CHAPTER NINE

Night Song

---

Early the next morning, Vincent sat on the edge of his bed to pull on rough, thick-soled boots. He tucked in the cuffs of his breeches and reached for a gray woolen shirt. Glancing up, he spied a quill pen and a sheet of parchment hovering in the doorway. It was Mary, he knew; she often brought her own writing materials when she was asked to converse. Quickly he buttoned up his shirt. Though Mary was a ghost, she was still basically a woman, and his furred chest embarrassed him a little.

He had summoned her for a specific reason, but it still wasn’t easy to begin. He swallowed a gulp of water, for his lips and throat were parched. He hadn’t slept all night thinking of the events in the keep, and what they might mean.

"Mary, you are the only woman I know. I am asking you to tell me the truth as you see it. Is Catherine beginning to love me?"

There was a long, long pause. She could see in his shadowed eyes how much he needed a hopeful answer. Eventually on the parchment she scribbled, "Oh dear."

Her hesitation made him grit his teeth. "Yesterday she let me know that she cares about me."

"That’s not the same thing," Mary began.

"I know that. I’m only a blithering idiot sometimes. Have you the power to see the future, Mary? Then tell me the truth. Am I anything that she could love?"

The air grew still, for she didn’t want to let him down too abruptly. "There are stages that lead up to such emotions. You must win her affection first."

His laugh had no humor in it. "The ballads tell me to slay a dragon or defeat a knight in single combat. That advice is not very helpful."

She tried to soften the blow. "Ballads sing of perfect knights and champions. Comparing yourself to such heroes will only lead you into despair. You must simply be yourself."

He pressed his fists against his temples. "I do not find that advice very helpful, either, since I cannot be otherwise. Mary! You served my mother. Am I foredoomed, or is it possible to alter my solitary fate? Do I have the right to hope, or must I renounce all hope now, before I offend or frighten her?" He dreaded her answer and longed for it as well.

There was another long wait before a message appeared. "I cannot foretell the future. In years to come, it is possible her heart may turn to you. But you must not hope for too much. I saw the two of you in the keep. She is your friend, she trusts you. Be content with that.

He bumped his forehead against the bedpost. "I argue with myself until I’m half mad, and yet this torment has only one conclusion. I do not have the strength to renounce this dream. The longing has gone so deep in me that I cannot repudiate it. I am going to risk it all, and ask her if she can love me."

Mary whipped around like a whirlwind. The situation was even worse than she feared. ‘No! It’s far too soon, Vincent -- please, don’t even think of it. You’re asking for disaster. Wait a few more years, I beg you!"

With the palms of his hands he rubbed his tired eyes. "I know it’s too soon. I know it. But I have learned how it feels to hold Catherine close. My hands recognize the touch of hers. I know her voice, that low soft note; and the scent of her hair. I’ve seen tears in her eyes for me. For me, Mary!"

He fell silent, remembering the sweetness of those tears.

"Jacob is outside -- please, speak to him man to man," Mary urged him. She sailed out the window and motioned the old philosopher to come in.

"There is nothing ahead of you but grief," Jacob insisted, before Vincent could say a word. "No woman is worth such torture. Control this urge to confess while there is still time to retreat.

It was far too late for such warnings. "My confession may startle her. But her woman’s heart is wise, and she is truthfulness itself. If she recoils from the very idea, she will tell me so, and I will bury my feelings forever. If there is any hope, it’s the beginning of a new life for me. How can I exist without knowing?"

Jacob tried another angle. "Think how unpleasant it would be for Catherine if she were forced to avoid you, to prevent outbursts of unwanted affection. "

Vincent rose and braced both arms against the window sill, drawing the morning air deeply into his lungs. "No outbursts, Jacob. She will never need to fear me. Her ‘no’ would be a light to guide my life as surely as her ‘yes.’ I’ll wait for a moment that seems right. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow. That’s all I can promise you."

Jacob gave up. He floated out the open window and found Mary perched on a tree branch.

She asked, "You heard?"

"I did," Jacob answered, sitting on the branch beside her. "He’s heading for a dreadful fall. I’ve given up trying to make him listen to reason. He’s not behaving at all rationally."

