CHAPTER SIX

Wishing Well

---

At first light, Vincent leaped out of bed. He seized his garments from a peg and then completely lost his train of thought. The shirt, doublet, and breeches dangled from his hand, forgotten. Standing naked on a rectangle of carpet, he raised his head, listening to a vibration that he alone could hear. A light dawned in his expression.

"She's awake."

The sky outside was just as gray, but a new sun exploded inside him, for he was no longer alone. The bond that had linked them during the days of Catherine's blindness had not snapped, but had instead grown stronger.

Over a shirt of ivory silk he hastily pulled on a doublet of rich, dark, chestnut brown. A wide lace collar flowed to his shoulders. There were rings on the inside of the doublet and hooks on the knee-length breeches; he fastened them quickly and straightened his collar. There were no mirrors in his chamber, or indeed anywhere in the castle; he pulled a comb through the torrent of his mane, grimacing at the knots. Shoving his feet into high boots, he grabbed his cloak from a chair and ran from his chamber, giving a marble pegasus a pat on the nose for good luck.

Down the stairs he ran, shrugging the cloak over his broad shoulders and fastening a cord under his chin. One glance into the great hall told him Catherine was not there. Probably she was still in bed, yawning, accepting a cup of herbal tea from Mary, stretching her bare arms... he pushed that picture out of his thoughts and chided himself, but not so severely. Nothing could dampen his happiness for long.

Out the entry way and into the dewy gardens he raced. Perhaps he would accept a handful of primroses now -- there were some blooming in the white garden, if he remembered correctly, among the beds of phlox. And later in the day the two of them might investigate another odd corner of the castle. Sudden joy poured though him. To explore the nine and ninety towers might take years.

The first wicket gate opened into an overgrown maze. He had to edge between ragged green walls and push through masses of twigs and branches. The task of clipping the hedges could not be put off -- not if he hoped to stroll this maze with Catherine one day and get delightfully lost. Just the two of them -- deliciously lost. Rapturously, gloriously lost -- just he and Catherine. He didn't struggle against the image as he would have before she came. He was allowed to intoxicate himself with such pictures now, for she was here, really here. Catherine was bringing him to life, and his whole being rejoiced.

He pushed through a thicket of twigs to the center of the maze, where a wooden summerhouse stood, curtained in hornbeam vines. A wooden swing dangled from two chains. Once he'd hoped to push Laura and Rebecca in the swing, and hear their merry laughter. His dreams were sweeter now, and wilder, too. When the old habit of doubting came back to haunt him, he banished it with a single phrase. "She's real."

He fought his way to the second gate and pushed his way into the white garden. Pure, pale flowers bloomed around birch trees that looked like pillars of ivory: camellias, lilies, magnolias, and white phlox. Arches of wisteria led to a little garden seat out into the hedgewall, which was overgrown with clematis vines. It was a spot for quiet meditation ... if one were alone. But the dainty little bench was wide enough for two. The image almost turned him dizzy.

He ran without stopping through the lily pond garden. There were no benches around the flagstone rim, but it would be easy enough to install one. Then it would be a place to linger with a basket of fruit and a poetry book. But not alone. Never alone any more.

With his heart slamming against his ribs, he pushed open the final gate. Snowy roses bloomed in great heaps all around him, but he didn't see them. All his senses were concentrated on a balcony, and diamond-paned doors. All at once he remembered -- he hadn't picked her any flowers. Quickly he searched the rose bushes. All the blossoms seemed too bedraggled. There weren't any beautiful enough far Catherine.

The double doors opened wide.

"Vincent." All in blue, looking like a piece of the sky, she leaned over the railing. "Good morning!"

"It is," he answered softly. "It is indeed." It was true. She was real. He hadn't imagined her.

Their rambles through the grounds the day before had eased Catherine's fears. They had talked easily together and he had been so thoughtful. As if her trust were a chalice of crystal that one clumsy movement might shatter. Looking over the railing, she remembered Mary's words, '… the most faithful heart that ever beat,' and knew the description was not an exaggeration.

Shyly she asked, "Would you like to ... come up?"

"You ask that?" he stammered.

"Will you?"

Though roses grew up to her terrace, ivy crept up the adjoining walls. He thrust his boots into the tangle and swung himself up with no difficulty at all. As he stood on her terrace, he felt as though his soul had leaped ahead of him to reach her. The gown made her eyes look blue. They had looked green the day before. Amazing. There was a little round table set for one, and a single chair.

