Things That Are Not And Should Be

Welcome to my fanfiction chamber :)

2291-09-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

Come on in, sit down, light a candle (but be careful of the books---we don't want a fire.)

Here you will find my "Beauty and the Beast" fanfiction as well as fanfiction in other universes (once I get around to getting those posted.) Have some tea, relax and enjoy. And if I've written something that moves you---or even something that makes you scratch your head---let me know.

I've written under a couple of pen names in my fanfic career--if you read anything by Roisin Fraser in the "Star Trek: The Original Series" fandom, that was me. In the "Beauty and the Beast," I write under the pen name of Aliset. The bottom line is, I enjoy writing about these characters and consider them the very best of comfortable friends. I hope you enjoy reading my stories about them too.

Regarding the time-line of my "Beauty and the Beast" stories: the stories I write are Continuing Classic, which means the third season, 3S, The Season Which Shall Not Be Named, or however you wish to describe it, never happened.

2/12/12: Chapter 42 of "Providence" is in process...with any luck and a happy muse, I should have it posted within the next week and a half or two weeks.

There have been a couple of new additions to the site, both contributions to Winterfest Online 2012---the story "Just Because," and a recording I did of Pablo Neruda's "If Your Eyes Were Not the Color of the Moon," which is located on The Poetry Corner. Hope you enjoy! :-)

For Chan. May we all live as well and as fully.

The Poetry Corner

2012-02-13T05:08:00.001-08:00

For Winterfest 2012, I decided to record something for the first time---a poem by Pablo Neruda. I've discovered that I like recording so it's possible that from time to time, there will be more poems appearing here. But for now....this is the only one I've done so far. Hope you enjoy! ;-)

Upload MP3s using free MP3 hosting from Tindeck.

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,

of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking – continued about 26 hours later]

of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,

if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,

if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment

when autumn climbs up through the vines;

if you were not that bread the fragrant moon

kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!

But when I hold you I hold everything that is -

sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:

without moving I can see it all:

in your life I see everything that lives.

~Sonnet VIII: If your eyes were not the color of the moon

Pablo Neruda

Just Because (PG-13)

2012-02-12T17:35:00.000-08:00

Just Because

by Aliset

Summary: The morning after the night before. Pure fluff.

A/N: This story was originally written for Winterfest Online 2012

--//--

Dawn wasn't the same Below; there was no increase of light to start the wakening, none of the city sounds of traffic and noise that frequently—even seventeen floors up---had made Catherine wish for quieter lands. Instead, there were the sounds of tapping on the pipes slowly growing louder and the steady lump-lump-lump rhythm of a beating heart under her ear.

She opened her eyes a crack, just a bit---enough to confirm that she rested in the cocoon of Vincent's arms, in the shelter of Vincent's bed. In his sleep he drew her closer and his arms---his bare arms---pulled her closer even as his muscled thigh drew between her legs.

This wasn't a dream. They really had....

It should have been a shock. She should have felt surprise, but all she felt was a dawning wonder. The evening that had begun so normally---an invitation to dinner below, a performance at their concert shell, the nuzzles that turned into kisses and bolder caresses, Vincent's hoarse whispered insistence at returning to his chamber. And then...this...

Wonder. Him. Them.

She lifted her head a little to study him, all sleep-warm and golden in the candlelight. The covers—sheets worn to a silken softness, a colorful quilt---had slipped down, resting on the jut of his hip. His chest rose with his breath, the fine curly hair on his chest glowing amber in the dim light.

Sensing her regard, Vincent's eyes opened, and Catherine held her breath. Would he retreat, ashamed that he'd encouraged their lovemaking? Would he regret waking here...now...with her? “Catherine,” he said, voice quiet with a joy she'd never heard from him. “You're here.”

“It's no dream,” she told him, sinking back onto the bed and into his open arms. Unexpectedly, she felt her eyes fill with tears.

“You were worried,” Vincent said, brushing the tears aside with a gentle hand, the claws so light against her skin that they almost didn’t touch her at all. “Why?”

“I don't want you to regret this,” she managed, but the look in his eyes was reassurance enough. There was no pain in his blue eyes, no shame...just the echo of the same dawning wonder she felt.

He stretched, the covers sliding down further with the arching of his body, the long lines of muscle gleaming. “I have no regrets, Catherine. None.”

And it was true, she knew; he really didn't. “Though,” he continued, some imp dancing in his eyes, “I might have changed one thing.”

“Oh?” she asked, matching the dry tone of his words.

He ran one hand down her thigh. “I wish we'd have done this earlier.”

Catherine nearly choked on her laughter. “You do? Vincent, last night was the first time you ever kissed me!”

“Mmm-hmmm,” he replied. “I shouldn't have waited so long for that either.”

And so swiftly that it would surprise her (later, when she had time to think about it,) he gently wound his hand through her hair and pulled her close for another kiss.

***

His visions of Catherine were always in shades of gold and silver---her hair gilt under light of the Connecticut sun, which they had not yet seen together, the blue of the ocean at dawn haloing the pale smoothness of her skin. None of those dreams compared, though, to the reality of Catherine in his bed. All it had taken was him reaching out...reaching out for her...for the last barriers to fall. Why was I so afraid of this? She nestled against him, bare skin touching his own, and Vincent smiled. She had known him better than he'd known himself, and not for the first time. There was never any danger for her in his loving. There never had been.

“I dreamed of you so often,” he murmured against the silk of her hair. “But when I awoke, I was alone.”

Catherine sat up and folded her legs underneath her. The blankets fell away, revealing again the curves he'd seen for the first time the night before. Her tone was gentle, soothing. “Vincent, I can't promise we'll never be apart but...you'll never be alone. Never.”

And that too was true, Vincent knew; in spite of everything---the horrors of his illness, his numerous attempts to encourage her to find the life he thought she deserved, a life without him---Catherine had chosen, and chosen…him. “I am sorry, Catherine.”

She tilted her head and he noted absently how the candlelight reflected gold in her hair. “For what?”

“I was a fool for so long. Too long.”

Her fingers traced his features, the features Vincent always thought too grotesque, too other; if he could not bear the sight of his own reflection, how could he ask any woman to? But Catherine had no such doubts; she accepted him precisely as he was. That understanding was clear in her eyes as she gazed at him. “And I didn’t have my foolish moments?” she asked lightly. “Don’t put me on some pedestal, Vincent. I’ve done things I shouldn’t have done, made mistakes I should have known better than to make.”

She blamed herself, he knew, for the times he’d been injured Above, never mind that virtually none of them were her fault. “It’s over now,” he said softly.

Her hand brushed his temple, drifted lower to cup his chin. “Yes,” she agreed firmly. “It is.”

The words were simple enough but Vincent smiled. There was, he decided, nothing quite like being outwitted by an attorney, particularly this attorney. “Come here,” he said quietly.

Catherine’s answering grin was brighter than all the sunrises he’d ever imagined. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

They dozed for a time, after. In their warm, sated sleep, dreams began and merged, answering and echoed by the reassurance of touch and breath. Catherine visited a running river she’d seen as a child, where the rocks were worn smooth and polished by the force of flowing water. The river continued on its unerring path, but Vincent walked beside her.

Vincent saw the brightness of sunflowers as high as his hip, which turned always towards the eldritch light of the sun…seeking, finding…The soft susurrus he heard might have been the soft rush of a river, or the beat of a woman’s heart, calling…pulling…He opened his eyes slowly and with some regret. Though Catherine slept still in his arms, a miracle greater than any vision or dream he’d ever had, she would have to return Above; they would be separated yet again. But not forever. That was her promise, spoken from her heart to his.

The insistent clanking of the pipes grew louder. “What time is it?” Catherine murmured into his shoulder, withdrawing from sleep nearly as reluctantly as he had.

“Nearly lunch,” Vincent translated; though her command of pipecode was more than sufficient, some of the more idiomatic shorthand escaped her, as it did nearly everyone at one time or another. “William warned the Winterfest crew to stop by for sandwiches before returning to finish decorating the Great Hall.”

The jolt of alarm was impossible to miss. “Winterfest?!?” Catherine squeaked, sitting bolt upright. “Winterfest…is tonight?”

“Yes,” Vincent replied. “In a few hours, actually.”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible for her to become paler, but she managed. “Vincent, I can’t…oh, damn…”

Vincent watched as she fairly leapt from their bed and scurried around the chamber, gathering up shoes and socks and underwear (so that’s where her bra landed, he thought, amused, as she pulled the lacy undergarment from the rim of the Grecian vase) and throwing all of it into a pile on his bed. “You don’t understand,” she said, tugging the underwear onto slim hips and her jeans over that. “I have to go Above. I have to get ready. Winterfest is tonight!”

“I know it is,” Vincent said mildly. “I just told you it was. But Catherine---”

“I have to hurry…oh, I’m never going to be ready in time!”

“Catherine----”

She pulled the sweater over her head. It was inside out and backwards but she didn’t seem to notice. She ran a hasty brush through her hair and then turned to him. “What?”

He opened the door to the armoire. Inside stood a dress of deep emerald green, the cloth bag containing the shoes carefully looped over the hanger, just as it had been when she’d first shown it to him, over a week before. Catherine opened her mouth, and then closed it. “What…how…?”

“You told me yourself your patio door was unlocked and I should ‘come on inside already.’” Vincent asked, smiling. “I brought the dress down late last night.”

“After---” she began, and flushed a deep rose color. “I’m amazed you had the energy. But why?”

His hands rested at her hips. “Stay.”

“I don’t understand,” Catherine said, though her eyes were suddenly shiny, verdant with her tears.

“I want you to stay here with me. I want you to wake in my bed tomorrow morning and for all the mornings we’re given. Stay, please.”

“Are you asking me to---”

“Yes. Stay.”

“Yes.”

THE END

Providence: Chapter 41: With One Key, One Door Closed to Shadow (PG)

2012-01-30T18:27:00.000-08:00

Chapter 41: With One Key, One Door Closed to Shadow [52]

“Slowly. Very slowly.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. You'll want to go slow. Too fast and---”

“Oh, I see.”

“Now, move it in and out.”

“Oh...that's lovely. I always wondered how you did that.”

“Hey, you two,” Rebecca's laughing voice cut in, “if you're done trading innuendos over there, we've got a lot more candles to finish dipping.”

Vincent gazed at his blushing wife across the vat of colored wax and raised one eyebrow. “I'm sorry, Rebecca.”

She shook her head, smiling. “No, you're not. And you shouldn't be.” Rebecca coughed, a heavy sound deep in her chest which reminded him again of why the making of the Winterfest candles had fallen behind this year. She'd fallen ill with a cold which had advanced too quickly into pneumonia, and everyone had taken shifts to cover her work. Most of the candles had already been sent out but the most special batch---the ones which were delivered to their helpers in the city---remained undone.

“Don't worry about it, in other words,” Marisol said, hanging a finished pair of candles on one of their racks. “You're both newlyweds---do you remember Kanin and Olivia in the laundry?”

Rebecca chuckled. “Oh, do I. It was months before I could look at sheets without cracking up.”

Vincent well remembered both the incident and the teasing Kanin and Olivia had taken for it. Even Father had been moved to comment: “Just because there are sheets in there doesn't mean you can...you know...”

“You know what?” Vincent had queried innocently and had watched in amazement as Father's face had colored a bright red.

“Never mind,” Father had gasped, but the commons had broken out in laughter just the same.

Now, Rebecca nodded and sat down on the camel-back sofa. “I'm just really glad we got the candles off to our out of state helpers; we'd never have managed otherwise, this close to Winterfest.”

“How are you feeling, Rebecca?” Catherine asked.

“Better,” she replied, pulling her shawl closer. “Not quite as wheezy. Thank you both for being so willing to help. It's been so hectic here, trying to keep up with our usual candle needs and the remaining Winterfest candles too. And there really aren't a lot of people I can trust to help with the Winterfest candles; it's fine if our ordinary ones are lumpy or too short or too tall, but these candles are special.”

“It's no problem,” Catherine replied, and Vincent felt a small thrill of pride, watching her as she inserted a group of white candles slowly into the vat of orange wax. It struck him again how comfortable she was here, how much she'd found her own path in their community since their marriage.

“Oh, Vincent,” Rebecca said, “there's a candle on the shelf for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes,” Rebecca replied. “Catherine's first.”

“I don't understand,” Catherine said.

“Tunnel tradition,” Marisol explained. “The best of the first Winterfest candles you make are given to your loved one. * Miguel still has mine,” she continued, smiling fondly. “I have to say, Catherine's got a much steadier hand than I do.”

“Nonsense,” Catherine replied, shaking her head.

“Well, you've got skill in this, that's for sure,” Rebecca said.

Marisol handed the paired candles to Vincent, and he had to agree; aside from the slightly shorter length of Catherine's candles, there was no way to tell the difference between the ones she'd made and the ones Rebecca made. “Better be careful, Catherine,” he teased. “Else Rebecca will keep you down here permanently.”

She tossed her blond hair over her shoulder and grinned at him. “I haven't minded yet, you know.”

He smiled back, acknowledging this. Where once the thought of her spending so much time Below would have filled him with both nervousness and terror, now it was something great and wondrous and paradoxically, normal. What a miracle you are. He picked up his own candles, and gently placed them into the yellow wax. The scent was familiar, comforting, reminding him of all the times he and Rebecca had dipped candles together.

“How many more do you think we need?” Marisol asked as she dipped a set of bare wicks into another vat of wax.

“Probably another twenty, then we're covered,” Rebecca said. “And a good thing, since Winterfest is in a couple of days.”

“How's the progress coming in the Great Hall?” Marisol asked.

“Arthur hasn't escaped into the Great Hall yet,” Vincent observed dryly. “So we're already ahead of where we usually are. The tapestries have been cleaned and the cleaning crews have scattered most of the spiders. William frets that he doesn't have an exact head count---”

“Doesn't he always?” Rebecca asked. “Yet we always have enough.”

“He's not fretting for that reason this year,” Vincent said with a wry look at his wife, who was very determinedly not looking at him. “There is an...unusual bounty coming to us. Peter's been given a large amount of food by one of his patients; he'll be donating it to the kitchen.”

Marisol cocked an eyebrow. “That's very...commendable of him, don't you think, Catherine?”

Catherine coughed delicately. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

***

Some hours later, after the last of the Winterfest candles were hung to dry, Catherine and Vincent ambled towards the commons for dinner. “You seem tired,” Vincent observed. “Are you all right?”

Catherine nodded. “Oh, yes. It just seems like things have been so busy since I came back from Albany.”

“They have been,” Vincent agreed. “This time of year is always so busy Below, and you're carrying a full workload Above too.”

“Don't go feeling sorry for me,” she said, leaning into the shelter of his enclosing arm. “I wouldn't have it any other way. I just never appreciated how hectic it is down here before Winterfest.”

Vincent chuckled, the rasp of his amusement something she loved to hear. “It's chaotic, isn't it? Yet it will all come together and everyone will conveniently forget how much work is involved until next year.”

“Ah, so that's the secret? Selective amnesia?” Catherine asked, grinning.

“That's my theory, yes,” Vincent agreed. “And you've heard the grumbling---everyone swearing they'll never do this again, or they'll find someone else to do it next year. Meanwhile...”

“Meanwhile, Angus and Cullen build the chairs that are needed, Rebecca makes her candles, Mouse keeps Arthur out from under everyone's feet, William makes a menu fit to serve kings and everyone shows up and enjoys the party,” Catherine finished. “I always knew this was an amazing place, but Winterfest really drives it home.”

She yawned and felt the sudden flare of his concern through their connection. “You've been working too hard,” he accused gently.

“You're a fine one to talk,” she returned, and drew back a little to look at him. “You've got glitter in your hair. And sawdust.”

He ran a hand through the dense mass of his hair, dislodging even more of the glitter, which settled in fine purple and blue drifts over his high cheekbones. “The glitter was from the children’s craft projects.”

“And the sawdust?”

Vincent flashed a quick, wry grin at her. “That's for me to know and you to find out.”

***

After dinner, they returned to their chamber. Vincent had been concerned by Catherine's unusual silence during the meal, the way she'd picked at her food. She was disturbed, deeply so; her tensions had risen within him, knotted and fierce, all day long, and had only slightly been abated by their work in the chandlery. He sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots, seeing Catherine stretch. “You had a difficult day at work,” Vincent surmised.

She sat down heavily on the corner of their bed and began to pull out the combs holding her hair up in a chignon. The soft strands fell loose and silken over her shoulders. “You might say that.”

He picked up the brush from her dresser and sat behind her, running the brush through her hair. Almost immediately, he felt the start of the lessening of tension through their bond. “Tell me.”

“Herman Mueller’s daughters came to see me today. They…don’t want their father bothered as they put it. They want me to leave him alone and let him die in peace.”

Vincent recalled what she’d told him of Herman Mueller’s decision to try and preserve his testimony even though he might not be alive for the trial. “They surely know it was their father’s choice to testify.”

Catherine nodded. “Yes. Yes, they do, but…I think it’s easier for them to believe he was pressured. They’re upset and angry. And afraid. He’s their dad, after all. And he’s dying.”

“And you’re a convenient target.”

She smiled faintly. “I’d much prefer they were angry at Max Avery, but…yeah.” She shrugged. “It comes with the territory. All I could do was reassure them that no, we did not pressure their father into testifying, and tell them how much it will make a difference.”

“And then?” There was more, Vincent knew; a weighted sadness pulled at her words, the sadness of only having difficult choices remaining.

“And then Mrs. Mueller called, to apologize for her daughters.” Catherine rubbed the back of her neck where, Vincent knew, a headache was brewing. “It’s…hard some days. But you knew that already.”

“I did,” Vincent answered. “I wish it was not so difficult on you.”

Catherine tilted her head back to look at him. “Thank you, love. In a way, I can't disagree with his daughters; he's in hospice and there we were with a court reporter and a video camera, when I would have much rather left his entire family in peace.”

Vincent considered. “You're giving them some peace...peace to a dying man who wanted to help, peace to his wife, who is doing what her husband wanted in his last days. In time, his daughters will realize it.”

***

For a time, she rested against him, the slow beat of his heart a comforting rhythm. His own day must have been busy, this close to Winterfest, and Catherine wondered yet again how he managed the chaos of her emotions in the midst of all else he had to contend with. “How was your day, love?”

“Not nearly as hectic as yours.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said dryly. “You can't tell me you weren't a lot of the muscle when you and Cullen had to wrangle that huge banquet table into place. And when Kali and Wilma chased Arthur into the kitchen, who helped Mouse wrangle Arthur and---”

“You heard about that?”

“Mmm—hmm,” she replied. “I ran into Marisol at the co-op during my lunch break and she told me.”

He chuckled. “And here I thought gossip traveled fast on the pipes.”

“It does, but it so happens Marisol's a bit faster,” Catherine replied, returning his smile. “And the new helper is coming to Winterfest too, from what she said.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “Santos Riveira. He's a friend of Miguel's. I'm...meeting him tomorrow.”

Catherine turned in his arms to look up at him. Sometimes---most of the time---she all but forgot there was anything different about him, until moments like this brought it home. I wonder how I ever found you frightening. “Is it...” She pressed one hand to her mouth. “Will it be...difficult for you?”

Vincent shook his head, though his eyes were shadowed. “No. At least, I don't believe so. He's been...prepared, as much as anyone can be; he's met everyone else.”

“Yes, he has,” Catherine agreed. “I don't recall how Miguel came to decide Santos might make a helper, though.”

“They’ve become good friends. Santos has been a regular on Miguel’s bus route for some months now.”

“A good man?”

“He volunteers at a homeless shelter four nights a week and his elderly aunt lives with him.”

Catherine recognized those two values---care of the weak, care of the community---as ones particularly treasured Below. “There’s something else, though, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” Vincent replied. “In a fortunate coincidence, he works as a surveyor for the city of New York.”

