She felt the softest touch to her lips … a breath, warm and sweet at her ear.

Her mind fought against waking, fought to stay warm in his arms, fought to believe he was there … really there ...

But her clock, jangling and rude, forced her to accept the day. She opened her eyes to the pink light of morning and to an empty pillow, the bed cold where only a dream had held her.

She struggled to have work claim her thoughts. In the shower, she gave in only to brief moments of fantasy, pushing away the dreamy shiver and imagined hands of the man she loved. There was the Erin Benson interview and the statement from Flynn O’Carroll. Lunch with Jenny … maybe … if she could muster the spirit to feign normalcy.

But nothing was normal. She had not seen him now for days, and too many nights had passed with an ominous feel to their emptiness. Not one word in a note; no tap on the pipe answered. No gift left on her balcony to let her know …

She sighed as she finished her hair ... again as she put on her shoes.

"I miss you, Vincent."

The morning soured. Another breakfast of burnt toast and bitter coffee. Late, late … lost in a reverie of worry. A nagging thought that it was time for a dentist’s appointment. Could it get worse?

"It’s only Monday. Plenty of time to nosedive," she muttered. "And I’ll go mad if it does."

She fumbled with her deadbolt, felt a presence behind her, whirled to see the stairwell door inch open.

"Zach, you scared me! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?"

He slipped into the hallway. "I’ve been waiting on the steps for an hour. Aren’t you awfully late?"

He grinned at her and she sagged in relief. He wouldn’t smile … would he? … if something were wrong.

"Yes, I’m late. I was thinking of calling in dead! But you should have just knocked," she said. "You're welcome here, you know. Are you hungry? Can I buy you breakfast?"

He shook his head, his hand already on the doorknob. "Vincent sent me. He gave me a note and made me promise to hand it to you in person, not to leave it under your door." He held out an envelope, her name on it in a familiar script. "He … loves you, Catherine. He’ll be back." With that, Zach disappeared in the way of tunnel children – swiftly, silently.

"Back?" she cried, launching after him. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

The metal door snicked shut, the sound of it heavy … final.

She sat down in the hall chair to read.

***

Two thin pages were folded together – a poem and a note, veiled and intricate.

_____

______

She slumped against the chair, remembered to breathe, wondering, as she had so often in the past, how best to comfort him, how to move through the labyrinthine chasm between them. Absorbed in this thinking, moments passed, and in them she recognized that she could only wait … wait for Vincent’s return.

Another rude jangling … and this time it was her telephone. Even behind her door, the ring was loud, accusing her with its unrelenting shrill.

And then she heard the voice on her answering machine – Joe’s – saying just that. She commanded her feet to carry her to the elevator and willed her forefinger to press for the car. And when the doors opened, she stepped in and rode down and when the doors opened again, she strode out with determination, with fortitude, into a crisp, clear morning.

________________

While navigating the hallways at work, Catherine prepared an answer to Joe’s sure irritation. She dropped her briefcase on the floor, her purse on the desk, and plopped into her chair. Waited. I’m good at waiting. Soon enough, she heard Joe barreling through the office.

"Cathy! Cathy, where have you been? Do you know what time it is? Do you have any memory of where you were supposed to be this morning?"

"Umm, here?" Her smile was rewarded with a deepening glare from her boss. "Joe, I’m sorry. Really. I tried. I did! This morning was just ... "

"Well, you got lucky, Radcliffe. Remember Lydia, our new first-year? The one who’s so ambitious, umm, I mean, energetic?"

"The one who thinks you’re charming?" She stabbed a pencil into her sharpener, wincing at the high-pitched squeal.

"Yeah." Joe harrumphed and blushed. "That one. Well, she took the Benson statement and did a fine job of it. She was quite pleased to fill in for you and now she wants to know if she can run with it, since you seem, as she put it ... overwhelmed"

"It’s a fairly simple case. I’m sure she can handle it. I’ll look it over, make sure she’s on top of things."

"You do that." Perched on the corner of her desk, Joe folded his arms and furrowed his brow. "Cathy, you don’t look so good. Is there something you want to talk about?"

