Chapter 6
He sat absolutely still, staring through the open doors to her bedroom, aghast. What had he done?! He'd come here because he was worried about her, about what he felt from her - or didn't, more appropriately - through their bond. And he had been right to be worried. She obviously hadn't left her apartment since returning above three days ago, and it didn't look as though she intended to do so at any point soon. He'd felt a vague sense of depression from her during that absence, and though it had been difficult to confirm it over their suddenly muted bond, now, upon seeing and talking to her, there was no doubt. And what had he done? She had tried to tell him, tried to talk to him, but in the final analysis he'd done exactly what she'd accused him of at the start - he hadn't listened. What she had to say, where it led to, was something he wasn't yet ready to hear or accept, and yet in doing so, he denied her feelings, her wants and needs. He had been the cause of all of this. The bond shimmered slightly within him, and he knew that she had fallen asleep, that despite the turmoil that raged within him now, and had in her moments ago, her body had given itself over to the darkness of slumber. Not because it needed it, he realized abruptly. It seemed clear that she had done little else but sleep in the last three days. No, her fatigue was of the mind, not of the body. He had read several books on psychology, and though there were many different schools of thought in this particular branch of the behavioral sciences, all of them were in agreement that a change in sleep patterns, especially a dramatic increase in it, represented a prime symptom of depression. It was a common method for the mind to escape what could not be reconciled within.
A motion in the bed distracted him as Catherine shifted in her sleep, turning to her back, her face now in profile, that outline clear to him from the reflected moonlight filtering through the French doors to her balcony. The sheet slid down as she turned, leaving her breasts uncovered, the delicate, alabaster peak of one drawing his helpless gaze. The memory flashed over him then of how he'd tasted its twin that day, less than a week ago, of how she'd arched up into his arms when he'd pulled her hands up over her head, holding her open and vulnerable to his searching gaze. Her nipples had been pointed and hard - probably due to the chill of the tunnel air, his mind insisted, resisting the alternate explanation stubbornly. It hadn't mattered to him then, though. All he'd felt then, all he wanted was to taste that tender morsel, and he had. He remembered how he had captured it with his teeth, shuddering in distress now, as he realized how he could have hurt her with such a blatant disregard for his differences. He hadn't though, not then at least, he thought with dismay. He'd held her tight, only loosening that captive grip once his lips could securely claim her. The texture of her was so much more intimate with that hold, soft flesh against soft flesh, though a part of him had growled with visceral satisfaction as he'd held her taut and tight in that first, primal grasp. It had happened then, at that very moment. Everything changed in an instant as his body moved against her, then into her, claiming her with one desperate thrust. He moaned softly, clenching his teeth hard so that the sound wouldn't reach her in the next room.
Oh god, what had he done?!
The memory of that moment, of that single act, made him cringe in horror. That penetration had been so brutal in its abrupt thoroughness, impaling her delicate, sensitive flesh with the iron-hard thickness of his own. He had taken her completely, without consent, without thought. A terrible word flashed into his mind. It had been there all along, but it was too dreadful to admit to consciously, and even though he accepted the guilt his psyche pressed upon him without question, he could not say that word, not even in his mind, the thought of it too much to bear. He'd felt it then, during that swift penetration, felt the resistance in her body and a flash of pain over their bond. The memory of both overwhelmed him completely and he buried his face upon his knees once more, whimpering with despair. How could she possibly not hate him after such a thing? Impossible!
And yet…
A small voice inside him insisted upon that question. Catherine had told him that she didn't hate him, that she still loved him despite what had happened. What he'd done, the stubborn part claimed coldly. That part found it ludicrous, impossible to comprehend that such forgiveness was possible, and yet if he was to do her justice, he had to consider what she'd said and not dismiss it out of hand. Was she capable of lying to protect him? Yes, he thought, both of them were capable of that, and far more, if the safety of the other was at stake. Had she done so tonight, then? Was what she'd told him all a fabrication to help ease his tortured mind? Yes! one voice insisted. No, the other whispered. He whimpered again, not knowing what to believe.
He forced himself away from the introspective musings which could have easily kept him from completing a more logical analysis of what had happened. She had told him he didn't listen to her, and though he found that difficult to accept, he had to wonder if she was right. When she'd tried to tell him that she hadn't really been hurt, that there had been only a slight amount of pain, he hadn't really heard what she'd said, focusing instead on the fact that she had endured any pain whatsoever at his hands. What had she said? He scrolled through that difficult discussion in his mind, and finally found what he was looking for: 'What you felt from me then was nothing, Vincent, the tiniest bit of discomfort. You know what happened the very next moment. How can you think I was hurt when I felt that?'
Impossible not to know what she referred to, not when the memory of that momentous event still flickered through him in those moments - and they were more and more frequent of late - when he let his guard down. What he had experienced then was beyond belief, beyond comprehension. The explosive burst of pleasure he'd felt from her over their bond was followed immediately by the dramatic physical response of her body. She had convulsed around him, gripping him so strongly that for some time he had been completely incapable of motion, stunned with astonished amazement, the ecstasy he'd felt from her and along his own aching flesh translated instantly into his own incendiary release. The sounds she'd made then were a siren's call, music that haunted him still. He groaned softly, the memory overwhelming him.