Having decided to be friends with Vincent, Catherine did not hold back. "Shall I ask Jacob to set another place? Or would that not please you?"

He could hardly believe it. "Not please me? To share this morning with you?"

She spread her hands apart, slightly embarrassed. "I wasn't sure ... a supernatural being like yourself might not eat."

"I am not very supernatural," he said, smiling. In a matter of moments, a second chair was fetched, as well as another place setting.

"Our rambles yesterday were rather enjoyable," she remarked.

Without thinking he said, "They were?'"

Her eyebrows went up. "Not to you?"

"Oh yes, oh yes, indeed," he stuttered. "I will keep those hours forever. Nothing, no power on earth can take them from me."

Though she barely knew him, Catherine understood that he was a person without defenses. Any mistrust or unkindness struck him like a blow across the heart. On the other hand, it only took a little generosity to make him very happy indeed. Emboldened by the thought, she ventured to tease him just slightly. Cutting a pear, she offered him a slice, saying, "I'll believe you're not very supernatural when I see you eat this pear."

How could he help his delight, when she was sitting across the table and looking at him, and speaking to him lightly, as if he might become a friend. "My span of years has been extended, for there is magic in this place, but I possess no otherworldly powers." Readily he munched the pear.

Catherine found that easy to believe. If he had any powers at all, he would transform his appearance. Sitting across from him, though, his features did not seem so terrifying. In the morning light his mane was amber, with streaks of gold. His heavy forehead and slanting brows were odd enough, but the steady blue eyes were those of a man. It took time to get used to his flat, furred nose and grooved upper lip; however, seeing those curved teeth crunching a pear made him seem much less carnivorous. And there was that wonderful hoarse voice.

"To amuse yourself, what do you do?" she wondered, and poured them both a cup of herbal tea.

"I read ferociously," he answered, and smiled at his own choice of words. "I rebind books. Repair the furniture and the stonework, when I can. Beat Jacob at chess. Tend the garden, though I have been lax in that. I used to sketch, but music I find more compelling. I help Mary and Jacob with tasks which have become too strenuous for them, such as chopping wood. Once I kept a journal to record the events of every day, but that was some time ago. Perhaps I should begin it again. So you see I occupy myself usefully. Tell me of yourself -- your life beyond the forest."

She curled her fingers under her chin and thought. "I keep Papa's accounts. He is a good-hearted soul, but not very organized. Laura tends the flowers while Rebecca hoes the vegetable patch. She cannot bear idleness! I prune the orchard and collect the apples and sell the cider. Rebecca is to be married soon, so we are busy sewing her trousseau. How they are faring without me, I ... "

Her eyes clouded and she averted her head.

In his own soul he felt her homesickness, as if he were the one separated from his kinfolk. It was the bond, he realized; that faint connection, like a thread of gold, that linked their two spirits. He swallowed a bite of bread and also a lump of emotion. "It's so kind of you to invite me to your terrace."

She shock off her melancholy and made an effort to be polite. "This domain is yours."

He protested vehemently. "No, not at all." From his belt he unhooked an intricate golden key. "This will open any door in the castle. It is yours and only yours."

Thoughtfully she moved it back and forth on the table. "But I wouldn't care to explore the towers on my own. It wouldn't seem very interesting, not by myself. Won't you come with me?" .

"Yes," he answered simply. In the back of his mind he added, 'Through life, death, and eternity.'

When breakfast was finished, Mary and Jacob swept in to carry the plates away. Their swirling movements paused when he said diffidently, "There is a belfry set with unusual windows. Would you care to see it?"

"Of course. I want to see it all." She vanished behind her diamond-paned doors while he swung himself down over the railing. With his hands linked behind his back he paced the garden, waiting for her, planning what he would say next. She appeared through a hedge-gate, and his eloquence failed him; there were so many emotions that could not be put into words. She linked her arm through his, with the confidence of a friend. He glanced down at the slender hand resting on his brown sleeve, and knew what it meant to be alive.

The rose bower was the last garden on the north corner. He pushed open a small gate in the green wall, and they wandered out together. Catherine had never seen the eastern side of the castle that paralleled the river. It undulated with buttressed towers that pierced the clouds. High in the air, galleries and colonnades linked it to a smaller castle on the other shore.

"Will you show me the other side one day?" she asked.

"Whenever you like," he answered. "The servants lived there. I recall playing on the floor of Mary's chamber as a child. It had pillars and a vaulted roof and a fireplace of black onyx. Rather dark, if I remember, but impressive. Some toys were kept there for me -- a rocking horse and a paint-box."

