CHAPTER FOUR
Lute Song

---

Carrying a silver porringer in one hand, Vincent softly rapped on the door of his chamber. There was no answer. Even at a distance he could sense how wretched she was. During the past nine days their emotions had become connected in some way, so that when she fell into melancholy, he felt it, too. Her sadness echoed painfully in his own inner being.

Through the door he could hear the fright in her voice. "Who is there?"

"It's Vincent," he said quietly.

There was a long pause, then a low answer. "Come in."

He took his usual place beside the bed, and placed the porringer on a small table. All the draperies were pulled back from the bed and from the windows, letting the pale sunshine pour in. The chamber had never been so full of light. A bowl of white lilacs stood on a bedside table. Despite the bandage that covered her eyes, the woman in the bed was more beautiful than the sunshine or the lilacs. Just to be able to sit beside her was a miracle and a glory. Her unbound hair spread across the pillow like brook water and spilled over the shoulders of her linen nightdress. Against the black silk pillow, her face was a cameo.

"Are you feeling any stronger?" he asked. "Shall I help you sit up?"

Her only answer was a wretched sigh.

He spoke softly. "Your thoughts are heavy this morning. I know how heavy they can become, when someone is alone in the dark. How thoughts can press down until you can hardly breathe for the weight on your chest. It feels like you're buried alive."

Catherine's sad face brightened a little. "Have you felt that way?"

"Oh yes," he answered. "Nights I buried my cries in my own twisted pillow. Nights I threw aside the quilt and stalked my chamber for hours, feeling I was suffocating. Some have seemed so long I forgot to believe in the dawn."

She whispered, "Will a dawn ever come for me, or am I lost in endless night?"

"A dawn will come," he promised.

"I'm so afraid, Vincent -- so afraid I'll never be able to see again."

At last he had a chance to rephrase the words on the sundial. "Whenever the darkness becomes too deep, just keep saying, 'This little night, and then the light.'"

She repeated it hesitantly. "This little night, and then the light." Her quivering smile was so piteous that his whole heart went out to her.

He said, "You must say it again and again, until you believe it."

"This little night, and then the light. I'm beginning to believe it already. Oh ... you are so kind to me." Impulsively she reached out to him, but he kept his distance. His huge furred hands with their sharp nails would only frighten her. And that was something he couldn't bear.

She sighed and averted her face. Withdrawing into politeness, she said, "Thank you for your time."

"I have more of it than I need." To cheer her, he asked, "What have you discovered today?"

 "I heard your boots in the hallway, and recognized your step."

"Did you?" Her simple statement warmed him through and through.

Catherine tried to join in the simple game, knowing its purpose was to keep her from despondency. "This quilt is silk." She tugged on the maroon draperies. "And the bed coverings are velvet." Touching the embroidered sleeve of her shift, she said, "The nightdress you found for me is linen, I believe. There is a window to the north, for I feel the breeze sometimes."

"See what I have for you." From the table he picked up the porringer.

Catherine's fingers reached out and touched something metallic and hot. "It's a soup bowl." "You're becoming too skillful at this game, I cannot fool you," he confessed.

Her full lips curved in a smile. "Besides, I can smell the broth."

Despite her blindness, Catherine was independent. Without needing any help she sat up in the bed to hold the bowl by its little handle. He propped pillows behind her. She was becoming more skillful with the spoon. Only a few drops were spilled on the quilt.

"Is it all over my chin?" she asked.

"Not a bit," he answered readily. "One drop." He reached out with a corner of the sheet and touched her chin. "There, now you're perfect."

She handed him the empty bowl. "I hope you're not merely being polite, and I haven't really poured that soup all over myself and the bed."

"I'll always tell the truth to you," he began, then choked on the words. He hadn't told her any of the truth about himself. She still believed he was a fellow prisoner of the bone-crunching beast of the castle, and he didn't have the courage to enlighten her. How could he say it? -- 'Catherine, I told you one lie and I hope you won't hold it against me. I am the hell-spawned monster who threatened your father and lured you here.' No. The words wouldn't come. Instead, after a moment, he asked, "Have your headaches subsided?"