As much as she hated to agree, Mary was forced to concede. "In all the years I’ve known you, Jacob, you’ve never been more right. And I’ve never been more sorry."

He answered truthfully. "Do you imagine that I’m gloating, Mary? I take no pleasure in being right -- not this time. Catherine is only making the best of a difficult situation. She’s not here of her own free will. If it ever occurred to her to use that boat that’s floating on the lake, she would be gone down the river before any of us could say farewell."

For once, Mary agreed with him. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Jacob, I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime and ask for your advice. You and I know the message hidden in Anya’s portrait. Should we warn Vincent not to kiss her unless he’s certain of her love?"

Jacob released a hollow groan. "Why even bother? He hasn’t had a heart in his body since he first saw her. He wouldn’t listen. We can only stand by him and hope against hope he keeps his urges to himself."

She showed him her hand. "You mean cross my fingers? I’ve been doing that for weeks."

***

The condition of the gardens distressed Catherine. Wearing her old traveling dress and a straw hat, she balanced on the top of a stepladder to trim dead wood and sprigs from a ragged hedge. Vincent she put to work pulling weeds. He didn’t mind in the least. He had returned from the keep with a new determination: to wait for the right moment, and then chance it all. In the meantime, he meant to glory in every moment they shared together.

Digging weeds was tiring work, even in the shade of a great ilex tree. He put down his trowel and wiped his forehead with his rough gray sleeve. His face was smeared with sweat and dirt. "Something has been accomplished here this morning." A pile of stickery weeds heaped a wheelbarrow.

"Don’t imagine you’re finished," she berated him. "These plants are in a disgraceful state, and it’s all your fault. When did you last prune these hedges? When our village was inhabited only by eagles and bears?"

She retied the ribbons of her gardening hat and snipped another twig. From her perch she could glimpse the peak of the summerhouse in the exact center of the maze. "The morning sun -- such as it is -- warms this corner of the castle, and the four secret gardens will be lovely when they’re trimmed. Have you any gardening books here?"

He allowed himself to sit back against the tree trunk and stretch out his long legs. "No, not one, and I have read through every shelf and back again a half a dozen times. Alchemy, poetry, histories of the lands beyond the wood, philosophy… "

"Philosophy! You must be very wise, then."

"Oh yes indeed," he answered, humorously. "Jacob lectured me on every facet of Monism, Pyrrhonism, Zeteticism, Nominalism, Eudaemonism, Elianism, Ionianism, Ionicism, Subjective Idealism, Objective Idealism, Metaphysical Idealism, and Absolute Idealism. Ask me a question and I will answer from any point of view."

"What does Ionicism say about the pruning of hedges?"

"You’ve caught me. I’ll have to look it up," he answered, smiling.

"Why did you allow the gardens to run to seed?"

He defended himself mildly. "There were only the three of us. No one else ever saw the grounds, and I admit that my interest in weeding lapsed."

"I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t reproach you."

"Feel free to reproach me whenever you think I need it," he urged her.

"I’m so glad to know I have your permission," she mocked him. "You need very badly to be scolded at least twice a day, but up until now I’ve been too ladylike to tear into you. Now you’ll catch it!"

He picked up his trowel again and gave her a look. "Radiant -- but only in spots."

A whisper of wind blew across her heated face, and she listened carefully.

"The food is prepared, if you are certain you wish to be uncivilized and eat outdoors."

"I’m sure. Thank you, Jacob. Come with me, Vincent," she said, descending the ladder. "I have a surprise for you."

"Will I like it?"

"Perhaps."

He got to his feet and followed her across the avenue and westward through groves of blossoming hawthorn. She fanned herself with her hat; petals clung to her hair.

A sweep of her arm took in acres of ground. "Since you have no seasons here, but only the same cloudy days and nights, you could probably have a glorious flower garden all year round."

"Oh, the work you have planned for me."

To their left, the castle bristled with towers of tracery that let the clouds drift through, and other peaks that tapered to flag-fluttering spikes. Curiosity was burning him as they neared a moat at the northwest corner of the castle. Roughly circular, and extremely deep, it was fed by an underground spring. The bank was edged with poplars, a grove of which also grew on the island. A broken stronghold loomed up in the middle of the island, but there was no bridge.