So there had been pleasure as well as pain, just as she'd said. Was it really possible that the pain she'd felt was something so easily dismissed? And even if it were, she couldn't possibly so casually dismiss the act itself, not when it had been done without her consent, could she? That was the crux of his dilemma. She didn't seem to feel that it had been nonconsensual, but how was that possible? They had agreed to one course of action, yet he had blatantly disregarded that agreement and pursued their other, final option, long before the need had been shown to exist. Yes, it was true that ultimately they might have been forced to take those drastic measures if their deceit had not played out to Tamara's satisfaction, but that had not happened. He alone had made the choice, though for the life of him he could recall no conscious decision associated with that moment. He had done it all without any agreement or consent requested or required of her.
And yet, the other voice continued its insidious whisper, hadn't she assured him, before they'd begun their subterfuge, that whatever happened, she had made the choice long ago, the choice to be with him? It was obvious what she'd meant. She had been preparing him in case such a dire end became a necessity.
These thoughts plagued him as he sat in the darkness of her living room, his eyes pinned upon her sleeping form in the next room. Over and over again he reviewed the events of both that night and this one, this time not editing what had happened, but instead forcing himself to see and hear it all. He analyzed each thing she said and the context it had been said in, then weighed her words against her previous behavior. In the final analysis he found that he had indeed been guilty of the things she'd accused him of. His own fears had driven him to choose for them both, denying her anything but a passive role in their relationship. She had taken what he was willing to give, never pushing for more, despite the fact that she had always wanted more. She'd tried to make that clear to him, many times, in her gentle way, ever sensitive to his anxieties, but he hadn't heard, wouldn't hear. He had allowed her into his life, but on his own terms only, and the realization of that now appalled him completely. He had thought it was just the opposite, that she was allowing him into a small sliver of her life, and that he had gratefully accepted any morsel she was willing to share with him. It had been him, though, dealing out those meager portions, holding her love for him hostage to his fears. He had done this to her, the woman he loved more than life itself!
The pain he felt then was beyond anything that had come before. This had to stop, before they lost everything! And he was the one who had to change, not Catherine, who had done nothing but change since he'd found her. He had allowed her close emotionally, but only to a point, making sure the bond was something he experienced always, while she did only rarely. That happened only when he was under extreme stress, when the one-sided nature of that communication, as he normally allowed it, was simply not enough. And physically, well, he had allowed almost no progression whatsoever between them in the time they had been together. It was true that they touched more often, that he initiated hugs occasionally now, something he had never done in the early times of their relationship, but the only time they'd kissed he'd had nothing to do with it. He had only allowed it because of the grief she'd felt after her father's death. He certainly hadn't participated in that kiss, not really, too stunned and frightened to do anything but stay absolutely still as she touched the silky softness of her lips to the foreign differences of his own. He had been sure that this was a road far too dangerous for them to go down, and so had built barriers, both physical and emotional, to ensure that never happened. Paracelsus' abduction of her and his subsequent manipulation of them both had brought all those barriers down by necessity, and ever since their escape he had diligently been reconstructing them. He'd never stopped to question whether the results of that time, no matter how they had been forced upon them, hadn't provided the proof they'd needed that his fears in this regard had been perhaps unwarranted. Even if that first time had been something that appalled him, was that any reason why they could not go on from there, learning as they went, with the knowledge that perhaps there were possibilities undreamt of waiting? This was obviously how Catherine saw it.
Was it possible? Could they really have a life together, full of all the things that other couples had? She had even told him, as clearly as she could, when she'd left the tunnels three days before, that she had dreamt of having his child, and was disappointed to find that now was not the time. That thought was hardest of all for him to acknowledge. Not that it was difficult to envision Catherine as a mother - it was, in fact, all too easy to do that. She would be a wonderful mother. But a mother to his child? How could such a thing ever be?! And should such a thing ever be? Even if it were possible - something he considered highly unlikely - could he bear the thought of bringing a child into this world who might be like him, who might endure the restrictions and prohibitions he had endured in his own life?
And yet…
The voice urged him to consider further. How much of those restrictions and prohibitions had been real, and how much a self-enforced limitation, due to his fears of the unknown? A child of his would learn much from his father about what might be, and even more from his mother, with her gentle strength, perseverance and courage. And after all, should that really play a part in their decision about whether or not to move their relationship forward? Wasn't it a separate issue altogether? There was nothing to indicate that such a thing was actually possible between them, regardless of the physical status of their relationship. Maybe he just had to make a leap of faith. It seemed that it was time now to finally follow the advice he'd given her some time ago, time to make a choice, to move toward love, or away. She had made hers, she'd told him, and now he had to make his. Whatever he decided would affect their lives forever. Could he even consider the dreadful possibility of a life without her now? No. Of all the things he'd thought were impossible for him, this was now the only one left of which he was absolutely certain.
The hours flew by unnoted as he considered these questions. He sat in complete silence, a huddled shadow in the darkened room. When she shifted slightly in her sleep, the tiny motion caught his attention in an instant, distracting him from his musings. He glanced out through the glass of the balcony doors, and though it might appear as though it were still the dead of night to anyone else, he could tell by the subtle shadings, and his own internal clock, that it was now early morning, only two hours before dawn. He had to leave soon. Slowly he unfolded from his cramped position on the floor, stretching out tight muscles as he did, sighing with relief as their full range was once more employed. He moved silently toward the open door of her bedroom then leaned against the jamb, watching her sleep. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, tousled amid the sheets, her body half exposed. And she was so beautiful. The pale moonlight still filtered through the balcony doors, leaving her half in shadows, her skin glowing softly, like a beacon. Finally, after watching her for some ten minutes, he moved into the room and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, by her side. His hand reached out toward her shoulder, but suddenly it hesitated, then reversed course, catching an edge of the rumpled sheet at her ribs and drawing it up over her breasts. He pulled it higher, so that when his hand finally touched her shoulder it did so through the cotton sheet.