Catherine could imagine it clearly Vincent as a small boy, lying on his stomach in front of the black onyx fireplace, painting a picture from his imagination. "What did you paint?"

He answered instantly. "Friends. Playmates. Birds. Flying carpets to carry me away."

"I always painted lions. Leopards. Tigers. Panthers. My father teased me -- told me I was too fierce. But in my fantasies I was carried away on the back of a great cat-guardian, to places beyond my imagination."

Vincent wondered if she remained with her guardian or if he carried her back home again when the adventure ended, and then decided he didn't want to know.

The ground was damp; reeds grew high along the riverbank. They wandered until they reached an octagonal tower crowned with a dome of many-colored glass. There was a door inset with a glass mosaic, but it was locked.

"Try your key," he suggested.

She inserted her key, opened the door, and saw a ladder propped against an open trapdoor. The ladder was painted red.

"Up here?" she wondered.

"Can you climb a ladder?" He added quickly, "I know very little about maidens."

She retorted, "It may indeed be unmaidenly, but how do you think I prune my orchard?"

With practiced ease she scrambled up a series of eight ladders, every one painted a different color. Each leaned against an open hatch, and led to a higher landing.

The eight-sided belfry glittered with windows of colored glass that turned the light to shafts of ruby and emerald, sapphire and topaz, amethyst and beryl, amber and carnelian.

Gazing through the brilliant green window, Catherine exclaimed, "This is amazing. But who is the old fellow outside, floating in the air? Should I be frightened? Somehow he doesn't look too frightening."

Her wonderment amused Vincent "It is Jacob. He heard us speak of the belfry and has come to let you get a look at him. Through these windows alone, he and Mary are visible."

So now she could see that he was elderly and a bit pompous, with a short beard and hair that might have been gray, if the glass had not been green. He wore a little skullcap, and his robe was embroidered with-constellations: the North Star, Orion, and the Bear. She waved, and Jacob waved back, allowing himself a small smile.

Catherine moved along to the ruby window, through which Mary could be seen. Her face was careworn and kindly; an apron wrapped her motherly form. Her hair was tied into a bun shaped like a round loaf of bread.

"I hope you will approve of us," said Mary. "Jacob and I want so much to be your friends."

"There is much you could learn from me," Jacob put in, then added politely, "From us."

"Thank you for including me as an afterthought," Mary said, with a little sniff of scorn.

He wagged a finger at her. "No need to be snappish. Remember, the great savants urge women to remain unruffled and to cultivate self-restraint."

Before the two could begin a serious quarrel, Catherine interrupted. "I am in great need of friends, and I'm grateful that you dear people are willing to stand by me." The two spirits waved once more and then dived downward, presumably to complete their breakfast chores.

"What a lovely surprise. They look exactly as I thought they might."

Vincent was even more surprised. "You hear their voices!" She didn't have to rely on messages scratched with sticks in the ground or scribbled on scraps of parchment.

"Don't you?"

"Not for centuries."

She scoffed at him. "And I gave you credit for being supernatural!"

"As I said, not very."

"All my friends tell me I'm intuitive. I'm not sure it's meant to be a compliment, though." She gleamed like a jewel as she moved from window to window and from color to color, pushing them open. "There -- air is what we need. Fortunately I'm not afraid of heights -- just widths."

Vincent looked puzzled, and she had to laugh. "A very small jest."

His face lightened. "Yes. If I seem not to understand, explain it to me. I have read about such bantering, and it always seemed pleasant."

Stung with sympathy for his lonely existence, Catherine said, "Very well, be warned, then; I shall banter you unmercifully. By the way, what is this?" She reached up and tugged a rope that led to another belfry above. Vincent wrapped his big hands around the rope and hauled with all his strength. A mighty clang vibrated the windows and rattled Catherine. She covered her ears, grimacing.

"Before we're both deafened, I'll race you down the ladders. " With a whirl of her azure skirt, she disappeared down the trapdoor. The game was new to Vincent, whose only childhood amusements were those he invented himself.

She had a headstart and there wasn't any way to pass her except on the landings. Down one ladder after another she raced, hearing his heavy boots shaking the rungs above her. At the base of the tower she flung herself out into the open, gasping, "I win!"

"I concede," he answered, and a rare smile illuminated his face. He wasn't winded at all.

"Foolishness on my part," she admitted, when she got her breath back.

"Not foolishness. Graciousness. Pure generosity. I feel like a child again."

"You never had a playfellow?"