"Where are we going?" he wondered.

"You’ll know soon enough." At the edge of the moat, on a smooth flat boulder, a cloth had been laid. Catherine produced a basket from beneath the rock.

"My surprise," she said, tossing her hat aside. "You have done so many lovely things for me -- my beautiful chamber, the song you composed, all the wonders of the castle you have opened to me -- and this is one for you."

From the basket she produced watercress tartlets, fresh cold vegetables, wedges of cheese, and bowls of strawberries and cream.

He was almost speechless. "I ... thank you. Thank you, Catherine."

His astonished joy touched her with feelings of affection that were new. "Kneel down, Vincent. I’m going to knight you."

Readily he dropped to his knees beside the rock. With a spoon from the basket she tapped him on each shoulder. "I hereby declare that you are luminiferous."

"Am I?" he said, awestruck. "Am I, at last?"

"Your highest ambition has been achieved," she said, returning the spoon to the strawberry bowl.

"Then in return I must reconsider my opinion of you."

Her eyebrows raised. "Oh? Was your opinion that low?"

He made her wait until he rose and found a spot on the stone beside her and finished a wedge of cheese. "Much as I hate to admit it, I can no longer deny that your radiance is entirely spotless."

She pretended to sigh with ecstasy. "If only I could stay that way! But as Papa often says about my christening, a sprinkle wasn’t enough to chase the devil out of me. They should have left me in to soak overnight."

Sitting beside her, sharing the strawberries and cream, happiness took him over until he could hardly breathe. It was almost too much glory to bear. The rock was uneven, and she leaned against his shoulder to keep her balance. That simple touch filled him with emotions too powerful to be analyzed. He simply accepted the feelings deep into himself, and marveled at the change. Every graceful movement, every turn of her head was answered in his own body by a surge of feeling that was almost uncontrollable. The soft light of her eyes, the curve of her lips, he knew by heart. There was only one word that could possibly describe her, the most beautiful word of all. She was Catherine.

"Is there a theory that explains strawberries and cream?" she mocked him.

"Only the theory of utter, complete, and absolute happiness, which you have taught to me. The night he was here, your father spoke of your wise heart. It made me ... " He swallowed his words just in time. ‘Love you,’ he meant. ‘It made me love you.’ Simply to say those words in his mind was a magic more wonderful than any castle-building sorcery. Mary was wrong to warn him against hoping. Hope was all he lived on.

She took off her shoes, pushed a waterlily aside with her bare foot, and challenged him, "We should take turns. It’s your turn next to invent a surprise."

He tried to get his mind working again. It wasn’t easy. "I will consult with myself for a few days and think of something astounding."

"I won’t even ask you for a hint."

Wild thoughts jolted through his mind. Was the moment right to ask her that one crucial question that would determine the course of his life? He thought the question, ‘Catherine, can you love me?’ but bit the words back. All his inner ramparts were down, crumbled like the ruined stronghold. He had no defenses left to protect himself against a ‘No’ that would leave him solitary forever.

It was wiser to postpone it, as Mary had urged. The longer he waited, the more time she had to get used to him. Perhaps he could think of a surprise, and work the question into that.

Catherine nudged the waterlily back and forth as she pondered a question of her own.

"May I ... ask you something?"

"Of course."

"It’s a personal question."

His eyebrows raised in surprise. "Ask me anything."

Despite his ready permission, she hesitated and fooled with the waterlily for a while before speaking. "Late last night I was talking with Mary. I asked her if any magic existed that could transform you into a man like other men. She told me no, because as well as her own magic, Anya used the powers of the Dark Gods to create you. Since she and they were both destroyed in the battle, there is no antidote, so to speak. Is that so?"

He averted his eyes. She could hardly hear his reply. "It is so. What I am, I will always be.

"I rejoice to know that."

"You rejoice!" Her comment seemed so heartless that his face blanched.

She hastened to explain. "I’ve known farmers who toil from dawn to dusk, and noblemen who take their ease. Gentlemen who ride fine horses, and smiths who forge the horses’ iron shoes. Ship’s captains on the bridge, and crewmen in the rigging. But no one like you, Vincent. No one with your heart and your soul. I’m honored to know you."

