weren't sure
how long you'd been outside. It could have been no more than exposure.
You didn't appear premature, at least not significantly."

"In other words, no one knows anything of use. Father, how can I allow
Catherine to risk herself when I know so little? If anything happened to
her because of me, I couldn't bear it."

"There is another consideration."

Vincent lifted his head wearily. "What?"

"Your biochemistry is unusual. Scientifically speaking, I think it's
unlikely you and Catherine could conceive a child ...surely that's
occurred to you?"

"Yes," Vincent admitted. "If that were the case, I think she could accept
it in time. But never to know, never to try ... she loves me so much,
Father,  I can still hardly believe it."

"And,  loving you as she does,  it's only natural she wants to bear you a
child."

Vincent looked at his father in wonder. "She would even welcome one like me."

Father grasped Vincent's hand. "She is not the only one. But what about
you? How do you feel?"

"Sometimes, when I see her with the children Below—or even with that
kitten--I think there is nothing I could want more. But to expose her to
such a risk, or place such a burden on a child..." Before Father could
think of an encouraging response, familiar footsteps sounded in the
passageway.

"Well, are you two having a nice visit?" Catherine kissed Father lightly
on the cheek before moving to her husband's side. "Lena's finally through
with me. I really should spend some time working ... would you like to
stay Below longer?"

Vincent rose to his feet and slipped his arm around Catherine. "No, I'll
come back with you. Goodbye, Father." As he bent to kiss the older man's
forehead, Father hugged him closely. Their eyes held for a long, wordless
moment when they parted.

"Goodbye, Vincent--Catherine. Take care."

The next morning, as Catherine was about to leave for work,Vincent took
her hand. "Would you mind staying alone tonight? There are ... things I
need to take care of Below that will take me far from the central
chambers. It would be difficult to make the journey in a single day."

Catherine smiled at her husband. "It wasn't that long ago, dear heart,
that seeing you two days in a row was heaven. I don't want to be selfish,
or have our family Below think I'm monopolizing you too much. If you have
things to do, now is actually a pretty good time--I'm trying to get as
much work done as possible right now so I can relax over Thanksgiving.
I'll spend the evening in the study slaving over legal briefs--and Bulwer
will keep me company."

"You are a most understanding wife, Catherine."

"We aim to please ... but there's one thing you have to do first."

"And what might that be?"

"Give me a goodbye kiss that'll keep me going for two days."

Vincent smiled as he drew her face toward his. "We aim to please."

As he made his way Below, Vincent felt more than a little uncomfortable.
He hadn't exactly lied to Catherine, but had let her assume that his
absence would be due to some work that needed to be done in the Tunnels.
He began to brood, not for the first time, over the unequal burden their
bond placed on Catherine. She did not have the luxury of hiding her
feelings from him completely, since the act of doing so was revealing in
itself. She sacrificed so much to love him--even the privacy of her own
emotions. Did he have the right to ask her to sacrifice motherhood as
well? But the alternative might mean the sacrifice of her very life. When
he reached the hub, Vincent sought out Father, relieved to discover he
had not yet gone to breakfast.

"Father, may I speak with you a moment?"

"Of course ... have you eaten? We could have breakfast here, or join the
community ..."

"No--I came to tell you I won't be able to teach today. Is Rebecca free
to step in for me?"

"I'll ask, but I'm quite sure she would be happy to; she quite enjoys
teaching." He looked at Vincent sharply. "Is something wrong? Is
Catherine ill? I could--"

"No, nothing like that," Vincent hastened to reassure him. "I just need
to ... get away for a while."

Father leaned against the table and regarded his son with concern. "This
wouldn't have anything to do with what we discussed last night, would it?"

Vincent nodded. "I'd like to leave as soon as possible, to avoid questions."

Father approached Vincent and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I
understand, my boy. Why don't you take what you need from your chamber,
and I'll get you some food from the kitchen. Don't worry about your
class; if Rebecca can't take it, I shall."

Vincent placed his hand over Father's in wordless gratitude. After some
hesitation, he spoke again. "Catherine has a great deal of work to occupy
her right now, so I doubt you'll see her, but … she assumed I would be
away on some task for the community."

"And you failed to correct that assumption."

Vincent nodded his bowed head, lifting it only at the sound of his
father's chuckle.