“Oh, Vincent, that’s----”

“Some measure of security for us, yes. We might at least have warning the next time there’s a skyscraper planned to be built over our heads. Burch Tower caught us…unawares. And for the survival of our community, we can’t be so ignorant ever again.” A speculative look crossed his face. “There are other reasons. Another lesson of Burch Tower is that we must be prepared to expand, to have some tunnels we can retreat to in case of an emergency. But we lack the skills to properly chart these mazes, so expansion has been slow and haphazard.”

“I don’t believe that,” Catherine scoffed. “You and Mouse and Cullen---”

He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for your faith in us, but we’re amateurs, self-taught engineers. For every chamber we build, every source of water we find, there are three or four that must be abandoned almost before we begin because the walls are too unstable or the air is poor, or the water fouled. If this community is going to continue, we have to be able to grow and grow safely. Accurate, precise maps would be a huge step in the right direction.”

Catherine thought of the hand-drawn maps she’d seen, scrawled with messy, cursive notations in a dozen hands, and saw his point. “All right. But promise me…you’ll let me be there with you when you’re introduced.”

“There’s no need---” Vincent began, until Catherine’s finger on his lips silenced what he would have said. “Yes, there is,” she told him. “Introductions haven’t always gone well for you, have they?”

“No,” he agreed finally. “Santos will…get used to me.”

She touched the side of his face and his hand covered her own. “Beloved, no one should have to ‘get used’ to you. This is your home. I am your wife. Let me be here for you. Please?”

Vincent at his most hard-headed was formidable, and Catherine thought he might---as he would have done, earlier in their relationship---come up with a dozen excuses why she should be anywhere else but at his side. But he didn’t; instead, he pressed a quick kiss to her palm and smiled. “I…forget sometimes,” he murmured.

“Forget what?” she asked.

“That you're stubborn too.”

The thick mass of his hair was soft under her hands as she pulled him down for a kiss. “You better believe it.”

***

Catherine went into work early the next morning, to get a jump on the court hearings and upcoming trials which were promising to clog the rest of her week. She entered her office to find Joe on a ladder, hanging a tinsel decoration from the ceiling tiles. “Oh, hey, Radcliffe,” he said. “You’re here early.”

She glanced up at him and smiled. The mystery of who was responsible for the office Christmas decorations was now apparently solved. “I might say the same about you. So you’re the one behind all this?” Her gesture took in the garlands on the tops of the cubicle walls and the small tree in the corner, festooned with glittering ornaments.

“Well, someone has to,” Joe said, stepping down from the ladder. “Say, you and your husband coming to the Christmas party? The guys from Gangs are promising us some good music this year.”

“I can’t, Joe. We’re going to visit his family,” Catherine replied, feeling, as always, the tug at having to lie to this man. But maybe…maybe…one day I won’t have to. Oh, Joe, would you ever understand the secrets I’ve had to keep?

“Too bad,” Joe said cheerfully. “You’ll miss one hell of a party.” He paused, the tinseled garland in his hands looking incongruous with the suddenly serious look on his face. For a moment, he stared at the decoration as if he’d never seen it before. “You got a minute?” he asked.

Catherine nodded. “Of course. What is it, Joe?”

Joe closed the door of his office behind them. “I heard from my contact with the Feds last night. Officially, they won’t confirm it but he as much told me that Avery’s mobbed up. Said he was surprised we didn’t know.”

Catherine thought of the depths of Moreno’s treachery. “I’m not.”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “I’m not either. But anyway, I wanted to let you know. What time does Rita get in?”

“She said she’d be in around nine after her hearing,” Catherine told him.

“Good. When she gets in, I need to see you both.”

“Right.” A thought occurred to her then. “Joe, were you ever able to find out who told Avery’s people where Rita and I were?”

“No,” Joe said, frustration plain in the tie he yanked askew. “I met with Internal Affairs while you and Rita were in Albany; they also aren’t revealing much because of their ongoing investigation, but I gather they believe more than one person is involved.” His mouth twisted. “When Moreno went down, he didn’t take all his buddies with him.”

“We’re going to be dealing with the mess he's left us for years, aren’t we?” Catherine asked.

Joe nodded. “Yeah. I'm expecting a flood of appeals from the period while Moreno was DA and who knows how long it’ll take to get settled.”

“We’ll get through it,” Catherine said, knowing this was a sore subject.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Joe glanced outside his office window, where a string of Christmas lights hung unlit, plain against the glass. “Wanna help me hang some lights?”

“Coffee first,” Catherine agreed, laughing. “Then, yes.”

***

Vincent arrived at the basement threshold nearly half an hour before Catherine was due to arrive. Restless, unable to settle at any but the most basic tasks, he had finished his last class---the children's reading circle---and changed his clothes. I am nervous. I shouldn't be nervous. This is my home.

“You're pacing, love,” a voice said from above him. Catherine, descending from the snows of Above. The scent of a chill winter's dampness entered with her; it would rain soon.

He stopped in mid-pivot and looked up to see his wife, haloed by the light. Like an angel, he would have said. He moved to help brace her passage down the ladder; though she had come down this ladder unaided many times before, he enjoyed the contact and---as he felt the tremor through their connection---so did Catherine. “Thanks, love,” she said when her feet touched tunnel earth. Her eyes searched his face. “You're nervous.”

There was no point---there never had been---in denying it. What his expression didn't tell her, their bond surely would. “Yes,” he admitted.

She clasped his hand. “I won't tell you not to be but...you're not alone. Where are we meeting him?”

“Father's chamber,” Vincent replied. “With the rest of the council.”

“You know,” Catherine said as they began to walk, “Jenny wasn't afraid of you at all when she first came down.”

“Jenny had been dreaming of me for months,” Vincent reminded her. “I believe she was more relieved than shocked.”

“Probably,” Catherine said, remembering Jenny's reaction, her delighted smile. “But maybe you'll find there's nothing at all to be worried about.”

Vincent inclined his head, considering. “True. And Santos has been through the process; if he was not trustworthy, if the Council had any reason at all to doubt him, he wouldn't be coming here tonight.”

“That's the spirit,” Catherine replied, leaning into his arm. “I know you've got every good reason in the world to be nervous, but try not to worry so. Besides, Miguel was his sponsor. I can't see a man who drives a city bus not being a good judge of character.”

Vincent nodded. Just before they reached Father's chamber, he stopped and reached for the hood of his cloak. He was startled when Catherine's own hands pulled the hood up and he smiled, remembering an April night so long ago. “Thank you,” he murmured. “He's here. Shall we?”

“Yes,” Catherine said, and hand-in-hand, they walked into Father's chamber.

______

* Idea shamelessly stolen from Sue Glasgow's “When the Phoenix Sings.” http://www.classicalliance.net/tunneltalescg/glasgowphoenixindex.html If you haven't read it, do. It's a fantastic story.

[52] “Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love,” by Pablo Neruda

Providence: Chapter 40: Found at Last in Meeting Eyes (PG)

2012-01-06T20:41:00.000-08:00

Chapter 40: Found at Last in Meeting Eyes [51]

“Come with me,” Catherine urged, tugging at his hand. The rain beat a steady tattoo against the warbled glass of the cottage, as it had for the last three or four days. The weather made Vincent feel vaguely uneasy; the life-long instinct of a tunnel-dweller which insisted rain meant leaking pipes was too deeply ingrained for him to easily ignore it now.

“Where are we going?” Vincent asked.

“To the attic,” Catherine replied. “There should be some photo albums upstairs. Old ones.”

That caught his interest, as she must have known it would. There were few enough pictures of him, save for Elizabeth's paintings, but glimpses of Catherine's past, of the family he'd never met, were equally rare, save for some albums she'd brought down from the apartment after they'd married. “Lead on,” he said, her rich laughter echoing in the hallway.

Catherine pulled down the ladder leading to the attic. “You'll have to watch your head,” she warned. “The ceiling is pretty low in places.”

He followed her up the narrow stairs and was immediately grateful for her warning. The roof came to a peak in the center but was low enough at the entrance that he had to stoop. His eyes adjusted to the dim light enough to see boxes and trunks piled without any sort of order and the outlines of a bicycle or two, and he smiled, wondering what memories were contained in this attic.

Vincent heard Catherine's lighter steps, though in the dimness, she was just a shadowed outline. “Where is that light again...oh, wait, here it is.” There was a muted click and the light came on. “I think the albums should be over here,” she said, moving boxes aside with the ease of long familiarity.

“Why aren't these albums downstairs with the others?” Vincent asked.

Catherine sat down heavily on the tattered remnants of an old tufted ottoman. “My father...” she began but did not continue.

Vincent took her hand, sensing that his innocent question had struck a nerve. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean---”

“No.” She shook her head. “It's nothing you did, love. These are albums of my mother as a child, as a young woman. After she...died, Daddy couldn't bear to look at them.” She released his hand and reached down to open one album. “He always said I looked like her.”

Vincent heard the faint creak of the leather cover as she opened the book. As he knelt next to her to sit down, his knee brushed something. A spindled wooden cradle, partially hidden behind the boxes, covered in dust and cobwebs, but still sturdy for all its age. Catherine turned, startled. “What...Vincent, I've never seen this before.”

“You haven't?”

There was a curious expression on her face, a chaos of emotions in their bond. “No.” She reached out a hand and set the cradle to rocking. “I...don't know who used it.” The longing flooded their connection, a need he'd sensed in her for some months whenever she was around the tunnel children. “Vincent, I....”

His hand rested on top of a wooden spindle, cracked with age and use. I could fix this, Vincent found himself thinking. I could make it new for our child. He looked at his wife, saw all the promises of a future he'd never have dared dream for himself, vibrant in the verdant green of her eyes. “What do you want, Catherine? Truly?”

Her mouth quirked. “I was about to ask you the same question.” She lifted her hand and the cradle continued to rock for some minutes before coming to a slow halt. “Vincent, we've always known this...possibility was out there, waiting for us to be ready. To choose.”

“Yes,” he agreed, touching the golden softness of her hair.

“I want our child. Do you?”

A thousand thoughts---fears, worries, ghosts of older and recent pain---rose to the front of his mind and were dispersed like leaves in an autumn wind in the face of her love, the inner certainty that whatever the unknown risks, this was a life meant to be. “Yes, Catherine. Our child, in that cradle. Yes.”

***

Vincent opened his eyes, the pattering of the rain in his dream melding seamlessly with the morning tapping of the pipes. He pushed back the quilts and only then realized not only had he slept for more than a few restless hours, but his dream had not actually been a dream, but a vision. He smiled and ran a hand through his hair, wondering if Catherine had sensed it too. We'll find a way to that future, Catherine. I promise you.

The morning chatter on the pipes was the usual assortment of messages, which Vincent translated almost without conscious thought: Cullen, looking for a wrench; Mouse, looking for Cullen's wrench and insisting he no longer had it; Marisol, coordinating with Rebecca for another delivery of goods to their co-op; Mary, calling the youngest children together for breakfast, and then, unexpectedly, four loud bursts on the pipes, Pascal's signal for an all-quiet. Repeat the message, Pascal said.

By the faint melodic scrape of metal as she tapped, Vincent knew it was Jamie. Kid thinks she's a drummer, he recalled Winslow saying when Jamie was just a small child, new both to their community and to pipe-code. I said, Jamie tapped out, I'm seeing water at the junction to Sector E. There's puddles here and the walls are damp.

Vincent closed his eyes, biting back snarl of frustration. Sector E was one of the main corridors leading to the most inhabited sections of the tunnels, containing some of the largest pipes in their world. If the pipes there should rupture, they'd be at serious risk of flooding. He walked into the antechamber and banged out a message of his own. Jamie, are the overhead pipes leaking?

There was a pause, then, No. But I don't know where the water is coming from. And it's pouring rain up top.

She didn't need to finish the sentence; heavy rain leading to drastic changes in the water table was a threat to them all. They might well be spending the next few days making sure no pipes were leaking enough for City Water to notice. Understood, Vincent tapped back; if Jamie didn't see leaking pipes, it wasn't an emergency. Yet. Can you check Sectors F and G before you're off shift?

Yes, Jamie replied.

All right, he answered, we'll get a crew out to Sector E shortly. Let us know if you find anything else.

There was no mistaking the relief in Jamie's message. Understood. And thanks.

Vincent leaned against the wall, calculating. There were a number of work crews scheduled to operate today as there always were, most of them engaged in routine work---perhaps Angus and Kanin might be spared for an hour or two. He sighed. Angus and Kanin. So far, Angus' return to the maintenance crews had been marked with a decided lack of drama but then again, he and Kanin hadn't yet been assigned to one together.

Suddenly weary to his bones, Vincent returned to the bedroom and changed into his oldest clothes. If he hurried, he might have time to eat first before starting the inspection.

***

Catherine awoke to the sound of rain outside the hotel room and the sense that some important matter had been decided. Visions of the attic in the house in Connecticut rose before her, but the shreds of the dream disappeared into the light of morning. Only...she had talked with Vincent the night before. Of that, she was certain. She pulled on her robe, hugging herself in its folds. It was a poor facsimile for the strong arms she'd felt around her, for the solidity of his presence, but it would have to do. For now.

Rita emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. “I was wondering when you'd wake up,” she teased. “Did you sleep better last night?”

“Yeah, I did,” Catherine replied, surprising herself even as she said the words. Though she was still very tired---as was Vincent, she sensed in some unnamed fashion---she felt much more alive for the addition of a few hours' unbroken sleep. “What's on the agenda for today?”

Rita grinned. “Nothing scheduled until this evening.” She sat down heavily on the bed. “I can't believe how happy I am the conference is beginning to wind down. Will we have to go next year, do you think?”

Catherine nodded. “But only for a week. We'll be veterans; we won't have to go for the whole thing.”

“Joy,” Rita said, groaning theatrically. She sobered. “Do you think Joe will be able to get an order allowing Mr. Mueller's testimony?”

“I hope so, but...we won't know until he gets a court date and Avery's attorney has a chance to argue against it. The earliest that'll happen won't be until after we get home. I just hope Mr. Mueller can hold out that long.”

“I do too,” Rita replied. “I halfway expected he'd refuse to testify, even after we met with him. To find that he wants to help us now...it's unbelievable.” She ran a comb through her hair. “What did you want to do today?”

In three days now, she would be home. The barest outline of a plan began to form. “I was thinking about doing a little shopping. What about you?”

“I'll come with you,” Rita said mischievously, “if only so I can see what's put that wicked smile on your face.”

***

Breakfast had been hurried, by necessity; something he could eat as he walked towards Section E to meet Kanin and Angus and whomever else was available. He finished his scone just as he rounded the corner near the junction, the sound of raised, angered voices clear. Kanin and Angus. Arguing. I am not in the mood for this, Vincent thought, trying to knit together the shredded ends of his patience.

Cullen leaned against the wall with his arms folded, watching the discussion with an amused air. Vincent relaxed; perhaps the situation wasn't as tense it originally appeared. Cullen raised his head in greeting as Vincent approached. “It's like watching a tennis game,” he drawled. “On one hand, you've got Kanin, insisting the water came from a leak inside the wall. On the other hand, Angus, who thinks we should replace the pipes before they eventually do leak, seeing as how they're cast iron and prone to rusting anyway.”

Kanin stared at him with narrowed eyes. “This isn't funny, Cullen.”

“Sure it is,” Cullen said. “And since---for a welcome change---Angus isn't trying to take a piece out of you, I'll take my amusement where I can find it.”

Vincent shook his head, bemused. Cullen had an odd sense of humor at times but the message was clear: this was a normal dispute, not at all like what had gone before. Angus was annoyed but there was no hint of the violent fury that had once possessed him. “I was a plumber,” Angus insisted as if Cullen hadn't spoken. “I know my pipes. Even if they're not leaking now---”

“Angus,” Vincent said, “no one's doubting your skills. It's simply an issue of resources.”

“Yeah, man,” Cullen put in, chiding. “How long have you lived here, anyway?”

“Long enough to know that patchwork maintenance is only going to hold so long,” Angus retorted, glaring at Cullen.

Vincent turned to Kanin. “You think there's a leak inside the wall?”

Kanin nodded. “Yeah. With all the rains we've had lately, water is probably seeping from the inside, which is why the walls are damp.”

“And we know what happens when enough water undermines the structure,” Cullen said, absently rubbing his shoulder---the same one, Vincent knew, he'd seriously sprained in the rockfall while he'd been carving out Valerie's chamber.

“Yes,” Vincent agreed. “Jamie reported no further leaks in Sectors F and G, which tends to support the idea that the leakage is inside the wall rather than coming from the pipes. But”---he spoke slightly louder to still Angus' anticipated objection, and was surprised when Angus subsided--- “we will have to conduct a further inspection on all the larger pipes so long as this rain continues.”

Kanin nodded. “Makes sense to me. Should take us about three days if we pull everyone off the non-essential crews, don't you think?”

In his weariness, Vincent couldn't immediately recall the specifics of the maintenance schedule but Kanin's estimate seemed accurate. “I believe so, yes.”

And in three days, Catherine will be home, Vincent realized. The thought brought renewed energy; soon he would see his wife, and their life together would resume.

Soon.

***

The basics of pipe maintenance were taught to everyone, from the smallest child to the newest member of their community. Every few months---more often, if there had been a wet season---small groups went out on a schedule, searching for signs of leakage or rupture. The large group that assembled that evening in Father’s chamber, then, required little instruction, much to Vincent’s relief. “…and Angus and I will take the outer perimeter pipes,” he finished.

Cullen flicked him a glance, no more, as if to say Are you sure? Aloud, he said only, “That sounds like good idea. Marisol, Valerie, Warren and Rhys---are you all right with checking the pipes in Sector A?”

“Sure,” Marisol said. “Those are the pipes nearest our workshops; it’s not likely we’ll get lost.”

Since Rhys was likely to get lost---even a small distance from his own chamber, despite having lived nearly seven years below---Marisol’s comment was met with a murmur of amusement from the assembled crowd and expression of mock dismay from Rhys. “Yes, well, that’s good to know,” Vincent agreed, smiling slightly. Addressing the group, he said, “If you see something, send a message with your location. We’ll work on sections A-H today and pick up with the next sections tomorrow. If you’re unavailable, please let either Cullen or me know.”

Everyone began to disperse; out of the corner of his eye, Vincent saw Valerie pull Cullen aside. She was obviously not happy with being assigned to patrol the safer, inhabited regions of the tunnels. “Valerie, please, listen to me,” Cullen said; Vincent thought only ears like his would have heard it over the din and bustle of chatter. “I may have to let you go down in a safety harness to fix the bridge, but this…Val, there are others who can go where it’s more dangerous. Please, let me keep you safe.”

Valerie looked down at the ground then back up at Cullen. “It was safe in my chamber too. Then the wall fell in on you.”

“I know,” Cullen said. “And if it had been you underneath the rock…I’d never forgive myself.”

They were nearly the same height; Valerie bent her head to Cullen’s and their foreheads touched. “All right,” she told him, “but…” She smiled. “I guess I’m not used to having someone take care of me.”

“Better get used to it,” Cullen said, grinning a crooked, wry grin. “I’m in for the duration.”

Vincent turned away, smiling. The duration. Forever. Always. Words which had had little significance in his own life, until Catherine. He followed Angus out of the chamber, feeling more cheerful than he had in days.

***

For a time, Angus and Vincent walked in complete silence as they inspected the network of pipes that twisted and crossed each other in what even Pascal admitted was a Gordian knot. He was immersed in tracing one pipe, a copper one, to its origin when Angus spoke out of the dimness. “You never asked me where I went when I was gone.”

Vincent looked up even as his hand traced the weakened solder on a joint—not the first they’d found, and probably not the last. “No,” he said. “I know of the need to go…somewhere, anywhere, and not be found.”

Angus grunted, making a notation on a scrap sheet of paper. “I bet you do. I went…Above. To Amy’s grave, for the first time since she died.”

Vincent didn’t respond, letting the other man speak at his own pace. At length, Angus continued, “I said some things to her I never got a chance to say when she was alive. That I was sorry. I’d give anything if I could take that night back. Felt like a damn fool saying it, though.”