"My mother's servitors were none of them young."

They ambled back into the castle and parted at the library door, which was carved with ravens reading books.

She said, " I know you have many things to do, I must not keep you."

He watched her float away like a blue cloud and vanish behind a tapestry. The light of the day and of his own life vanished with her. "Oh, keep me."

***

Vincent burst out of the main doors and charged down the marble steps, taking four at a leap, fumbling to tie the cords of his cloak at the same time. He was halted in the courtyard by the sight of a heavy book brandished in the air.

"Oh, not more philosophy," he pleaded. "Jacob, I haven't time. I repaired the mermaid fountain and I'm showing it to Catherine."

The book opened to Chapter One, "Meditations on Wisdom." .

Wild with impatience, he said, "I don't care about being wise any longer. I'm proud I have such a power of foolishness in me. I glory in it, and I fully intend to become even more unwise, as long as the gods let her stay. Who could help it?"

With a flap of invisible robes, Jacob retreated to his ivory tower, mourning for the days of peaceful scholarship when Vincent had no choice but to take his wise advice.

Wise advice was very far from Vincent's mind as he ran along the outside of the secret gardens. The rest of his life seemed like a vague dream he had to get through until he could see her face again.

'Lavender', he thought. 'She'll be wearing lavender, the one that looks like mist over the lake.' At other times she looked like a spark of the sun, or a starry night, or a precious jewel.

At the north corner of the gardens he stopped short, for she was there, in a gown of soft green. She was the tender springtime that had never awakened this gray realm, until now.

When he could get his breath working again, he said, "I've read so much. I ought to be able to turn a pretty compliment and let you know how perfectly beautiful you are. But when I see you, my mind flies away and I become a blithering idiot."

"Thank you… I think," she said with a laugh. "In return, let me say I approve of the gray velvet doublet. It makes you look very ..." She paused, tapping her lips and thinking.

Famished with anticipation, he finished her sentence in his mind. 'Civilized? Human? Gentlemanly? Resplendent?'

"Tall," she said at last. "It makes you look very tall." As if she sensed his disappointment, she added, "Perhaps just slightly resplendent."

"I'll settle for slightly," he answered, looking down into her flower-face. "And hope one day to achieve it all."

"To be phosphorescent?" she teased him.

"Luminiferous."

Now that his life had begun again for one more morning, Vincent was in no hurry. They ambled up the avenue, talking easily and laughing at nothing. His wisdom was gleaned from books, while she had practical knowledge, and their lighthearted conversations were always fascinating.

A flagstone path bordered a waterfall that tumbled over terraces where bronze gods lurked with nets and tridents and conch-shell horns.

"Papa brought me a conch-shell once, but I never could lure any sailors to jump overboard for me," she said, with a sigh.

"How old were you?"

"About four."

"I thought that might be the case. They might jump now." He made a little move toward the waterfall; she caught his sleeve.

Gigantic yews overshadowed the lower slope. At the end of the yew-walk, a fountain gurgled and splashed. He had spent days repairing the ancient tubing, and the bronze mermaids were no longer high and dry.

Catherine was delighted by their languorous poses. She imitated them, pretending to comb her hair with an evergreen twig and arranging the hem of her gown to simulate a fishy tail. Vincent wasn't used to laughing; the sounds he made were as rough as a rusty gate, and that made Catherine giggle until she had to sit down on the edge of the fountain to keep from toppling over.

A spray of water splashed her and she let out a shriek. That sent Vincent over the edge. He bent double, coughing with laughter.

"You're mocking me," she said, pushing damp hair back from her brow.

"Oh, I can't help it," he answered, when he could draw a breath. "Your scream was so comical."

She wrung out her lacy sleeves and tried to frown, but couldn't manage it. "Oh well. I was after all trying to be a mermaid."

"Here, let me help you with a little more water," he offered, and scooped a double handful from the fountain.

"Don't you dare," she said, moving away. "I'm dripping already."

He opened his hands and let the water go. "There. You're safe."

She took his arm and smiled up into his face. He did have the most beautiful blue eyes, and he was a person so easy to make happy. "I know I am," she said.

***

One afternoon Vincent moved a tall ladder around the maze, trimming the green walls. She came out of the main door just as he was climbing down, clippers in his hands. It was an unexpected delight to see her twice in one day, for they always parted before midday. Usually she spent the afternoons in her chamber, reading or doing needlework, while he raced around the grounds preparing some activity for the next morning. He had been readying the maze for tomorrow but today was even better.