He had been waiting all his life for such acceptance. He let her words pour through him like a pure, healing stream, a crystal river; carrying away years of resentment, washing his soul free of bitterness.

She went on, "And I’m willing to be grateful to Anya and the dark ones for whatever part they had in creating you. They wrought better than they knew."

For the first time, he felt no anger toward Anya. He had cursed his fate, but it had brought him Catherine, who accepted him as he was. She rejoiced in him, and he could ask nothing more of earth or heaven.

She was dangling her feet in the water, and didn’t see his look of steadfast, openhearted faith. "Then I’ll rejoice too."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Finally Catherine slipped off the boulder and washed her hands at the moat’s edge. The water quivered with fronds and tendrils of moss.

"That was a pleasant diversion, but we have work to do," she announced, and found her shoes and straw hat.

He picked up the basket, saying, "Pleasant indeed." They had walked a short distance side by side when he commented, "Your neck chain is broken."

She touched her throat; the delicate chain had snapped. "That means I’ve lost the ivory miniature."

He halted. "We’ll go back and search the grass. I’ll ask Mary and Jacob to help."

She shrugged lightly. "It doesn’t matter."

His whole expression changed. He stammered, "You don’t want him any longer? I mean, the locket?"

"Don’t bother looking for it," she said carelessly.

It felt as if fountains of joy were exploding in his mind and body. She was honored to know him, and she didn’t care any longer to wear Gunther’s portrait. As they walked back through the groves of hawthorn side by side, his hand found hers. It was enough -- more than enough --for now.

***

That evening as Vincent walked past the great hall on his way to his own chamber, he was halted by a soft voice.

"Vincent?"

Catherine rose from her seat at the octagonal table and met him at the threshold.

She had changed into a gown of sky blue silk trimmed with crossway strips of blue satin. Jeweled clasps fastened the oval neckline and sparkled in her hair. Her beauty was so stunning that he lost the power to speak.

He still wore his rough gardening clothes, but she didn’t seem to mind. "It’s too lonely dining alone in the great hall. Will you join me?"

He should have protested and gone on upstairs to change, but he did not. It wasn’t possible to say anything but "Yes" to Catherine.

He held a chair for her, then seated himself in his own high-backed lion chair. When Jacob swooped in with another place setting, Vincent glanced up to the wheel of candles and said, "Light them all."

The room was half a league long; there were thirty wheels over thirty octagonal tables. Jacob hesitated, then obeyed. Soon the vast hall blazed with lights that gilded the frieze of heraldic lions and danced across bowls of flowers placed on each polished table. The last rays of sunset turned the leaded glass windows in the recess to orange. The spirits kindled a blaze in the fireplace; fragrant cedar smoke billowed up and mingled with a faint scent of potpourri.

Their goblets were filled with wine. Jacob said, "I trust you will enjoy the vintage. It is a blend of grapes from the arbor. I have been withholding it for a special occasion. "

"Thank you, Jacob," said Catherine.

"Though technically a rustic wine, it has an intense bouquet and deep flavor. I age it in chestnut wood barrels which give it a distinctive aroma…"

He was shooed out of the hall by Mary, who muttered, "Lecture her another day, Jacob. Four’s a crowd."

Vincent looked across the table. The gown turned her changeable eyes to blue. A feather in her chignon quivered as she turned her head. She lifted her goblet, sipped her wine, and looked at him over the rim.

Tears filled his eyes. "Tell me of your day."

"What are you thinking of, Vincent?" Her voice was music.

"Remembering something," he answered slowly. "A dream I had."

"Was it a nice one?"

"Oh yes. I lived on it for years. You were in it. All my best dreams had you in them." He was afraid he’d said too much, for she rose with a soft floating motion and moved to the fireplace. From a silver bowl she chose a white narcissus, then came around the table. She leaned over him and fitted the stem through a buttonhole in his shirt. "There. For all the kind things you say."

She returned to her chair. "Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a room of glass in which to grow flowers all winter? Of course, this realm doesn’t have seasons, so you don’t really need it. What do you think?"

He didn’t reply, and she said again, "Is a room of glass an impossibility? You aren’t answering me."

There was a long pause. "I don’t want to cry."