“And when you were done?” Vincent asked quietly.

Angus’ hand halted at the juncture of another pipe. “I felt like…maybe she’d heard me. Silly, ain’t it?”

“No,” Vincent said. “It’s not. Not at all. And now you’ve returned to us. Where do you want to go from here?”

Angus didn't answer for a time, intent on his work. Finally, he spoke. “Amy wouldn’t have wanted me to be as…angry….as I’ve been. I got to thinking she wouldn’t recognize me now, and I’m…not who I was. I can’t be, not after losing her like I did. But I don’t want to be who I’ve been since...”

Since Kanin returned, Vincent thought. “You can choose not....to be that man.”

Angus eyed him with his usual dourness. “That work for you? Choosing?”

Vincent thought of his lifelong battle against his Other, a part of himself only Catherine’s love and acceptance and his near-fatal illness had caused him to finally accept. “Every day,” Vincent replied. “Every day, I have to choose.” He shrugged. “Some days, it’s easier than others.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Angus replied. He gestured to the pipe just over their heads. “Man, this solder is messy. Who did this, Mickey Mouse?”

Vincent chuckled. “You’re half right.”

***

For Catherine, the next two days sped by in a flurry of work and meetings. Joe had called to update her and Rita on the status of their other cases (“Great,” Rita had commented, shaking her head ruefully. “Five dollars says we won’t be able to find our desks when we get back”) and shared what progress Investigations had made tracking down the remaining witnesses on the Avery case. He also passed along a message from the forensic accountant ---Vincent’s friend David, Catherine reminded herself, stunned all over again at the ways his world and hers intertwined---that he’d completed a preliminary analysis of Avery’s bank records and would be available the middle of the following week to go over his report.

And there was also a call from Matthew Glazer, letting her know that the asbestos abatement was about halfway done and beginning in three weeks---just after Winterfest, Catherine calculated---he’d be able to start renovation on their house. “Oh, and I’ve seen our friends,” Matthew told her the night before she left Albany.

“Oh?” Catherine asked, careful to keep the alarm out of her tone as she wondered what the contractor would have been doing Below. Rita slept—apparently soundly---in the other bed, but still… “Everything all right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Matthew answered. “Some leaking pipes they needed an opinion on. Nothing serious so far, but you know how it is down there.”

“I do,” she replied. “And everyone’s…fine?”’

Catherine thought she could hear the man smiling on the phone. “Your husband says he loves you. I get the feeling there were some other…messages he wanted to pass on personally.”

She felt her face warm. “I’m sure,” she said dryly.

Matthew chuckled. “I was like that with my Elise. Made the separations worth it for the reunions.” He sobered. “You and Vincent are two of the lucky ones. I’ve known him since he was knee-high to a grasshopper and I’ve never seen him so happy. Take care of yourselves, and I’ll see you both at Winterfest if not before.”

Rita awoke slightly when Catherine replaced the receiver on its hook. “Everything all right?” she asked sleepily.

“Oh, yes,” Catherine said. “More than fine.”

***

Vincent awoke with the dawn as—he knew---Catherine had as well. He dressed quickly, drawn to the sunrise in the Mirror Pool. Once before he had seen the sunrise in reality, not reflected glory, but it didn’t matter; somewhere in Albany, Catherine was watching this same sun rise. He sank down onto the sand in front of the pool and watched as the sky gradually lightened from the dark of night to lilac then pink.

He closed his eyes, the weight of her presence so strong he would have thought she was beside him. Beloved…to see you so soon…

And he felt her heart answer. I love you.*

Click here for Chapter 41....

_____________

[51] “I Have Loved Hours at Sea,” by Sarah Teasdale

* For the story of what happened when Catherine returned, please read “Cliffs of Fall.”

Providence: Chapter 39: Exposed on the Cliffs of Heart (PG)

2011-12-21T17:29:00.000-08:00

Chapter 39: Exposed on the Cliffs of the Heart [50]

“What happened?” Catherine asked. Had Avery's men found a way to get to him after all? “Why is he in the hospital?”

“Joe didn't say in his message. But he wants you to call him.”

Catherine nodded and dialed his office number. Joe picked it up on the second ring. “Maxwell.”

“Joe, it's Cathy. What happened to Mr. Mueller?”

She heard the creak of his chair as he leaned backwards, his tie surely yanked askew. “Cathy, I'm glad you called back. Mueller's wife took him into the hospital for some routine tests and...the news wasn't good. It's cancer. Terminal.”

Catherine thought of the pictures on the walls of his house: his two daughters, a new grandson born last month, of Marge Mueller and the way Herman's eyes had darted in fear during the interview. “Oh, no. I don't have Mrs. Mueller's phone number handy---could you please give it to me?”

“Funny you should say that, Radcliffe. Mrs. Mueller definitely wants to talk to you.” There was the sound of shifting paper, as he presumably dug through whatever files were scattered on his desk. “Here it is. 555-9312. She said she'd be at the hospital until late tonight, but she'd be home tomorrow morning.” There was a pause, then, “Cathy, I don't have to tell you Mr. Mueller is one of the strongest witnesses you have, aside from Elliott Burch. If there's any way at all...”

She repressed a sigh; while her own preference---and Joe's, she was certain---would be to leave the Mueller's alone, they didn't have the option if they wanted to see Max Avery behind bars. “I understand, Joe.”

***

His exhausted distraction had not gone unnoticed, Vincent knew; the tunnels were too small a community for it to go unremarked. But it wasn’t until Valerie stopped him during dinner from picking up a hot soup tureen with his bare hands that he became fully aware of how much he was being watched. At the other end of the long table, Cullen eyed him, concerned, and Olivia's light touch on his shoulder as she sat down next to Kanin spoke of her worry. When Father cornered him in the library after dinner, Vincent was not surprised; there was little affecting the community or its members that Father didn’t know about. “Vincent, how much are you actually sleeping?” he asked without preamble, accent more clipped as it was when he was worried.

Vincent couldn't give the answer he'd given Cullen earlier in the day; it would be an outright lie to claim he was getting enough sleep now. “I...don't know, Father,” he replied. “I slept a couple of hours this afternoon.”

Father guided him to a chair, clearly intent on performing an examination right then and there. “And how much sleep did you get before today?” Not waiting for an answer, he plunged on, “If you were anyone else, I'd give you a mild sedative and take you off the work crews. But...”

But. Vincent knew all his parent wasn't saying. His reactions to drugs were often unpredictable and sedatives the most unpredictable of them all. “I'll be all right, Father.”

Father grunted. “You're a poor liar, Vincent.” He sat down in the chair opposite him and leaned forward. “Is it your...bond with Catherine?”

The question was asked out of care and concern, not with the scorn and mistrust it would once have been uttered. He nodded. “At night...she dreams, as do I.”

To his great and eternal relief, Father didn’t ask about the content of the dreams. Instead, he studied his folded hands for a moment. “And when does Catherine return?”

“Next Wednesday,” Vincent replied, though he could have named the precise amount of hours, minutes, and seconds with little effort; his time sense, at least, was undimmed by his weariness.

Father brightened somewhat. “That’s less than a week now. Do you think you’ll be able to get some rest in the meantime?”

“Perhaps,” Vincent allowed. “Though I’m not sure how, to be honest. It's not as if we can control our dreams.”

“Well, is there anything you’re working on now that can’t wait until next week?”

Vincent considered. “The rerouting of the entrances. Lena and Warren’s chamber will need to be expanded soon---or, at least, largely finished before their wedding---since there will be no time to do it once we start preparing for Winterfest, and then there’s the reinforcing of the tunnel entrance to our home.”

“I see,” Father said. “And you’re also teaching the beginning readers and tutoring Brooke and Jamie as well as the Elizabethan Literature and the composition class?”

“Yes,” Vincent replied, remembering that he really should get to work on the lesson plan for the composition class and review Brooke’s math homework and Jamie’s geometry…

“I believe we can find some teachers for at least a few of those classes; I taught the Elizabethan Literature class---”

“As I well remember,” Vincent put in, smiling.

“I’m sure,” Father said, though the severe tone was belied by the twinkle in his eyes, “though I’m not sure how I survived you and Devin staging an impromptu performance of Macbeth.” He gestured to the chaos of books and paperweights and papers stacked all around him. “I might even be able to find my old notes.” He paused, fiddling with the edge of an old ledger resting haphazardly on the corner of the desk and his tone softened. “You’ve taken a lot on, haven’t you?”

Vincent shrugged. “I suppose so, yes.”

Father shook his head. “We’ve all…settled too much on you over the years. Are you sure these projects won’t get done without your presence?”

Kanin’s comment about Angus, Rhys and Jeremy rose to his mind again. Winslow might have stood in his place for strength and skills but Winslow was gone, years gone now, and the gap left by his absence remained unfilled. “The situation on the work crews…now that Angus has returned, it’s possible things could become…explosive.”

Father acknowledged this with a nod, but his gaze was concerned. “Nevertheless....Vincent, Angus is not your responsibility. The classes can be taught by someone else and will be. I want you to rest. You could have burned yourself badly tonight.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “And if Angus should become...difficult?”

“Then call the sentries,” Father retorted. “It's what they're there for, and it's high time we all remembered it.” He picked up a clipboard and studied it. “I see there's a meeting regarding the bridge repair scheduled in an hour. Do you want to reschedule it?”

“No,” Vincent replied. “I need to be there.”

“All right,” Father said. “Then I want you to promise me that when you're done, you'll go back to your chamber and try to rest.” He waggled his finger, as he hadn't done since Vincent was a small boy being chastised for some infraction, and Vincent fought to repress a smile. “By which I mean, I don't want to hear about any late-night---or early morning---excavations in that tunnel entrance. Do I make myself clear?”

***

A stranger to the tunnels might, Vincent reflected some time later, believe tunnel meetings were the essence of order and rationality, people coming together in a common cause to make decisions for the future of their world. The reality---tonight, at least---was proving to be something far different. Nearly two hours into it, tempers were beginning to flare and Vincent felt his own patience wearing dangerously thin. “I don’t know what your problem is, Cullen,” Valerie snapped, exasperated. “I don't want to keep having this argument. I’m pregnant, not dead. And I was a rock-climber before. I know what I’m doing. If we want this bridge repaired, and repaired correctly so we're not redoing it in another three or four years, then this plan is the only way. And you know it.”

Cullen looked at Vincent as if to say Come on, buddy. Help me out here. Aloud, Cullen said, “No one’s doubting you, but Val…We can find someone else.”

“Who?” Jamie asked reasonably from the other end of the table. “I’d go, but”---she swallowed---“I can’t handle those heights, not over the Abyss. And if you don’t want Valerie going down there because she’s pregnant, then Marisol’s out too---she’s further along.”

“And Marisol doesn’t like the heights either. It’s a fair question,” Vincent said calmly. “If Valerie is not to attach the new rigging for the bridge, then we should consider who might go in her place.”

“Vincent, I---" Valerie began, only to be silenced by Vincent’s quelling look.

“Who can’t go down there? Is there a list?” Vincent asked.

“It’d be a long one,” Cullen grumbled, unfurling a spare sheet of paper, marred with various drawings and calculations. “Marisol. Jamie. Quinn---”

“Why is Quinn on the list?” Valerie asked.

“She’s leaving this weekend to help care for her mother in Rochester. She can’t be spared; there’s no telling how long she’ll be away,” Vincent replied.

“Scratch Quinn, then,” Cullen muttered. “If we take Valerie off the list too, it leaves….”

“No one,” Vincent finished. “No one both small enough and unafraid of heights. Even if we sent one of the older teenagers down, they don’t have Valerie’s experience with climbing.”

“Well, who went down there before?” Cullen demanded.

“I did,” Vincent said. “But I was eleven or so.”

“You? They sent a kid last time?” Cullen asked, clearly aghast.

“There was no one else,” Vincent said, holding the other man's gaze. “Father didn’t want me to go but I’d been climbing---in secret, I thought---and…he recognized my skills were needed.”

Cullen’s face flushed at the implied rebuke. “If he wanted to risk you---”

“He didn’t.”

“—that was his choice but Val…”

You’re all I’ve got in this world. Vincent heard the words as clearly as if Cullen had spoken. “Cullen. If you don’t want Valerie on this repair crew, then you need to find some alternative. The bridge won’t wait forever.”

A dark, angry expression twisted Cullen's face. “And if it was Catherine? Would you send her too?”

Vincent recalled all the times Catherine had been in danger, directly or indirectly, because of the tunnels. Because of him. Lisa. Mitch. Paracelsus. All she had risked for the tunnels, for him. Laura. Dmitri. Ellie. “I already have,” he said, the growl roughening his words.

Cullen's eyes widened and Vincent felt the sharp tang of his fear. The urge to dominate, to make Cullen hear his words, flowed through him, molten and fierce. He breathed out to force the dreaded sensations away---Cullen was his friend, this was only a disagreement, he must not react this way---and felt a tenuous calm return. “And if Catherine was here and had the skills we needed, I wouldn't have to ask her to go. She'd volunteer.”

Valerie glanced between the two of them. “As I did.”

Cullen closed his eyes---in surrender, Vincent thought. “All right,” he said, defeated. “But Val...you'll be careful?”

She touched the side of his face, a gentle gesture of love and familiarity, and Vincent had to look away, the ache for Catherine, the balm of her presence, a sudden deep longing within him. “As if you have to ask,” Valerie said.

***

Catherine had just closed her eyes, sliding softly into a dream of some other place where she and Vincent had never been---the snowy wilds of Alaska---when the phone rang. She fumbled for the receiver and managed to pick it up on the second ring. “Hello, Ms. Chandler? This is Marge Mueller. I'm sorry; am I calling too late?”

Rita stirred in the other bed and put her glasses on, turning the bedside light on low. Catherine mouthed I'm sorry; it wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, a witness called after working hours. Rita acknowledged this with a rueful smile, curiosity in her gaze. Mrs. Mueller? Rita asked, and Catherine nodded. She opened up her notebook. “No, Mrs. Mueller. How are you doing? Joe told me about your husband. I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Mueller replied. “It's....been a terrible shock but---” she breathed out, a tear-clotted sigh--- “that's not why I called. Herman asked me to contact you. He wants to make sure Max Avery stays behind bars. Is there any way you could get his testimony now?”

Catherine blinked. Of all the reasons Marge Mueller could be calling...“If I may ask...what do his doctors say?”

“They say it could be six months. A year, at the outside.” She swallowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was stronger. “Herman and I, we talked about this, Ms. Chandler. He didn't want to talk to you at first, didn't want more trouble from Avery or his crew but now...he wants to go out knowing he did something good. And if that's what'll let him go in peace when it's...time, then that's what I want too.”

Catherine nodded, though of course the other woman couldn't see her. “There's a way, and we'll have to jump through some legal hurdles first but...let me see what we can do.”

“Thank you, Ms. Chandler. It means a lot to my husband.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mueller. I'm at this number until Wednesday; I'll contact you as soon as we have a signed order from the judge. If you need to contact me, please call.”

When she'd hung up the phone, Rita spoke. “She called about her husband?”

Catherine nodded. “Yeah. What do you think the chances are of us getting an order signed for a conditional exam?”

Rita whistled. “Graham Sparks won't like that.”

“He's welcome to argue against it,” Catherine said grimly, “but if Elliot Burch decides to make himself unavailable---”

“Do you think he will?”

Catherine shrugged. “Right now? No. But a lot can change before we get to trial...and Elliot has the resources to make things very difficult on us. If there's any way to preserve Herman Mueller's testimony, we have to try.”

Rita yawned. “I think I’m going to try and get some sleep. What about you?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Catherine replied, though she doubted she’d get much rest this night or any other until she could return home to the candlelit world that seemed so far away now. She switched off the bedside light. “Good night, Rita.”

***

After the meeting ended, Vincent returned to their chamber and padded into the bedroom. For a moment, he considered trying to work further on the security reroute, but Father’s admonition rang in his ears. It would not be worth the quarrel that would surely erupt if he was discovered, and besides, he was tired, his fatigue an aching burn in his muscles. He sat down on the edge of the spavined mattress, hardly hearing the squeal it gave as his weight settled upon it. Tugging off his shirt and removing his shoes and pants, (for once, not caring where they fell,) he lay down and pulled up the quilt, the utter quiet of the room drawing him deeper into the fine grey edge of sleep. And somehow, the currents between them opened again, a shining current of thought and emotion.

Catherine?

Vincent?

I need you.

I know. Her breath, warm against his neck, her touch at his temple, smoothing his cares and worries.

I never thought we could....

Catherine’s smile. Light in his dark places, the soft trill of her laugh. Are we really…

Talking? Perhaps. Or we’re just dreaming together.

Mmm, I like that.

You do?

Oh, yes. I’ve missed you so. He felt her arms surround him, a hug fierce for one so small. Her body curved against his; his heart beat with hers.

I’ve missed you too. But I’ll be home soon.

Four days. I…will be waiting.

The lambent glow of her mirth. You’re not the only one, love. Her lips brushed his own, a kiss, a promise. Rest now. We both need it.

Vincent didn’t feel her go, but he sensed her, near to his heart. Always. The thought belonged to neither of them, but in the moments before his conscious awareness fled, Vincent smiled.

And somewhere in a hotel in Albany, Catherine followed him.

Click here for Chapter 40....

___________

[50] “Exposed on the Cliffs of the Heart,” by Rainer Maria Rilke

Providence: Chapter 38: Half the World and the Broken Sea (PG-13)

2011-11-30T19:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 38: Half the World and the Broken Sea [47]

The tuneless sound cut into Vincent’s thoughts like a knife through butter: Cullen, whistling off-key as he bolted together a support beam. Combined with the whine from the old drill, it was an assaulting shriek, harsh against his nerves. Finally, the shrill, atonal sound ceased as Cullen placed the drill into the community toolbox. “I think this should work,” Cullen said.

Vincent nodded. “I do believe it will,” he agreed, examining the beam---as Cullen expected him to---for any signs that it might not hold the weight it would be asked to bear. Finding no evidence of weakness, he handed it back to Cullen and resumed shoveling debris into the wheelbarrow, as he and the others had been doing for the last week, working around the abatement crew’s hours. It was monotonous, the endless removal of century-old rubbish from what would become the entrance to their basement, but it was wearying too, guaranteeing (he hoped) a night without dreams.

Mouse met him where the access tunnel joined the main tunnel system and helped empty the dirt from the cart, sifting it through a wire mesh screen to look for items buried in the soil that could be repurposed Below or sold Above. The rest of the soil lay in neat hills against the wall of the opposite corridor, awaiting disposal in the Abyss. Vincent sighed; he had long since lost count of the number of times he’d made the trip back and forth.

On what must have been his eighth or ninth circuit, or perhaps the twentieth, Cullen peered up at him. “Man, I hate to tell you this, but you look like hell. Are you sleeping at all?”

He bit back the growl that wanted to emerge and settled instead for a short answer. “Enough.”

“If you say so,” Cullen replied dubiously. “When did you get here this morning, anyway?”

“Too early,” Mouse put in. “Kitchen wasn’t ready, neither was the coffee, William said.”

Cullen shook his head. “You were in the kitchen before William? Before coffee? That’s too early for even the birds, man.”

From somewhere, Vincent found a smile. “True.”

He bent again to pick up the shovel and was stopped by Cullen’s hand on his arm. “Vincent, look. You’ve been at this pace for a week now; don’t you think you might ease off some?” Before Vincent could draw breath to protest, Cullen continued, “We’re going to start working on rerouting the ways down again tonight, and you’ll need to be rested. Mouse and I, we’ve got this for a while. Take off, get some sleep and come back when you can see straight.”

In truth, Vincent’s eyes felt gritty and sore and he would long ago have sent another man in his condition off the site, yet the stubborn impulse to finish what he had started remained. It was Cullen’s next words that halted any objections. “Vincent, you’re also the leader on the bridge project. If you’re too tired to think clearly, you’re putting all of us at risk. And you heard Jeremy’s message yesterday.”