"No, I’m okay. I am," she said, not meeting his eyes, straightening a towering stack of files. "I just had one of those mornings after one of those nights."

"Are you up to talking to Flynn O’Carroll? The press is all over this one."

"I’m ready. I just need a minute to get organized. I have some time, don’t I? It's not until after lunch."

"Are you really taking a lunch?" Joe groaned, but he drummed his fingers on her desk and smiled at her.

__________

Work demanded her attention, yet often during what was left of the morning, Catherine’s thoughts wandered to Vincent’s chamber, to her balcony lonely and wanting these past days, to uncharted passageways deep below the tunnels where the worst might happen. She worried over Vincent’s words – his suggestion that they talk – and she could not shake a deep fear that in his melancholy of late, he would make a firm step away. Not steps back, which she knew to wait out, which she herself had made, but steps to separate from her. Swiveled toward the window, staring into the skyline, she was adrift in that worry, unmoored and caught in a dark, swelling current.

"Cathy … Cath! Anybody home?"

"Oh, Jenny! I should have called you." She looked at her watch. "I can’t believe it’s so late."

"Don't say it!" Jenny wailed. "You can’t leave for lunch, right?"

"I was a little late getting here this morning," she said, gesturing at the books open on her desk.

Jenny brought her hand from behind her, bowed low over a large bag. "I know you better than you think. Ta da! Sesame noodles and pea pods. Your favorite!"

She popped up from her chair, held out her arms. "You’ve saved me. Again. Thank you. Thank you for putting up with me."

"And for waiting for you to tell me what is going on in your life that puts those wrinkles in your forehead?"

"And for not asking right now," Catherine said, as she pulled up a second chair.

______

In the staff room she wrote her name on the boxes. And after stowing the leftovers in the refrigerator, she closed the door with authority and leaned against it.

"On pain of death," she promised, shaking her head at Joe's hopeful expression. Ignoring his frown, Catherine took Jenny's arm and walked with her through the office and to the elevator.

"What’s up for your weekend? Want to drive upstate if it’s nice, maybe do some antique hunting?"

"That sounds good, Jen, but can I let you know later?"

"As usual, yes, you can let me know later." Jenny tried to look stern, but couldn’t hold the frown, reaching out instead for a final hug. The doors opened and with a wave, Jenny turned to leave.

***

"Ready to go over?"

"Yeah, I'm set. Are you?"

"It should be a simple statement, Joe. It was clearly a good shoot."

"Not exactly a shoot, but I know O’Carroll did the right thing. You know it too." Joe snorted. "Those reporters want to twist it. If he hadn’t done what he did ... who knows what might have happened to those kids."

She nodded, smoothing the strap of her shoulder bag. "What he did was ... necessary."

Outside the conference room, the hallway teemed with suits and uniforms and reporters and when Sgt. O’Carroll and his wife emerged from the elevator, the press surged with a barrage of questions. Cameras flashed and clicked and whirred.

"Get these people outta here!" Joe shouted to the officers, adding to the din. "Get them back!" He elbowed his way through the crowd to stand guard at the open door. The anteroom was cool and dark and empty and, once inside, the four of them stood together in the welcome silence.

"Don’t worry, Sergeant," Catherine said. "We just need your statement."

"I’m ready," the officer replied. He took a single step forward, then stopped. "This is my wife," he said, turning to the woman close at his side. "Eimear."

The pair was a study in contrasts. Flynn O’Carroll was black-haired, sturdy and defined, and his eyes were a piercing blue that Catherine found startling and familiar. Eimear was tall, almost as tall as her husband, but with wild, amber-colored hair and sooty circles under dark eyes.

"That’s an unusual name." Joe took out his notebook. "How do you spell that, Mrs. O'Carroll? 'E-m-u-r'?"

"It’s E-i-m-e-a-r, but you’ve sounded it right. I want to come in with you." Her gaze never left her husband’s solemn face.

"Just the officials, I’m afraid, but you can sit out here, away from those …" Joe muttered something under his breath. "We’re waiting on the Union rep and the stenographer. You want something to drink? I’ll get it for you."

Before she could answer, the attorney threw open the door and the stenographer scuttled in under his arm. "Let’s get this done," he growled. Without introducing himself, he slammed through to the inner office.