She nodded. "Soon I will see the blue sky again. That is also something I tell myself over and over. If I put my will behind such a wish, it is certain to come true. There is a light beyond this little night." His heart ached in sorrow and admiration. She was so courageous. "You told me of your friends in the village. Tell me of your family," he asked, simply to hear her voice.

She turned her face upward, ordering her thoughts. "What shall I say?"

"Tell me anything. I would like to know it all."

Memories warmed the smile that had been so tentative. "My family? Well, there are four of us. First, my father. He is a merchant who travels to the seaports in search of rare treasures. Sometimes he has a stroke of luck, and then for a while we live like nobles, with fine horses in the stable, and new gowns for all of us, and a servant girl from the village. Then at other times the silver is scarce, and we bake our own bread, and dress in homespun, and there is only Dapple in the shed. Those times are happier, in a way, for we all help each other, and it brings us closer still."

"How fortunate you are," he said, with deep sincerity.

"Yes -- he is a kind man who loves all of us dearly. He takes special care of my youngest sister Laura, who cannot hear. For her we invented a way of hand-talking that is as eloquent as spoken words." Catherine's fingers flashed swiftly. "Like this. I just said, 'Good morning, Vincent.'"

"Did you!" He was delighted. "Let me see it again."

She demonstrated the hand-movements once again. More slowly, he copied her. Why he would want to say good morning to himself, he didn't stop to speculate.

She went on, becoming more cheerful as she talked. "Rebecca, my second sister, is betrothed to the bell-maker. By chiming the bells he can make them sing and speak and convey messages over the hills! We laugh at Pascal but he is a good man, and they are very happy. I believe that's all there is to tell."

She wrapped her hair into a chignon at the back and began to curl the sides of her hair into ringlets.

"And what of you?" he asked diffidently.

Catherine could not see him, but she turned her face toward him as a flower turns to the sun. "I am busy and happy everyday of my life, taking care of Papa's accounts and making cider from my apple orchard. The village is small -- one shady path that runs along the river connects us all. The people there are dear to me. My friends and family mean everything, though sometimes I read tales of wonder that make me long for a wider life."

"Without limits," he echoed.

"Yes!" His insight was a constant marvel to Catherine. "Vincent, may I ask you a question?"

His chest tightened. "Anything. I will do my best to answer."

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Why does the demon let you live?"

His throat tightened, too. "I am necessary to him. He could not exist without me."

"Nine days have passed. Why have I not been stalked and slain?" Her hand moved back and forth across the coverlet.

"It seems to me that no one, not even an accursed beast, could bring himself to harm you." Impulsively he bent forward and touched with his lips the place where her hand had rested.

"Vincent, I fear for you." Her fingers rested on his velvet sleeve.

"For me?" Wonder swept his face. She was concerned about him. All his heart was in his look as he leaned closer to hear.

"You are endangering yourself by shielding me from the hunger of the demon... When I remember the threats he made to my father, it turns my blood white, and then I reach for this." She reached under the pillow and brought out a silver dagger, glittering and keen.

The sight of the blade in her slender hand hurt him cruelly, for he knew that he had gained her trust by deceit. He wanted to tell her the truth so badly he could hardly breathe. But after Charles' reaction, he did not dare.

He was so silent that Catherine felt she had to explain. "The threats he made were ghastly. To rip off Papa's head and swallow it whole -- to hold his body upside down and drink his blood."

Vincent couldn't believe it. "Charles told you that?"

An uncontrollable shudder ran through her entire body. "I couldn't let Papa ride through those lion gates a second time. In some ways I'm more fierce than he is. I'm not afraid when you're here, Vincent. When you're not with me, though, I lie here in darkness and imagine all sorts of noises in the hall, until I almost expect him to burst in through the door, roaring and slavering for my life. Tell me -- how does the beast truly appear? Does he actually have eyes that shoot crimson flames, and sword-teeth, and hands like spiders?"