"Good heavens, Vincent, you look as guilty as if you'd committed
adultery! Total honesty in a marriage, or any relationship, is not
always the best policy. I presume you had a good reason for your silence."

"I know that Catherine and I need to talk about this, but it doesn't seem
fair to bring it up when my own feelings are in such confusion--it would
only upset her to no purpose. I know what she wants. I don't know yet
what I want--or if what I want is what I should have."

"I wish I could give you your answer, Vincent."

"But you cannot, Father. I must try to find it for myself."

A short while later, Vincent moved quickly through a maze of lesser-used
passages, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and
the most densely inhabited part of the Tunnels before the day's
activities began in earnest. One of the disadvantages of living in a
community that was more like a large extended family than a village was
the relative lack of privacy. Sometimes he felt like the last few years
of his life had been played out on a stage for the amusement and
edification of his friends and family. He was more pleased than he liked
to admit that Catherine had managed to provide a place for the two of
them to be alone together, a place not totally a part of either her world
or his.

Vincent smiled. More than once, he and Catherine had spoken with wry
amusement of the symbolic burden their love seemed to have acquired over
the years. Even if the path to true love was traditionally uneven, theirs
had been strewn with particularly large boulders and deep abysses--and
every up and down, every twist and turn, was avidly followed by a
disconcertingly attentive, though loving, audience. When he had finally
found the courage to consummate their love almost a year ago, the more
astute inhabitants of the Tunnels figured it out almost at once, and
within days he and Catherine found idiotic grins bestowed on them
everywhere they went. Their wedding a few months later acquired an aura
that made the most historic royal nuptials look pale by comparison.

Shifting the pack on his back as the route became steeper and rougher,
Vincent thought of Winslow. As if it were only yesterday, he could see
his friend's dark face in the light of the fire, speaking his heart in a
way he had never done before. The love of himself and Catherine was
important enough to Winslow that he was willing to give his life to
preserve it. Time and again, Vincent had sensed that same feeling in
others, though never stated as clearly as Winslow had. Without realizing
it, the community had come to believe that as long as he and Catherine
were together, anything was possible--the reconciliation of Above and
Below, the reality of "happily ever after," love itself. If any force,
internal or external, destroyed their union, it would break hearts in a
way much deeper than personal sorrow ... it would be as if the universe
itself had betrayed them, and Vincent feared they would never again dare
to dream.

Would a child be the fulfillment of their dream, or its destruction? Over
the past year, and especially since the wedding,Vincent had noticed many
a speculative glance in Catherine's direction, most of them directed
toward her middle. Whenever Catherine played with the children--which, he
realized with a pang, she did more and more often--Mary would look from
her to him in a way that could have only one interpretation. Lena, too,
and many another young parent or prospective "aunt" or "uncle" exhibited
the same mixture of indulgence, curiosity, and discreet speculation. Only
four people knew that he and Catherine were preventing the conception of
a child, and two of them had been told only because of their status
as physicians.

No matter how curious their friends were, Vincent knew they would never
ask, too sensitive to the possibility that conceiving a child might
simply be impossible for them. The children that are yet to be born ...
It still pained him to remember that night. When he had closed the Tunnel
door against Catherine's tearful face, he was sure he had destroyed any
possibility of happiness for himself, but given her back the future she
deserved. He shook his head. It was difficult now to remember how he
could once have believed her love for him could have been so easily set
aside. After their joyous reunion, she had given him the barest account
of the events at Nancy's. It was enough, however, to tell him that
Catherine had had within her grasp exactly the kind of life she had
always thought she wanted, and fled from it in the middle of the night
to come back to him. It was clear to her then, although not yet
to Vincent, that no life without him could be a happy one for
Catherine. If the price of that were the dream of children, so be it. His
head spinning with questions, Vincent vowed to push them all from his
mind until he reached his destination--the distant waterfall where he
had gone that night to contemplate the unbearable bleakness of a
future without Catherine in it.

Between the relentless pace he set himself, and the strain of not
thinking about the problem that consumed him, Vincent arrived at the
falls feeling hot, disheveled, and grubby. Setting his gear in a
protected cavity in the rocks, he quickly stripped off his clothes and
began to climb. When his body split the water in a graceful dive, the
cold revived him and he began to swim back and forth across the large
pool, slipping into the familiar rhythm without the need for thought. He
enjoyed the sensations of his powerful muscles as they propelled him
through the water; of the warming blood pumping faster; of the air
filling his lungs deeply as he swam.