Vincent’s exhausted mind awoke to a brief clarity. “Angus has returned to the work crews.”

Cullen nodded. “Like nothing ever happened.” He shrugged. “I wish Angus good luck ---there will be talk, if there hasn’t been already. And as much as we need his labor and his skills, he also tends to bring a whole bunch of trouble along with him.”

Cullen’s point was made simply, a truth undeniable. If Angus should return with the same combative attitude as he’d left… “Very well,” Vincent said. He lowered the shovel to the ground. “If there is some emergency---”

“We’ll find someone else,” Cullen finished and gave him a polite shove towards the tunnel entrance.

***

Vincent staggered into their chamber, only barely remembering to place an unlit lantern outside the curtain and remove his boots. The bed---their bed---was too empty without Catherine, but the chamber still bore traces of her scent. Tugging off his shirt and pants, he climbed under the covers and breathed deeply…hearing only the faint sounds of birdcalls…

The sunlight had burned his eyes at first, so much brighter than the candlelight he was used to. Vincent was reminded uncomfortably of another morning when he’d awakened in the stunning glow of a Central Park dawn, disoriented and ill. Then his reaction had been one of utter terror; now, with Catherine at his side and the water glinting softly in the reflected autumn light, the sunlight represented something else. Hope and a common future.

But instinct could not so easily be overridden and as Catherine drew him down to the water’s edge he felt his muscles bunch and his breathing begin to grow harsh and panting. Fear rode his veins—he must flee, he would be seen!

Catherine turned to him then and worries of another sort---that she would be hurt by his reaction---overwhelmed his other terrors. “Relax, love,” she said, her smile wise and understanding and not at all upset, “it's only us here.” [48].

“Of course,” he said, feeling the panic beginning to ease. “I'm sorry.”

The autumn wind blew chill and cold, ruffling the ends of his hair. “Don't be,” Catherine told him. “This is all unknown to you. Take some time to get used to it.”

She showed him the garden, the sun-warmed stone benches she and her mother had once decorated for tea parties, and a flowing joy began to arise from a forgotten corner of his soul. This was freedom, the ability to see his Catherine in sunlight and to walk with her as he had never dared believe they could.

And she was glorious in the full morning light. Was he going to let his fears---any of them---interrupt the magic of these days in Connecticut---the time they had been granted, against all odds?

No.

“What are you feeling?” she asked.

“I never thought I would ever see you in the sunlight. Or any of this…it’s beautiful.”

“You should see yourself,” Catherine replied, stroking his hair.

He didn’t need to tell her how rarely he sought his own reflection; there were no mirrors in his chamber. But in her eyes, he was beautiful and slowly, Vincent began to accept that he might be, if only to her.

The leaves crunched dry under his boots as he gathered her near. And it seemed to him that for that lone moment, it was just the two of them under the autumn Connecticut sky.

***

When they broke for a late lunch, (too late, Catherine thought; more than half her fellow attendees had the fixed glazed look of utter boredom she remembered from Civil Litigation,) Rita waited until the bulk of the crowd had passed and then tugged open her purse. “What are your totals?”

Catherine glanced at the piece of paper in her hand, discreetly folded in half. “I’ve got six mentions of Yale, and five mentions of his previous law firm, along with three references to his current cases. Oh, and he mentioned winning the Prosecutor of the Year award…I’ve lost count, actually.”

Rita chuckled. “That was also six times, I believe. How do you win Conference Bingo?”

“You don’t,” Catherine replied, fighting a yawn. “You just hope to stay awake long to survive the meeting.”

Rita rolled her eyes. “And to think we have the rest of the day with this guy.” She paused. “Cathy, you look beat. Not sleeping well?”

Catherine shook her head. “No, not really. It’s not home, you know?”

“I do,” Rita agreed. “Allen inherited a brownstone from his great aunt right after he and I were married. There’s a radiator in our bedroom downstairs that clanks all day and night; we’ve had plumbers go over the place but they can’t figure out where the sound is coming from. I’d love to remove it since we have central heating and we don’t really need it but---” she shrugged. “Allen says the noise is soothing. Now I miss it.”

Catherine kept her face very still. Was it possible…? “I can see how you would,” she said carefully. Despite her best efforts---and why do I hear my grandmother’s voice so clearly, saying a lady never yawns in public? she wondered---a yawn escaped.

“Go on, take a nap,” Rita said. “Unless you want to listen to Attorney Drones-A-Lot for the next couple of hours.”

Duty warred with exhaustion. “All right,” Catherine replied, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You win.” One of their bodyguards---Daniel---detached himself from the wall with a studied pose of relaxation and followed her back to their hotel room. “Have a good rest, ma’am,” he said, and resumed his place outside the door.

Once inside, Catherine pulled off her sweater and pants, and pulled on an old Radcliffe sweatshirt and sweatpants. A gentle odor---cedar, and the lemon scent of Rebecca's homemade laundry soap---wafted from the garments and she smiled. Even here, the tunnels were with her. A harsh winter rain beat against the glass as she lay down on the bed...

“Shall we take a walk?” Vincent asked over coffee one morning.

“I don't see why not,” Catherine agreed. “But your cloak isn't dry yet.”

“It won't rain for a few hours. I should be fine without it.”

“And...you don't mind walking?” she inquired delicately, thinking of the splinters she'd removed only a couple of days before. [49]

He waggled his eyebrows---a wry, mischievous look. “So long as you don't want me to sit down.”

She laughed then. “All right. Let's go.”

***

Walking around the lake with Vincent was its own special magic, Catherine decided. She had seen the lake and the forest around it in many different seasons over the years, but never through Vincent's eyes. Sights which were ordinary to her---birds flying, the tapestry of fall's leaves, even the cool autumn breeze---were made new because he was there to see them.

They walked for a time in a companionable silence; Vincent would stop from time to time to pull a tree branch lower to examine the leaves, or to look at the sky, and the dawning wonder on his face was worth any amount of conversation.

She recognized a narrow copse clustered not far from the lake. How many times had she played hide-and-seek there? Too many to count. “Come,” she said, drawing him, unresisting, to the intertwined tangle of trees.

Vincent looked up as they entered, at the colored canopy of leaves flaring brightly in cheerful defiance of the oncoming winter. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, voice hushed as if they stood in a cathedral. “Father tried to tell me but…words couldn’t describe what I’m seeing.”

“No,” Catherine agreed. She bit her lip. “When I thought of Connecticut…before…this was what I most wanted you to see.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the gathering rumble of thunder, far off in the distance, halted what he would have said. He tilted his head, listening, gauging with his unique senses something she couldn’t see or hear. “The storm will soon be upon us. We should leave, Catherine.”

“Right,” she replied. “Standing under trees in a thunderstorm isn’t the smartest thing to do anyway.”

Ducking out of the trees, they ran for the cottage as the storm exploded around them in a torrent. Cold water splashed over their shoes and onto their pants as they reached the front porch. “Whew,” she said, closing the door behind them. “At least it’s dry inside.”

Vincent nodded, a small puddle forming under him. “We're going to need some towels, though.”

Catherine laughed. “You're not kidding. Wait here and I'll get them.” She tugged off her wet shoes and ran to the upstairs linen closet, picking up the largest, fluffiest ones she could find.

Vincent had removed his sodden sweater, leaving only the drier thermal shirt, which he used to try and dry off his hair. It was of little use; water beaded and flowed, escaping over his broad shoulders. She became aware that he was shaking slightly as he moved---shivering. “Vincent, you need to get out of those wet clothes.”

He half-turned to face her. “I'll drip,” he protested.

“More than you are now?” she asked, teasing. “Don't worry about the floors; they were sealed years ago.”

He removed his jeans, his shoes and socks. “You're soaked to the bone,” Catherine murmured, concerned.

“It's the fur,” Vincent told her, an amused glint in his eyes. “I'm often a walking sponge, Catherine.”

That was a new revelation, though she recalled his showers on their trip had been very brief....“Why don't you go upstairs and get warm? There's plenty of hot water.”

“What about you? You're soaked as well.”

Catherine entertained a moment's brief regret that the bathroom was so small. But then, a memory of one of her more persistent fantasies rose to the surface. “I'll get the fire started while you’re upstairs. Don't worry, love.”

***

Sometime later, she heard the shower shut off—and a good thing too, Catherine thought dryly, because the hot water surely wouldn't hold out much longer. She removed some warm towels from the dryer and ventured upstairs. “Vincent?” she called, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Yes,” he said. Steam billowed out, thick and obscuring.

Vincent stood just outside the tiled enclosure, one long leg bent and his foot resting on the toilet seat as he dried himself off. “I...brought some more. They're right out of the dryer,” Catherine managed. His actions weren't particularly seductive in and of themselves but there was something about his movements, the graceful bend and twist of muscle and bone that was mesmerizing all the same. “I'll leave them on the sink.”

His voice stopped her just as her hand rested on the doorknob. “You don't have to go.”

“I don't?”

“No.” He looked down at himself, then at her, and Catherine smiled, enjoying his new ease. “Thank you for the towels. I'll...likely use them.”

She saw the damp towels on the rack. “Are you always damp at home?”

He shook his head. “Many of the bathing chambers have some form of natural ventilation which helps me to dry faster.” He gestured towards the ceiling vent, which struggled fitfully against the steam in the small room. “Unlike that, for example.”

Catherine laughed. “No, it's useless.” Little rivulets of water flowed through the downy fur of his backside. She swallowed. “You're...still wet.”

There was a faint roughness to his tone and the slow burning need uncoiled in her belly as he spoke. “Yes. Aren't you?”

***

Even as Vincent said the words, some part of him wondered at his daring, the light bantering of lovers new and heady as the desire in Catherine's eyes as she gazed at him. She wanted. She wanted him.

He could smell her now, the sharp scent of longing intensified by the heat of the room. She took one of the warm towels and dried off the center of his back and he felt a slight frisson---had her hands cupped him, touched him there? “Oh, yes, you are wet,” she confirmed, stroking. “Very...wet.”

The air suddenly seemed very, very thin. “As are you,” he stated through a throat gone suddenly dry. It seemed as though she had a thousand hands, brushing against his thighs, his lower back, even teasing his backside...

Vincent released the towel he'd been holding and only then became fully aware of what she was wearing---what she was almost not wearing---a brief robe whose hem barely skirted her upper thighs. A growl escaped him and far from being shocked, Catherine merely smiled. “I was wondering when you'd notice,” she said, and the robe fell in a soft rush to the floor....

Catherine awoke, hearing as if in a distant echo the pained roar of Vincent's own thwarted desire. “Damn,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face. Vincent, I'm so sorry...

There was a brief surge of emotion---rueful amusement, love tinged with frustration---through their bond. And she understood as clearly as if he'd spoken in her ear: There is nothing to forgive. We'll get through this.

The door opened and Rita rushed in. “Cathy, Joe called. Herman Mueller's in the hospital.”

Click here for Chapter 39....

______

[47] “Sleepless,” by Sara Teasdale

[48] When Fall Comes to New England, Chapter 7.

[49] When Fall Comes to New England, Chapter 9.

Providence: Chapter 37: In the Night, a Shaft of Fire (mild R)

2011-11-09T18:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter 37: In the Night, A Shaft of Fire [45]

The train ride to Albany was—so far---mercifully uneventful, Catherine observed. All around her were DA personnel---attorneys newly transferred from Investigations and attending this conference for the first time, as well as ADAs from the Financial Crimes Unit. And then there were the two men sitting in the row across from herself and Rita; Catherine recognized them as forming part of the protective detail normally assigned to Joe when he traveled. As she'd told Vincent, Max Avery would be crazy to try anything. I'll be safe, Vincent. Don't worry.

Rita was frankly dozing in the seat next to her and the gentle rolling motion of the train was soothing. Catherine closed her eyes…Vincent’s presence was there…surrounding her…

“You'll be careful?” Vincent asked. He was sitting on their carved bed, pulling on an old pair of boots as she finished the last of her packing.

She folded a sweater, the soft, woven texture of the wool reminding her, suddenly, of the wild thickness of his hair. “I will. I’ll be around other attorneys the whole time. Not precisely a hot-bed of intrigue.”

“Very well.” Vincent tilted his head in that endearing gesture she loved. “What is it?”

Catherine closed the latch on her suitcase. “I’m thinking it’s strange that we spent three years with only—what? two kisses?---and now I’m wondering how I’m going to survive the two weeks without seeing you.”

“Don’t forget the hugs. We hugged a lot,” he said, his tone a light teasing banter. “But yes, I feel the same.”

She sat next to him on the bed, hearing the now-familiar groan of the box-springs. “Did you ever want more?”

He nodded. “I never thought I had the right to ask, though.”

“Thank goodness that’s changed,” Catherine told him. She glanced at her watch. Almost time to leave.

“Indeed,” Vincent replied, following her glance. “Stay well. You carry my heart.”

***

After breakfast, Father intercepted him in the corridor outside the commons. “Would you care for a chess game?”

Vincent considered the tasks planned for later in the day---a meeting with the bridge repair crew, another meeting with the sentries to outline which of the ways down would be changed, and then a final survey of the pathway leading to their house before excavation started tomorrow---and decided he might as well take the time, because there would be precious little leisure in the next few days. Good. I’ll stay busy. “Yes,” he said.

“So Catherine’s left to catch her train?” Father asked as they walked.

“Yes,” Vincent replied. “She should be there shortly, I’d think.”

As they entered Father's chamber, Vincent noticed that it was much cleaner than normal. A smile tugged at his mouth; another book must have disappeared. “...and I'm still missing my Physician's Desk Reference,” he was saying now. He looked across at Vincent. “I don't suppose you have any idea where it's gone this time?”

“No, I haven't seen it,” Vincent said, sitting opposite Father at the octagonal table. “Perhaps it's being used as a doorstop again?”

“That was last month,” Father said severely. “The month before that, it was in Mouse's chamber. I shudder to think where it might have ended up now.”

“Perhaps the same place as your copy of Chess for Beginners: A Picture Guide?”

Father shook his head. “I've said it before---it really is a shame you're too big for me to turn over my knee.” His gaze fell on the black lacquer box gleaming in the candlelight. “White or black?”

“White,” Vincent replied, setting up the pieces on the board. Father leaned back in his chair and Vincent recognized the assessing, concerned expression on his face. “And...how do you feel about Catherine being gone so soon after her accident?”

Vincent picked up the white queen and studied it. The lone female figure on the chessboard, she was nonetheless the most powerful. “If I could keep her from harm always…” he trailed off. “But it’s impossible.”

“It is,” Father said simply. “I’m glad you recognize that. I was at great pains to point it out to Cullen the other day---even here, there is no true safety.”

“Cullen?”

“He wants Valerie taken off the maintenance details because of her pregnancy,” Father explained. “Of course, he's thinking of her health, but she won’t thank him for trying to wrap her in wool for the next nine months.”

“No,” Vincent agreed. Nor would Catherine. How strong they are.

“Seems as though we’re in the midst of a baby boom,” Father said. He moved his pawn forward. “Marisol is due in April; Valerie, in June. And I received word yesterday that Angela---you remember her and Lucas, from the outer community?---she’s expecting again. It reminds me of when I first came Below.”

“How so?” Vincent asked. It wasn’t often Father was given to reminiscing of the early days of the tunnels.

“We almost always had children here,” Father began. “When…Grace first brought me Below; I was appalled. Things were…dire, quite often. If we weren’t worried about running out of fuel or food, we were worried about being arrested for trespassing. To see children in such straits…”

Vincent moved his knight forward. “How many families were there?”

“Too many, I thought at the time. Most of the first children were orphans….others were street kids who’d called these tunnels home before we made a community here.” Father smiled, a wry look. “They were our own ‘Baker Street Irregulars;’ they kept watch for police in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. Grace and Anna had a knack for finding the trustworthy ones, and some of them later joined our community---Rebecca’s mother Claire was one, Gennaro was another, and Solomon and Eileen as well. When I used to argue with Anna and Grace that this wasn’t a place for kids, Anna would shake her finger at me and said, 'Jacob, children mean we're succeeding in building a home.' And she was right.”

***

“So this is scenic Albany,” Rita said, closing the hotel room door behind her.

Catherine turned from the window. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, the grey gloom a perfect match for her mood. “Yup. Home sweet...hovel.” In truth, Catherine thought, the hotel wasn't as bad as the two she and Vincent had stayed in during their trip to Connecticut---at least the water heater did seem to work. But it wasn't home either. It wasn't the constant murmur of pipes, or the chatter in the commons, or the warm glow of candlelight or....Damn. Stop it, Chandler. You’re here to do a job. Do it.

Rita began to unpack her suitcase into one of the dressers. “It could be worse,” she said. “Allen's family lives in this area and if they knew I was here....we'd find ourselves invited to dinner.”

“I thought you said they didn't like you?”

Rita closed a drawer. “They don't. But they do love the chance to show everyone how kind and fair and completely non-racist they are. The last time I ate dinner with them was a week or so before Allen and I decided to elope. They kept calling me by the maid's name. Her name was Consuela. Notice our names don't precisely sound alike.”

“Ouch,” Catherine said. “I'm sorry you went through that.”

“Don't be,” Rita replied, smiling. “I got Allen out of the deal.” She shrugged. “In a way, I suppose I should be grateful to them; Allen had been...very much the favored eldest son, content to go along with all their plans for him because it was easier than looking at his family and really seeing them. Once he saw what they really were, though...he made his choice. We were married the next week.”

Catherine thought of that other Catherine, who also had been content to do what was expected until in one wonderful and terrible night, her world had been remade. “I...believe I understand.”

Rita nodded. “I know you do. I heard about you, back when I was first hired. Did you realize there was an office pool about how long you'd last?”

“Edie let it slip one afternoon,” Catherine said, chuckling, “but Joe would never confirm it. Who won?”

“No one,” Rita said, returning her smile. “You're still employed, after all.” She sat down on the bed. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Catherine pulled out the list from her briefcase. “Continental breakfast before the first seminar, which is about changes in sentencing guidelines for white collar crimes. I don’t know if I'm going to be able to stay awake that long.”

“Right,” Rita agreed, yawning. “Coffee first.”

***

The rest of the day filled up rapidly, as Vincent had known---and hoped---it would. The meeting with the sentries, reporting on the incursions they’d seen, ran over schedule when two of them---Jeremy and Rhys---disagreed over how far the strangers had actually gone. They could have continued cheerfully arguing for hours, but Vincent, in his capacity as the nominal head of security, had settled the dispute by agreeing with Kanin that the solutions they’d used in the past---bricked-up walls, passages rerouted and new ones made---would suffice for now.

After the meeting, Kanin had surprised him. “We could sure use Angus with the rerouting.”

“Even though....?” Vincent began.

Kanin chuckled ruefully. “Yeah. It sounds crazy,” he acknowledged. “But Angus is a hard worker. Jeremy and Rhys...they try but this kind of work isn't their thing. Rhys is doing good to know the difference between a Phillips and a flat-head screwdriver. Jeremy is careless with the tools, doesn't care if they're cleaned or if they need to be sharpened. Angus is skilled and he doesn't...chatter like those two do.”

Vincent recalled Olivia had mentioned Jeremy and Rhys as two people who had protested Kanin's return. Was Kanin---even almost a year later---still feeling an outcast? “They do tend to...talk a lot,” he said as they began to walk towards the commons for a late lunch.

“Ah, you heard?” Kanin asked. “I didn't want Olivia to tell you.”

“We're your family,” Vincent said simply. He'd used the same words when speaking to Angus---would either of them hear? “You could have told someone.”

Kanin stopped and looked at him squarely and Vincent noticed the wide grey streak in Kanin's hair that hadn't been there before he'd left. “Vincent, it's no more than I deserve. I killed a child.”

Vincent thought of the men dead by his hand---dead for good and just reasons, but still dead. None save himself had chastised him for his crimes, but the guilt had nearly destroyed him. “You've served your time. Perhaps you could begin to forgive yourself?”

