Chapter Five

---

"Catherine."

Vincent’s presence on her balcony caught her by surprise, though she had to admit wryly to herself that perhaps she purposely stared out over the city this way each night in the hopes of hearing his voice say her name in just that way, it’s low, husky sound instantly transporting her to a magical, sensual place. She closed her eyes for a moment, then turned to face him.

"Vincent."

She held out her arms and in an instant he was there, a warm, solid presence surrounding her with a gentle strength that was almost unimaginable; a tender dichotomy that amazed her each time he held her thus.

"I’ve missed you so, Vincent. It’s been forever...two whole days."

"An eternity," he added, in complete understanding. "I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night, but we had to do some emergency repairs on one of the tunnels. It was late by the time we’d finished."

"I know how hard you work. Don’t mind me. Much as I would love it, I don’t expect you to come to me every night. I guess I just got so used to being with you while I was below -- it’s harder now than it was before."

"I know."

Vincent didn’t say anything else, and for a few moments they simply stared at each other, their eyes drinking in the precious sight before them. Catherine had been above now for more than a week, and had started back to work four days ago. Vincent had come to her balcony each night, with the exception of last night, to make sure she was feeling all right. It was so difficult to let go of the caretaker role he’d assumed during those ten days she’d spent recuperating below.

Ten days. Both had thought often on the coincidence of that stay, the comparison to his discovery of her more than two years ago impossible to ignore. She had stayed below for ten days then, too. Only then there had been an eight month separation between that time and their next meeting, and now a day didn’t pass without him feeling an extreme anxiety until they were together once more.

There was another difference now, too, one that hadn’t escaped Catherine’s notice, though she wasn’t sure if Vincent was consciously aware of it. They were closer since the accident -- physically closer. Whenever they were together, it was as if he were glued to her side. He almost always held her close, and when he didn’t she would inevitably feel the warm touch of his hand somewhere upon her, as if he needed to maintain some physical contact with her, be it ever so small, at all times. She tried to keep her response to this new change low-key, afraid lest she scare him off with her exhilarated emotions, but it was getting difficult. Now, for example; Vincent held her tight and she was suddenly aware, through the thin silk of her gown and robe, that he wore fewer layers than usual. Under her hands she could just make out the springy softness of his downy chest hair through the cotton work shirt he wore.

Catherine couldn’t stop herself, sliding her arms around his ribcage beneath the ever-present cloak and nestling against him until her breasts were pressed tight to his chest. For a moment she lost herself in the erotic sensation of him, imaging them standing naked together, her taut nipples disappearing into that silky covering to seek out the muscled hardness just beneath. The image of his magnificent body was burned into her brain, the scene from their shared bath now a precious memory that she replayed daily. That intimate event had not been repeated during her remaining eight days below, but there had been other moves forward, despite that retreat, and overall she was well pleased with their progress. Her mind spun along in a lazy, meandering way, her senses focused entirely upon the feel of his silky strength pressed firmly against her. Without conscious intent, she began to move with a very slight swaying motion, rubbing her breasts against the broad expanse of his muscled chest.

Vincent, however, was completely aware of this movement against him, and the turn her thoughts had taken in the last few minutes. He held his breath for several long moments as he felt the tender, rigid peaks of her breasts brushing against him. A second later he released that breath with a gasping groan as his body responded to the exquisite sensation, his erection growing to a full, throbbing state of arousal in seconds. He pulled away from her and turned to lean against the low balcony wall, drawing in deep, gasping breaths in a feverish attempt to cool the passion filling him. He knew there was no way that Catherine had not noticed his response, and he waited with trepidation for her reaction, not knowing which he feared more, her words or her touch.

She did neither. Sensing his conflict clearly, Catherine merely stood beside him at the balcony, looking out over the city as he did. There were only a few inches separating them, but she made no attempt to close the distance, letting him gain the control he so desperately needed.

After a few minutes of this quiet tableau, Vincent realized that she wasn’t going to press the issue, that she was letting him retreat back to where they were before that moment. Strangely enough, his response wasn’t at all what either expected under those conditions. As though it had a will of its own, his arm rose to circle her shoulders and pull her close.

Catherine breathed out a sigh, its sound an equal mixture of surprise and pleasure, and leaned into his side, not attempting to do more than rest against his comforting length. They stayed that way for a long time, a peaceful stillness enveloping them completely.