_______________

"Sgt. O’Carroll," Catherine began. "We need you to walk us through the events of this incident. Just tell us what happened as you remember it, beginning with why you were at the Yeshiva that morning."

"I wasn’t at the Yeshiva," he said. "I was buying a pretzel off a cart. It was about 8:30 in the morning, my day off, and I was meeting some guys for volleyball at the gym across the street. I thought I’d– I was hungry. I was just waiting for my buddies and I heard gunfire and kids screaming …"

He told his story – of three men, believing a rumor of cash in the school, who terrorized twelve children and a young teacher with threats and pain and guns; of a man who just wanted a pretzel for breakfast, who charged into the unknown to help strangers; of lives that were ended and saved and changed that day.

"Were you armed, Sergeant? Did you carry your off-duty weapon?" asked Joe.

"No. I don’t like to leave it in a locker with kids around."

"How long were you inside the school?"

Sgt. O’Carroll was silent as he flexed his fingers ... stared at them spread against the table. "It seemed like ... a lifetime ... but I think it must have been nine, maybe ten minutes."

"What made you decide to go in without assistance?"

"Decide?" He stared hard at Joe. "There wasn't anyone else. There was only me. I had to do something."

There was only me …

The echo of words was a hum in her throat. Catherine’s hands shook as she paged through her folder. "Just a few more questions."

---

---

"I think we’re finished here, Sergeant." Joe stood, nodding to the Union attorney and the stenographer. He grumbled as he left the room. "I'm clearing that hallway if I have to yell Fire."

Catherine leaned over the table and touched the officer's gripped, white-knuckled hands.

"It’s over now. It's all right."

Flynn O'Carroll shook his head. "No. It isn't."

"Let me get Eimear," she pleaded. "You can wait here while we get rid of whatever's still outside."

"I don’t want her in here. Not now. I need a few minutes. Alone. Tell her to go on downstairs and wait for me." Flynn was adamant.

"Are you sure that’s what you want?"

"Yes." He crossed his arms and looked away. His lips were pressed thin, unyielding in their downward curve.

She pushed away from the table, easing the door open and closed again. Eimear sat in a far corner, her hands stilled in her lap but her eyes wide and trained on the door.

"Are you finished with us, Ms. Chandler?"

"Please. It's Catherine. Flynn wants you to wait for him in the lobby. He says he needs some time. Everything went fine. There’s nothing to worry about, but he's bothered by having to relive it." She hesitated, then sat down in the closest chair. "This isn’t the first time Flynn has had to use lethal force."

"No," Eimear replied. "There have been four other times, all good shoots and there was no other choice. He's a rifleman, you know. Special Weapons. He didn’t make those calls, his unit leader did, but he had to ... do it."

"How long have you been married?

"Closing on four years. His name … in Gaelic? It means victorious warrior. He is that – a warrior, a soldier. He protects what he loves." She’d drawn tall in her chair, but her bearing flagged. "Though after ... after any sort of ... incident, he ... withdraws."

"Can you help him, can you ... find him ... after? I mean ... when he asks you to leave him alone, do you?"

Eimear’s dark eyes welled with tears but her voice was steady. "He says that. Maybe ... maybe he even means that. But I won’t let him be alone in this. Ever. No matter what."

Something wordless passed between the two women, a worn-smooth stone of opal passed hand to hand. Catherine nodded, stood to leave. At the door, her hand on the lever, she turned back. "What does your name mean? In Gaelic?"

"Eimear was the wife of the hero, Cu Chulainn."

When Catherine left the anteroom, Eimear was kneeling beside her husband’s chair. His head was bent to hers and his hands were caught in her wild hair.

It was a somber march back to her office, but Joe had managed to clear the hallway and so Catherine walked slowly. Minutes ... an hour ... passed before she spoke a word to anyone. Seated at her desk, she swiveled toward the window and in the clouds that scuttled past she found an answer.

***

Chapter 4 ~ Visitor

"Radcliffe, you wanna get a drink with us?" At the elevator, Joe stood empty-handed while Catherine juggled notebooks, her briefcase and purse.