Sudden tears blurred her eyes, too. "Why does a flower make you sad?"

"Not sad." He swallowed, picked up his fork and knife, and laid them down again. "I like to see candles lighted and flowers in the vases."

Then she understood. "You were lonely before I came."

"Oh!" It was a cry from the heart.

"Then I’m happy to be here. Even happier, I should say."

"Are you? Happy here, I mean?"

Her eyes of shade and shining looked at him directly, seeing him clearly; his generosity, his loyalty, his affectionate heart. "Yes," she answered.

It wasn’t possible -- no one could be so dear. He was shaken by hopes so sweet and wild he couldn’t even name them.

The meal was savory, but she had little appetite. She hesitated, then said, "I’m afraid I grieved you this afternoon speaking about transformation. If any such magic existed, it might be something you would wish for, but I would be so sorry."

"You did not grieve me, Catherine. What you’ve done for me, what you’ve given me -- there are no words to express it. You’ve shown me the center of life -- the very heart. All happiness radiates from this point."

Mary sailed in to take away the plates, and he fell silent.

Catherine rose again from the table, and this time so did he. "All that hard work in the garden tired me a little," she admitted. Vincent linked his arm with hers and accompanied her out the great hall and along a passageway. Up one flight of stairs they walked side by side. Her hallway was paneled in pearwood; each square was carved with a relief of doves. Too soon they reached her chamber.

In the doorway she paused, holding his hand between her own and looking up into his eyes. "Good night, Vincent."

"Good night."

It softly closed and he stood alone in the hall. Leaning his forehead against the door, he traced the carving in the wood; passing his fingers over the leaves and thorny stems, brushing the petals, stroking the letters of her name.

"Catherine." In that word was every illusion that had haunted him with impossible sweetness in the darkest hours of the night. Now they weren’t impossible any longer. She was real, and more beautiful than any illusion.

Still tracing her name, he whispered, "My love. Only once, reach your arms around me and kiss me. I’ve wanted you so long. Waited so long. Only once, tonight, dream of me and bless me with your kiss. I’ll feel it, Catherine. Across the castle, in my own chamber, sleeping or waking, I will."

***

A little later, in his own chamber, Vincent removed the narcissus from his shirt. He touched it to his lips, then opened a book of poetry and pressed the flower between two of his favorite verses. He knew what a sentimental gesture it was, but that pleased him. It made him feel a part of an actual romance. As if Catherine were his beloved. As if he were her lover.

Her acceptance had changed everything for him. The deep, unending ache of bitterness had healed at last. In its place were peace and joy and hope beyond telling.

He lifted a candlestick from his bedside table and placed it on the mantlepiece under Anya’s portrait.

"I’m lighting this candle to honor your memory, Mother," he said, striking a flint-and-steel. "I’ll try to do it every night from now on, as long as I live. I could never say this before, but thank you for creating me. I rejoice that you did. Because I love her, I can love you. I love you, Mother. Thank you for my life."

***

"It ‘s late, dear, you should rest." Mary bustled around the chamber, rearranging gowns in the wardrobe by color: sky blue, azure, royal blue, midnight blue; then moving on to the reds.

A little exasperated, Catherine put aside her book. Even in bed it was hard to rest or read while invisible hands were moving all her garments around. "I’m used to doing things for myself, Mary. I can arrange those gowns tomorrow, if I need to."

"Just let me finish these few -- crimson, scarlet, carmine, cherry, coral, tea rose -- and then I’ll leave you." There were bumping and crashing noises inside the wardrobe.

Mary was only trying to be helpful, Catherine knew that. She just wasn’t accustomed to being waited on.

"There! I’m done."

"Before you go, do you have a kiss for me?"

Something brushed her cheek, as lightly as a breath. "Good night, dear."

"Good night, Mary."

Alone at last, Catherine stretched her arms above her head and yawned. It was late, and she was tired, but she couldn’t rest. She pulled her knees up and clasped them around, remembering how good it had been working alongside Vincent in the garden, and the pleasant meal they had shared. Most of all, she remembered an afternoon in the keep. Vividly she could recall leaning against his chest, feeling his encircling arms, hearing the steady beat of his heart. Since she directed those feelings of affection to him through the bond, her emotions had grown stronger. Deeper. Wilder. Vincent was no longer merely a beloved friend. He had changed ... or maybe she was the one who had changed.