"Catherine?" he whispered.
She woke with a start, and would have jumped up in surprise had not the light pressure of his hand reassured her. She relaxed back onto the pillow and stared up at him, confusion in her sleep-filled eyes.
"It's almost morning. I have to go below now."
Her lips tightened and her eyes grew wary as she nodded. His heart ached at the resignation he saw there, mixed in with a strange combination of both sorrow and anger.
"I want you to come with me. Will you?"
Her expression changed abruptly, confusion the dominant emotion once more.
"You want me to come below? Why?" she asked warily.
"You're not ready to rejoin your life above. You should be below with us… with me, until you are."
She turned her head, staring away from him as she considered his words.
"And how long will that be?" she asked, her voice tight with some suppressed emotion that didn't make it through their bond.
"However long you want. However long you need," he said. "It's your decision."
She turned back to him in surprise, her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
"And if I don't want to go back?" she asked, testing him.
"It's your decision, Catherine," he repeated firmly, though inside the very thought of such a thing shook him to the core.
Her mouth dropped open in startled amazement.
"You might want to pack some things, if you think you'll stay for a while. I'll wait for you below, at the threshold."
A moment later he was gone, leaving her with that same stunned look upon her face. Her stillness lasted perhaps five minutes and then broke suddenly as she jumped up from the bed and flew to her closet. A large duffel bag rested on the floor in back, and she grabbed it and set it upon the chair before her dressing table. Bureau drawers were jerked open and clothes tossed quickly within; multiple pairs of jeans, t-shirts, sweaters and socks filled the bag in no time, along with an armful of underwear from her lingerie drawer. After a moment's hesitation she threw in several of her favorite silk nightgowns and one silk robe. She didn't bother with any of her warmer gowns or the chenille robe hanging in her closet - she by far preferred the tunnel ones Vincent kept below for her. After one long look through her closet, she chose two dresses, both long and of deep velvet, one black, the other midnight blue. Dressy ballerina flats of soft, pliant leather followed, and then she was through. She zipped the bag closed with difficulty, then opened it again with exasperation to root through it and pull out a change of clothing. She dressed quickly, tied on comfortable white sports shoes, threw on a light but warm jacket and yanked a brush through her hair. The brush and a traveling bag of toiletries were the last items to go into the duffel bag. Thirty minutes after he'd left her, Catherine joined Vincent at their threshold. He took her bag in silence, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to lead her below.
* * *
Although Vincent usually entered the bathing pool he shared with Father by simply stepping off the ledge and into the deepest portion of it, he exited it in a more sedate manner, via the steps circling the perimeter, wringing out his hair and stripping his hands down his arms, chest, belly and legs as he went, getting as much water out of the absorbent hair coating him as possible so as not to leave a pool of water on the chamber floor for Father to slip on later. He did this now, then grabbed a towel as he stepped up onto the floor. He patted himself dry vigorously, and when he was no longer dripping, wrapped the damp towel around his hips, pulled on his robe and left the bathing pool chamber. In seconds he was back in his own quarters, rooting through his wardrobe for trousers, socks, sweater and the ubiquitous thermal shirt he always wore beneath. Moving toward the center table, he set the stack of clothing down on a chair there, then removed his robe, tossing it onto the bed behind him. He reached for the trousers, but stopped, his attention caught by the schematic laid out upon the table's surface.
He'd left it sitting there since yesterday, before he'd met Peter in the park, before he'd gone to find Catherine. It had still been there when he'd finally returned, after safely installing her in the guest chamber nearby once more, but he'd been too tired to look at it then, the mental strain of that night's efforts overwhelming him completely. A few hours sleep made a big difference, as did the bath that followed. He felt much better, all things considered, and he knew that that was due more to her presence below again than to either the rest or the bath. There was much yet to be resolved in their relationship, but that would come in its own time. Right now there was still an issue of security to be dealt with, the renewed threat from Paracelsus something none of them below took lightly.
Hmmm... Perhaps he should make an adaptation here...
Taking up the pencil which lay upon the unrolled paper, he leaned over the table and crossed out one spot, then sketched in a new one, making a notation beside the addition. That modification complete, he chewed at the eraser end of the wood as he thoughtfully examined the document once more, trying to determine if the change would provide the increased efficiency he was looking for. He had just come to the conclusion that perhaps the previous way had been the better solution of the two when he was startled out of his reverie. Catherine was nearby, in fact almost at hand. He knew that not so much by their bond, which wasn't so sensitive as to differentiate her position in the tunnel outside his chamber vs the guest room she used currently, a chamber less than one hundred feet from his own, but rather by his sense of smell. Her scent, normally delicate and light, was heavier now, deeper and richer after a full night's restful sleep, and he recognized it instantly as she approached. He turned to grab his robe from the bed, then paused, a look of determination settling over his features. Dropping the robe he turned back to the table, leaning over it as he had been a minute before, his hand resting on the back of his chair, his eyes pinned resolutely on the document before him, though now he was completely unaware of its contents.
"Vincent, I..." Her tentative words died away as she reached the doorway, finding him within but covered only by a towel about his hips.