"It’s Thursday, Joe. I always have too much work to do on Thursdays," Catherine returned. "Rain check?"

"You must have a drawer full of those, but okay. I’ll ask again next week." Joe backed over the threshold, wiggling his fingers in good-bye. "Tomorrow morning, bright and early."

Though it was the cover she used to keep certain evenings free, tonight she had no pressing need to take work home. The week had dragged and it wasn't over. She expected to sit in her apartment in a funk. Her door was a welcome sight and she had the first lock open when, behind her, someone called her name. She turned, her keys like talons between her fingers. It was Jamie, leather and flannel wadded in her arms.

"Catherine!" Jamie pleaded with her. "I need to talk to you."

"I can’t believe it’s you! Come in." She rushed her visitor inside and dropped all she was carrying. "What is it? Is something wrong Below?"

Jamie cried out, "Yes, there’s something wrong!" At Catherine's gasp, she rushed on. "Not with Vincent. At least I don’t know that anything's happened to him, although, how would I, since he left again last night and took Mouse with him this time, and Father and Mary and Rebecca have been sticking their nosey noses into my business all day long! They’re driving me crazy! I can’t stand it down there another minute! Please, can I stay with you for a while? Please!" Already, Jamie was removing another layer of clothing. "It is so HOT in here!"

Catherine laughed. "Let’s have something cold to drink then. I haven’t had the best day either. Please," she said, indicating the couch, "put your things anywhere. Sit down if you’d like."

But Jamie was too agitated to sit and roamed the apartment, touching and inspecting, distracted by photographs and by the television, which she snapped on and immediately off. "I’m not a child anymore! They treat me like I don’t have good sense, like I don’t have a say. It’s MY life. It’s MY world too. I know some things! I know some things better than anybody else!"

"It's all right. Or it will be," Catherine soothed. "I’m sure it will be. These are normal feelings. Parents can be so ... bossy, and it's like ... like you have an awful lot of parents sometimes, isn’t it?"

"Yes. That’s exactly it. Ohhh, I am so MAD!" Jamie flung herself down on the couch, a puff of frustration lifting her bangs.

"Tell me ... is it something about Mouse? Why did Vincent leave with him? Do you know? Do you know where they went?"

"Oh, I know why. Father insisted!" With a thump, Jamie’s feet landed on the coffee table.

Catherine started for the kitchen. "Let’s have some sparkling water or a ginger ale and then, maybe you should start at the beginning. Talk it out."

"Do you have anything stronger?"

In just moments she returned with two tall, frosted glasses, handed one to Jamie and settled at the opposite end of the sofa. "Why did you come to me, Jamie? I’m glad you did, but why?"

"Here’s the thing. Nobody down there has a clue about my feelings! They’re all so wrapped up in philosophy and duty and the past and what might happen in the future! Nobody but Vincent even LISTENS to me. Well, Mouse does. He listens." Jamie’s face grew rosy and she studied the ice in her glass. "But you ... I know you can understand."

"Just start at the beginning, okay? I’m a little lost," she said, patting Jamie on the knee.

"Okay. Fine. At the beginning. See, I’ve grown up in the Tunnels. Those of us without parents slept together in one big room. We went to school together, played hide and seek, swam together in the pools. I remember Vincent throwing us into the deep waters and we would laugh and squeal for him to do it again and again until he had to be exhausted. He never seemed to tire of us. We were all so happy. And later, Father and Mary and the others ... they began to separate us, girls from boys. It’s obvious and necessary and for the most part, we are like brothers and sisters, except sometimes things change.

"I blame that stupid Lisa. She was such a flirt. Oh, we all know the story about her, how she left to go Above without even talking to Vincent, how badly she hurt his feelings! I almost gagged when she came back, telling all her woman of mystery stories. I wanted to snatch Samantha bald-headed! She was so star-struck! 'Will you teach me to dance, Lisa?’ Yuck! All the little girls, whirling around the place for weeks, waving their arms in the air and walking on their tippy-toes.  It was so annoying. You couldn’t get any work done for them flitting around like little bugs."