She put her head down and burrowed under the quilt. The scent of the lavender that filled her pillow always lulled her into drowsiness. And there was a bedwarmer for her feet ... Mary thought of everything ... Her sleep when it came was fitful, interrupted by odd dreams. There was a man ... she couldn’t see his face. Something gleamed in his cupped hands; a heart of pure gold. She accepted his offering, bent forward, and kissed him. All at once both of them were sobbing with joy.

***

Vincent stretched out his long legs and propped his boots on an andiron. The fire was nearly out; only a few gold embers still flickered among the ashes. A book of poetry lay unopened on his knee. Half asleep, he leaned his head against a wing of the massive chair. Music floated through his mind; strains of her name-song that had guided her to the lion gates. Always that melody drew her near, as if the bond and the music were the same.

What was the bond, anyway, he wondered sleepily. Had it begun only when she rode through the gates? Was the link formed during the ten days of her blindness? Or had all his years of intense longing forged the connection?

Drowsily he thought, ‘Maybe she was wishing too?’ The notion made him smile.

He knew he ought to go to bed, but he didn’t want this day to end -- the day in which she knighted him with a spoon and tucked a narcissus in his shirt. His happiness was so deep he only wanted to sit quietly and hear her name-song in his mind and revel in the joy of being alive with her in the same beautiful world, the same darkened castle, the same warm night.

All at once he looked up, puzzled, feeling he was not alone. There was a scent of lavender in the room. Then he felt it; a petal-light caress that brushed across his lips. The unearthly sweetness of that visionary kiss stole away his senses. As swiftly as it had come, though, the faint scent began to fade, and he felt the shadowy presence withdraw.

"Don’t go," he said, gasping, and leaped to his feet. "Come back!" Perhaps it was the music he’d been imagining that had summoned her spirit. He seized his cloak and his lute and charged out into the passageway.

***

Startled awake, Catherine sat up in bed. "Now what could that dream mean?" Laura had a dream book she often consulted; symbolically everything seemed to go by contraries. "So I’m going to hate someone. Is that the answer?"

Feeling rather grumpy, she rose and wandered across the chamber, looking for some little task to put her to sleep. The embroidered map of her village was almost finished, but sewing by candlelight strained her eyes. Beside the wingchair stood a fire screen; she was thinking of painting a scene of the castle gates on the oval of fine white leather. But not this evening. The night was so quiet she almost wished Mary would come back and rummage around again.

Her head came up, for she heard something … something surprising ... Puzzled, she stood still, listening. A very faint music, softer than a sigh, drew her to the terrace doors. She pushed them open quietly and stepped out on to the balcony. The breeze was cool; she shivered in her muslin nightgown.

A dark shape moved in the garden below, and she heard again the ripple of music.

Hastily she retreated to her chamber and pulled on a simple robe of white. With a flickering candle in her hand, she sped down the stairs. Her slippers made no sound.

Out the entry hall she hurried, under the stare of the mounted skulls; and out the main doors. The tall hedges were smudges of deeper darkness. She sped between leafy walls higher than her head, turning right and right and right again. There a summerhouse overgrown with hornbeam sheltered a wooden swing. She recalled her first attempt to negotiate the maze, and the memory made her smile. It was so satisfying to make Vincent laugh, and so easy. Though his solitary life had made him grave and thoughtful, he reached out for happiness and treasured every moment of joy.

Soon she reached a second little gate. During the day, the white garden was a spiritual place, with pale flowers that reached heavenward like prayers. At night, it was more mysterious. Camellias gleamed like little moons against the dark hedges.

She caught a scent of moss as she pushed open another gate. Holding up the trailing hem of her robe, she hurried past a circular lily pool rimmed by slippery flagstones.

Glancing over the top of the next hedge she caught sight of her own terrace. The diamond paned doors still stood ajar. The music could be heard more clearly as she found her way into the rose bower.

A hooded form moved between two trees and stood in the alcove under her balcony.

She spoke his name. "Vincent."