She didn't know -- she couldn't know -- how her question hurt him.

Vincent forced himself to answer. "Not that. Not as bad as that. His eyes are blue, not crimson. His hands are almost human. Nothing like spiders".

"Bone-crushing teeth?"

"Yes, he has teeth," Vincent admitted. "But never crushed any bones."

"You're trying to soothe my fears, I know. You have become a friend to me, and I'm certain that if you were here in this chamber you would protect me. But I sleep with one hand under the pillow, and he will not take me unaware."

His words came slowly, between long pauses. " I want nothing more than to shield you from every pain. A time may come when I cannot, and you are forced to confront the beast face to face. You have more power over his life than you realize. If his death alone will give you peace of mind, your dagger will not be needed."

*

Vincent slipped embroidered gauntlets over his furred hands. "Are you feeling well enough to attempt this?"

"Much stronger than yesterday," Catherine answered cheerfully. She put her feet on the floor, reached out her hands, and stood. It was impossible even to hesitate while he was there. In the last few days of pain and terror, her soul had learned one thing -- her fellow prisoner was to be trusted. His watchful care was a sure defense against calamity.

He wrapped a loose robe of yellow flowered silk over her shoulders; she fastened it quickly, concealing her nightdress. As he helped her across the chamber, she added, "Tomorrow will you lead me outside, if it seems safe to you?"

"I will indeed. The fresh air will do you good."

A chair was already positioned beside an ornamental table, on which rested a book, in case she wanted to be read to; and a cup of pear nectar, if she should become thirsty. There were also apricot sweetmeats, a delicate fan, and a chess set of ebony and silver. Three moves into the game, Vincent had the advantage, but she had a few clever maneuvers planned that would ensure a victory.

When they reached the chair, he released her hands, reluctantly. She sipped the pear nectar, then rested her arms on the wide stone sill and breathed in the cool, damp air of twilight. "It smells like rain."

"It never rains here."

"Snow? Every winter my sisters and I still take our sleds up to Snowhill behind the blacksmith shop, and slide down with the village children."

He could imagine it clearly; Catherine in a wooly hood and cloak, shrieking merrily all the way down the slippery hill.

He explained, "There are no seasons in this domain. Spring with its uncurling leaves, summer in its green richness, autumn with its ripe fruits and changing colors, the snowy winter stillness -- those are some of the glories of your world."

She propped her chin on her curled fingers. Stillness -- yes. "I lie in bed and listen through the open windows, but I never hear a bird sing."

"There was a bird -- once. Small and brown."

She was astonished. "Only once? And you have been here a long time."

"Oh yes," he answered. "A very long time." He hoped she would not ask any questions. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep the truth from her.

"You never tried to escape? Regain your freedom?"

"For me, escape is not possible." His tone was a little curt.

She coaxed him softly. "Don't be cross. I didn't mean to pry."

"I'm not cross," he answered. Emotion made his voice harsh. He longed unspeakably to tell her the truth. And yet that revelation would mean the end of their companionship, and he couldn't bear that. Not yet. In one of his books was a picture of a miserable wretch condemned to suffer for an eternity in the fumes and darkness of the underworld. In the drawing, angels were lowering a ladder of gold, and he stood paralyzed, not knowing if the mercy was for him or far another.

He was losing control of his thoughts. Perhaps a distraction was in order.

Leaning back against the wall, he removed both gauntlets and let his fingers roam over the strings of his lute.

Despite the disfiguring bandage, her face brightened wonderfully. "How lovely! It sounds like a waterfall. And there's something mystical in the tune, as well. Did you compose it?"