* * *

Catherine hummed idly as she affixed the new sheers onto the rod hanging over the French doors of her bedroom. She’d spotted these Irish linen panels in a window over her lunch hour, and had immediately been reminded of one of Vincent’s shirts, her favorite one, the ivory linen with the loose ties that wrapped high around his neck and fell in a gentle wave against his broad chest. The panels were secured to the rod not by hooks or a continuous sleeve, but instead by two inch wide, deep loops which were strung along the top edge of each panel at ten inch intervals. She’d already finished the left side and had critically inspected the graceful, casual elegance of the fine, draping fabric before proceeding with the second and last panel. She stood on a two-step folding kitchen stool completely unaware of Vincent’s presence on the other side of the darkened glass.

Vincent had arrived just minutes before, and was frozen now at the sight before him. They stood separated by the glass panes of the door and the filmy fabric beyond it, but neither veiled her from his sight, the delicate translucency of the latter providing no more than a hazy filter through which her beauty appeared even more mysterious and complete.

Her nightclothes were not the typical silky gown and robe ensembles he’d grown accustomed to, yet he knew this outfit -- she had worn it the night they’d been reunited after a difficult time apart, the night she’d returned from Westport. It consisted of two pieces made from some soft, woven material that had glittering, silver threads running through it. The skirt was long and full, the top cropped and loose. Catherine’s eyes were directed towards the top of the glass, where her hands fussed with the edge of the sheer linen. Her torso stretched upwards as she worked, and in that position the short top of her pajamas left several inches of her midriff exposed. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to that silky flesh and to the scar visible along her right side.

The wound was completely healed now, and was no more than a thin, pinkish line that would no doubt turn white eventually. Though he hadn’t tended her injury since she had left the tunnels two weeks before, he knew that there would be a slightly raised ridge there, though his thin, even sutures would keep it quite small. A haze dropped over his eyes, and suddenly he saw her as she had appeared in his and Father’s bathing pool three weeks ago. Towards the end of that bath, before his passion could overwhelm him completely, he had felt a tremor of discomfort from her through the bond. It was nothing severe, just an overstressing of her muscles, but it had been enough to put a timely end to that increasingly erotic bath.

Now, though, he saw an image of her from that time without the intrusion of that painful stressing of her healing injury. All Vincent saw now was Catherine’s wet, glistening body, sitting upon a shallow bench while his hands washed her tenderly. He felt her silky skin beneath his hands, the scent of roses surrounding them. His mouth became dry as he felt an almost paralyzing desire steal over him, his eyes avidly tracing the scar upwards to her creamy breasts, the taut, shell-pink tips calling out to him with an alluring promise. He drank in that sight, then felt an urgent pull, and his eyes left her breasts to follow the seductive trail downwards to where her dark curls floated beguilingly in the shallow water.

At that moment the fantasy burst, as if some internal watcher had judged it beyond the limits set, and the almost hypnotic spell fell away to leave him once more upon her balcony, alone. Catherine still worked at the window, and was obviously unaware of the turmoil raging within him as he stood just out of sight, no more than six feet from her. He stepped back until he blended into the shadows of the balcony wall, then turned and slipped away, unable to face her this night.

Vincent detoured down to level D on his return to the hub, stopping to bath in the cold pool there. He left for his chamber immediately after that, but though he was tired, he paced about that enclosed space for a long while. He was uncomfortably warm, the multiple layers of his clothing inspiring an unusual sense of claustrophobia. Finally he discarded them altogether and climbed into bed, the cool sheets a balm against his flushed skin. He was exhausted, still he tossed and turned restlessly for some time. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamt of Catherine:

He was on her balcony again, as he had been earlier that evening, watching her work on the linen fabric just inside the French doors of her bedroom. He looked past her for a moment, to the alluring expanse of her bed, then drew his gaze back to her. She reached up towards the top edge of the glass and the cropped top of her pajamas rose upward, exposing several inches of her abdomen. His eyes were drawn to the scar there, a wave of desire flooding him inexplicably at that sight. Suddenly the scene changed.

Catherine lay upon a bed before him, only they weren’t in her well-lit apartment above, but instead in his chamber below, the dim, golden glow of candlelight surrounding them. He knelt at her side, his eyes pinned to the thin line of the scar showing along the small gap between the two soft pieces of fabric she wore. His hands rose until his fingers rested gently upon that slightly raised ridge. Slowly they traced upward along its length and disappeared beneath her short top. His mouth lowered to her creamy flesh, his lips coming to rest against her at the very moment his fingers reached the silky curve at the underside of her breast. He kissed her soft flesh lovingly, moving slowly upward along the thin, pink line of the scar. He knew where it would lead him. His fingers reached the end of the scar upon her breast, and paused only for a moment before continuing on. She arched and moaned beneath him when his searching fingers found her nipple. He caressed her tenderly, loving the dual sensations of her rigid peak rising out of the silky smooth globe of her breast.