It took an immense amount of control on his part not to react instinctively, not to turn away and hide his near-nakedness from her. Everything in him revolted against such exposure, but he was determined, and hoped she saw nothing in his demeanor that indicated the dismay and dread he felt from letting her see him this way yet again. He kept his features carefully neutral as he looked up to see her standing in the doorway, dressed warmly in her tunnel gown, robe and slippers, and hoped his face was not as red as her own. Did it mean she was distressed by what she saw?
No, he told himself firmly, he wouldn't allow those doubts to intrude now, not this time.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." she stammered.
He held out a hand, ignoring her words and gesturing her in, and her mouth dropped open further.
"Come in, Catherine. I'd like your opinion on a proposal I'm working on for the council meeting this afternoon."
She stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then slowly entered, moving toward him cautiously. Only then did he reach behind him and casually catch up the robe lying on the bed. He shrugged it on as he stared down at the document again, lightly tying the belt almost as if it were an afterthought. Though he hid his emotions well, he was intensely relieved to cover himself once more, the blanketing wool providing a much more secure protection than the towel alone had been capable of. The robe had no buttons or ties, though, and so a good portion of his chest was still visible between the rolled lapels. He didn't try to pull that closed further, accepting that at the very least he would have to grow used to her seeing him more intimately if they were to have a chance at moving their relationship forward. He moved aside, making a space for her beside him at the table and she moved toward that spot, then stopped a foot away, as though she were afraid of intruding upon his personal space. He saw that and correctly read her hesitancy through their bond, and after a momentary pause reached out to draw her closer, until she stood beside and slightly in front of him, somewhat tucked between himself and the table. With a will of iron he ignored the heady scent just beneath his nostrils, and reached down to trace the drawing with one clawed fingertip.
"I'm trying to devise a new security system. We're still operating at double duty, with extra posts set up, but we haven't got the resources to keep it up much longer. Even I'm growing weary of that burden," he said wryly. She smiled up at him, surprised by his candid admission, and his heart melted. It took a tremendous amount of control not to lose himself in her eyes, but he managed, turning his attention back to the paper once more. "I thought perhaps that we could reposition these guard posts to here and here," he said, pointing to the clearly marked revisions, "and block off access-ways here, here and here," he continued, tapping each spot lightly in passing. "It wouldn't significantly impede the normal activities in the hub, but it would reduce the areas requiring sentries without diminishing the hub area itself. I thought at first we might want to move some of the families from the outer areas inward, but we just don't have sufficient space." He stared at the chambers carefully marked by names of friends below, Kanin and Olivia's among them, and shook his head, unable to think of a reasonable way to move the ever-expanding boundaries of their world inward. "What do you think?"
The schematic of their sentry system was interesting, especially laid out as it was in such a way as to show the numerous public and private chambers of the primary hub. She'd never seen this extensive a map before, and was amazed by the organized layout of the community below. It was impossible to forget his close proximity, and the naked body which lay just beneath a mere two layers of loose cotton and wool, but she managed to focus at least a part of her attention to where he pointed, leaning forward to more closely inspect the document, intrigued by the challenge he had set for himself.
"I think you're right. Even if you tried to move some of the outer residents closer, you'd only delay the problem. But what about this spot?" She pointed to a location where three tunnels merged. "A sentry post in this tunnel would allow the traffic of all three to be observed at once," she said, indicating the tunnel of that three-way junction which led outward, away from the hub. "If you seal up this side path, you'll block access for quite a distance around this area, but it won't significantly change the distance needed to get from one spot to another."
He nodded as she pointed out the modification. It was a sound idea, and would eliminate the need for at least one of the extra sentry spots they'd set up since their return, perhaps even two. Finally he leaned over and made the corrections in pencil, his other hand brushing against her own as he braced it on the table. Her hand trembled where his touched it, but he didn't move away, and neither did she. They stood close for the first time in ten days, not oblivious to the discomfort that proximity caused, but resolutely determined to ignore it. Instead they focused on the problem before them, searching out the best solution possible. The safety of his home and her refuge, of friends who were more than that, was at stake.
"Vincent, have you seen my copy of Homer's 'Odyssey'?"
Father stopped short in the doorway, his jaw dropping at the unexpected sight of Catherine below again, and of his son so scantily outfitted in her presence. He couldn't believe his eyes. Vincent was normally intensely uncomfortable with anyone viewing any part of his body, keeping it closely covered whenever possible, and yet he stood beside her dressed, so far as he could see, in nothing more than a robe now, and that garment gaping open enough to display a wealth of still-damp amber chest hair to boot. Catherine herself, though more discretely clad, was wearing tunnel nightclothes, and the sight of them together, in such a state of intimate attire, shocked him to the core.
"Come in, Father," Vincent said, feeling the heat flame in his face. He couldn't believe he had controlled that before, only to lose it now, with someone long accustomed to seeing him thus. But he easily read his father's shocked sense of dismay at encountering the two of them together thus, and Vincent was determined that not only would he make the changes required, but Father would as well, no matter how difficult it was for him to accept. They would have to talk, and soon, that much was plain.
"I was just showing Catherine some of the changes I'd like to propose to the council this afternoon. She found an excellent way for us to eliminate one or two of the extra sentry sites we've established in the last two weeks."