For too many years his physical strength and power had been something to
be feared, the beast that emerged after Lisa's flight always lurking in
the shadows, threatening his control. It had been Catherine who first
realized, after the horror of Paracelsus' bloody end, that Love was
stronger than Death. Carefully, slowly, she led him to discover on his
own that wholeness lay not in destroying that dark side, but embracing
it. Only after that had he found the courage to love her, and what a
glorious world had opened up then. To know his body not as a source of
fear, or shame, but as a source of pleasure--not only for himself, but,
wonder of wonders, for her. He continued his rhythmic stroking, memory
and present sensation flowing together to create a delicious feeling
of warmth. At first his exertions banished the chill, and he continued
swimming for hours, back and forth, until the cold once again asserted
itself.

As he emerged, dripping, he began to shiver. Drying himself off with his
shirt, Vincent was glad he had thought to bring a spare. He smiled a wry
and faintly bitter smile. No matter how much he might resemble certain
large felines, he lacked the ability to shake off water as easily as they
did. This strange body of his might grant him strength and stamina most
men would envy, but not the least of its disadvantages was excessive
drying time ... gradually his smile took on a very different character.
Catherine had certainly found ways to make that particular disadvantage
less onerous. Suddenly he stopped the mechanical action of rubbing and
stared at the leg he was drying as if seeing it for the first time. Damp
fur clung closely to the corded muscle of his thigh, and
Vincent contemplated it for a long time before picking up his cloak
and moving to the other side of the pool, far from the waterfall.

There, removed from the force of the falling water and protected by an
outcropping of rock, was a smaller pool whose surface was relatively
still. Spreading his cloak on the pebbled ground, Vincent knelt and
leaned far over the water. Only a little distorted by an occasional
ripple, his reflection stared back at him. Was this a monster?  I have
never regretted what I am ... until now. Very poetic, but hardly true.
In the years that led up to that remarkable time he had managed to
forget, conveniently, any number of regrets. There was the time Devin had
taken him to see the moon, and a little girl had cried at the sight of
him, shattering his youthful innocence forever. When he was older, the
obligatory swimming lessons all the Tunnel children had to take--only the
elusive Mouse had managed to escape--caused him pain all the more acute
for being kept hidden. Among a gaggle of playmates as sleek and smooth as
porpoises, he felt keenly the difference of his already-furred small
body. And  Lisa--no regrets? Only an unspoken conviction that the
physical expression of love was impossible for him, a conviction strong
enough to deny him that pleasure for almost half his life, and
cause Catherine years of unnecessary pain and longing.

Catherine ... what a miracle she was. Never, in all the years they had
been together, had he detected the slightest trace of disgust or even
distaste at his strangeness. When she flung a plate at him the first time
she saw his face, he had fled in unthinking misery, until he realized
what the strange new bond with her was telling him. Her horror had been a
reaction not to the sight of him, but to her own ravaged face. When she
lifted the concealing hood away and looked at him, the combination of her
physical proximity and her emotions almost drove him to flee again in
confusion. Not disgust, not fear--only wonder, curiosity, and the
beginnings of what she would eventually come to recognize as love.
Vincent pondered his reflection for a long time, but the discomfort of
his leaning position finally forced him to move. Sitting back, he wrapped
himself in the cloak and remained in that spot for hours, staring
unseeing at the waterfall until sleep claimed him.

"... let us be thankful."

"Amen."

"Before we attack this exceptional bounty ..." Vincent raised his head as
Father continued beyond the traditional Thanksgiving ritual. "I feel more
than the usual degree of gratitude is in order. Never since the founding
of our community has a single year given us so much to be thankful for.”
Releasing Vincent's hand, he turned sideways and raised his glass. "To
Vincent and Catherine, who this year made their dream, and ours, come true."

Recognizing Vincent's mild discomfiture at being the center of attention,
Catherine squeezed his hand before releasing it to pick up her glass.
Turning to Father, she smiled with disarming sweetness and raised her
glass to him in turn. "I'm so glad it's turned into 'our' dream--I
remember, not too long ago, when it was your worst nightmare."