His mouth had now reached the scar’s end, and he stayed there for a few minutes, licking and nibbling the soft flesh at the underside of her breast. When his fingers moved away, they were instantly replaced by the wet heat of his mouth. He drew her taut nipple in and suckled upon her feverishly, the taste and scent of her strong within him. Catherine writhed beneath him, holding his head tight to her breast, her moans building in strength, and he wrapped his arms around her back to hold her body close, lifting her off the mattress a little to draw her more firmly to his hungry mouth. He felt her emotions trembling on the edge and felt that same trembling within himself, his erection pulsing with hot blood. His hips moved helplessly against the edge of the mattress against which he knelt, the yearning ache there impossible to ignore. Suddenly she cried out his name and a blood-red haze exploded behind his eyes. He couldn’t stop the rushing roar that filled him then, everything in him responding to her heat and passion.

"Catherine!"

At the moment of that explosive release, Vincent woke. He lay in his bed, on his stomach, alone, his breath a harsh, panting gasp. With a rumbling groan, he eased over onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he frantically searched the bond. Nothing. He could sense nothing from Catherine but the calm stillness of her sleeping presence. He latched onto that peaceful aura and let it ease the trembling that still quivered through him, her loving spirit soothing the turmoil that raged within.

Never had this happened. Never. Oh, he had dreamt of Catherine, many times, but always, always, he awoke before the end was reached. And when he woke, his body always ached with his unfulfilled need for her. His behavior then was typical and predictable. Never would he allow himself that release, determined to suppress those emotions completely where Catherine was concerned. Instead he would dress and leave the hub, running through the lower levels until his energy was utterly depleted. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough and he would seek out the coldest pools below, exhausting his body in their freezing waters.

But not tonight. Tonight the dream had played out to the end and his body had inevitably followed the lead of Catherine’s, though she had only been a sprite, an apparition of his sleeping mind. At least there was that. At least she hadn’t shared that dream with him. He shuddered to think what her response might have been if she had.

Why? Why this, why now? Like Catherine, he, too, had been aware of their growing closeness. He’d thought he had it under control, allowing only enough to be able to assure her well being while she was above, apart from him. He needed that, needed to know that she was all right. Now this…

What was he going to do? As he lay amid the rumpled sheets, trying to work his way through the labyrinth of his jumbled emotions, the thought came to him that he should go and rinse off in the bathing pool. Strangely enough, though, he couldn’t make himself heed that thought, a satiated calm steeling over him in drowsy waves. Just before he sank into a deep sleep, without really being aware of it, his hand rose to lazily stroke along the sweat dampened, sticky hair that covered his abdomen and chest. He definitely wasn’t aware that he murmured Catherine’s name just before sleep claimed him.

* * *

Vincent didn’t go above that next night, too disturbed by the dream to risk Catherine’s presence. Instead he worked with Kanin on a new chamber, hoping that the heavy rockwork would ensure no repeat of last night’s occurrence. It didn’t work. It was late, well after midnight, when he finally gave in to his body’s demand for sleep. Within minutes he was immersed in the dream once more.

As with last night, it began on Catherine’s balcony, the images there unchanged. And as it had then the scene changed abruptly from there to his own chamber below. Catherine lay stretched out upon his bed, a golden aura enclosing her as he knelt on the floor at her side. Only this night, when his fingers and mouth moved to trace the scar’s length, instead of moving upward, towards the luscious fullness of her breast, he eased his way down, pushing the band of the skirt at her waist out of the way as he went. His fingers reached her dark curls first, before they were uncovered to his eager eyes. He brushed against her teasingly, feeling the silky, springy texture of them beneath his fingertips and palm. Beneath his lips, the flesh of her belly was creamy soft, the ridge of the scar slighter at this end of the injury, as it was at the other. He worshipped her with his mouth, the taste of her so sweet, so compelling, and the scent of her...

A groan escaped him as her enticing fragrance filled his head. He quickly sought out its source, needing to be nearer...nearer...