Father glanced from his son to the woman beside him, and couldn't decide which of the three of them was redder of face, but before he could dwell further on that discomforting thought, he followed his son's pointing finger to a revision on the paper below, then leaned in to inspect it more closely, his glasses slipping down his nose so that he could view it above his bifocals. Yes, the spot chosen was an excellent one for a guard post. Not only did it eliminate one or more others, but it actually allowed the perimeter to expand a slight amount, something demanded of their growing community for some time now.
"That's a good suggestion, Catherine," he murmured, tracing it to several other key spots on the map as he consider the impact such a revision had. He shared his son's interest in maps and technical problems in general, and this one was complex enough to warrant considerable attention, enough in fact to momentarily distract him from the state of the two young people at his side.
"Well, I was just on my way to take a bath, unless you were going to use the pool, Father," she said tentatively, edging slightly away from the two men standing beside her.
Jacob kept his finger on a spot on the map which was especially interesting, glancing up at her to shake his head. "No, you go ahead, I've already had my bath this morning."
"I'll bring breakfast to Father's study, Catherine. Come there when you're through," Vincent offered. "Father, perhaps we could go over this further there, where there's more room to spread out some of the maps of the lower levels as well?"
"Yes, that's a good idea."
Catherine murmured her assent and made a hasty retreat. Jacob waited for several seconds after she'd left before turning to his son.
"When did Catherine come below again?" he asked.
"Late this morning," Vincent replied quietly.
Jacob waited for an additional response, but when it became clear that no more would voluntarily be added, he sighed, resigned to having to ask for the particulars. "The sentries reported that you met Peter at the east entrance yesterday. Is everything all right?"
"I've been worried about her. The bond hasn't felt right, not since she returned above. I asked Peter to check on her, but he couldn't find her. She wasn't answering her phone or door, and she hadn't returned to her office."
Father looked concerned himself upon hearing that news. "Where did you find her?"
"In her apartment. She hadn't left it since she arrived three days ago. She's not ready to return to work, not yet," he added.
"Because of what happened below?" Jacob asked, clearly referring to their captivity at Paracelsus' hands two weeks before.
"Yes, and no," Vincent replied.
One eyebrow arched up in surprise at that cryptic response, but his son didn't elaborate, and he thought this time that perhaps he shouldn't press further. He skipped over that, and asked the final, practical question, the patriarch of the tunnels now supplanting the father.
"What are your plans, Vincent?"
"She needs to be here now, with me."
"For how long?"
"For as long as she needs, Father."
Vincent met and held his gaze, and in his eyes Jacob read firm determination. As patriarch, he led the council. The visit of outsiders was something strictly regulated by that group, but Catherine was not an outsider. She was a helper, and more. None on the council would question her desire to stay below, whether the visit be short or long. As Vincent's father, he could indeed question such a course of action, and would not have hesitated to do so in the past, but something in Vincent's eyes warned him that that time was past, that this was something between himself and Catherine alone. Much had happened between them in the last two weeks, and Jacob found himself totally at a loss as to how to deal with those events. Maybe he shouldn't try at all, the thought came to him. Maybe it was time for him to let his son and the women he loved deal with this in their own way, without his interference. It was a novel idea for him, but being a man of sound mind, he quickly realized that it was the right one.
Much to Vincent's amazement, instead of the lecture he had fully expected and prepared for, his counter-arguments went unspoken when his father simply nodded, and said, "Very well. I'll meet you in my chamber to review the maps shortly."
He turned and left his son standing stock still, his mouth agape. Though worried about what the future held for both of them, a part of him found humor in that look. So he wasn't so predictable after all, was he?
* * *
"How long will it take to finish the modifications, Vincent?" Mary asked, after he had explained the proposal for a new security system to the council and the technical details had been reviewed.
"Four days, perhaps five."
Mary nodded, but the look of concern remained on her face.
"What is it, Mary?" Father asked, seeing that look. "Do you have an objection?"
She shook her head. "No, it's got to be done, and the sooner the better. The younger children need to get back to their regular school schedule as quickly as possible."
Catherine's brow furrowed at that. "The children haven't been going to class?"
"Not the youngest and middle classes, Catherine. We've all been too busy with double security requirements to continue their lessons," Vincent explained. "The assignments have been posted in the dining hall for the older children, and they're managing to keep up, to meet in study groups whenever possible, but the younger children need a more disciplined structure that we just haven't been able to supply for the last two weeks. I teach the oldest and middle children, and Father the youngest ones. When we need to, either of us can cover for the other. That flexibility usually leaves time for the additional duties we both have, but right now our attention is required elsewhere throughout the day. As soon as the modifications are complete, we should be able to return them to their normal schedule."
"Do you have lesson plans prepared?" she asked him.
Vincent glanced at Father and then nodded, "Yes, we both do."
"I could do it. I could teach the children while the construction takes place. I student taught while in college and law school," she added.
Father and Vincent exchanged thoughtful looks, and Mary clasped her hands excitedly. "Really, Catherine?" she said, her eagerness impossible to hide.
"I think so," she replied. What's the class structure?"
"There are two classes currently suspended, Catherine," Vincent said. "The youngest children, ages five to eight, and the middle children, nine to twelve. The children in each class attend all lessons together, generally in one sitting. The youngest children usually take the morning session, while the middle class is in the afternoon. The teenagers' class is in the mornings, so generally I teach all day, while Father has the afternoon free for his medical and administrative duties. The combined lessons usually last for three hours apiece. It's not much per day by standards above, but lessons go year round, and I believe that more than compensates for the shorter class day. Even partial classes would be helpful now," he added.