William let out a belly laugh of such magnitude--considering the size of
the belly in question--that a lesser assistant than Brooke might have
dropped the massive turkey she was carefully lowering onto the well-laden
table. As laughter rippled around the tables, Father protested feebly
while several people gleefully repeated some of his more ill-advised
remarks concerning the potentially disastrous consequences of his
son's relationship with a particular Topsider. Having set the pigeon
firmly among the cats, Catherine sat back with satisfaction and
began helping herself to stuffing.

Vincent leaned over to kiss her ear before whispering into it. "Remind me
to give thanks that I married such an intelligent and thoughtful woman."

"Of course, dear." She patted his knee. "I didn't get into Columbia Law
School just because daddy could afford the tuition."

As Catherine pressed huge amounts of food on him, Vincent looked around
the room with profound gratitude. Sebastian was making exaggerated faces
at one of Peter's notoriously bad jokes; Pascal was eating as fast as he
could so he could return to the pipe chamber; Lena was unsuccessfully
trying to convince little Cathy that cranberry sauce was more effectively
eaten with a spoon than with the fingers. The past year had certainly
been the happiest of his life. Within a few months of last Thanksgiving,
he had managed to acquire a lover, a home, and a wife. It was also the
most peaceful year he had spent since meeting Catherine. Between her
insistence on transferring to a less dangerous section of the DA's
office, and the acquisition of the house that was such a safe haven, even
Father could find little to complain about these days--at least as far as
his son was concerned. For so long the future had been something to
contemplate with trepidation, wondering what new obstacle the Fates would
place between them and happiness. But now, for the first time in years,
it seemed appropriate to face it with anticipation.

It seemed hours before the meal was finally over. Ever since Catherine
had become a Helper, their Thanksgiving feast grew more massive each
year. Father was suspicious, but William was decidedly unforthcoming on
the source of such increasing bounty. After the last of the clean-up
detail made off with the remnants, guests and residents began to move
around the room, talking and greeting old friends.

Catherine gravitated immediately toward her tiny namesake, sweeping a
happily shrieking little Cathy off the floor into a huge hug while her
indulgent mother looked on. Vincent watched, saying little, as Catherine
and Lena became involved in an intense conversation about Cathy's
cleverness, attractiveness, and precocity. After a while, he let the ebb
and flow of people carry him away, until he was captured by Elizabeth.

"Vincent, my sweet boy, how nice to see you." She patted his cheek and
fixed him with a steady gaze. "You look quite well,dear--marriage must
agree with you."

"Completely." He smiled at her. "I only wish I had come to that
conclusion earlier."

"Things happen in their own time, Vincent," Elizabeth insisted, taking
his hand. "Catherine told me just last weekend she's afraid to wish
anything had happened earlier--because everything was so wonderful now,
she wouldn't dare wish for things to have happened differently."

"She said that?" Vincent whispered.

Elizabeth smiled at the awestruck look on his face. "Oh, she goes on and
on about what a perfectly wonderful husband you are. I'm surprised your
ears aren't burning all the time."

Vincent ducked his head and sought for another subject of conversation.
"I didn't realize that Catherine visited you so often."

"Oh, yes, dear, she visits me quite often when you're busy. She loves to
see the Painted Tunnels."

"A great compliment to your work."

"Tush! Remember, dear boy, those are the only wedding pictures she has."

"Of course ..." A fleeting look of sadness passed over his face. "I never
thought of that."

"And," Elizabeth grinned mischievously, "they're the only pictures she
has of her handsome husband, except that lovely thing of Kristoffer's.
She particularly loves the one of you as a baby."

Vincent's head rose. "How do you know?"

"Why, it's obvious. Every time she comes to the Painted Tunnels, she has
to touch that one of Father holding you ... and she has the sweetest look
on her face when she does. It makes me wish I'd done more pictures of
you, but that wouldn't have been fair to the others, would it? Of course,
you were special ..."

"So are you, dear Elizabeth. And so is Catherine."

"Yes, indeed, Vincent. Now I must find Mouse. I'm almost out of burnt
sienna ..."

Vincent watched Elizabeth as she moved away through the crowd. For a long
time he stood, an island of stillness in a sea of movement and laughter.
Finally, he went in search of Peter Alcott.