He moved lower, pushing the skirt of her pajamas down to her thighs and out of his way impatiently to nuzzle into the dark curls. Her scent rose up in siren-like tendrils to surround him, engulf him, to enclose him utterly. Another groan escaped him, but it was muffled quickly as buried himself against her silky nest, his arms circling her low down to hold her frantically writhing hips still beneath him as her whimpering moans floated above…

"Catherine!"

The dream disappeared in a flash and he was awake. He found himself sitting upright in his bed, sweat pouring off him, his body in a full state of fiery arousal. He ached for her with a pain that was agonizing. He dropped his head into his shaking hands and fell forward to rest upon his upraised knees, tremors shuddering through his body in pulsing bursts. His erection was full and engorged with passion, with a lusty yearning that would not dissipate.

"Catherine."

The sound emerged as no more than a moaning whimper of quiet desperation. He used every bit of the considerable control at his command but nothing helped. He didn’t even attempt pacing, that would be impossible now he knew, the throbbing pain filling him with a hunger that continued to grow, despite the terrified denial his mind put forth. Instead he rocked back and forth a little, trying desperately to ease the ache, to quell its burgeoning strength.

No use, it was no use. His hands gripped convulsively at his knees, sharp nails sinking into his flesh through the bedcovers and the thin linen of his nightshirt. His chamber was dark about him, the candle behind the stained glass window long extinguished. Long moments went by, the heavy rasping of his breath filling the chamber with a low echoing whisper as he fought with his desire.

But it was impossible. Not only would this hunger not release its grip upon him, Catherine was there now too, adding to the tumultuous passion filling him. He saw her image so clearly, saw them together, as they had appeared in his dream. He felt her sensuous body beneath him, against his hands, felt her satiny flesh as he held her. The feminine scent of her was everywhere, clouding his mind and his thoughts, drawing out a sensual response he could no longer contain. His thick erection throbbed with hot blood, surging painfully, taut and tight against his belly. His body shook with the struggle filling it, and finally he fell back to the mattress and curled up on his side, frantic to stop the wildly erotic dream images filling his head, driving on the inevitable response of his body.

Nothing helped. Nothing diminished that swelling response and he huddled helplessly in the center of the bed, praying it would end and put him out of his misery. Depraved, this desire for her, this hunger. How could he degrade her with these thoughts, with images that made her nothing more than an erotic vessel waiting to be filled, by him, only him? Oh, god...

He’d never experienced sexual arousal to this degree, not even in his wildly turbulent youth, before Lisa had left, when it seemed those emotions were always lying in wait to overwhelm him. Nothing could inspire this hunger, this need in him, only Catherine. And just as certainly he knew that only she could end it.

That knowledge filled him with despair. He was stunned when even those castigating thoughts did nothing to subdue his passionate arousal and finally, desperately, he pressed against his pulsing erection with the palm of his hand, needing it to end. The images and sensations surrounding him expanded yet again, and it wasn’t his own hand he felt upon his straining flesh, but Catherine’s smaller, delicate one. He felt her tender touch along his aroused length, caressing and exploring his yearning flesh with love and acceptance. A groaning cry was torn from his throat as that fantasy swept over him and filled him utterly.

"Oh, Catherine... yes, please, yes..."

He whispered out to her dream image and her touch upon him intensified, stroking along his thrusting sex and driving him on to the end he craved, the end he so needed.

"Yes, Catherine, oh, yes..."

He needed her so, needed this, the pent-up passion within him released entirely now and suffusing his being with a primal power and hunger that overwhelmed all of his carefully constructed restraints. They were as nothing before this force, and within him he felt that other side, those dark emotions emerging triumphant, felt their exultant response with a wild euphoria he could no longer hold back. With a final, desperate stroke he arched up off the mattress and let loose a rushing roar of release, his flesh throbbing in pulsing bursts of agonizing pleasure.

Her own cry woke her and Catherine gazed up at the ceiling in stunned, sleep-tousled confusion, her body throbbing. The residual tingling along her nerve-endings was ebbing even now, but despite that they were familiar and she focused on the fading sensations with astonishment, wondering how this had come to be. She couldn’t remember the dream at all, if indeed there had been one. But there must have, her mind insisted, or how else could this have happened? There was nothing there, though, nothing but a satiated, calm lassitude that was deepening even now, even as she tried to concentrate. She couldn’t hold on to those questions in the pleasant afterglow of that release, though, and finally gave herself over to the warm blanket of satisfaction enfolding her. She let herself sink down, snuggling into it with a sigh of pleasure.