She looked so slender and fragile in the flowing robe, with her hair curling over her shoulders. Her spirit wove itself into his music, and into his longing soul. "No, you composed it. Your name, your heart of grace create the music. I merely breathe it in, and breathe it out." He thought, but did not say aloud, 'Just as your name shapes every breath I take. '

She stretched out a hand to touch the vibrating strings, but Vincent was out of reach. "Mine? The song is for me?"

"No one else will ever hear it." That was a vow, though she knew it not.

"I have heard that music before," she said in surprise.

He smiled slightly. " I think not."

"But I have," she insisted. "I had to fight Dapple all the way through the trackless forest. I was completely lost among those fog-haunted trees. There were things of horror that tried to trap us. It was a faint song I heard that guided me through the wood to the gates. That song."

He hardly knew what to think. His song had guided her? That was beyond all wonder. But a more grievous memory of their first encounter struck through him then; the plunging horse, and the dreadful accident that his own sudden appearance had caused. Unconsciously the music changed to mirror his thoughts.

"That's a sadder tune," she mused. "You are remembering my accident, I think. Poor Dapple! He never intended to cause me any injury. Soon I shall be well again -- that I have decided! In the meantime I suppose I should attempt to be cheerful. Gunther insists that I show him a smiling face."

"Gunther," he repeated.

"He is a suitor of mine, a great landowner. He has asked that I become his wife. The lady of the manor." The strings were out of tune all of a sudden; he paused to adjust the pegs. When he resumed again, it was a haunting melody of unredeemable loss. The golden ladder was for another.

She went on without waiting for a comment. "But he might change his mind, now. Anything less than perfection arouses his distaste." She touched the bandages and the scar on her forehead.

Quietly Vincent answered, "Smiling or sorrowful, untouched by time or marked by the cares of life, I should think your face would always be his deepest joy." Her thoughts remained with her determined suitor. "His two vast properties are separated by an orchard that is to be my dowry. If he gains that small plot, his lands will reach from our village to the next. I wonder how he will balance in his mind a sightless bride against that apple orchard." Her valiant effort to remain cheerful suffered a setback; and her voice wavered too.

"Surely if he found you in any distress, he would gather you up in his arms and make it his life's purpose to love you back to happiness and health."

Always when she fell into despair, his voice led her back to hope. "You say kind things to me, Vincent."

"Simply the truth." His teeth set hard, and the melody ended abruptly. He was afraid his lute would reveal just how far from the truth he had strayed to gain her confidence.

"Oh -- why did you stop? Must you go so soon -- is it dusk already?" she asked, leaning out the window. "The flowers have a different scent at eventide."

His deceitfulness felt like a sword through his body. "Catherine -- " he began, and choked on the unforgivable secret. "You have trusted me -- you have asked me no questions -- if you should lose your faith in me -- "

"That is not possible, Vincent," she said earnestly. " I know you."

In agony, he knelt before her chair. "You have never seen me. The life I've lived -- what I do beyond the four walls of this chamber -- how I fared before you came -- all this is still a mystery to you. Your presence here has changed everything -- forever -- but no words exist that could explain it."

"I do not ask for explanations," she answered calmly. As lightly as petals, her hands rested on his shoulders.

His misery deepened until he could hardly breathe. "In these few days, what can you know?"

"I know you and I are the only captives left alive in this castle. That loneliness and sorrow have forged in you a heart of true gold, a soul so compassionate you are willing to risk destruction to save me -- a stranger. That I can trust you with everything I am, just as you have learned to trust me. At least I pray you have that same trust in me."

Still kneeling, he leaned against the table, faint with longing. It took so much effort to hold himself back that the lute nearly cracked in his grip. After a moment he said, "The evening primroses are opening. I will bring you a bowlful for your table." Staggering a little, he got to his feet and made his way out into the corridor.

When he was gone, Catherine sat quietly for a time, gripping her hands together in her lap. Something about their last conversation felt wrong. His voice was so strained, and his words so halting. He was hiding something from her, something dreadful. Perhaps he couldn't bring himself to tell her that she would never regain her sight.