"Vincent!" William's homemade ale seemed to have made Peter more
ebullient than usual. "I hope you're taking good care of my Cathy, or
Charles will come back to haunt me. I promised him a long time ago if
anything ever happened to him, I'd do my best to see that she was happy."
Peter looked Vincent in the eye. "He would have been surprised at you, no
getting around it. But he would have approved when he came to know you.
I'm sure of it."

"I made him a promise, also," Vincent replied softly, "although I'll
never know if he really heard it. I shall always regret that I never had
the opportunity to really know him--I owe him so much."

"He certainly raised a remarkable daughter," Peter nodded. "She deserves
all the happiness you've given her."

"I think," Vincent sighed, "she deserves more than I've given her."

Peter's look of skepticism was almost comical. Vincent took a deep
breath. "Peter, you knew me as a baby; Father told you about how I was
found--what do you think happened to my mother?"

At first, Peter looked puzzled at this unexpected turn of the
conversation, then the light dawned. "There's no evidence that your birth
harmed her in any way."

"Nor is there any evidence it didn't."

"There are times when I regret Jacob taught you logic."

"Peter--what do you think I am?" Vincent's implacable face made it clear
he would brook no evasion.

"Oh, Vincent ... I wish I could tell you. With the advances in genetic
engineering I've seen in the past few years, anything seems possible in
the future--but thirty-five years ago? No one then could have approached
even the primitive skills we have today ... at least not in this world."
Peter laid his hand gently on Vincent's arm. "I've always seen you as a
miracle ... a gift."

As if by agreement, both pairs of eyes turned toward the room to seek out
Catherine. Lena had taken baby Cathy off to bed, and Catherine was now
attentively listening to Maria and Teresa as they reported at length the
results of their extensive survey of all the residents Below on the care
and feeding of kittens. Finally tearing his eyes away from the sight,
Vincent addressed Peter again. "I have been given one great miracle in my
life, Peter. Perhaps I'm afraid to ask for another."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Peter replied, "if a lot of people in this
room were already asking in your behalf."

Catherine had been successful enough in clearing up her work to forget
about the world Above for the next three days. The newlyweds attended a
post-mortem on the Thanksgiving play, which had gone off without major
casualties;  led a marathon reading of  The Forgotten Beasts of Eld;
avoided playing chess with Father; escaped to the Mirror Pool for a
starlight picnic; peeled countless potatoes; broke up a fight between
Kipper and Zach; helped Rebecca make candles; and made love every night.

Early Sunday evening, Catherine reluctantly forced herself to face the
responsibilities of her other life. Tracking down Vincent in Father's
study, she walked up behind his chair and wrapped her arms around his
neck. "It's been the loveliest weekend--I hate to have it end."

"Is it time to go Above?" Vincent bowed his head to kiss her arm.

"Time for me, anyway. Would you like to stay longer?"

"No... I need to prepare for class tomorrow, and most of the books I
need are Above." He rose and took her hand. "Let's go home."

When they arrived at the house, Catherine went upstairs to her office
while Vincent settled in the library. He tried to concentrate on his
self-appointed task, but with little success. He would find a passage he
was seeking, begin reading, and know nothing more until some sound
outside would pull him out of the reverie into which he had fallen.
Restless, he wandered around the room, absently touching a book here, a
chess piece there. Coming to the table where several photographs rested
in their silver frames, he stared a long time without touching. In one,
Nancy and Paul Tucker stood with their children in front of their home.
Another showed a large contingent of Aaronsons surrounding Jenny, all
smiling in the light of Hanukkah candles. Peter and his daughter posed
comically in front of a large cactus ... Joe Maxwell with Edie at her
farewell party ... Devin and Charles …  Last was a photograph of a
wide-eyed five-year-old Catherine, holding tight to her mother's hand in
the Central Park Zoo.

Leaving the library, Vincent turned out the lights and made his way
upstairs. More time must have passed than he'd realized; he found
Catherine already in bed. Some file folders scattered around her
testified to her determination to do more work, but Bulwer had apparently
distracted her from her good intentions. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he
kneaded her lap furiously as she petted him. Vincent could not help but
smile at the sight as he began to undress. When he came to sit beside
Catherine a little while later, the tableau was unchanged.

"I hope Bulwer appreciates his good fortune. You seem to have become
quite fond of him in a short time."

Catherine smiled up at him. "Maybe it's that beautiful golden color of his."

"Or his winning personality."