"I dare you to find the center" he said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "In fact, I'll meet you there -- if you ever find it."

"I never could resist a dare," she agreed, and waited until he had disappeared between the high hedge walls.

"Here I 'come," she called, and immediately turned left. The grassy path split, and she chose the one on her right. "I have a system," she called.

Waiting under the summerhouse, Vincent could hear her muttering as she backtracked and tried again, time after time. It was obvious she was hopelessly lost.

"Oh! Not again. I know I've passed that particular junction going and coming."

The leaves rustled. Peering through the twigs, he caught sight of her peach-colored skirt disappearing around a corner. Her left-right-left plan was getting her nowhere.

She declared, "I'm going to leave my sash here and if I see it one more time, I'll scream."

He bent over, holding his mouth.

"I know I've seen that corner before. Vincent, I hear you chuckling. Just keep laughing at me, I'll follow the sound and then I'll get even with you."

He couldn't help himself, and sure enough, she found her way quickly to the center. There were twigs in her hair and leaves caught in the lace of her gown.

"There is a Power above that sees what you do!" she exploded, brushing off her sleeves. "Laugh while you can!"

"What you need is a system," he explained gravely.

"You're going to be sorry for that remark. But in the meantime I need to sit down and rest." She sat on the swing, spreading her skirt wide, and gripped the two chains. From behind he dared to give it a little push.

"How lovely! I used to love to swing."

He pushed harder, moving back a step to avoid being struck. She put her feet out straight, pointing her toes.

"Higher," she commanded, and he obeyed willingly, pushing the seat at every backswing.

Her skirt caught the breeze, opening and closing like a flower. She straightened her arms and leaned back as far as she could, reveling in the flying motion.

At last he stepped back, allowing the swing to slow until it eventually come to a stop. She scraped her feet along the ground with a happy sigh. "I suppose it's nonsensical for a grown woman to play in a swing."

He challenged her. "What's wrong with being nonsensical? I've read the histories of your world. The men of ponderous wisdom start wars. Ridiculous people don't. They're too busy being happy."

"There's a flaw in that argument somewhere but I can't think of it at the moment," she conceded, disentangling a twig from her hair. "Anyway I'll accept it as permission to be as rash as I like." The corners of her full lips deepened in a smile.

His cry was heartfelt. "Oh, how I wish you would."

She was a little surprised. "What do you mean?"

He stammered, "If you have permission, then so do I."

"That's fair," she conceded.

As they meandered on through the maze, he was glad she hadn't asked him what rash thing he wanted to do next. He was on the verge of taking her in his arms and showing her. And that would have ruined everything. To see fear or distress in those eyes that had looked at him so kindly -- just the thought made him clench his fists and thrust them into his pockets.'

"Are you going to tell me the secret of the maze?" she pleaded, as they turned another leafy corner. "I'm so turned around I can't tell up from down." Helplessly she spread her hands and looked to him for guidance.

Her vulnerability had a devastating effect on his self-control, for he had dreamed of getting deliciously lost with her. Just the two of them, gloriously lost. He looked away from her and answered, "I can't bring myself to tell you. I derived too much enjoyment from your comments about the sash and the junction."

"Please?"

He couldn't resist her entreaty. "Very well, follow me. Right turns to the center, and left turns after that. See, here is the wicket gate into the white garden." He held it open like a gentleman.

As she swept through, she commented, "You make a good playfellow, Vincent."

His eyebrows raised. "It's possible that Mary thought so, too. When I was eighteen or twenty inches tall and running at full speed under the tables in the great hall, she nicknamed me."

"What?" she begged him.

"That's enough secrets for one day," he teased her.

She gave him a look. "I'm going to ask her."

"She's probably forgotten. It's been a long time."

"I'll start guessing right now. Sunshine. Sweetness. Angel Child. Am I getting close?"

He could barely control himself. "I can't say that you are."

"Imp, Scalawag, Renegade ... you're laughing at me again."

Standing under the arches of white wisteria she made a picture of loveliness Vincent knew he would never forget. He pulled down a cluster of blossoms and folded them into her hands, saying, "You must not mind if I laugh. I haven't fallen to pieces in such a way since Jacob was alive and he accidentally trailed his robe through the lily pool, and a fish clamped on to the hem and he dragged it across the grass without noticing."

She burrowed into the fragrance to hide her own merriment. "Mischief? Trouble? Rowdy? ..."

***

In a neglected nook of the garden, behind a collapsing trellis, they found a covered well. Vincent had completely forgotten it was there. He removed a mossy slab of wood so that Catherine could peer down to the circle of water far below.