"I think I could do it," she repeated. "I'd like to try."
Jacob thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "It would be tremendously helpful to us if you think you could make the attempt, Catherine."
She nodded, an eager light in her eyes. "I'd like to do something to be helpful."
Jacob nodded and turned to the council members assembled there. "All in favor of the security project?" A round of 'ayes' followed. His follow-up question, "All opposed?" was met with silence. "All in favor that classes for the youngest and middle classes be resumed, with Catherine as their teacher?" met with a hearty round of 'ayes,' and the required follow-up question, "All opposed," was perfunctory only.
"We're all in agreement, then," he concluded. "The construction will begin tomorrow, as will the new classes. Vincent, will you prepare a crew rotation plan? It needs to be disseminated over the pipes by evening." He didn't wait for a response, turning immediately to James and Jamie, invited to this particular council meeting because of their status as security experts. "We'll need you two to prepare a new sentry lookout schedule. Let me review it when you're through, then it will be posted in the dining hall, so that everyone knows what their new - and reduced," he grinned, "responsibilities will be once the construction is complete. Catherine, I'll get you the lesson plan for the youngest class, and Vincent will provide his for the middle class. You'll need to review both right away. First class is from eight-thirty to eleven-thirty, middle class is from one o'clock to four. Both are held in the school chamber, on the main passageway, just before the dining hall. Pascal, would you make the announcement of class resumption for those two groups right away, effective tomorrow?" He glanced around, and seeing all parties in agreement, dismissed the council with his typical closing: "This meeting is adjourned."
Everyone moved swiftly from his study. Most of them had tasks yet to finish this day, and the council had provided several new ones which would take effort on the part of all before the week was through. Catherine stayed behind only long enough to collect Father's lesson plan, then returned to Vincent's chamber, where she found him already at work at his center table. The new security map was laid out in front of him, with a tablet of paper on top of it, where he was devising his list and schedules. Across from him sat a file. He looked up as she entered, gestured her in and pointed to the file.
"These are my lesson plans for the middle children, Catherine. My copies of the books used are on the top shelf of the bookshelf behind you. A second copy is left in the schoolroom, for common use."
She nodded, took up the folder and turned to leave, but was stopped by Vincent's voice once more.
"You could study the plans here, if you like," he suggested tentatively. "There's enough room for both of us at the table."
She smiled and sat down across from him, and within moments each was lost in their separate tasks. Silence surrounded them, only the scratching of pens heard while they worked, but it was a comfortable silence, and each felt their hearts lighten as they sat companionably close while the afternoon sped by. The contrast of this silence and what had been before, during the seven days' stay after her abduction, was noted by each, but neither spoke of it, this new-found truce still too fragile and uncertain to be tested just yet by the hard reality of words.
* * *
Catherine stopped and cocked her head as she belted her robe, straining to make out the message over the pipes. There hadn't been any time for formal lessons of any sort, but this message was repeated each night, and she was beginning to recognize it. The first part was familiar; the work crews were returning, but there was an additional piece that hadn't been on the previous three nights' messages. Usually she was asleep when that particular message came through, and she would half-wake, groggily listening to the tapping, only to fall back asleep as soon as it ended. Every day Mary would translate the progress messages for her. The first day she had tried to wait up for Vincent's return, but he hadn't appeared, and finally she searched out Mary, only to find that Vincent would be making the round of all sites at the end of each day's work session to check each crew's progress, shifting resources where needed. The crews had worked long and hard, with very little sleep in-between work sessions for the last four days. She had rarely seen Vincent at all in that time, for he had returned late and left early each day, though she suspected that he looked in on her as she slept before going to sleep himself each night and before leaving again each morning.
Her days had been busy as well. Though the activity was much more cerebral than physical, it had its challenges. Teaching young children wasn't at all like teaching college students, she had discovered, much to her dismay. Their minds were like sponges, absorbing all she said, with a multitude of questions. And their unexpected holiday from classes meant that most of them were out of the habit of sitting still, especially for three hours at a time. She'd devised ways to help them use their excess energy while still managing to get them through the lessons as laid out by both Vincent and Father. By the third day she was weary, but tremendously pleased with their progress, finding it particularly satisfying to impart knowledge to children so eager to learn. She kept busy during the evening hours as well, helping Rebecca with her candles, Ellen in the laundry, Father with his books, and anyone else who needed assistance at any given time.
The message of the returning crews came early this night, for it was barely ten o'clock, and she had just finished her bath, and was feeling awake enough to consider reading for a while before going to bed, something she hadn't done in too long to remember. Instead, though, she shook the towel from her hair, combed out the still-wet strands, then left for Mary's chamber to ask for a translation of the end-part of the latest message. When she turned the corner from her side tunnel to the one which connected to Vincent's chamber, that became unnecessary, though, his solid presence suddenly appearing before her.
"Vincent!"
She was surprised by his sudden appearance, especially so early in the evening. He was filthy, his clothes and hair, along with his hands and face, covered with grime. He looked chagrined at being seen thus, but seemed too weary to do much about it. He looked so tired, she thought, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke back a lock of dirt-encrusted hair from his temple. He flinched, as if he would draw away, but then stayed still, and after a momentary pause she allowed her hand to continue its motion, stopping as soon as the task was done so as not to make him any more uncomfortable.
"You're back early," she said, her hand dropping back to her side.