"Vincent."

She whispered his name into the night, though she had no conscious awareness of speaking at all.

* * *

It was several hours later when Vincent awoke. The sheets were sweat-stained, rumpled and sticky, and he kicked them away, letting the cool air of the tunnels drift over him. The events of the night were clear in his mind, yet strangely enough he couldn’t call forth the condemnation he felt those actions deserved. The images of Catherine in the night were etched starkly in his mind, and he waited with dismay for the inevitable feeling of self-loathing, but it didn’t come. A peaceful lethargy filled him, and try as he might, the images conjured up – of Catherine lying on his bed before him, his hands and mouth touch her body intimately as they traced the line of her scar, of Catherine touching him with a lusty yet tender passion – brought forth only residual shivers of desire and yearning. The embers burned low now, but they would never be extinguished, he knew that with an absolute certainty.

Yet even that did not inspire the dread and fear he had grown to expect. They trickled away, as if the walls of his resistance had been knocked precariously loose, allowing the release, here and there, of emotions so desperately contained for as long as he could imagine, and doubly guarded ever since he had found Catherine. Unlike the previous night, however, he couldn’t fall back asleep now, the matted sheets and his sticky skin and hair an irritant he couldn’t ignore. He finally roused himself from the stupor enfolding him, left the bed and pulled his cloak about him. He left for the bathing chamber he shared with Father, just twenty-five yards down from the side tunnel where his own chamber was located.

It was, of course, empty at this hour and Vincent lit the torch resting in its wall niche and drew his cloak off, setting it across the shallow ledge which ran along the rock wall connecting the two entrances to this place. His nightshirt followed, and he dropped it into the empty wicker basket near the opposite exit, then stepped into the warmth of the waiting waters. He walked along the outer ledge, which was carved into a spiral stairways of sorts, though each stair was more appropriately a bench, at least three feet long. When he reached the fourth step he sat down and leaned back with a sigh. The water reached to the middle of his chest at that level, and the warm currents swirled soothingly about him.

His eyes drifted closed and behind their lids images of the dream appeared once more, followed by a collage of others from the recent weeks since the accident below. There was Catherine, feverish and weak, mewling moans whimpering out as she lay before him, her naked body so vulnerable as he tended the bloody tear from breast to pubic bone. And again, days later, as she sat before him in the pool, as naked and vulnerable as before, but as trusting during that conscious time as she had been in the previous chaotic one, when the trauma of the moment had left nothing but instinctive response. Could she really trust him so much? Didn’t she see, as he so clearly did, how the delicate flesh of her body contrasted terribly with the hard strength and razor-sharp edges of his own? Didn’t she realize what a horrendous abomination such a union represented? She had to. He had to…

The problem was that he was longer so sure it was such an abomination himself. All his certainties had fled in that single moment when solid stone had turned to shards and dust, falling away beneath them. The secure footing he’d always known before then had disappeared in an instant, and it had never returned again, despite all his attempts to regain it. He sighed and shook his head sharply, but the images wouldn’t stop. There was Catherine on her balcony above, robed in nothing more than two layers of delicate silk, leaning so trustingly against him, his own arm rising to enclose her, his hand cupping her shoulder possessively to pull her closer yet…

That moment had been so poignantly sweet, and yet so shockingly unbelievable to him. Only weeks before he never would have allowed such an intimacy between them, especially on the heels of his body’s betrayal, as had happened that night. She had felt his aroused response, he had known that, and yet he hadn’t left her. How had he allowed such a thing?

He shook his head again, this time with reluctant amazement, no longer attempting to banish the images. It was too difficult now, and they were too comforting to him. With each image his arousal grew once more, though this time with less urgency than before. The ache was there, growing in his belly, and throbbing at the base of his thick erection, but this time he allowed those sensations to emerge unchallenged, allowed them to weave their way through the scrolling images of Catherine standing before him as he sat in his chamber, his sweet Catherine…

He gazed upon her hazy dream form and the edges slowly gelled. Wreathed in a pale lavender silk concoction so translucent it was almost transparent, she moved toward him, her hips swaying sultrily, her green eyes gazing hungrily into his own. How she wanted him… How he wanted her…