"Dark and mysterious," she commented.

"It's a magical well," he recalled.

"For wishes?"

"Not exactly. You may ask to have any scene revealed to you in the past, the present, or the future; it will show you the truth."

"Is that really so? Shall we try it?"

Vincent hesitated. He knew his past already, the present was a haze of glory, and he wasn't certain he wanted to find out the truth of his future. "If you like. But you must sacrifice something to be given a picture of the truth."

"I have no coins, so these silver buckles will have to do." She stooped and twisted them from her shoes, then held them high and let them fall. She didn't expect the buckles to float, but they did. On the surface of the dark water they glittered as they turned round and round. With all her might she wished silently, 'I seek a vision of the present. Let me see how everyone is faring at home.'

Colors began to stir the water, rippling it into marbleized patterns of black and gold.

"Look! Something is happening!" Breathlessly she leaned over the rim. Curious, Vincent watched, too. The shifting colors became a vision of two women, one with raven curls, one with gold. The women leaned over a cozy chair, trying to comfort a white-haired man who was slumped with his face in his hands. All three wore black; all three wept helplessly.

The image rippled and disappeared as the buckles whirled and sank.

Stricken to the soul, Catherine said, "They mourn me. They think I'm dead." She backed away from the well.

Vincent felt his chest constrict; foretelling was no longer a pleasant pastime. He didn't want to go on with this, but it was too late to back out now. He set his lips grimily and dropped an offering of his own: four amethyst buttons from his velvet cuffs.

Questions flew through his mind like arrows: 'Tell me if she renounces her persistent suitor… Give me a sign she will stay beside me forever.' After a brief, hard struggle, he made his silent prayer, 'Grant me a picture of the future. Show me that I will always be a true friend to her, whatever it costs me.'

A whirlpool caught the buttons. Colors began to swirl: blue and brown. As he stared down, the blue became a stretch of water … the brown was an oval shape. Frowning, he peered more closely into the murky depths and saw an image of himself, standing alone at the lake's edge, holding something in his fist. One violent overhead swing sent his lute flying far out into the lake.

He didn't know what it meant, but it was not a hopeful omen. He was conscious of his labored breathing and the heavy slamming of his heart as he stepped back from the well. Catherine hadn't seen his vision; she had turned away and was staring north, toward her home.

He had planned to show her the towers across the river, but that was not appropriate at the moment. With her arms wrapped around herself, she turned back toward the castle. He followed, wishing he had never taken off the mossy cover.

***

That evening, they sat together in a recess off the great hall. Window seats lined all three sides; the gray twilight was tinted orange by stained glass windows. He held a book open, but did not read. His mind was occupied with the visions that had appeared in the well. Hers was easy to understand; Catherine's family believed her to be dead, and they grieved. His was more puzzling and more ominous.

Catherine became very quiet, and her embroidery was put aside. Cloud-capped towers did not interest her at the moment. Her hands clasped in her lap as she stared pensively out the leaded glass windows, seeing pictures in her mind.

She saw her own village, so clearly ... A slow river wound between deep-eaved cottages. Irises sprouted on the thatched roofs. Smoke rose from the chimneys in the early morning, carrying the smell of baking bread. Beehives nestled in the back gardens among rows of peas and beans. Old fashioned flowers bloomed in front: hollyhocks, lilies of the valley, and pansies. In her own kitchen there were racks of blue and white plates; cross-stitched cushions on the chairs; bunches of herbs tacked to the rafters; a sleepy cat in the window ...

She picked up the hoop and clipped out all the stitches. Deftly she outlined a new design: a curving river done in laced running stitch. It would wander between small squares that were the houses of all her friends. Fences she would indicate with herringbone stitch; hedges with buttonhole. Double feather would make fine trees. The rutted path that led out of the valley and eventually to the seacoast -- loop stitch.

Her face was set in a determined frown as she worked her needle. Vincent knew that any attempt to interrupt her would be an imposition. He left her alone, comforting himself with the thought of the impenetrable forest that separated the castle from the village. He wanted to be unselfish, but the feeling was something he could not help. She was all the warmth and joy he had ever known, and her presence had become so necessary that he could not bear the thought of her departure.

In his dreams, as he turned and tossed on the black silk sheets, she renounced the world beyond the wood, and chose the enchanted castle. Chose him. Rushed into his open arms with a soft cry of gladness. Kissed him with lips as sweet as wild berries. In his dreams.