“You have been talking to Olivia,” Kanin said dryly. “She says the same.”

“Then listen to her,” Vincent replied.

“I wish it was that easy,” Kanin said, taking his glasses off and using a corner of his shirt to remove the fingerprints from the lenses.

“I know it's not. But...perhaps you could try, if not for yourself, for them?”

***

The first day of the conference ended with dinner. Much of the afternoon had been spent in break-out sessions with attorneys from all over the state and by the time Catherine returned to her hotel room, she was thoroughly talked-out. Another two weeks of this? My brain is going to explode. She nodded a greeting at their bodyguard---Samuel, his name was---and opened the door.

The shower was running, so Catherine changed into her nightgown and collapsed on the bed. The rushing of the water was soothing...how strange to find a waterfall here in Albany....

“Vincent, where are we going?”

“Sssh,” he'd said. His slanted eyes were very blue in the dimness. “It's a surprise.”

He had guided her through the maze of tunnels and pathways, dodging, she noticed, the main sentry posts. “Are we trying not to be seen?” Catherine asked.

Vincent's mouth quirked. “No. Just trying not to be interrupted.”

She laughed at the dry tone of his words. They had only been back from Connecticut a few days and it seemed that everyone had stopped by his chamber. There had been Mouse early this morning, wanting to start work on a new “gizmo” (which, she later learned, was a security feature for one of the entrance gates) with his usual genial disregard for time or circumstances and Cullen in the afternoon, seeking help reading some old blueprints. Only Cullen had belatedly realized---at the growl under Vincent's words---that he'd disrupted something and had beat a very hasty retreat. Catherine could hardly blame him; Vincent, frustrated, was one thing. Vincent, frustrated, interrupted and aroused, was another matter entirely. “They are my family and my friends,” he continued now, “but sometimes...”

“You don't want to be available?”

Vincent nodded. “I shall have to retrain them, I suppose.” Abruptly, she noticed he'd led them to a narrow entrance lit only by a single torch. “Come,” he told her. “It's this way.”

The stairs were rocky and the smell of moisture and salt---salt?---was thick in the air. Distantly, she heard the roar of water. “Vincent, what....?”

“Come,” he said again, and held out his hand. He guided her up a curving path barely wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side, then stopped. “It's here.”

“What's here?” Catherine asked, hoping to be heard over the tumult of the waters.

There was a white gleam---Vincent, smiling. “This.”

It was a small chamber---almost too small to stand upright. But as Vincent drew her inside the cavern, she realized where the sound of water originated.

They were behind a waterfall.

“How...where...” Catherine managed before words failed her entirely.

“I don't know,” Vincent replied, and although she couldn't see him clearly, she could tell he was pleased by her reaction. “It may branch off from the waterfall at the Chamber of the Falls but I've never been certain. What do you think?”

“It's magic,” she breathed. The light from the torch refracted from the water in a curtain of tiny shadowed diamonds. Catherine could see the outlines of a spread bedroll, a low shelf, a book and a candle; Vincent had clearly spent some time in this small cavern. “Thank you for showing me this.”

Vincent looked at her sideways. “I didn't bring you here only to show you its beauty, Catherine. No one ever comes to this place. We can be...alone.”

She felt her face heat at the tone in his voice, the deepened raspy tone that was only for her, only for them. Her hands went to the hem of her sweater but he stopped her. “Please,” he said, “I want...”

Catherine raised her arms and let him tug the sweater off. The air was chill but she didn't notice, so warm were his hands.“You want,” she said, and unlaced the ties of his vest. “I could get used to hearing you say those words.”

“Oh, really?” He unzipped her jeans and she felt her own breath catch … or was it his. Her pulse hammered. “I could,” he murmured, “get used to saying them.”

***

Vincent thought he might never find the end of the wonder...the joy of having her near....of feeling her desire, of no longer being afraid. The freedom to love and be loved was addictive, a craving he thought might never satisfy. Her skin was so soft against his mouth and her scent...for a time, he was lost in the currents of sensation flooding their bond, embracing them both.

“Vincent.”

He looked up at her, slightly dazed. “Yes?”

“'Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?'” [46] Her voice was dry with a fond amusement, and he realized she'd sensed his abstraction.

Vincent pressed a quick kiss to the flat firmness of her belly, and felt the tremor under her skin. “Isn't that my line?”

Catherine shrugged. “It seemed to fit. And we're not on a balcony, if you're going to get technical.” Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. “Come here, love. I need you.”

Her desire was a spreading fire along her nerves, a fire that would embrace them both. “Yes,” Vincent replied, stretching beside her on the bedroll. Her thighs brushed against him, silken cool. “You're cold,” he told her.

Catherine nuzzled his ear, then the column of his neck, and shivers of another kind ran down his spine. “I am? I hadn't noticed,” she purred.

Their bond was beginning to fragment, to double and redouble as their souls merged. Vincent was less aware of thought than of feeling—Catherine's legs intertwined with his own...the graceful jutting curve of her hips under his hands...the faint rose flush visible even in the grey-shaded light of the cavern...the welcoming heat of her body as he....

Catherine!

Vincent sat bolt upright in bed, his breath coming harsh and fast in the empty chamber, the sweet yearning burn for her a fire in his blood. His hands felt her ghosting touch...she had been there... The sheets entangled his legs and he kicked them aside impatiently.

It was not yet dawn; the pipes were largely silent and Vincent lay back down in the bed grown cold with his wife's absence and tried to rest. But after a few minutes of tossing and turning, he gave up the attempt entirely; he was too aware, too aroused to settle. They hadn't been able to begin work on the tunnel excavation because of the presence of the abatement crew; perhaps he could get an early start....

***

Catherine awoke with a gasp, the heat of him spreading throughout her body, convinced she had felt the strong bracing of Vincent's hands on her hips only seconds before. “Damn,” she muttered into the dark hotel room.

She rose and walked into the bathroom to splash some cool water on her face, thankful that Rita was a sound sleeper. She caught a glance of her reflection in the mirror---flushed with the memory of their loving---and sighed. Their bond had alerted her to danger once, across a continent. Perhaps they both should have expected this to happen.

Two weeks. They could do this. They had to.

Click here for Chapter 38....

_____

[45] “After Parting,” by Sara Teasdale

[46] Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2, by William Shakespeare

Providence: Chapter 36: The Subtle Electric Fire (PG)

2011-10-23T18:24:00.000-07:00

Chapter 36: The Subtle Electric Fire [44]

The morning passed companionably as they unpacked the few remaining boxes of Catherine’s books. “Long-lost friends?” he asked as he placed a worn copy of Leaves of Grass on its shelf. Her enthusiasm as each book was removed from its battered box reminded him much of the children at Winterfest.

“Oh, yes,” Catherine answered. “When I was an English major at Radcliffe, these were some of my textbooks. After I graduated...I couldn't bear to donate them.”

“I understand,” Vincent replied, unearthing a book of Neruda’s sonnets. “I can’t remember the last time we donated anything from Father’s library. Even the books which were torn and battered had their uses---as doorstops in the kitchen or,” and he felt a wry grin escaping as the memory of the boyish thrill returned, “as paper airplanes.”

“You made paper airplanes?” she asked. “You?”

“Made them, and threw them in class too,” he answered. “Though to be fair, they were pages from books so damaged there was no way to mend them. It was something of a contest between Devin and me: who could get theirs to fly the longest before Father discovered them.”

“And who won?”

“Devin, usually. He was older and more…practiced at mischief.”

“Of course,” she said warmly. Her merriment---her laugh—rang as the purest song of joy in his mind. “How long has Father's library been so disorganized?”

He chuckled. “You mean, have we always lacked shelves? Yes, actually. The lumber would arrive but be needed for other things and after a time, Father gave up trying to get the books into any sort of order. But the stacks made such a wonderful forest; ever since I was a child, I can remember spending hours in them...traveling with Huck Finn---”

“And James Bond?”

“Why, yes.”

“My own personal secret agent,” Catherine said, winking at him.

“Why did you choose English as your major?” he asked. Catherine had told him much of her life before their meeting, but they were still learning about each other, and every new thing he learned was one more thread in the tapestry of their lives together.

“Oh, well…” and incredibly, she blushed. “I wanted to be a writer. Or a teacher.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Let me be honest. I was pretty aimless; I liked to read so English seemed like a good match.”

“I have a hard time seeing you as aimless,” Vincent responded. “I’ve rarely met a woman more determined.”

“You’re being kind, but you didn’t know me back then.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you.”

***

All too soon, Monday morning arrived. “It's time,” Vincent murmured in her ear.

She stretched and yawned. “You're better than any alarm clock, love.”

He was already dressed, she noticed, wearing a pair of soft pants---patched and darned and turned and mended again, and one of his oldest flannel work shirts. His amber mane was---to her surprise---tied back into a thick ponytail. “Kanin and I are planning a maintenance check on some of the pipes,” he explained. “And it could be muddy and wet.”

“But there's no leak yet?” she asked, sitting up and taking the cup of coffee he handed to her.

“There could be; I think we'll have rain before the week is over.”

“I won't ask how you know,” she said, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Good, because I'm not sure how I do either,” he replied equably. “At any rate, I don't want to get muddy hair in my face.”

“I don't blame you,” she said. “I have meetings most of the day today. I'll trade you.”

He laughed. “Not for all the tea in China.”

***

Catherine stared at her desk. Monday, for sure. Files leaned in unruly stacks; her phone was cluttered with messages taped to the receiver, and the name on two of the post-it notes jumped out at her: Elliott Burch. She placed her purse in the drawer and glanced up to see Rita holding a cup of coffee. “You’ll need it,” Rita began, “Joe’s on the warpath.”

“Why?”

“Elliot Burch has been burning up the phone lines trying to get in contact with you. And you know how much Joe loves dealing with Elliot.”

“About as much as he loves eating roast butterflies with Klingons, I’m sure,” Catherine quipped. “I wonder what Elliot wants.”

Rita shrugged. “No idea. Reception patched him through to me after you left on Friday; he said he’d call you at home. Did he?”

“He…might have. We had a busy weekend and didn't check the answering machine,” Catherine replied, trying to hide the grin which threatened to spread across her face. “I should probably let Joe know I’m here.”

The blinds on Joe's office window rattled ominously as he opened the door. “Too late,” Rita murmured. “Good luck.”

***

By mid-afternoon, the storm of work had calmed somewhat; between staff meetings, Catherine managed to update the attorneys who'd be covering her hearings while she was in Albany, and after a hasty lunch of a half sandwich, yogurt and crackers, sat down to call Elliot back. Joe had been firm--- “I don't care what you tell him, Radcliffe, but make sure he's available to testify”---and so, with a sense of trepidation, she dialed his number.

As before, Elliot picked up the line immediately. “Cathy, it's good to talk to you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As if you didn't realize why I'm calling, she thought, her jaw beginning to clench. “I'm returning your call, Elliot. I understand you've left several messages?”

“Only a few,” he replied. “I had to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“I'm traveling to Buenos Aires for a couple of months.”

Visions of Lisa and her fledgling ballet company in Buenos Aires flitted across her mind. Two of the most self-involved people I've ever met. They should get along famously. “Oh? Why?” she said instead.

“A hotel development I'm building. It's falling behind schedule. When is the trial date on Max Avery's case?”

“No date set yet,” she told him. “His attorney is now claiming Avery's unable to assist in his own defense.”

Elliot laughed. “Max Avery, crazy? No way.”

It was perhaps one of the few points they still agreed upon. “Yes, well, it's the latest tactic. I expect we'll have more details after the next hearing.”

“My secretary has instructions to pass on any message she receives from you,” Elliot said. “I'll be here to testify.”

“You could have told Rita, or Joe. Why the need to speak with me specifically?”

He laughed, a rogue's chuckle. “I wanted to talk to you. Is that so bad?”

She had no wish to hurt him but the longing in his voice was clear under the veneer of armored cynicism. “Elliot, I got married last month.”

“You----” The shock was thick in his tone. “But I didn't hear about it.”

“It wouldn't have made the society pages, Elliot. We eloped.”

“So...there's no chance.”

Catherine remembered not Elliot, but Stash Kazmarek, the man who was and was not Elliot Burch, and their nightmare on the docks. Would things have ever been different for them, if there had been no Vincent? “No, Elliot, no chance at all.”

***

After his work with Kanin was completed, Vincent found himself wandering to the Chamber of the Falls. Two weeks. Two weeks Catherine would be gone and if something happened, he would not be able to go to her aid, nor was there even the slim hope of a helper in the area. Her words from a few days before came back to him: You have to find some way of dealing with this. Almost unnoticed, his fists clenched. It’s true. I cannot let my fears hobble her.

He was halfway up the worn stone steps to their outlook when he heard the faint sounds of a pebble being thrown into the waters. His view was partially blocked by the curve of the rock; Vincent relaxed his mental barriers just enough to realize it was Valerie, sitting on the ledge in front of the hidden cavern. “Valerie?” he called, not sure if she would hear him over the roar of rushing current.

Her head turned. “Vincent? What are you---oh, did you want to come up here? I can leave.”

“No,” he said. “I'll go somewhere else.”

“Don’t be silly,” she called. “There’s room enough for both of us.”

“Very well,” he replied.

“So,” Valerie said, “you like coming here to think too?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a lovely spot.”

“It is,” she agreed.

The breeze, blowing in from parts unknown, shifted somewhat and Vincent became conscious of a change in Valerie’s scent. It was subtle but...unmistakable…rich and ancient. Life. “How are you feeling?”

She snorted delicately. “Funny you should ask…or perhaps not. That’s why I came up here. I’m pregnant. Father confirmed it this morning.” She rested her chin on her bent knees. “Drew didn’t want to have children. He liked them, but...”

“I remember he grew up in an abusive home and feared repeating the cycle,” Vincent said, not saying what they both knew; Drew had been stubborn and unyielding on this point and many others. “And Cullen said...?”

“I haven’t told him yet.” She sighed. “We haven't talked about kids and we weren't expecting this and...” She swiped at her tears with an impatient hand. “This is stupid. He loves me. Why can’t I just go to his workshop and tell him?”

“You’re afraid he will turn from you?”

“No…yes…” Valerie shrugged. “I’m not making any sense.”

“No,” he agreed, prompting a watery smile from Valerie. “Go to him. Tell him the truth. But also know this---whatever Cullen decides, you and your child will not be alone.”

Valerie nodded. For a time they watched the rainbows arch over the waters---light from some unknown source, the breeze that brought the salted moisture of far-distant oceans, waterfalls in a place no waterfalls should be, Vincent mused. This place was a miracle, no less than the miracle of Catherine’s love. “It’s so beautiful,” Valerie said. “But you didn't come here to look at the scenery.”

He blinked, startled. Had he been that obvious? “Call it feminine intuition,” she continued, with a wry, knowing glance. “You’re worried and thinking you might sit up here until an answer comes to you.” She touched his hand lightly, and then withdrew. “Vincent, you’re not alone either.”

He’d often thought Valerie was a fitting counterpart to Cullen’s amiable brashness but although Vincent had known her for years, he’d never fully appreciated her quiet strength. “Thank you,” he said. “One part of me…wishes she’d stay. The other part…understands she must go and reminds me she will return.”

“Of course,” Valerie said. “Every time Cullen goes Above for supplies, I worry. He hasn’t lived Above for seven years. Never mind he's got a helper's address to give as his own. I keep thinking of all that could go wrong. And then there’s the matter of Jonathan Thorpe. If Cullen should be found somehow….”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed. “He might be linked to Thorpe’s disappearance and there would be questions.” He tilted his head. “I thought I was the only one with these fears.”

“Oh, no,” Valerie said. “I hate to tell you, Vincent, but you’re completely normal.”

Her comment broke the tension of his thoughts and stopped their incessant churning. Vincent felt a smile emerge. “You’re…something else.”

Valerie laughed. “You’re one to talk.” She rose to her feet in a graceful motion. “Any idea where Cullen is?”

“Probably his workshop, at this time of day,” Vincent said, rising as well.

She grinned impishly. “You might want to tell Father---Cullen may need CPR once he gets the good news.”

He chuckled, thinking of how he would react in a similar situation. One day. “I'll talk to Father.”

***

Catherine descended the basement stairs almost on time for dinner. Almost. There had been a last-minute conference with Benitez over the Torres matter he would be covering for her on Wednesday, and a meeting with Joe and Rita regarding travel arrangements, but finally...finally...she was able to start heading home. Vincent was waiting for her, leaning up against the wall with his arms folded---relaxed, but alert. The wave of longing hit her and she jumped down the remaining rungs of the ladder. “Oh, I missed you.”

Vincent kissed the top of her head then followed that up with another kiss. “I missed you too,” he murmured against her mouth.

“How are we going to survive being apart for two weeks?” she asked in a rush, the warm solidness of him comforting and reassuring.

“I’m not certain,” he answered honestly. “It will be our longest separation since you went to Los Angeles. But you must go and do what you were meant to do.”

“All noble sentiments,” Catherine said, toying with the edge of a decorative patch on his sweater. “It’s going to be…a very long two weeks.”

“True,” he replied, and the wry devilment in his eyes was something to see. “Just think of the reunion.”

Click here for Chapter 37...

_______

[44] “O You Whom I Often and Silently Come,” by Walt Whitman

Providence: Chapter 35: The Heart Finds Its Morning (PG-13)

2011-10-06T22:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 35: The Heart Finds Its Morning [43]

Vincent watched as Catherine dropped the velvet curtain behind her with a decisive snap. “Vincent,” she said, removing the unlit lantern from the top of one shelf and placing it outside the curtain, “you don't have anything planned for tomorrow, do you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you're taking the day off.”

“It's Sunday,” he observed. “I'd be off anyway.”

“Vincent,” Catherine said slowly, “I've seen your version of 'off.' I mean, I don't want you patching pipes, refereeing disputes, teaching classes or doing anything but resting.”

“But Catherine---”

She sat next to him on the old bed in the antechamber, and the mattress let out a rusty squeal under her slight weight. “I love your sense of responsibility. But...you need time to relax.”

“And what about you?”

“Mary and Rebecca and I were thinking of forming a conga line.” Catherine grinned. “Of course I'm going to rest too.” Her mirth faded. “It may be...the last time for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to leave for a conference in Albany on Wednesday,” she told him. “I'll be gone two weeks. And I don't want to go but...”

Two weeks. Vincent pushed aside a sudden rush of mingled rebellion and fear. So far away. Again. “Your car accident...”

“Yeah,” Catherine replied. “Joe thinks we may have someone in the office who told Avery's goons where Rita and I would be. The conference will get us both out of the way while he does some digging.” She took his hands in her own. “I'll be safe, Vincent. There will be prosecutors there from all over the state. Avery—or whoever he works for---would be insane to try anything.”

It was the truth and he knew it but... “I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too. So...let's enjoy ourselves while we can, all right?”

He leaned back against the ragged bolster pillows, and felt her nestle next to him. Ah, Catherine... “What did you have in mind?”

“You...started something the other day.”

“I did?” Vincent asked, all innocence.

“You did,” she confirmed as she unlaced the ties at his collar. “'On account,' you said. Now, I'm a lawyer and I do believe that's a contract.”

Vincent wound his hands through the golden silk of her hair. “Well, since you put it that way...it's a contract, you say?”

She nodded, expression serious except for the wry light in her eyes. “We had an agreement. Don't make me sue you.”

The words were said in her very best lawyer voice, and he laughed then, feeling the joy of her here, in his arms, a rising tide from his soul, chasing away the shadows of the last few days. He pulled her closer, felt the softness of her lips against his own. “And what would you charge me with?”

“Mmmmm,” Catherine breathed. “Felony Hotness in the First Degree?”

The old habits of protest and denial rose but something inside him, inside their bond, stilled the words. Was he forever going to insist—again---that her feelings must be wrong? “Catherine?”

“Yes?”

He ran his hands up the back of her sweater, hearing the quickening of her breath. “Kiss me.”