Catherine cuddled Bulwer in her arms. "Could be. Or maybe I just needed
something small and furry to love." Suddenly, without warning,
Catherine's face crumpled and she began to cry. Vincent was no more
surprised than she was; Bulwer leaped from her arms as her hands flew to
her face in consternation. She shook her head in denial, but the tears
wouldn't stop.

"Oh, God, Vincent, I'm sorry--I don't know what's come over me--"

Vincent's heart thudded in his chest. The moment of truth. He gathered her
into his arms and held her close. "Yes you do,dearest, and so do I. You
want a child, and have only agreed to avoid having one for my sake. I'm
sorry."

"No, we both agreed--"

"That was almost a year ago, when we first became lovers. It was hardly
fair on my part, was it? After years of waiting, standing in the doorway
of a bedroom filled with candles and roses... you were afraid to let
anything stop us before I lost my courage. Things are different now. We
must talk about it-- I've been a fool not to have seen it sooner."

"Don't you dare say that! You were only concerned for me, afraid it would
be dangerous."

Vincent loosened his embrace to brush the hair from her tear-streaked
face. "It may well be impossible."

"I realize that. But never to know..."

Lowering his eyes, he took her hands in his. "I know how brave you are,
Catherine ... but if I were the cause of any harm to you ... I don't
think I could live with that."

"Dear heart, the same danger has been faced throughout history, by every
woman who's ever conceived a child. I know you've always assumed the
worst, but there's no real reason to believe having your child would be
any more dangerous than having anyone else's. And I want yours--only yours."

Freeing one hand from hers, Vincent lifted it before them. "Even if we
are willing to face the consequences for ourselves, have we the right to
create another like me? What of the child? I keep thinking of that little
girl in the park, all those years ago..."

"How do you know it wasn't seeing Devin that made her cry?" At Vincent's
disbelieving look, she continued seriously. "Some children are easily
frightened, you know--William could have scared her just as much if she'd
seen him ... remember, you never frightened Eric. Or ..." Suddenly her
voice softened. "Has it ever occurred to you that she didn't cry because
she was afraid? Maybe she thought you were the most beautiful, magical
creature she'd ever seen in her whole life, and cried because she was
being carried away from you. I can understand that. I felt the same way
the first time you took me back to my apartment, and disappeared. Only I
was too grown-up to cry... at least on the outside."

Vincent's own eyes became suspiciously bright at her words. "My dearest,
dearest Catherine--when I'm with you, especially when we make love--I
feel beautiful."

"You are beautiful! I'm not the only one who thinks so. Ask Lena. Ask
Jenny ... or Mary, or Jamie, or--" Catherine took his hand back, laying
it against her cheek. "Remember, even if our child took after you, he'd
be a separate person. He wouldn't grow up wondering who his parents were
and how they felt about him. He wouldn't be all alone, the only one of
his kind. He'd be forewarned about what he might have to face, because
his father had been there before him." She smiled a little, holding his
eyes with her own. "Your life didn't turn out so badly, did it? Our
child's could be even better, spared some of the pain-- or at least
guided through it."

Vincent was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "There is one more thing.
Most in your world don't know of our marriage, nor would they recognize
its legitimacy if they knew."

"Do you think I care? Nor would a lot of others. My life's too quiet now
to be of interest to the tabloids or even the office gossip mill. I'd
have to be a movie star, or maybe the Trumps, to be news now. Manhattan
is full of single mothers ... and nothing like that would matter to
anyone who's really important to me." Catherine paused for a moment. "I
have so much to be thankful for, I should be content. But you've always
told me to follow my heart—and it's pulling me in only one direction. I
can't believe it would mislead me."

Vincent bowed his head; he seemed to have nothing more to say. A charged
silence settled; even the city around them seemed to be holding its
breath. Slowly, he looked up again into the infinite promise of
Catherine's eyes. "Then we must follow where it leads, because I can no
longer deny my own heart leads me the same way."

Catherine neither moved nor spoke for a moment, afraid to believe what
she had heard. Then, with a cry of joy, she threw her arms around
Vincent's neck, burying her tearful face in his hair.

The city began to breathe again. Unnoticed at the foot of the bed, two
green eyes looked first at one, then the other. Settling paws under him
and tail around, a small golden kitten tucked himself into a sleek
package. With one last look at the two before him, he closed his eyes in
contentment and began to purr.