That settled it." I can wait no longer."

The bandages were knotted behind her head. After a moment's fumbling she untangled the knot and began to unwind them, strip by strip. One after another she tossed them aside. The linen bands released a scent of herbs as they tumbled to the floor.

Whispering a prayer, she put her hands over her closed eyes and cautiously peered through her spread fingers.

She saw only darkness, and a cry of despair spiraled up to a shriek. A second look told her she was seeing a night sky framed in a black window. Leaping to her feet, she saw the glow of a fireplace and the looming shape of a four-poster bed.

"I can see," Catherine whispered. Joy soared through her. "I can see!" The relief was so enormous she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

As her sight adjusted to the dim firelight, she could discern details in the shapes of things she had touched: a chess set and a fan. Whirling around, she noted a cabinet of books - a lute under the table -- a massive lion-pawed chair. The chamber was richly furnished, but gloomy. Only a person close to despair would have hung a tapestry that showed hunting dogs bringing down a unicorn.

Her attention was seized by a life-sized portrait above the mantle. The woman wreathed in lightning was an image of raw, elemental power. Even her hair crackled like a thunderstorm. Awed, Catherine stood looking up at the portrait. The door opened and she spun around.

Framed in the doorway stood a beast. With a single glance she took in all his dreadfulness: a saffron mane, a heavy brow, a gleam of white teeth. She made one leap, bracing her shoulders against a bedpost; a dagger glittered in her fist. Through set teeth she hissed, "Creature of darkness, I am helpless no longer!"

The beast stood still, looking at her. "Catherine."

She knew that low, uneven voice. In his enormous hand he clutched a handful of primroses.

Her eyes widened; she did not lower the point of the dagger. "What have you done with Vincent?"

"I am Vincent."

At last she understood, and her anger flashed out. "You. You! You lied to me -- deceived me with a pretense of kindness. From the first hour, you were mocking me!"

He made a move; she steadied the dagger with both hands, but he only tossed the primroses into the fire and watched them char.

Seething, she demanded the truth. "This castle is yours."

Leaning one arm against the fireplace, he looked down into the dying embers, as something more than a handful of flowers turned to ashes. "Yes."

Catherine had a temper, and nothing roused her more than deceit. "Is this your chamber -- your bed?"

Without looking up he answered, "Yes."

She shuddered involuntarily. "Horrible. Horrible!"

He flinched and stirred the ashes with his boot.

She was so purely honest herself that lying seemed worse than despicable. By guile Vincent had gained her trust. His duplicity was beyond all forgiveness.

"You are the creature who threatened to tear my father apart."

His voice was lifeless. "Words were spoken, but the threat was not real."

"Nothing was real -- not one thing, except that I am a prisoner here. Tell me why I should not drive this dagger into your false heart, and free myself! Or does your evil magic shield you from the death you deserve?"

He turned his back, walked slowly to the table, and sat down, dropping his head on to his arms. "Magic shields me, but I can die. Strike -- I will not hinder you. It would be a kindness."

She took one step nearer the table, then another. He did not move, even when she stood directly behind him, and demanded, "Why did you keep the truth from me?"

Bitterness muffled his voice. "If you had known, you would not have allowed me to tend your injuries."

"Answer me one question truthfully! Did you purposely blind me?"

The accusation shuddered through him like a knife. "Oh Catherine! No."

An odd image came into her mind: a picture of a hell-doomed wretch who sees a golden ladder being pulled back up, and hears the mocking laughter of angels. She steeled herself against believing him. "Take me to the stable. I am going home."

Without raising his head, he answered, "Your horse ran into the forest and vanished. On foot you would wander through the enchanted wood until you were trapped by one of the magical guardians or you died of hunger and thirst. For you there is no way home."

She swayed against the wall. "I am trapped here forever -- with you?"

"Yes."