"Does Lisa have something to do with this?" Catherine was concerned for Vincent’s privacy, his hurt. She didn’t believe Jamie – or anyone – knew the deepest truth of the story. Not even Father.

"No, not really. It’s Father. Father’s the problem! See … oh, I’m getting confused! There’s so much to tell." Her breath huffed out, vexation pursing her lips. "Last night, I was late for dinner. I’d gone to the bathing chamber and just lost track of time, sitting under the falls. So when I got to the table, my hair … I’d barely had time to comb it out. I don’t know. It gets all wavy when it dries like that. Anyway, I was filling my plate and Mouse was there too. Then ... then he reached up and, um, kind of twirled my hair through his fingers and then, ummm, he, ah ... well ... he …"

"It’s okay. Go on."

Jamie’s words spilled out. "He put both his hands on my face and just looked at me, really hard, but really sweet and he said, ‘Jamie ... so pretty.' And there was a, a space, you know? Like time shifted or something. I don’t know how to say it, but everything changed. I’ve known Mouse forever. When he came below, he couldn’t talk, wouldn’t let anyone but Vincent touch him. He wouldn't play with us, either. He'd just watch us from a dark corner. And he'd steal food and save it under his bed. He’s ... different, but I know him." Jamie’s voice trailed away, though she crossed her arms over her chest, defiance her shield.

"What did Father do? Tell me."

"Well, what Father DID was embarrass Mouse to death! And me too! He swooped down on us so fast. All of a sudden, Father clamped his hand on Mouse’s shoulder and pulled him back. Mouse was mortified and everybody was looking at us. Then Mouse ran off and when I tried to go after him, Father made me stop. He told me to go to my chamber, like I was ten years old. And the next thing I know, Vincent’s taking Mouse off on some journey. I guess he’s been instructed to give Mouse the Talk."

"The Talk?"

"Can’t you hear it? How Mouse and I can’t possibly have a relationship. How he needs to see that I’m going Above one day. How he needs to let me live the life I’m destined to. The standard speech. But Father doesn’t understand! I love Mouse. I know it. I knew it the minute he touched me like that. It might take years for us to … you know … but I won’t go up top to live for good, not ever."

"Are you sure? There are so many things you could do Above – school, travel, work."

"Oh, I could do something up here, and I might. But I won’t leave the Tunnels. I can’t. You, of all people, should understand, Catherine. Mouse can’t leave. He can’t live anywhere else. And I'm not going off and leave him behind. But then I guess it wasn’t enough for Father to send me to my room and to send Mouse away, but Mary had to come down and she started in on this business of holding myself apart and the greater good and the big picture and about how all the young children looked up to me and how I had so much potential. She went on and on until I thought I would scream! She must think that plan is working for her, but I know better."

"What do you mean?"

"Can’t you see it? Sebastian is so in love with her! You didn’t know? He is. He comes Below every week and shows her some special little trick that reveals a trinket for her, but she acts like she doesn’t even notice. It’s her shoes."

"Her shoes?" Catherine shook her head, not understanding.

"Haven’t you noticed? She has goody written across the tops of both of them."

Catherine burst out laughing, and after a fleeting moment of consternation, Jamie joined in. "And that’s not all!" she cried, gasping for breath. "After Mary finished with me, then Rebecca showed up to put in her two cents. She tried to tell me that I should be careful with Mouse’s feelings because he’s so vulnerable and that it’s best to just be friends. Huh! Friends forever like Rebecca and William? No thanks!"

"Rebecca ... and William? Can you explain that?"

"Yes, Rebecca and William, except Rebecca’s nursing some big disappointment and she’s afraid, and William thinks nobody can love him because he’s so big. About every two months, he goes on a diet. Believe me, we all pay for that. Last week, William gave Rebecca a replica of the Ark, with all the little animals made out of marzipan. He spent weeks on it. She didn’t even hug him for it and you could tell, it just about killed him. But he won’t make the first move.

"And another thing. You can’t get any privacy down there. People walk right into your chamber without asking. It’s not right. I’m going to complain at the next council meeting. I am. We should have doors or curtains or something!"