She did.

***

There was something about him...after. His hand traced lazy patterns on her side as they lay together, the light touch of the claws soothing. “What are you thinking?” Catherine asked.

Her answer was a low rumbling chuff of amusement as Vincent stretched, the long lines of muscle and bone and fur glowing in the candlelight. “You'll say I'm a hedonist.”

The pulse beat in his throat, a steady reassurance of life, his life. “Why?”

“Because there's nothing else I'd rather do than stay in this bed with you.”

“And that makes you a hedonist?” she said, chuckling as she brushed the amber hair away from his face. “I'd say it makes you normal. You think I want to get up?”

“Well, then,” he breathed against her neck, “shall we stay here? Forever?”

“Mmmm, that would be interesting. What would Father say?”

“He'd probably diagnose us as suffering from exhaustion and tell everyone to leave us alone,” Vincent said.

“Oh, really?”

The blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Well, what other explanation do you think he'd use?”

A sudden vision of Father trying to explain to the tunnel-dwellers exactly why they were missing rose in her mind's eye. “Oh, my,” she said, unable to keep the laughter inside any longer. “I'd pay good money to see that.”

“But then we'd have to leave here,” Vincent observed dryly.

“True. So, we’re staying here forever. How will we eat?” Catherine inquired, willingly adrift on his flight of fancy.

“Mouse.”

“We’re eating Mouse?” she asked in mock horror.

Vincent laughed. “No. He delivers.”

“There’s a story behind that, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” Vincent answered. “When Mouse came to us, he was a child, too wild and disruptive to sit for long in any classroom. So I took him with me as I worked and kept him busy running errands. His first job was bringing the lunches from William.”

“And you taught him as you worked?”

“It was the only way,” Vincent replied. “He was…untamed. And terrified of anyone else. William said he’d always know when Mouse had been by because he’d look up and the sack lunches would be gone.”

Catherine had a vision of the way they must have been; Vincent and the younger, wilder Mouse. “I'm sure you two were a sight.”

“Probably,” Vincent agreed. “William was just glad Mouse wasn’t stealing food anymore, but it was months before he would go into the commons. Too many people in one small area frightened him.”

“How did Mouse get his name? I’ve always wondered.”

“It…began as a joke.”

***

At first, the only sign of his presence was food, food that kept coming up missing from the community stores. “Can’t be more than one person,” William said in Council one night.

Vincent was not a member of the Council, but he’d been asked to attend the meeting because of his tracking skills. William, it emerged, was convinced they had a thief among them. “It’s the items that are missing,” he explained to the assembled council. “Bread. The smaller jars of canned stew I made.”

“Things that are easily carried,” Vincent surmised.

“Could it be a miscount of some sort?” Father asked.

William drew himself up, affronted. “No. I checked the inventory lists from last month. Nine small jars of canned stew went into the large pantry; when I looked yesterday morning, there were seven. And we haven't made a meal with stew since.”

“We sure it ain’t one of us?” Winslow asked, glowering from where he leaned up against the baluster. Vincent knew the meeting had interrupted a crucial project in the forge and Winslow’s temper, never even at the best of times, was growing shorter at the delay.

“Who would steal food here? None of us are starving,” William argued. “It has to be a thief.”

Father nodded. “Well, if you’re certain it’s not one of us---“

“I am,” William confirmed.

“Then Vincent, would you mind trying to find our thief? With winter coming on, this can’t be allowed to continue.”

After the gathering had ended, Winslow had clapped him on the shoulder. “Leave it to you, boy, to be stuck on some cat-and-mouse hunt.”

***

“And when did you find him?” Catherine asked now.

“After a month of careful tracking,” Vincent answered. “He had lived alone so long it was as if I was tracking a shadow. And almost a year passed before I could convince him to follow me home. I brought him food so he didn't have to steal ours, and blankets...and slowly, he began to trust. But I doubt we'll ever learn where he came from, or if he had family. I'm not sure Mouse even knows.”

“Well, there's no question of his devotion to you. He told me you 'hang out.'”

Vincent's soft, raspy chuckle was her reward. “I suppose you could say that, yes. He'd be the perfect one to bring us our meals.”

“Good to have that covered,” Catherine said lightly. “So, we're going to stay here and spend our days making love?”

Vincent laced his hands behind his head and studied her, a burning, intense look, token of the desires he no longer tried to hide. Before he could speak, she leaned forward and nuzzled the pulse leaping at his neck. “My idea of paradise.”

***

Eventually, of course, they did have to get up. William's insistent message on the pipes reminded them dinner would be served soon and as Vincent had remarked dryly, if they wished to avoid yet more ribbing about their near-chronic lateness for meals, it might do them well to appear on time. “But does the teasing bother you?” Catherine asked. She pulled out a loose blouse from the armoire and began to button the shirt.

“No,” he replied after a moment's consideration. “I never thought I'd be teased for those reasons like... other men.” He smiled. “When Kanin and Olivia wed, they didn’t arrive on time for breakfast for nearly a year. Valerie and Drew kept missing lunch.”

“And you never thought...?” Catherine asked, eyes suspiciously bright.

He spread his hands, claws glinting in the candlelight. “No. How could I? It was never supposed to be my...role here.” He gazed at Catherine, at his wife, sensing her sadness. “What is it, my Catherine?”

Her hands paused at the last carved buttons of her blouse. “I don't like to think of you being so alone all those years. That you didn't know there's no one who deserves love more.”

“I was loved, by Father, by the children I taught…and I convinced myself it was enough. What choice did I have?”

“But still---” she began, until his finger on her lips stopped her words. “Did I tell you Devin wrote me about visiting the Grand Canyon several years ago?”

Catherine shook her head, bemused. “No. But what does that---”

“He described the desert, Catherine, how it can look so desolate until the rains come and the flowers bloom again.” He drew her close. “You…you are my rain.”

***

Catherine looked over at the bed where her husband lay sleeping. Much to her surprise, he hadn’t awoken when she’d left his side to retrieve coffee, or when she’d taken a quick shower. Maybe she’d found the limits to his stamina after all, she mused wryly.

Vincent stretched and yawned. “Hello there,” he said, voice still raspy from sleep. “You’re dressed already? What time is it?”

She handed him a cup of coffee. “Morning still. I don't know the exact time.”

“It’s past nine,” he answered, taking the cup from her hand.

“Early for me,” she said, smiling. Vincent pulled back the quilt and she settled next to him, feeling the warmth of his body dispel the chill of the morning. “So what would you like to do today?”

Catherine could feel the vibration of his voice as he spoke. “Our library still needs to be unpacked. Perhaps we could finish?”

She nodded. “Will you read to me then?”

“Yes,” he agreed.

A brief flurry of messages passed on the pipes and Catherine looked at Vincent, alarmed. “Was that---?”

“Yes. The sentries are reporting Angus has returned.”

“Will you have to…?”

“No,” Vincent replied. “Though it depends on what Angus does. The Council may decide otherwise, but my own advice would be to avoid confrontation for now. I’ve…given Angus much to think about.”

“I’m sure,” she said, and took a sip of the coffee. Something else occurred to her then. “Vincent, the sentries seem awfully aware of where he is. Do they keep track of everyone?”

He shook his head. “In the main, the sentries watch the perimeter and on our various entrances. They’re not spies; Angus is being watched purely because of his behavior towards Kanin. They’re under instructions to report if Angus comes near Kanin and to keep watch on his movements, but otherwise, to leave him alone.”

“I see,” Catherine replied. She glanced at him over the rim of her coffee cup, saw the minute changes in his expression---a tightening of the eyes, a tense pattern to his breathing—which told her he was deep in thought. “What is it, love?”

“I hope Angus…finds his way back to us.”

“He will,” she assured him. “You’ve given him the means to come home. Now the choice is up to him.”

“And what of Kanin?” he wondered. “His path back to his friends, his family, has been far harder than I realized.”

She placed her empty coffee cup on the nightstand and tugged at his clenched hands. “You’re doing it again, love.”

“What?”

“Being too responsible. Kanin’s finding his road difficult, but he has Olivia and Luke. So long as he has them…he will find his way back. And as for Angus…Vincent, you can't control what he does or doesn’t do. You've done all you can…you planted your garden, now let it grow.”

He breathed out in a release of tension and his hands relaxed. “Thank you. I needed the reminder.”

“We all do sometimes,” Catherine said. “I think you’ve been…made to feel liable for too many things which were never your fault or in your ability to control.”

“Perhaps,” Vincent said, and a small wry smile quirked his mouth. “So you’re saying I should relax?”

Catherine nodded. The scent of him…the longing hit her, fierce and almost overwhelming. “I can’t…relax,” Vincent said. “Will you help me?”

Her hands at the open laced collar of his sleep-shirt, she tugged him down for a kiss. “Always.”

Click here for Chapter 36....

_______

[43] “On Friendship,” by Khalil Gibran, from The Prophet

Providence: Chapter 34: One True Thing (PG)

2011-09-09T21:08:00.000-07:00

Chapter 34: One True Thing [41]

It was true, as Vincent had told Catherine, that there were many places in the tunnels where someone might hide successfully. But several of them he could reject out of hand in his search for Angus. Some caverns were too dark, isolated from all sensation, and although Vincent had visited those reaches in his adolescence and young adulthood, they were not places that most people sought out. The caverns where water dripped unceasingly he decided to reject as well; Angus was irritated by Cullen’s tuneless whistling and so it was unlikely he’d journey to any cavern with persistent sounds.

He received one clue from a sentry—Angus had been seen, yet again, heading towards the network of caves beyond the Mirror Pool. Vincent himself tended to avoid the area, not out of fear, but out of memory. He had fled there, and to reaches far past them, in the depths of his madness the previous year. But there was no help for it; where Angus had gone, he must follow.

***

Catherine stared unseeing at the motion in front of her. She had been on its fourth or fifth rewrite when a vision assailed her: Vincent, golden and peaceful, under an autumn Connecticut sun. His paradise, and mine, she mused. He had looked worn and tired; first her car accident, then the tumult with Angus and its possible ramifications, had weighed on him considerably.

The thought was still on her mind when she heard her name on the pipes---Father, asking her if she’d care to join him. She smiled again at the warmth behind that simple gesture and tapped back a quick response.

When she entered Father’s chamber, he was making a determined—but futile---effort to clean up his desk. “Ah, Catherine, I was just doing some cleaning and I thought I’d take a break for a moment and have some tea.”

“Are you sure you know where the teapot is?” she teased.

He gave her a gimlet stare over the tops of his eyeglasses, at odds with the smile on his face. “I can always find the teapot, my dear. It’s the tea itself I have problems locating.” He frowned. “Where is my copy of the Physicians’ Desk Reference, I wonder?”

Catherine hid a smile; this was one of the books Vincent had mentioned as disappearing from time to time. “I haven’t borrowed it, Father.”

“I’m sure not,” he replied dryly. “Vincent said much the same a few months back, then he found it on Lady Justice’s scales. Never mind, it’ll turn up eventually.”

“Sure,” she agreed equably. “Your teapot is right behind you, along with a tea canister.”

“Why, so it is. Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Just sugar, thank you.” He poured the tea into a flowered teacup with a small chip on its rim and handed it to her. “It's chamomile, isn't it?”

Father nodded. “Yes. After the last few days...”

“It's been a trying time.” For Vincent too, she thought but did not say.

A companionable silence fell between them and Catherine studied the older man. They had met in this chamber so many times, in conflict and worry and fear, that it still felt vaguely unreal that she should be here now as this man's daughter-in-law. “Are you quite recovered from your accident?” Father asked.

“I am,” she told him. “No headache or blurred vision, just some occasional muscle soreness, but even that's almost gone now.”

“Good,” he replied. “We're all very glad you're safe.”

“Thank you, Father.” Catherine took a sip of her tea. “What prompted the cleaning?”

“The need to stay busy,” he answered.

“The situation with Angus?”

He nodded. “Just so.” He tilted his head and Catherine wondered absently if Vincent had learned the gesture from him or if Vincent had taught it to him. “What would you do with someone like Angus, Above?”

She considered, and thought of her first apartment after college. “When I was at Radcliffe, I shared a walk up with my friends Jenny and Nancy until we graduated. It was difficult living there at times.”

“How so?”

“It was noisy, and you heard everything through the walls---the drunk neighbor across the hall, the woman screaming at her kids. Eventually we learned to tune it out. You don't have that option here, do you?”

“No. We can't ignore the signs of trouble, no matter how much we might wish to. Angus is a part of us and what's bothering him---whatever its ultimate cause---affects us all.” He leaned back in his chair. “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation like this.”

Catherine smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “Just you and I? Discussing tunnel politics? No, I don’t think we have.”

“I’m not surprised. Tunnel politics is an incredibly boring subject,” Father replied dryly. There was a weighing sharpness in the grey eyes as he studied her. “Are you settling in well here?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Everyone has been very helpful.”

“And is it…are we…what you expected?”

Catherine thought of Marisol’s friendly, intent face as she switched colors on a tapestry, of Rebecca’s easy kindness, of Cullen’s casual raillery, and Valerie’s constant warmth and the slow heavy weight of her husband’s heartbeat in the depths of a tunnel night. “Oh, yes.”

***

Vincent halted briefly in his tracking to take a drink of water from his canteen. Angus’ footprints had disappeared for a time, lost over the sharp rocks and outcroppings that were beginning to appear more frequently, but his scent remained. If Angus had not moved on, he was perhaps an hour’s walk to the east. And then…what will I find?

He remembered Catherine’s gaze as he’d readied himself to leave. She had been concerned, worried that too much was being asked of him, that he asked too much of himself. “I know why you’re going,” she had told him before kissing him goodbye, “but you don’t have to be all things to all people. You have a right to not be so…available.”

“I know,” he’d murmured against her hair, grateful she loved him, loving that she cared. “I’ll return soon.”

Now, Vincent rose again to continue the hunt for Angus. Seep-water from numerous small eddies soaked the edges of his boots and made the rocks slippery. Angus was not a skilled climber and like nearly everyone in the tunnels, he would know to avoid areas where the seepage was strongest, which eliminated a few more caverns. His memory of this cave system was extensive; there were, by his calculations, only three or four places where Angus might have hidden.

Vincent recapped the canteen and continued on his journey, deep in thought as he mused over Catherine's words. She did not begrudge him his multiple roles in this world, he knew, but her concern was for him, that he not be overwhelmed by his tunnel family's needs. Catherine spoke of choices and options; much of his life had been duty and responsibility, with virtually no thought given to what he might have wanted.

He smiled. What he wanted, right now, was her.

***

After Catherine left Father's chamber, she decided to do a little exploring. She looked at the bookshelf nearest the doorway and found the small woven basket containing an assortment of sidewalk chalk. It had been a wedding gift from the children and she had been bemused, at first, as to its purpose. “So you don't get lost,” Vincent had said, demonstrating how it created a visible streak on the rock walls. “Almost everyone has a piece in their pocket, even people who've lived here a long time.”

“Oh, like Theseus!” she exclaimed. “Do you ever get lost?” Somehow, seeing his utter ease here, she couldn't quite picture it, and yet....

He smiled at her then, a full, happy smile, untrammeled by worry or fear. “Not anymore,” he answered and kissed her.

Catherine remembered that kiss now and the carefree glint in his eyes, remembered too the surprised joy in their bond when he'd found her at the Chamber of the Falls shortly before they'd married. She knew her growing knowledge of Below gave him pleasure and---though he might never admit it---just the smallest amount of pride. And it thrilled her too, in a way she wouldn't have expected, to know she could navigate his world---their world---without him. “The pillars of the temple stand apart,” [42] Catherine recalled, smiling; it had been one of the readings at their wedding.

I wonder if I can find the tunnel access near our brownstone? Vincent had left a map of it on their drop-leaf table. She looked at it and saw the corridor was not far from the entrance to Renata's shop, and almost parallel to the Chandlery through a little-used auxiliary tunnel. Catherine picked up the chalk, and grabbed her flashlight, and dropped the tapestry behind her.

***

Vincent sensed Angus a long time before he saw him; the hemorrhaging flood of his pain was as loud as a shout in a quiet room would have been. He had never felt its like from Angus before, not even in the instant before he'd almost hit Kanin, and Vincent wondered at its source. Jonah, a former priest, had been as taciturn then as Angus now was. Small wonder that so much of Angus’ past was a complete mystery, even to those he’d lived with for nearly eleven years.

He rounded a corner and saw Angus sitting next to a fitful fire. “I know you’re there,” Angus said, voice cold and sullen. “They send you after me to drag me back?”

Vincent glanced down at the other man, weighing his options, choosing his words carefully, the prickling of Angus’ pain a raw aching burn along his nerves. “Do you think I should?”

Angus glared at him. “That’s what you’re doing here, ain’t it?”

“No,” Vincent said. “May I sit down?”

Angus shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He added fuel to the fire and it began to flicker more strongly. “And I suppose you want me to apologize to Kanin too.”

Anger, pain, fear… Vincent shook his head to clear it of the dark morass of the other man’s emotions. “Angus, I’m not here for any of those things.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I just want to know…why.”

He laughed, a harsh dog’s bark, devoid of humor. “Sure you do.”

“I did ask,” Vincent replied mildly.

“And that’s all….that’s all you want to know? You won’t turn me over to the Council?”

“I can’t promise that,” Vincent told him. “I’m not the Council. I can’t answer for what they’ll decide.”

Angus didn’t respond for a time. Finally, he said, “How long you been married? A month now?”

“A little over a month,” Vincent confirmed. “Why?”

The other man poked at the fire. “Amy and I were married for almost ten years, though I knew her since we were kids. She was…everything.” The first hint of a wry smile, so different than his usual dour expression, crossed Angus’ face. “I’m no poet like you are, but I loved her.”

Vincent nodded. “I was a plumber Above,” Angus continued. “Worked a lot of crazy hours, trying to get my business established. Amy asked me to bring home eggs one night, and I just plain forgot. So she went down to the corner bodega.” The high red crest of his pain flared in the air between them. “Drunk driver going the wrong way killed her at a stoplight. They never caught the bastard.” He clenched his fists. “I never liked Kanin before but…he killed a kid. Didn't pay for it.”

Only years of his life, lived in fear and deceit, Vincent thought. “And that’s why,” Angus said. “I look at him, alive, walking free just as you please. Saw him kissing Olivia before we started work on those pipes. What I wouldn’t give for just one more hour, one more day…”

Vincent closed his eyes, thinking of Catherine, of how it could have been Catherine had her car accident been more serious. “I’m sorry.”

Angus didn’t seem to hear. “Nearly twelve years she’s been gone. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her, or wish I’d stopped at the store instead of forgetting. Ain’t ever gonna bring her back, but I don’t forget. I can’t.”

“You could have told us,” Vincent murmured. “We’re your family. You’re part of us.”

Angus shoved a stick at the fire. “Yeah, well…some things you can’t tell family. And when Kanin was welcomed, like what he did was nothing…”

Kanin had been resolutely closed-mouthed about his months in prison. He had been released early for good behavior, but had returned to the tunnels changed---a greyer, faded version of the man he’d once been. His path back to his family, to his community, continued to be a difficult one, but at least he’d had Olivia and Luke, Vincent thought. Angus had no one. “What will you do now?” Angus asked.

“It’s up to you,” Vincent said. “Angus, this...fury you feel will destroy you, if you let it.”

“And I supposed you'd know about fury, wouldn't you?”

The words were carelessly chosen and Vincent flinched. Angus looked at him, real regret in his eyes. “I didn't mean---”

“You did,” Vincent insisted quietly; there could be no equivocation here. “And it's true. I have known fury. I have also known a guilt that nearly destroyed me. It's no pleasant place to be.” He looked squarely at Angus. “Is this how you'd want Amy to see you? Festering with guilt, holding onto your pain because it's all you have left of her?”

Angus snarled, a wordless sound of anguish, and his fists clenched and unclenched again. “You don't know...” he growled.