"Yes," he replied, his voice husky and hoarse, as though he'd swallowed as much dust as he now wore. "The work is finished. We're done," he added, a note of relief now added to the rasping tone.
"Already? So soon?" she asked, amazed.
He nodded, a small smile appearing. "Yes. Everyone worked so hard. It was an amazing accomplishment," he said, pride for all his tunnel family clear in his voice now. "You too, Catherine." She began to shake her head, not wanting her own meager contribution to be compared with the long hours of hard physical labor endured by so many these last days, but he cut her short. "The education of our children is a top priority for everyone below," he insisted. "You made it possible for us to return to that priority sooner than we otherwise would have. We're all grateful. I'm grateful," he added.
"Thank you," she whispered, touched by his unstinting praise. "You look so tired, Vincent." she said, her first assessment now reinforced by additional verbal and visual clues. "Are you hungry?"
"A little, but I think I'm too tired to eat. Right now all I want is a bath and bed."
She nodded. "Could you manage some soup and tea before you go to bed? I could bring a tray to your chamber if you like."
She held her breath, trying to prepare her face to reflect acceptance when he rejected her offer, as she was certain he would.
He started to shake his head, then changed his mind, nodding instead. "I'd like that, Catherine."
She let go her breath with a tiny gasp, surprised by his response. She nodded in turn, trying not to look too eager, then headed up the way he'd come, toward the main passageway and William's kitchen.
Vincent continued on down the side tunnel to his chamber, and after collecting his robe, slippers and a nightshirt (the laundry was behind schedule with the heavier-than-normal effort of the week, and all his sweats were somewhere in that busy chamber at the moment), headed off immediately for the bathing chamber he had shared with Devin and Father as a boy, with Father alone throughout his adolescence and adulthood to date, and with Father and Catherine now, trying not to think about that amazing shift in events and what had precipitated it.
It took only four minutes to brew a pot of tea, since William always kept a large kettle of water on low boil for the numerous pots requested throughout the day and evening. Soup was still simmering, so that would take no time at all. Catherine assessed the situation, realized that Vincent would be at least twenty minutes in his bath, perhaps even more by the looks of him, and went off for a cozy chat with Rebecca. Thirty minutes later she returned, brewed a pot of Vincent's favorite blend, filled a bowl with soup, then added two tea cups to her tray before heading back toward Vincent's chamber. He was already there, idly toweling his hair as he read her summary of today's lessons. He looked up as she entered the chamber, his eyes dropping momentarily to the tray in her hands, before rising to meet her gaze once more.
"The lessons have gone well, Catherine. You've done an excellent job."
She ducked her head as she set the tray down on the table, fussing with the tea to hide her sudden blush. "Thank you," she murmured, handing him a cup of steaming brew, then setting the other before her own chair. She set the bowl of soup before him as well, then took a seat, inhaling the delicate scent of the black tea blend, enjoying the warm tendrils about her cheeks before taking her first sip.
Despite the sparse fare, Vincent ate slowly, as though he really were almost too tired to do more. Catherine sipped her tea as he told her about the plans for tomorrow. The new, lighter sentry schedule would go into effect, and they were all happy and excited to finally see the end of their heavy burden in sight. She listened quietly, aware of the soft tones of his voice more than the actual content of his words. Suddenly the words ceased, and she looked up, her brow furrowed at the sudden silence. His soup was gone, and so was the tea, and though he sat in essentially the same position he had a moment before, his eyes were closed now, and she knew that he'd fallen asleep. She stood up and his eyes flew open instantly.
"I'm sorry, Catherine, I think I fell asleep for a moment," he said, rubbing one hand across his tired eyes.
She smiled and nodded, moving to stand beside him. "Go to bed, Vincent."
He nodded and stretched his arms outward, yawning, trying to undo the kinks of the day. Catherine watched with admiration, butterflies fluttering in her stomach at the unexpected and rarely seen glimpse of sharp incisors. The flexing of his biceps and pectoral muscles showed clearly, even through the warm layers of his nightclothes, and the fluttering increased. A sudden flinch interrupted that lovely sight and he rubbed at the curve of his right shoulder.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I'm fine. Just a slight muscle strain. It will be gone by morning."
He began to stand up, but she pressed her hand on that shoulder and he eased back in the chair, looking up at her in surprised confusion.
"Let me," she said, moving to stand slightly behind him, then placing both of her hands on his upper shoulder and back to knead lightly at the spot he'd rubbed. She felt tension beneath her hands at first, then he relaxed, leaning forward to rest upon his crossed arms on the table's surface. Her touch grew firmer and he finally sighed and murmured, "That feels good."
Still, the bulky layer of his robe impeded her progress, and she paused for a moment, then tugged at the neck of that wool garment. "Would you mind...?" she asked, her question trailing off with uncertainty.