He was so startled he thought he’d seen a ghost. "Did I -- wake you? I’m sorry." She did look rather like a spirit in the trailing gown, with her hair drifting like a vapor, and the dancing light in her hand. Perhaps once again the music had summoned her. The thought of having such an influence over her soul made him tremble inwardly.

She couldn’t admit to odd dreams, so she improvised an excuse. "I was not asleep. I heard the lute, and came to ask if you know any songs that I might know."

Lightly he touched the strings. "I only know the tunes of my own devising, but if you are willing to sing a ballad from your own world, I will play it with you."

His speaking voice was so captivating that she asked, "Do you sing?"

"Never," he said firmly. "My broken voice would destroy your song."

He tuned the instrument while she considered several possibilities. "There is one I know, about a maiden who is approached by a suitor who asks for a kiss in exchange for a small token. She refuses a rabbit skin and a bushel of wheat and a feather bed. At last he offers true love, and she accepts that."

"Then if you will begin it, I will catch up with you."

She joined him in the alcove. White roses bloomed all around them. Shyly at first, then with more confidence, Catherine began to sing. Clear and true her voice lifted. After the first few notes, the lute upheld the tune, then began to improvise around it, playing with the melody.

"Fair maid I’ll give a rabbit skin
For you to keep your hands warm in
Maiden, as I breathe and live,
More than that I will not give.

Hunter, take your gift away
I need no rabbit skins today
Tell me, as I breathe and live,
Have you nothing else to give?"

The ballad continued through the offer of a bushel of wheat and a feather bed, until at last the hunter renounced his pride and offered true love. Joyously, the maiden sang:

"Love me while I breathe and live.
More than that you need not give,
More than that you need not give."

With her triumph the song ended, but the theme urged Vincent to play on. His fingers danced over the strings; never had he played with such ardor. Caught up in the melody, Catherine’s voice rose higher in a song without words. Rising, swooping down, and rising again, it became an outpouring of emotion. The bond vibrated between them, hummed in the music, and tightened like a responsive cord, drawing them closer to each other.

The tune of the ballad changed and became, little by little, not only her song but his. It caught them both, held them, and carried them away. Vincent poured everything he felt into the music, until it got beyond his control. He played as he had never played before, passionately, holding nothing back; the music rose like a wave and surged back into them both.

The song of their bond needed no words; it was a sharing, a taking, a pouring-out of emotion. Her name and his longing soul wove themselves into the resonance and lifted her voice into a rhapsody. So sweet and clear it was that it became a joining. The intensity was rapturous, almost painful. She reached out a hand blindly, grasped a thorny blossom, and went on singing; her voice becoming a golden arrow that pierced them both with desire. Everything he felt was intensified by her nearness and the trembling sweetness of her voice. She swayed nearer still as his harmony supported her, caressed her, took her.

Abruptly the music stopped. The sudden silence was brutal -- shocking. Dazed, Catherine stared at Vincent. Without speaking, he lifted the instrument. All the strings had snapped.

She pushed back her floating hair and tried to understand what had happened. Looming over her, Vincent looked down into her bedazzled eyes. Half stunned himself, he knew only that her lips parted and rounded as if for a kiss. With an unsteady hand, he tilted up her chin and leaned closer. Already he could feel the intake of her breath.

The candleflame licked across his hood. Startled back to reality, Catherine took a step backwards. Only then did she realize what she held in her other hand.

"Vincent -- look -- what does this mean?" Every petal of the white rose she held was now tipped with a deeper color -- red.

He couldn’t answer. Instead, feeling a kinship with the broken strings, he pretended to concentrate on them.

"How did this happen?"

His tone was unnatural. "The music."

"Yes, it must have been the music. If we had continued in that way, the rose might have become entirely crimson. Do you think it will last?"

Vincent was so shaken he wasn’t even sure he would last. He couldn’t believe it of himself -- he had almost kissed her.

"The red rose my father brought me never did fade or wither. I’m going to put it in water."

Back through the hedge-gates she hurried, quenching the candleflame in the lily pool as she passed. When she reached her own chamber, she carefully placed the rose of two colors in a silver cup.

The balcony doors still stood ajar. She swept out on to the terrace and leaned over the balustrade to speak to Vincent, but he was gone.