"That’s the truth." Falling back against the cushions, Catherine couldn’t stifle a round of giggles, but as her laughter died away, her stomach grumbled in announcement. "I’m starving," she proclaimed. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"

"Could we order a pizza? I love pizza and you can’t get a hot delivery Below." They were off again in peals of laughter.

While waiting for the pizza – an extra large everything – Catherine toured Jamie through the apartment, offered her towels for the shower, opened the cabinet to shampoo and toothpaste.

"I have to ask ... does Father know where you are?"

"Yes, little Miss Responsible left a note for him, but I told him not to DARE come after me." Jamie crossed the room and pushed at the unlatched door. "So this is The Balcony."

A deep-rose blush bloomed on Catherine’s cheeks, her only reply a strangled cough.

"Remember what I said about privacy down there. I’ve overheard Father and Vincent talking. Father worries about Vincent up top. Father worries about Vincent Below. Father needs to get a life." Jamie wandered back into the living room and smiled, her hands on her hips. "All this tiny furniture! I can't imagine Vincent in here. It's a sight isn't it, him on that little couch?"

"That would be quite the sight," she agreed, laughing, pleased that her voice had returned.

Jamie stopped short. "Just exactly what are you saying, Catherine?"

"Ummm, well, he’s never, ahh …"

"What?" Jamie shrieked. "He hasn’t? What is WRONG with you people?"

___

Jamie ate most of the pizza and downed two glasses of soda. Catherine didn’t expect her guest to sleep, but when she emerged from the bathroom, her face washed and her teeth brushed, she found Jamie curled on the couch. She tucked a waffled, cotton blanket in at Jamie’s feet, settling it across her shoulders. It had been wonderful to laugh and she knew a lifting of worry. Vincent was with Mouse, not alone, and she felt sure he would tell Mouse to follow his heart.

The morning dawned with the dream of soft lips brushing the bare skin of her shoulder, pursuing with gentle curiosity the pulse of her, up to her ear … of his voice, close, keen with ardor ...

The desire to remain fixed within the dream warred with the sun and the alarm and the pull of responsibility. She opened her eyes, accepted his absence. Noises from the kitchen announced her company. Catherine padded out to her living room where Jamie had set out mugs and butter and jam.

"Morning," Jamie said. "You need to go shopping. Your cupboards are kind of bare."

Catherine pushed the hair from her face. "I know! I’ve been a little … distracted."

"You’re looking a little bony, don’t you think?" Jamie observed. "And bony’s not a good look for you."

"Let me get a shower. I’ll just be a few minutes. Don’t leave, okay?"

"I’m going to rummage your cabinets some more."

There was a breakfast of fruit and toast and hot tea ready when Catherine emerged, her hair still damp. "Jamie, you sweetheart. This is so nice. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came to visit. And now breakfast! I wish I didn’t have to go in. I'd rather stay and talk."

The sun touched the balcony, sending ribbons of light through the parted sheers. Jamie turned a crystal juice glass in her hand, dancing rainbows across the table.

"You have so many pretty things. It’s like a fairy tale up here."

Catherine reached out, her hand closing over Jamie’s. "Everything will work out. It will."

___

The teapot empty, the stack of toast devoured, Catherine could wait no longer. "Jamie," she ventured, hesitation in her voice. "Can you tell me? Vincent ... how is he? It’s been ... a while since I’ve seen him."

"Well ..." Jamie searched the ceiling for words. "He’s been ... broody. Apart from us. Apart from Father. Physically there, but ... retreated. I found him once at the pools under the falls, swimming hard, over and back. He didn’t see me though. Then he left for some private place a few days ago. He does that sometimes."

Catherine toyed with her spoon. She should have been with him. She should have held him, read to him, swam with him, combed out his hair. She felt a heat rising to her cheek, a sharp twinge in her chest.

Jamie continued. "Then right before ... before Mouse ... before Father ... Vincent seemed ... I don't know exactly. He’d just come back and I’m sure he was going to you, Catherine. He was way down the Tunnels when Father sent a message on the pipes for him to return, that it was Urgent. And you know Vincent. He came back."

Easily enough, Catherine could sense Jamie’s gathering energy. She shifted in her chair, her face telegraphing exasperation and then … something else. Wonderment. Possibilities.