“I do,” Vincent responded. “You're not alone with this...unless you choose to be.”

***

Catherine leaned her head against the wall. “Face it, Chandler,” she said out loud, “you are well and truly lost.”

What had seemed so easy---a consultation of Vincent's map, careful chalk lines down an unfamiliar corridor---had turned into a much more complicated situation. The chalk lines helped, it was true, but large sections of the walls were damp and the colored marks faded quickly or mingled with other, earlier marks. And she had never fully appreciated how much the corridors looked alike until now. Okay, think. It's colder here. I’m closer to the surface. There aren't any pipes in this section, but all you should need to do is backtrack to find them. This corridor branches off into three sections. Pick one and follow it.

Catherine retreated down a pathway that seemed to hold some promise; it was warmer than the others she'd tried. And on the walls there was a lighter line of purple chalk—hers? Someone else's? She didn't know. Her fingertips touched the rough surface of the rock walls, and found what she hoped was a familiar pattern. There. She had felt that indentation before.

The corridor curved to a narrower passage and she thought she heard the low tapping of pipes from somewhere close. Why can’t I make out what they’re saying? I’m not expert like Pascal is but I can’t pick out anything, not even a single word.

Catherine walked in the direction of the sounds, staying in the shadows of the tunnel, uneasy for no reasons she could explain. There was the glow of lantern light in the distance, but what she saw brought her up short. A Chinese man, dressed in the garb of another time, pressed a finger to his lips for silence. He shrank against the wall---hiding, she realized, stunned---and lowered his lantern. Two other figures, almost transparent, rushed past, carrying a struggling bundle.

She remembered with a start the stories of the Tong invasion from almost three years before; in the unending wait after Vincent had left to confront the Tong, Henry Pei had said his ancestors had used the tunnels for smuggling years before. Was she seeing evidence of this, replayed by ghosts? The thought should have frightened her, but after what she and Vincent had experienced on their honeymoon, and Kristopher Gentian’s own ghostly reappearance, all she felt was a mild unease.

Once the two other ghosts had passed by them, her companion turned his lantern up again and beckoned her to follow him. He led her down a wide corridor---one Catherine hadn’t even known was there---and gestured her forward. All at once, she understood the messages on the pipes---William’s last call for the lunch leftovers----and saw that she close to the Chandlery. “Thank you,” she said, but the figure had disappeared.

She walked the comforting, familiar pathways to their chamber and almost ran into Vincent. “What is it?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Catherine couldn’t help it; she started laughing in mingled relief and joy. “Why, yes, yes, I have.” She glanced up at him, saw the worry, and her amusement faded. “Angus isn’t with you?”

Vincent looked away for a time. “It’s his choice to make now.” He ducked his head, so that the long amber hair shielded his face. “I failed to reach him, Catherine.”

She took his hand. “I doubt that, love. You did your best; no one else could do better.” The lines of concern etched around his eyes eased somewhat. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

Click here for Chapter 35...

____

[41] “Push,” by Sarah McLachlan. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwKOcHSDVPs&feature=related

[42] “On Marriage,” from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran

Providence: Chapter 33: The Earth of Your Soul (PG)

2011-08-22T09:15:00.000-07:00

Chapter 33: The Earth of Your Soul [40]

When they entered the commons for dinner and sat down at their usual table, Catherine became aware of a strange undercurrent in the room. There were no hostile glances, no frowns or finger-pointing, but she’d long been trained in reading body language and something was off. Cullen and his clasp of Vincent’s broad shoulder as he stood to reach a platter on the sideboard spoke volumes---reassurance? Catherine wondered. Kanin’s unusual stillness and Valerie’s strange quiet were telling in their own ways---unease? Nervousness? Mouse’s fast, flickering glances towards the entrance and Father’s sharp gaze only added to her concern. Vincent, she tapped against his hand, what’s going on?

An...altercation broke out while we were patching the pipes. I...stopped it.

You stopped it? How?

A feeling of calm resignation through their bond, then, I growled at the other man. After I asked him to back off. He…wasn’t going to listen. I think the tale has lost nothing in the telling.

Oh. No wonder.

What do you mean?

Everyone seems so tense. Vincent, they’re not afraid of you, are they?

No. But…It’ll blow over soon, I’m sure.

“I say, Vincent, did you hear Valerie’s been kidnapped by aliens?” Cullen’s wry voice cut in.

Vincent smiled. “Really? Isn’t she sitting next to you?”

Cullen shook his head. “Six years I’ve been trying to catch him not paying attention.”

Father chuckled. “Good luck in your attempts. Many is the time I was sure he wasn't listening but I never caught him.”

“Vincent, you always paid attention?” Catherine teased. “Always?”

“Oh, you should have seen him as a child,” Father said. “I'd set he and Devin homework and I'd be sure they were reading comic books or doodling, anything but listening. So I'd try to trip them up. I could catch Devin sometimes, but Vincent...never. You, my boy, were a challenge.”

“Who, me?” Vincent asked with an expression of feigned innocence and laughter broke out around the table, easing the tension.

“So now that you have your house, what are you going to do first?” Cullen inquired.

“We should probably work on excavating the tunnel entrance,” Vincent said. “From Matthew’s estimate, it’ll be some weeks before any construction is done due to the asbestos abatement. That will give us the necessary time.”

“Good plan,” Cullen agreed. “There’s a lot of earth and rubble to remove.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “And once the corridor is stabilized, we can check out the ruin next door safely.”

Valerie shot him a curious look. “Why would you want to go there? It’s just a burned-out hulk, from what I’ve heard.”

“Ah, well, because you never know what you’ll find in those places,” Cullen hastily said.

Cullen’s plotting, Catherine tapped against Vincent’s hand.

Very much so, Vincent acknowledged. He’s hoping to salvage something for their chamber as a surprise.

“Just make sure you’re both careful,” Catherine said.

“Yeah,” Valerie said, “no more cave-ins, please.”

***

After dinner, they had clean-up detail. Vincent turned the faucet on and filled the large sink with soapy water as Catherine and Valerie left to bring in the dishes in from the commons. Olivia soon joined them and out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw her deep in conversation with Vincent.

Following her gaze, Valerie smiled, a look which did not quite reach her eyes. “She's concerned about Angus.”

“Angus?” Catherine asked as they stacked the dirty dishes into a neat row.

“The man who tried to slug Kanin today. He's...a hot-head. Stays to himself mostly but he's bound and determined to be trouble for Kanin.”

“Why?”

Valerie shrugged, though her gaze was troubled. “I don't know. Hot tempers aren't unusual down here, and neither are minor scuffles, but actual fights? No.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

“I do. This grudge Angus has, it's personal,” Valerie replied, her hands knotting the fringed edges of a woven tablecloth. “I've dealt with him a couple of times, usually when there's heavy labor needed on work crews. He's not the most friendly sort, but...Living like we do, so close together, we can't indulge grudges. Angus has been here long enough to know how the Council frowns on this sort of behavior.”

Catherine glanced back at Olivia, saw her dark head bent to Vincent's brighter one. “Olivia's worried.”

“She should be,” Valerie answered. “Cullen told me Angus was willing to go through Vincent to get to Kanin. That's not...a normal anger.”

***

“I want to thank you for what you did for Kanin,” Olivia said.

“Anyone would have done the same,” Vincent replied, drying off a stoneware platter.

“No,” Olivia said slowly. “I don't think they would.”

Vincent glanced at her, seeing the unusual tenseness around her eyes, the lip bitten nearly raw. They had grown up together and to see his old childhood playmate so discomfited was concerning. Olivia, as a child and an adult, was rarely disturbed by anything and at times, Vincent had envied her serenity. “Have there been...difficulties?”

“With Kanin? No. He's had to readjust but...he's glad to be home.”

Her feelings were a flood, beating on the door he kept closed against the onslaught of others' emotions. “What is it, Olivia?”

She looked away, then, “When Kanin returned---you might not remember, you were recovering from being so sick---it was difficult. Pascal and Cullen and Father and William, they welcomed him, but...”

Vincent raised his eyebrows in consternation. Kanin's return had clearly been more challenging than he'd realized. “Yes?” he prompted gently.

“Angus isn't the only one, Vincent. There have been mutterings, from Rhys, from Alex, from Beth and Jeremy and others...that Kanin is a convict and he shouldn't be living down here, or he didn't pay enough for his crimes, or he lied to us all, and shouldn't have been allowed to return. There have been plenty of days he's gotten a cold shoulder. And now Angus...”

“I didn't know, Olivia,” Vincent replied. “Why haven't you said anything?”

“What should I say?” Olivia asked. “Should I go crying to Father because some people won't talk to my husband? No.”

Vincent sighed. “That's not at all what I meant. Father couldn't have stopped the whispering---only time will do that---but we're always here if you need to talk. You know we are.”

“I do,” Olivia replied. “But when I heard about Angus...Kanin's worked so hard to overcome what he did, to make it right as far as it can be made right. I just wonder if it'll ever be over.”

***

“You’re worried,” Catherine said some hours later. Neither of them had been able to sleep, so they'd retreated to the Chamber of the Falls. Late at night, it was completely different than it was during the day, the surging waters a dark river of reflected stars.

The stone ledge was too narrow for him to even attempt to pace properly, but tension was written in every stiffened line of his shoulders and the distant preoccupation of his gaze as he sat and gazed at the waters. “Yes,” he said.

There was a small collection of pebbles by his bent leg; Catherine watched as he threw one into the waters far beneath them. “Valerie told me about Angus. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Partially. Tempers flare on job sites all the time, but this…We’re not a community of angels, Catherine. If I had a nickel for how often Cullen and Winslow tangled or Mouse and…”

“Everyone?” Catherine put in, smiling.

Vincent chuckled. “Yes. At times.” He grew serious. “But this matter with Angus is troubling.”

“Has anyone asked him why he’s so angry with Kanin?”

He breathed out. “Angus has…disappeared. No one’s seen him since shortly after the altercation; sentries reported seeing him at the Mirror Pool. There are many places he could have gone, though, and be hidden. When he returns…”

“What will happen?”

“Father intends to speak to him privately. If that fails, the Council may vote for the Silence.” His fists were clenched, Catherine noticed; never a good sign. “You remember what it was like when Mouse found the buried treasure. This has the potential to be far worse.”

“How?” Catherine asked.

“Angus isn’t the only person to have difficulties with Kanin.”

“Well,” she said, picking her words carefully, “it’s not entirely surprising, is it? Everyone carries baggage, Vincent, and I’d imagine you have your share of crime victims down here.”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed. “But Kanin has paid, over and over, for his crimes. How is he to regain his footing if he’s rejected---or worse—by a segment of this community?”

Catherine scooted behind him and rose to her knees. The cording of his neck and the strong lines of his shoulders were tense and knotted. “Can you do anything about it tonight?”

He smiled, hearing---as she'd intended---echoes of an earlier conversation when she too had been anxious and concerned. “No.”

“Then relax. I’m here.”

***

Angus returned early in the morning, after breakfast. Vincent had left at dawn, summoned to yet another security breach and Catherine, visiting Marisol, heard the message arrive the pipes with all the force of an imperial summons: Father’s chamber-Angus-please come as soon as possible.

“Well, that will settle matters,” Marisol said over the swish and CLACK of her loom.

“Are you sure?” Catherine asked.

Marisol nodded. “Perhaps you’ve not noticed, but Father can be quite formidable when he wants to make a point.”

Catherine chuckled. “Is he?”

Marisol raised one eyebrow, amused. “I see you’ve been on the receiving end of one of Father’s…talks. Still, it’s no more than Angus deserves for dragging things out this long anyways.”

“How so?”

“Everyone loses their temper. And on a work crew especially, there’s always disagreements---heated ones, sometimes. If Angus had simply apologized when it happened, Father would never have gotten involved. Now that the Council knows, Angus will be lucky if he doesn’t get a week of the Silence.”

“Do you know what he’s got against Kanin?”

“Beats me,” Marisol said. “Angus keeps to himself pretty much, like Cullen used to…or Vincent.”

Catherine heard all Marisol didn't say; Vincent wasn’t as isolated any longer. “For just one man, Angus is certainly causing a ruckus.”

“Ah, but it’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” Marisol said dryly. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”

She thought of the many and varied kinds of Vincent’s silences: the way he would nestle against her in the night, seeking a comfort he’d so long been denied, the light in his eyes as she descended the stairs into their world; the utter stillness of wonder when he'd seen a flock of birds in the autumn skies of Connecticut. “No,” Catherine said, “you don’t.”

***

Father looked up as Angus entered, still wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before. He gestured to a seat and his hip stabbed fitfully, as it always did in the winter.

“Father, I...” Angus began, then stopped.

Angus, broad-shouldered, muscular, and nearly taller than Vincent, looked as if he hadn't eaten or slept well. “I've heard a few versions of what happened. In the meantime, though, would you care to eat?”

Angus' face, florid under the stunning whiteness of his hair, grew stony. “I'm not going to the commons.”

“No one's asking you to. I have an extra scone. Sit down. Eat. Then we'll talk.”

As Angus ate, Father poured them both a cup of tea and waited for Angus to speak. When he finally did, the words were not what Father expected. “I wanted to beat Kanin up. I suppose that means the Silence.”

Interesting, Father thought. “It might. Was there a reason?”

A distant angry fire flashed in Angus' eyes. “We were repairing the pipes and Kanin was griping about the condition of them and saying how City Water would never notice anyway.” His fists clenched. “If he'd been here helping with the maintenance, we wouldn't have been at risk of flooding.”

“And that's enough to hit a man for?” Father asked.

“Kanin doesn't take the work seriously. Never has, if you ask me.”

Father stared at him. “And you expect me to believe that's why you tried to attack him? I know the anniversary of Amy's death is this month---”

Angus stood, and Father was uncomfortably reminded of Vincent in one of his more towering rages. “You don't know...don't mention her name!” He turned on his heel and stormed out.

***

The message from Father arrived just as Vincent was settling down to eat a late breakfast. He sighed in amused exasperation---why did these things always happen during a meal? Catherine looked up at him and smiled. “Go,” she said, “and take your food. I'll catch up with you.”

He sighed and kissed her. “I'll be home soon.”

“I know,” she murmured.

As he approached Father's chamber, he noticed the unlit lantern in the corridor and the faint traces of Angus' furious, brooding scent. “Ah, Vincent,” Father said as he entered. “I'm sorry to call you away from your meal. Do you have news on the intruders?”

“Yes,” he replied, sitting down at the oval table with his scone and coffee. “They're not armed, but they've gone farther into our world than we anticipated. We'll have to move up the changing of the ways.” He glanced at Father, seeing the way the other man worried the stem of his eyeglasses. “That's not why you summoned me, though. Angus was here?”

“I'll never get used to how you sense these things,” Father said, chuckling.

Vincent shrugged, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It's not magic. I heard your message when Jeremy and I were checking on the intruders.”

“Angus and I spoke,” Father confirmed. “But I fear I was unable to reach him. Do you know anything of his history?”

Vincent shook his head. “Jonah was his sponsor, and that was...ten or eleven years ago. I wasn't a member of the council then.”

Father nodded. “As Angus' sponsor, Jonah learned his full story, but when he died, I'm afraid he took whatever he knew to his grave. Angus was married to a woman named Amy but beyond that...” He frowned. “Angus is such a...walled-in personality. We may never learn all of his secrets.”

“The Council wasn't told everything when he joined us?” Vincent asked, breaking off a piece of the scone. “That's...highly irregular.”

“That was Jonah,” Father said. “In retrospect, we should have insisted more...but Jonah made the case that Angus had been through enough trauma, and forcing him to explain himself further would damage him irreparably. We trusted Jonah's word and Angus seemed to be a good fit for us until...”

Vincent sat back in his chair, thinking. Angus' pain seeped from him, a poison that had never been lanced; it was not the long-healed pain that Cullen felt when he spoke of his wife. “Do you want me to try and speak with him?”

“You're probably the only one who could,” Father replied. “I wouldn't ask, otherwise, but if we can't discover some reason for his behavior, the Council will impose the Silence. And I would prefer not to do that unless there was no other option. It's a harsh punishment and it might drive Angus further away from us.”

Vincent finished the last of his scone. “Very well. I'll speak with Angus today.”

***

He found Catherine stretched out on their bed, reading a book. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“For now,” he said softly. “We’re going to have to change the ways down sooner than we thought.”

“Intruders?”

“Yes. They’ve come further into the tunnels than we originally realized.”

She sat up then, all gold and ivory in the candlelight. “Will it be dangerous?”

“No,” he replied, knowing which intruders were on her mind right then. “Not like…before. They’re unarmed.”

Catherine studied him closely, and he wondered what she saw. “There's something else though, love, isn't there?”

“Yes. Father has asked me to speak with Angus.”

“If anyone could get him to talk, you could. But...” Catherine bit her lip. “Are you sure he won't try to take a swing at you instead?”

“He might,” Vincent acknowledged. “But somehow, I think not.”

“It's always you, isn't it?” she asked. “Counselor, protector, teacher, repairer of pipes and solver of problems. Do you ever get a chance to rest?”

He sat down on the bed next to her, and gathered her into his arms. “With you. Only with you.”

Click here for Chapter 34...

____

[40] “A Song of Despair,” by Pablo Neruda

Providence: Chapter 32: Sharer of My Roving Life (PG)

2011-08-06T19:00:00.000-07:00

Chapter 32: Sharer of My Roving Life [39]

Catherine arrived at work early on Friday morning. Vincent had been called away at dawn with several of the other men to fix a group of leaking pipes (“This never happens at noon,” he'd said dryly as he'd left the comfort of their bed and hurriedly shrugged into his oldest clothes,) and unable to sleep without him, she had decided to come into work instead of tossing and turning. She smothered a groan to find her desk covered in files, various motions and messages layered over her phone. At the very top was a note from Joe: “See me when you get in.” She placed her purse in her drawer and hung up her coat, then went to his office.

“Cathy!” Joe exclaimed. His tie was already askew and his coffee cup was not full. Not a good sign, Catherine thought. “You're back. How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” she answered, sitting down. Joe closed the door and she gazed at him. “It's good to be here. Why do you look so worried?”

“You don't miss much, do you?” He excavated a thin file and handed it to her. “That's the police report on your accident. A car matching that description was found in a junkyard in Newark, burned-out. It had been reported stolen a week before from a used car lot...”

“...and that's where the trail went cold?” she surmised.

Joe nodded. “Got it in one.” He stood, hitched one hip on the corner of his desk. “Cathy, look, I don't mind telling you this: you and Rita were both damned lucky. Professionals did this. Not amateurs.”

“Anyone keeping an eye on the Muellers?” She remembered Herman Mueller's crushed leg, heard the fear in his voice: I know what Avery's reach can do.

“Yeah, we got the police up there watching them.” Joe fidgeted with his ball of rubber bands and pulled his tie further awry. “I want both of you to get out of town for a couple of weeks.” He glanced down at the carpet then back across at her, his gaze resolute. “There's a possibility we have a leak in the department.”

The same thought had occurred to her. “Right. How'd they know precisely when we were leaving the Muellers? How did they find out we were even planning to be there in the first place?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “With what we discovered about Moreno...”

She nodded. “We can't assume he was the only one.”

“So, that's why I want you and Rita to go to this conference in Albany next week; it's on prosecuting white collar crime.” He grinned boyishly. “Can't hurt, right?”

“No, it can't. But Joe, the next hearing on the Avery case is in a few weeks. If I'm gone for this conference, I won't have much time to prepare.”

“Well...read this.”

Catherine flipped through the pages of the motion he handed to her. “You have got to be kidding me. His attorney is claiming Avery's incompetent and wants him to be evaluated by a psychiatrist?”

“I hear you,” Joe said. “But it's how Graham Sparks plays the game. The hearings get delayed, our witnesses move or change their minds and suddenly...our case isn't as strong as it was.”

“Joe, I saw him in court at the arraignment. He's as competent as you or I.”