Finally she stood before him, and her hands reached down to stroke lightly against the trembling tautness of his thighs. She stroked down to his knees then pressed outward lightly. He obeyed her instantly, opening his legs, and she stepped forward between them, then settled herself on his lap. Her hand rose to cup his chin and when she turned him toward her he knew an instant before she did it that she would kiss him. He fell into that kiss with a sweet surrender, groaning in grateful relief at the touch of her lips against his own, gasping in surprised pleasure at the taste of her tongue. An intense joy flooded his being and he crushed her to him, letting go of his fears of her delicacy and his strength. She deepened the kiss and he returned it hungrily, their lips dancing together with such feverish delight that there was no questioning the rightness of it between them. This was what they needed, what they craved…

When her hand left his chin and began to stroke downward, he let it go, unwilling to break the kiss that enthralled him, unwilling to give up anything of her touch. When she reached his throbbing erection she caressed it thoroughly, exploring him everywhere, until he groaned into her mouth with gasping pleasure, then sought her tongue again, sparks of light exploding behind his closed eyelids. How he wanted this from her…

She held his pulsing length, stroking upwards then releasing him to run a finger around the taut crown and weeping tip, then down again, to cup and squeeze the tight fullness at the base. Over and over again she caressed him thus, while he trembled and shook, his breath coming in gasping pants. Her silk-covered bottom rested upon his naked thigh and he tightened his hold upon her, one hand sliding down the exposed line of her spine to cup and stroke the silky hip below, pulling her closer. Yes, oh yes…

The recent release they had shared meant nothing. It was gone now, and all there was before them was this new moment, waiting with an aching need to be fulfilled. He needed it again, as though the previous moment had never existed, needed it from her, with her, for her, now, oh yes now…

Her hand tightened upon him and he finally let go, let go of all the doubts and fears and barriers and disbelief, let go and felt his body and mind merge as one, until the moment was luminous with sparkling lights and laughter, with joyous pleasure and relief. He acknowledged the hold she had on him, the love he could no longer deny, in all its glorious facets, and sank with her into the mysterious splendor of that place, secret and warm, deep and dark. They alone belonged there, in that place, their own world, where none dare intrude or deny or chastise. The bliss of that release was followed by a perfect merging into a drowsy half-sleep, and for some twenty minutes after he lazed there contentedly, lulled by her sure presence within him.

Little by little, however, the sounds of the tunnels intruded, even at this late hour. He recognized them on a subconscious level, and though they had always been a familiar comfort to him, now they were the unwelcome herald of the life outside his dreams, the life that laid claim to him with a fierce insistence. This was the life that required barriers between Catherine and himself, the life that waited for him. He sighed and opened his eyes, and though he wanted to sink back into that other world, the dream world where no barriers existed, instead he rose wearily to his feet and left the pool.

Once back in his own chamber, Vincent hung up his cloak and took another nightshirt from his wardrobe bureau, drawing it over his shivering form, then added a warm robe, which he belted tightly. He moved quickly to pull the sheets off his bed and drew out fresh ones from the chest sitting against the far wall. He remade the bed, but didn’t lie down again. Instead he took his journal from the bedside table and sat at his writing table, lighting a candle cluster waiting there. He stroked the smooth barrel of his pen reflectively for a few minutes, then finally began to write:

I begin to think that nothing will be as it once was. For weeks now I prayed for just that, for all to be well again, for Catherine to heal, both in body and spirit, and for our lives to return to what they had been before. That seemed the height of all I could hope for then, when darkness and despair were so close, but now…

He hesitated a moment, staring outward as confusing thoughts bubbled up, then turned back to the journal once more.

Now I wonder what lies in wait for us, what fate has in store. If there’s one thing in all this uncertainty that I no longer doubt, it is that fate holds us in its hand. Catherine did not fall and Catherine did not die and because of that I still live and breathe. Father would be stunned and appalled and frightened if he knew my thoughts, would urge me somberly to think on the precious gift of life, but I know it’s true. My heart beats because of her, my lungs draw breath because of her, everything in me is hers. I belong to her, was meant for her, was made for her. I know it now.

Just as I know that she was meant for me.

He paused again, staring wide-eyed at the words he’d written, as though some other hand than his own had enscribed them. When he bent to the paper again, a look of firm resolution filled his face.

She was meant for me, and I almost lost her forever, lost her before I knew the truth of what I had. My fears almost cost us everything, but never again. I don’t know what fate has planned for us, I don’t know what our future holds, but I know this; I will not be the obstacle to the fulfillment of our bond, not any more. As difficult as it may be, I must find a way to let my fears go and to embrace the destiny that awaits us.