"What will you do when Mouse comes back?"

"I’m going to undo … all this."

"You know Father loves you, loves you both, Jamie. He wants to spare you hurt and disappointment."

"Spare me?" Jamie sputtered. "What kind of life is that? I want some of that, the high, light feelings ... and that means I have to risk the rest. I know, I know. I should be careful and I should be sure. Father thinks I'm still a child. You surely understand the decision is mine to make. I mean, Mouse ... he may pursue me in his own way." She interrupted herself with a bark of laughter. "But he'll wait for me to say yes or no. And knowing Mouse, if I don’t get right on it, he’ll be too embarrassed now to ever make a move on his own. His confidence ... well, he knows what he knows but with girls ... with women ... I think I’ve got my work cut out for me."

"You’ve come to meaningful conclusions awfully fast," Catherine said. "All this from a single touch, from one sentence?"

"From one sentence fragment," Jamie said with a broadening smile.

A sideways glance at the mantle clock made her wince. "I’m going to have to leave soon. I can try to get off early. We could go out, maybe do some shopping."

"I should go back after all. There're some things I need to do."

"Do you know ... do you have any idea how long Vincent and Mouse will be gone?"

"I can ask William how much food they packed. That should give us a guess about how many days. Vincent's appetite ... well, he can go longer than Mouse without eating, but Mouse gets antsy. You want to avoid that."

"Can you send a message when you find out, or, if they’re back, let me know right away?"

"Sure. I can do that. I will. I promise."

Catherine had gathered her things for work and about to leave when Jamie called to her from the kitchen. She hurried into the room, drying her hands on a towel.

"There’s something else I need to talk to you about, Catherine. Two things, really. Serious things. I need to see Peter."

"Peter? You mean, a doctor? Instead of Father?"

"Yes, Peter instead of Father. Sometimes, we need ... you know ... privacy."

"Privacy. Oh, right. Of course. I understand." Catherine blushed, a match for Jamie’s deepening color. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, no. No. It’s okay. It’s fine. But do you think I could borrow some of your clothes so I don’t stand out like the proverbial thumb in the waiting room? And could you call him, tell him I’m coming by this morning? He’ll see me whenever I get there."

"Of course I will. I’ll call first thing. You can borrow anything you like. Don’t worry about getting it back to me." A silence settled between them, the first issue broached and closed. It was the second that loomed, a sudden chilling shadow. Catherine leaned against the back of the couch, her coat over her arm, watching as Jamie paced a tight circle in the room.

"There is something bothering me. Something has to change Below. About Vincent. About what happened when we were attacked, when that Tong gang ... and Paracelsus ... when those ... outsiders killed Randolph. It’s not right!" Jamie burst out. "It’s not right for Vincent to have the burden of protecting us all alone. It isn’t fair that he has to go out by himself. Someone has to go with him. William’s right when he says we have to fight back. Vincent isn't there for us to use. We can't just assume he'll always make the sacrifice for us while we sit, or hide. I can’t bear it again. It tears him up inside after, while we’re reading a book and having a nice cup of tea. Remember Winslow! I think about it ... what might have happened if I hadn’t followed them down that time. We might have lost Pascal. Vincent too. You.

"I know you took self-defense lessons. That’s what I want to do. I want to learn to fight back when I have to. Not just me. There’re a few of us who can’t wait around anymore. Would you get us a teacher? Your teacher maybe? Someone who won’t ask questions we can’t answer? I know he helped you once, helped you find Vincent. And that’s not all. I want to learn to shoot, shoot true the first time, if that time comes. Will you help me? Help us?"

Darkness seemed to creep from the corners of the room, a disorienting swirl of fog that seized at her ankles. Stunned, she struggled for a response, Vincent’s sure rejection … Father’s veto … emphatic in her imagination. Jamie stood before her, loose-limbed, shoulders squared, armed only with courage, with commitment and will. She reached for Jamie’s hand, pulled her into an embrace.

"I will," she whispered. "I will."

***

^[1] George Gordon, Lord Byron. A Pleasure in the Pathless Woods from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 1818.

Next: Part 2