“I know he is, and you know he is, but no judge is going to risk this thing being reversed on appeal. He’ll get his psychiatric exam and his hearing and he’ll be found competent.” Joe folded his arms. “Until then, we subpoena more records and dig up more evidence. And we wait.”

“Well, you can wait,” Catherine replied dryly. “Some of us need to stock up on band-aids for our paper cuts.”

Joe laughed. “That’s the spirit. Oh, before I forget, one of the messages on your desk is from the forensic accountant; reception transferred his call to me while you were out.”

“Thanks, I’ll call him back.”

As she turned to leave, Joe’s voice stopped her. “It really is good to see you at work, kiddo. You had me worried.”

Catherine smiled at him. “Thanks, Joe.”

***

By mid-morning, she’d reduced the files to manageable piles and updated her calendar to reflect the upcoming hearings. As she’d thought, November would be busy both above and below, with Winterfest preparations beginning soon, and the court calendar bunching up before the holidays. But would I have it any other way? No. Glancing at her list of messages, she decided to call the accountant. “David Smith,” the voice answered.

“Hello, this is Catherine Chandler at the District Attorney’s office--- “

There was a pause, then a brief laugh. “I know who you are. We danced the Charleston, remember?”

“No, you danced. I tried not to trip over my ankles,” Catherine replied, remembering the russet-haired guitarist from Winterfest. Vincent’s friend David too, she thought, recalling the story he’d told her when they’d camped one night. “I can’t believe it---you’re that David Smith?”

“It’s such an unusual name. But yes, I’m him. Me. Whatever.”

“Well, the reason I’m calling is to see if you’re available to work on a large white collar crime case.” Briefly, she outlined what they knew and suspected of Avery’s operations. “And we have a lot of bank records so far, but we need a flow-chart, something to show where the money is coming from, where it’s going, and what it’s being spent on.”

David whistled. “When’s your trial date?”

“I don’t have any idea. Our defendant is trying to get himself declared incompetent but meanwhile the documents are piling up.”

“Well, it’s only Joshua and me running this place, but I believe we should be able to work on this. Will you be available on Monday? I can come by, drop off my contract and pick up my copies of the bank records.”

“That sounds good,” Catherine agreed. “What time Monday?”

“Late morning, say around 11? I have to meet some clients first.”

“All right,” she said, making a notation on her calendar. “See you then.”

***

“I don’t believe this,” Cullen groaned, sodden and filthy as they all were. “This damned pipe is still leaking.”

Vincent shook the damp, heavy mass of his hair back from his shoulders and wished for the thousandth time he’d thought to borrow one of Catherine’s hair ties when he’d left that morning. The pipe was cold and wet, seeping under his hands. Icy water trailed its way down the back of his neck and he shivered, uncomfortably aware of the denim shirt soaked through the thermal undershirt to his skin.

“Well, staring at the pipe isn’t going to fix it,” Angus said, the faintest burr of irritation edging his words, though perhaps only ears like his would have heard it. “Is there any word from Matthew?”

“None yet,” Vincent answered, applying sealant to another pipe. “But if Matthew’s on a job site---”

“We’ll have to make do without him. You ask me, it needs to be replaced,” Angus retorted. “The pipe’s old.”

“They’re all old down here,” Kanin said. “We’re just lucky City Water doesn’t happen to care about this junction.”

“You hope they don’t care,” Angus muttered.

Kanin’s head jerked up at that comment. Angus had taken over much of Kanin’s work on pipe maintenance during the months of his prison sentence but the resentment between them was an older and festering one. Vincent placed a restraining hand on his arm and Kanin subsided. “Arguing isn’t going to fix the pipe either,” Vincent said. “Matthew will respond. In the meantime, we must do what we can.”

“It won’t be enough,” Angus retorted.

“Well, what do you want us to do?” Kanin demanded. “We can’t walk into a plumbing supply store and buy what we need. We have to rely on others to help us.”

It was easy to forget Angus was the oldest person present by several years, so quickly did he advance on Kanin. “If you’d been here to do the maintenance like you should have been, this pipe would have been fixed months ago before it got this bad!”

Vincent stepped between them, sensing the bitter harsh flood of Angus’ fury as an almost physical tide. “Back off, Angus. Now.”

Angus balled his fists. “And if I don’t?”

A low rumble emerged from Vincent’s throat and he felt the first rush of protect-fight-save-defend surge through him. “Try me.”

***

Some hours later, they emerged from the junction. Matthew, true to form, had sent Mouse below with the supplies needed to finally fix the largest leaking pipe. “I don’t know about you,” Cullen said as a bedraggled Kanin left to return to his chamber, “but the first thing I’m going to do is get a shower. Then eat. Or maybe...”

Despite his exhaustion, Vincent smiled. “Shower first. Definitely.”

Cullen laughed. “You’re one to talk. You smell like a wet cat.” His face froze as he realized what he’d said. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Vincent shook his head. “Cullen, my…fur is soaked clear through. It’ll take hours before I’m completely dry.” He sniffed at one of his sleeves. “And---though I doubt Kali, Wilma or Slinky would be willing to get wet for purposes of comparison---I suppose I do smell like a wet cat.”

Cullen clapped him on the one shoulder, grinning. “You’ve changed, you know that?”

“Yes,” Vincent acknowledged, abandoning the attempt to refasten one of his frayed cuffs.

“You’re not…bothered by Angus, are you?” Cullen asked, stopping. “If you are, don’t be. He’s a hot-head and an ass and---”

Vincent considered. Some part of him insisted---with Father's voice, he noted dryly---that intervening as he had was unwise, that he should never show that other, more fierce side openly. But another, newer voice spoke louder. I did what needed to be done. Nothing more, nothing less. Angus is unhurt and the fight ended. “No, I’m not. He was going to hit Kanin.”

“He was,” Cullen confirmed. “Every time he gets around Kanin, he’s trying to start something. You’d think he’d have grown out of his case of the stupids, as old as he is.”

“He’s not that much older than we are,” Vincent protested.

“Ten years at least,” Cullen retorted. “Old enough to know better than to pick a fight with another man just because you’re pissed off you had to do his job for a while.”

“It’s more than that,” Vincent replied, though it was often difficult to sort out the inchoate things his empathy told him. “He dislikes Kanin for some personal reason.”

“Well, whatever, he’s old enough to be angry after the emergency’s over, not during it. If Matthew hadn’t sent down those supplies…”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed. “We’d have had some serious flooding.”

Cullen yawned. “Anyway, I’m going to go off to my chamber and hope Valerie lets me in the doorway, as bad as I smell. You and Catherine coming to the commons for dinner?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good, man. See you both tonight.”

***

Vincent was putting on a clean shirt when he heard Father’s voice from out in the corridor. “Vincent, may I come in?”

The tunnel rumor mill, working overtime yet again, he thought, amused. “Certainly, Father. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice, thank you,” Father replied.

Vincent poured the tea, and decided to confront matters head-on. “I assume you heard about Angus.”

“Mouse told me,” he confirmed. “Is…everything all right?”

The undertone of Father’s words was clear enough: Are you all right? How do you feel? “I believe so,” Vincent answered. “Has Angus been sighted?”

Father nodded. “The sentries saw him down by the Mirror Pool. Aaron says he’s in, and I quote, ‘One hell of a snit.’ What happened?”

Vincent told him. When he finished, Father leaned his head against the padded back of the chair. “I was afraid of this,” he said finally. “Angus’ antagonism towards Kanin has only intensified since his return, though they were never particularly close before.”

“No, they weren’t,” Vincent agreed, “though Kanin wasn’t really close to anyone before he…left us. Only Drew, then Olivia.” Father sipped at his tea for a time, a tense sort of expectant waiting in his gaze. “What is it you wish to say, Father?”

“I…I’m sure you acted as you thought you must but…there will be talk.”

“There’s always some talk, of one kind or another,” Vincent answered. “Angus was going to strike Kanin. What do you think I should have done?”

“There was nothing else you could have done,” Father replied. “But as long as Angus has lived among us, I’ve been forced to recognize that his is the sort of anger that doesn’t lessen over time.”

“He’s…very angry with Kanin. Furious even,” Vincent replied. “It’s eating at him.”

To his great relief, Father didn’t challenge his conclusions with some variant on Oh, how could you know that? Instead, he said, “We’ll have watch both Angus and Kanin. These confrontations cannot be allowed to continue or escalate.”

***

All throughout the rest of the day, through the Elizabethan Literature class he and Father taught, through helping Cullen with the beginning woodworkers, Vincent was conscious of a burgeoning joy. It wasn't his, but Catherine's, and her happiness lit their bond like a beacon, dispersing the tensions and the exhaustion of earlier in the day.

Even Cullen had remarked on it, taking the canister of varnish from his hands and recapping it. “I see that goofy grin on your face. Go see her before you spill the stuff on the floor. You know how I like to keep it clean.”

The floor—Cullen's old chamber---was in fact already marked by varnish stains and covered in sawdust and wood flakes besides, but Vincent chuckled and handed the container over.

Halfway to the threshold, he began to run.

***

He arrived as she was descending the ladder into the world they now shared. Her blossoming joy lit his heart. “What is it?” he breathed against her hair.

“Dara called...I wanted to send a message to you but I thought I should tell you in person.”

“Tell me what?” he asked, loving the feel of her slight body against his. Ah, Catherine...

“The seller accepted our offer. Vincent, we have a home.”

Click here for Chapter 33...

________

[39] “Fast Anchor'd, Eternal, O Love,” by Walt Whitman

Providence: Chapter 31: As Care and Grief Grew Dim (PG)

2011-07-31T20:36:00.000-07:00

Chapter 31: As Care and Grief Grew Dim [36]

“Ow. My hair hurts,” Catherine murmured as she opened her eyes to the dimness of their bedroom. Turning over was an impossibility; muscles jumped and twisted and screamed in protest at the very idea. She tried to decide if she could bear the discomfort long enough to reach out and take the painkillers resting on her bedside table. But then she'd have to leave the bed to get water from the bathroom to swallow the pills and...she sank back onto the mattress.

From the other side of the bed, she heard a low, amused rumble. “How is that even possible?” Vincent asked. His hands came to rest at the junction of her neck and shoulders where the pain was the worst.

“No idea,” she replied. The tight muscles began to uncoil under his touch. “I don't understand this. I wasn't stiff at all yesterday.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Vincent said. “When I fell off the ladder just before Winterfest [37] I was fine the day after it, but then very sore two or three days following the accident. Sometimes it takes a while.”

She was able---barely---to turn her head. “What did you do?”

“I spent a lot of time in the hot pools of the bathing chamber, which was its own challenge since my cast had to be wrapped first, but it was worth it.”

Catherine breathed out, feeling the slow release of pain. “I wish I'd been here.”

She couldn't see him but knew, somehow, that he smiled. “Looking back, I wish you had been too.”

There was a dry tone to his words that made her chuckle. “Why?”

“The ladder I fell from was rickety; Father was almost as annoyed with Mouse for letting Arthur into the Great Hall as he was that I'd used the ladder without someone else bracing it. Had you been here...I'm sure he would have been diverted somewhat from his lectures.”

Catherine chuckled. She had come Below as soon as the message had arrived from Father that Vincent had been injured in an accident, and she vividly remembered Vincent's beleaguered air. “Oh, no wonder you looked so harried.”

Vincent laughed. “Indeed. When Father gets into full rant, he can be quite formidable.” His hands pressed deep into a kink in her lower back. “You're not due back at work today, are you?”

“No. Thursday, if Peter agrees. Joe told me he doesn't want either of us in the office until we're both feeling better.” She relaxed further into his embrace. “Which classes are you teaching today?”

“The beginning readers' class later on this morning, then Composition. After lunch, there's a meeting with Kanin and the others to create a schedule for the bridge repair.”

“Sounds like a full day,” Catherine said.

“Yes, it will be. But Catherine---”

“Vincent. You have work to do. I'll be fine, honest.”

His hair brushed the side of her face as he kissed her. “I know you will. Forgive me, I…”

“Worry too much? Yes, you do.” She cupped his chin, the tendrils of hair tickling. “But I understand. And I think it’s sweet.”

There was a renewed lightness to his expression that told Catherine he knew full well he was being teased. “What are you planning to do today?”

“Other than moving very slowly? Not much.”

“It’s early yet and my class won’t begin for an hour or two. Would you like to go to the bathing pools?”

***

“I can walk,” Catherine insisted.

“I know,” Vincent agreed but didn't release her.

They were just a few minutes away from the bathing chamber and had been walking without incident until a fierce jolting spasm in her lower back caused Catherine to halt suddenly. Vincent felt her pain at almost the same instant and had swept her into his arms. “Vincent, really, I’m fine.” Their faces were very close and the stubborn glint in her eyes was unmistakable.

“No, you’re not.” He stopped outside the domed brick entrance and pushed the hidden latch on the door. “I’ll have to put you down now; there’s not enough room for us both to walk through there.”

Vincent lowered her gently to the ground and Catherine stood up slowly, dusting off her jeans. He watched as she preceded him down the long corridor, feeling the throb of her pain through their bond. “You’re a long way from ‘fine.,’ even though you weren't seriously injured.”

She stopped and turned, leaning her head against the rough red brick. “You’re right. At the moment I feel like a giant walking pretzel.” It was nearly dark in the passageway, though his eyes had no difficulty making out the stiffness of Catherine’s movements. “I’m sorry, love. I know you only wanted to help.”

He tilted his head. “And it's not easy for you, asking for help. I should have remembered that.”

Catherine touched his arm. “I fought too long for my strength, my independence. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what you were trying to do.” She darted a glance towards the entryway and her slow wry smile emerged. “Come on, love. Let’s get naked.”

***

They sat for a time in the heated waters of the largest bathing pool, the only sound that of their breathing. “How do you feel now?” Vincent asked, though some part of him already knew. The haze of pain that had flooded their bond had been replaced by a calm lassitude.

Tendrils of her hair stirred as Catherine rested her head on his shoulder. “Like cooked spaghetti.”

He laughed. “And this is a good thing?”

“Mmm...hmmm,” she replied. “The very best. All weightless and boneless and limp...you know.” Her hand brushed him under the water and he jumped a little, startled. “Well, I see you don't.”

The scent of her, mixed with the mineral salts of the water, was warm and inviting, but Vincent fought the instinctive pull towards his mate. “Catherine, you've been injured---”

“I have,” she told him. “But I need this. You need this.” She held out her hand. “Come home, love.”

***

Sometime later, Catherine watched as her husband finished preparing for his classes, bundling his notes and the children’s books into a neat pile. “I’ll be right outside the curtain if you need anything,” he murmured.

Catherine smiled, seeing the happy, dazed expression on his face. Only the most oblivious would fail to deduce exactly how they’d spent their morning. “Don't worry, love. Now that we've eaten, I'll just catch up on some of my reading.”

Vincent glanced at the cover of her book. “Local Prosecution of Organized Crime? I don’t think you’ll need those sleeping pills Peter gave you.”

“No, you’re right,” she agreed, laughing. “But if you find me asleep, at least you’ll know why.”

There was the sound of young voices coming from the antechamber: students arriving for the beginning readers’ class. “What are you reading today?” Catherine asked.

“One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish,” Vincent told her. “And maybe The Cat in the Hat if I can keep their attention long enough. If not, we'll read it in the next class.”

“I’ll trade you,” Catherine replied.

Vincent shook his head, and a dry raspy chuckle escaped him. “Thank you but…no. I want them to enjoy reading, not be scarred by it.” He turned with his hand on the curtain separating their living areas. “I love you.”

She smiled. They were ordinary words, said a thousand times by other people, but so completely unordinary when said by him. “I love you too.”

***

Catherine placed a bookmark in her book and folded it closed next to her notebook and pen. She stretched, enjoying the movement without pain. I'd really like to take a walk, she thought, but if go through the classroom, it'll distract the kids. Then she remembered the upstairs alcove to their chamber, largely hidden and so far, unused. Vincent had constructed it in much the same spirit as he and the others had carved the third bedroom; as insurance against the day when the space would be needed—and as he had explained when he'd showed it to her, it could one day be joined with the other alcove above the antechamber if they needed more room.

Right now, though, it was a bare narrow space located above their office, the entrance obscured by the tall bookshelf just under it. The bookshelf rotated on a pivot; if she pressed it correctly, it would swing out just enough for the rope ladder to descend. Catherine had chuckled when Vincent had demonstrated the mechanism; clearly, Devin wasn't the only one with a little bit of pirate still in him.

Now, Catherine pressed the small depression on the top shelf and it swung open. The rope ladder uncoiled gently and she studied it, considering. It was not a steep climb; Vincent had purposely made it so it would be easier for someone with her shorter strides (though he had, she thought with some amusement, been very careful not to call her “short.”) And the muscle pain that had so plagued her earlier in the morning had faded to a mild ache.

She climbed up and pulled the ladder behind her. Scooting over to the narrow opening, she was able to view Vincent with his students. He surely knew she watching---he was difficult to distract or surprise--- but his attention never wavered from the boys and girls clustered around him. There was a range of age and ability, but the more advanced readers led the younger ones through their readings.

A glint of bright hair caught Catherine's attention: Vincent, his head bent to answer the question of one of the younger children, a girl named Daisy. Her hair was a lighter blonde than his and her face was turned up to his, trusting him---as all the children did---completely. She smiled at the resemblance. One day... “Do you think you can read the last paragraph for us?” he asked and Daisy nodded, blonde curls bobbing.

“'Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. Every day, from here to there, funny things are everywhere,'”[38] the girl read in a high, clear voice and Vincent smiled down at her. “That's very good, Daisy,” he told her, resting a large hand on the girl's head. “I think we're done for today.”

Groans of “Aw, Vincent!” rang out around the room and he laughed. “There will be another book tomorrow, you know,” he told them. “Now go and wash up; it's almost time for lunch.”

After the others left, Daisy held back. “Can I borrow this?”

Vincent nodded. “Yes. Just return it when you're done, all right?”

Daisy grinned and scampered off. Vincent looked up into the alcove. “I see you decided to go exploring.”

Catherine chuckled. “It was either that or fall asleep with my book in one hand and my highlighter in the other.”

“Definitely a wise choice,” he agreed. “Lunch will be ready soon. Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” Catherine said. “Give me a few and I'll come down there.”

***

“It's good to see you,” Marisol greeted them as they sat down. “We were pretty worried when we'd heard you were in a car accident.”

For a change, they were ahead of the lunch crowd; the commons was nearly empty, though Catherine fully expected it would fill up soon enough. “Thanks,” she said. “It's good to be back home.”

“I bet,” Marisol replied. “When we heard Corey had found you, it was such a relief. Not that we wouldn't have figured out where you were eventually—a few of us were going to start calling the hospitals if you hadn't been located---but I'm glad a helper discovered you.” She winked at Vincent. “Makes you feel better, doesn't it?”

His hand clasped hers under the table, the claws a gentle roughness against her skin. “Yes. It does.”

Catherine smiled at him, seeing the lines of care and worry around his eyes, now eased since her return. She returned the pressure on his hand and sent as much reassurance as she could through their bond. I'm here. I'm safe. Aloud, she asked, “Marisol, how are you doing?”

“Better, thank you,” Marisol said. “A little rough in the mornings but it's worth it. What about you?”

“Just a mild concussion and some muscle soreness. I go to see Peter in a couple of days to get cleared to return to work.”

Marisol's eyes widened. “That kind of accident, you were lucky.”

Catherine thought of the man sitting next to her, of a community prepared to martial itself to find her, of people and places she would never have known, never guessed to exist, had things gone differently on an April night almost three years before. She leaned against her husband and felt his arm enfold her. “Yes, yes I was.”

Click here for Chapter 32....

______

[36] “The Dark Night of the Soul,” by Loreena McKennitt

[37] “Impediments,” written for Winterfest Online 2011. http://www.beautyandthebeast-tv.com/winterfest2011/fansubs/Fic/alisetimpediments.html

[38] One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, by Dr. Seuss