His hesitation was plain, but after a moment he slipped his arms out of the sleeves and let the woolen fabric pool down about his waist before once more leaning forward. His nightshirt was thin, made of a once-sturdy weave of cotton fabric much worn after many years of heavy-duty washing upon hard stone. Her hands hovered above his shoulders for a moment, then slowly drifted down. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, trying to keep her response from him as she felt the downy hair through the soft layer of cotton, and beneath that, the clear delineation of his powerful muscles. She remembered the feel of those muscles naked against her palms, against her bare breasts. It was familiar, the hand memory of that touch making her shiver. Deep inside she felt a convulsive clutch at her feminine core and clenched her teeth to stop the groan that waited deep in her chest and throat. Her hands moved slowly from his right shoulder, across his spine, and to the left, kneading away the tension. A low rumble filled the chamber, so soft she wasn't sure she'd heard it at first, the sensation of it as much a vibration against her hands as an audible tone in her ears. She sighed with pleasure, knowing that sound was a reflection of his own. He was suddenly so still beneath her hands, the rumbling purr a soft, repetitive sound that matched his deep, even breathing. She let her hands grow still and peered down at his face as it rested upon his crossed arms. He was sleeping again. She smiled and stroked a hand lovingly along his temple, enjoying the silken dampness of his golden hair as it slid through her fingers.
"Wake up, Vincent," she whispered.
His eyes fluttered drowsily and the purring sound stuttered to a halt.
"Catherine?"
"You fell asleep again," she said with a light chuckle. "You'd better go to bed before you spend the rest of the night in this chair."
His smile was bashful, but the tips of his incisors glinted for an instant once more, and she drew in a deep breath at that sight, glad he was too tired for once to control it.
"Come on," she said, patting his shoulder. "Up you go."
He got to his feet groggily, the robe still gathered around his waist, and she slid her arms around him from behind, her hands seeking out the knotted belt. He froze for a moment, then relaxed, letting her undo it. The robe fell away and she caught it up, slipping it over the chair as they passed it. She drew his covers back and he slid between them, sighing with drowsy pleasure. She tugged them up warmly about his broad shoulders, then leaned down to press a light kiss upon his brow.
"Good night, Vincent," she murmured, sure he was too far gone to hear her.
She was wrong. He caught her arm as she stood back up, his lids half-closed with fast-approaching slumber.
"There's a concert in the park tomorrow evening, Catherine. We could listen in our music chamber."
She drew in a deep breath at his drowsy question. It had been so long since they'd done that - too long. Tomorrow the lighter sentry duty would begin. She'd seen James' and Jamie's schedule, and Vincent was nowhere on it for two days. Oh, no doubt he would survey the whole system for the first few days, but he was obviously comfortable enough with the plan already to believe he could free up the evening.
"I'd like that, Vincent. Sleep now," she whispered, brushing his hair back once more. She saw the blue slits drop down to her lips and gasped in surprise as the pressure on her arm increased, tugging her down.
He was going to kiss her!
Her eyes widened, but she followed his lead until her lips were just above his own. He tugged her down another fraction of an inch and then his lips were pressed softly to her own, an innocent yet heady touch which made her shiver with wildly chaotic sensations.
"Good night, Catherine," he whispered, his breath pulsing hotly against her sensitive lips.
She pulled back a few inches and found him fast asleep, his face as innocent as a child's.
* * *
Catherine woke up slowly, immersed in the dream. She felt Vincent's naked skin against her own, felt his hands upon her 
back, felt the tender flesh of her inner thighs gripping his hips and waist as she sat straddling his lap, felt his surging erection pressed tight to her belly.
Oh god, he felt so good!
Her groan was suddenly muffled as his mouth covered hers, his tongue rasping against her own with an erotic urgency that was overwhelming. This time she was ready when the world tilted crazily. He rose up between her spread thighs, muscles flexing in a massive display of virile masculinity. She groaned again as he swept her up into his arms, his mouth seeking the taut, aching tip of her breast, suckling upon her so strongly that the convulsions there were felt below as well, in the tender sheath between her legs. The emptiness was almost too much to bear, and she moaned loudly, insistently, needing him there. He answered immediately, plunging the thick, hard length of his sex into her body with one deep, satisfying thrust, possessing her completely.
That was all it took. She screamed and arched up against him, flung to a climax more powerful than she'd ever felt before. For a moment she lost conscious awareness of everything else but his body in hers, filling her to her very womb. Her orgasm set off his own, the convulsions of her silky sheath milking his straining, pulsing erection with a grip of velvet steel. A rushing roar filled her ears as he let himself go, losing himself in her protective, loving clasp. When he collapsed upon her, she held his heavy weight close, moaning softly as he pumped his loins to hers, filling her over and over again with the last drops of his seed.
As the sensation died away, rather than sinking into sleep, as she had in reality more than two weeks ago, she eased more fully awake, residual shivers slithering through her hyper-sensitized flesh. She woke with a start, her eyes flying open with a guilty start.
Oh my god, what have I done?!
She flew from the bed and stood in the center of the chamber, frozen with indecision. Suddenly she grabbed her robe, flung it around her shoulders and ran out of the room, drawing it tightly about herself as she went. At the end of short side path she took a left, heading toward the bathing pool. She tried to slow the panicked beat of her heart as she approached Vincent's chamber, holding her breath and moving silently, barefoot, hoping the absence of illumination from the doorway ahead meant that he was still asleep. Just as she reached the entrance, he barreled out of it, still pulling his robe on, colliding with her as she tried to rush past.
"Catherine!" he gasped, just as she cried out his name in shocked horror. He grabbed her arms to steady her, then just as quickly released her, pulling his robe closed and belting it tightly.
"I'm sorry," he rushed on, looking up and down the corridor as if seeking an invisible form of escape.
"No, I'm sorry," she cried, her fingers twitching convulsively in the soft angora of her tunnel wrap.
Their frozen stillness ended in a second as each abruptly fled, she onward, toward the bathing pool, and he back to the safety of his darkened chamber.