She flung the dagger across the table, challenging him. "Then strike! It would be a kindness."

Very slowly he raised his head from his arms, straightened his back, and got to his feet. He looked so tall and so powerful that Catherine put the back of her hand against her mouth to keep from screaming.

His fearful face was white and stark with pain. There was a certain dignity in his posture that impressed Catherine in spite of herself. Quietly he said, "This is what I am. I cannot be otherwise. When you were injured and lost in darkness, I made a decision not to frighten you any further."

"Do you expect me to overlook your hypocrisy? If I refuse, will you tear off my head and drink my blood?"

He recoiled as if the dagger had struck home. "Don't you know me better than that?"

"I thought I did, but it was all lies."

"Your life was at stake. In time, after you consider it, you may even come to agree that I had to keep the truth from you." There was a plea for understanding in his tone.

She exploded, ''I'll never forgive you for winning my confidence by treachery. I trusted you!"

His voice faltered and broke. "Couldn't you trust me again?"

"Never!"

He turned his hands over, looking at the palms and the backs. "You had faith in me when you couldn't see me. Now, because of these hands and this face, you hate me."

Angrily she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Not only because of that, but because you lied to me."

He gave up hoping, and the pain of that renunciation was so intense it was physical, tightening a vise around his chest. "I hoped once... but such mercy isn't possible. For the hours we spent together in the friendly darkness I'll always be grateful. Don't cry, Catherine. It's not your fault. " He turned and left the chamber, moving stiffly, as if he had to remind himself how to walk.

Catherine's legs folded and she sat down on the floor, rocking back and forth. After all her ordeals, it was only now that she could cry freely: for her imprisonment, her solitude, and her faith, which Vincent had betrayed. Harsh weeping tore her chest. For a little while, in the darkness, she'd had a true friend. But now her eyes were opened, and she was all alone, in the power of an inhuman creature.

Face forward she collapsed, sobbing. Darkness closed in and the last embers faded to ashes. It was cold on the marble floor, but never again would she crawl into that bed.

From the open window little breezes entered and drifted around her, as if in some way they were trying to comfort her.

Gradually she came to realize breezes were actually voices, as faint sighs, and that she could understand their whispered words.

"Who are you?" She shrank back against the bedside table.

One murmur was kind and warm, the tone of a motherly woman. "I am Mary. There is nothing for you to fear from Vincent."

"He led me to believe he was a prisoner, too." She slammed a fist against the wall.

"That is the truth. The magic that keeps you here is not his -- he is trapped in it as surely as you are."

"He lured me here."

"He never expected your father to return to the castle. Or anyone, ever."

The second spirit had the quavering tones of an elderly man. "Recall, if you please, that he read to you, fed you, gave you his own chamber, restored your sight."

"For some evil supernatural purpose of his own!" Catherine insisted. She aimed a pillow at the whisper. It struck the chessboard and knocked over a rook. "Perhaps the magic that holds up this castle is sustained only by sacrifices. Well, I am not willing to be offered up and I will battle every one of you if you attempt it."

Mary longed to soothe the girl's fears with a motherly touch, but knew it wasn't the time. "No one will harm you here. Vincent's fate is a cruel one -- eternal solitude -- can you not forgive him?"

"I can forgive all sorts of things, but not lies, and everything he did was a lie."

Jacob knew that young women were prone to hysteria. He'd read it. "He was afraid you would shun him, and it seems his fear was justified."

Mary pleaded with her. "Prove yourself worthy of the music he composed for you -- show him a heart of grace. "

Catherine buried her face and tried to shut out the whispers. "Leave me. Tend to the wants of your dreadful master."

With sighs of sadness, the spirits withdrew, leaving her alone once again.

Shuddering with heartache and fear, she jumped up and shoved the inlaid table and chair against the door. It was a symbolic defense. In truth the furniture would prove a weak blockade against a ravening beast. Something deep within her, though, told her she was safe. She wouldn't see Vincent again.