(This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

Birds of a Feather

Angie

Now droops the milk white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me
- Alfred Lord Tennyson

Vincent wandered around the brownstone’s garden, enjoying the scent of the warming earth and clipping off the dead sentinels that now stuck above tiny green shoots. When he got to the tarragon, he had to get down on his knees and clip with a vengeance. The stuff spread like a weed and had dozens of thin dead sticks to cut off. Were not for the fact that he loved mushroom soup – a recipe that Catherine had learned from William – he would have declared that it was more trouble than it was worth.

The lavender was equally work-intensive, but he loved the smell of the flowers in the summer. After a couple of hours of dusty clipping and coughing, Vincent decided he needed a rest. He sat down on a bench he had placed at the end of a flagstoned path, a kind of private nook against the house. An apple sapling had blossom buds waiting for a little more heat before bursting out and a few tulip bulbs were reaching up tentative points. At least the daffodils and grape hyacinth were adding some colour to the well-mulched soil, he thought. Colour was what he missed in the winter months – the riot of sun-bright greens he’d never seen for most of his life.

It was always so peaceful in the garden. Even though it was loud with the songs of robins and scrappy sparrows, it gave a sense of quiet because the sounds of the big city were muffled. The kiss of the sun was like a benediction. Small movements seemed to flitter in the corner of his eyes. Bush tits, he thought. He could hardly wait for the warmer weather that would bring the colourful warblers and hummingbirds – and of course the butterflies. He never tired of watching them, having seen nothing of the sort in all the long years Below in the tunnels. They weren’t out at night when he went abroad – although he had seen moths.

Something white flashed in the corner of his eye and he turned to look, even though it was most likely a seagull. Their moaning cries with the squawks of outraged crows dominated the skies all winter. Whatever it was had disappeared, though.

He sagged back on the bench, closed his eyes and stretched out his legs. He was wearing only a dark coverall with a thin cotton "combination" under it. He had become fond of the one piece underwear. They did not chafe like traditional briefs – which he had ceased to wear long ago. Catherine, for some reason, found the sight of him in these erotic. She didn’t seem to mind that they sagged in the rear and bagged at the knees –and her response always garnered one from himself, impossible to disguise. That must be what she really loved about them, he decided.

He was dozing off for moments at a time when a loud screech made him stiffen and open his eyes a little. What on earth made such a noise? It didn’t sound like a seagull. He sat up and looked around, trying to locate the source. When it came again, he realized it was coming from the roof of their adjoining brownstone. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see anything from his vantage point and did not feel inclined to investigate. He relaxed and prepared to nap again.

Just as he was closing his eyes, something large and white fluttered onto the pathway in front of him, drawing his immediate attention. Vincent sat paralyzed, so shocked he forgot to breathe. He stared at the creature, strutting along the flagstone walk like a regal bride with a long train. He wondered if he was asleep or hallucinating.

Upstairs in the brownstone, Catherine had just put baby Jacob to bed for his nap. She and Vincent had learned to keep their bond with their son on a sort of shunt line – connected to them still, but not disturbed by the daily force of their emotions. It was like having a third hand, she mused, one that could calm their son and communicate their love for him, but left both parents able to concentrate on work – and play. At the same time, they were both very aware of their special son. If he was ever in distress, they would know it immediately.

She was very glad of this separation when she caught Vincent’s surprise and shock along their bond. In the early days, those emotions would have woken up the baby. She ran to the bedroom window to locate Vincent in the yard, afraid he’d had an accident. At first she couldn’t see him and then when she did, she felt her mouth drop open in amazement.

Vincent’s brain was awhirl. How had such an incredible creature come to be in their garden? He didn’t dare move, merely feasted his eyes on it and watched as it paraded to the main path, then turned towards him again. With a shiver and a rattle, it lifted its trailing feathers and spread them out slowly into a glorious fan.

It was a peacock of course, which explained the screech. He had never heard one before, but he knew the Greek legend about how the peacock had lost its voice. Hadn’t Hera put the eyes of Argus into its tail as well? This bird, however, was not the usual iridescent green and blue – but a pure, brilliant white. Only its eyes were dark. Its breast was snowy and the white tail behind the fan was perfect in its symmetry. The long shivering plumes were a lacy confection with shy, pearly white ‘eyes’ among the long hairy fronds. The lower fan reached towards him and upwards from the ground. Each amazing feather was tipped with a soft hook, like a tiny two-fingered hand reaching for the sky. On top of the peacock’s head, a delicate crown bobbed gracefully with every movement.

How was such an exquisite thing possible? More to the point, where had it come from? Vincent moved his head slowly to look up at the roof of the brownstone. No help up there. He’d heard of peacocks being used as sentries on rooftops – but in New York?

He saw Catherine gazing out the upstairs window and felt her delight along the bond now that he had calmed his own riot of emotions. She was as stunned as he. He could feel their baby’s calm and that calmed him even more. Thank goodness he hadn’t woken Jacob up. He caught her eye and gave her a feral grin and a shrug, then turned to look at the peacock again. It suddenly collapsed its tail like a matron folding a fan and gave another shriek. It tilted its head to look at him then turned left. Vincent watched the bird and then its long tail slide out of sight behind the riot of currant bushes. Before he could gather his wits to move and follow it, a flash of white materialized over the bushes and the peacock flew over his head towards the roof of their brownstone, its tail fluttering behind it.

Vincent craned his neck to try and see, but the roof overhang blocked his view. He got up quickly and dashed to the main path, then tried to see over the eaves. Where was the bird? Then he saw a flash of white as the peacock flew onto yet another roof, further away. He lost sight of it when it disappeared over the roof ridge.

He sighed and turned away, disappointed, but something white closer to hand caught his eye. He reached down and picked up one long plume, perfect in its beauty. It seemed almost alive in his hand as it responded to a breath of a breeze. He was holding it as if it was made of glass when Catherine reached him. She put her head against his chest and hugged him around the waist. He sighed again and put his free hand around her.

"Vincent, did you see where it went?"

"No, it seems to be roof-hopping. I didn’t know they could fly so well."

Catherine nodded. "Nancy had a couple on their property for a while. They like to roost in trees." She turned to look at the feather in Vincent’s hand.

"Isn’t it extraordinary!"

Vincent couldn’t take his eyes off it. The contrast between his own long-nailed, hairy hand and the dreamy frond shimmering in the sunshine, was almost obscene.

He made a sound like a whimper.

Catherine looked up at him and felt his emotions. She didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. She put her small hand over the one holding the feather and spoke quietly.

"Stop it, Vincent. Your hand is beautiful too – and infinitely more talented and useful than that feather was to the peacock."

Vincent looked down at her and his mouth quirked. He knew very well what she was getting at. Then he regarded the feather again. It still seemed uncanny. He held it against the dark of the garden so he could see it outlined. It looked as delicate as a moth’s antenna.

"It’s magical," he whispered.

"No, Vincent. It’s just a peacock feather – albeit a very beautiful one. You are the only magical thing in this garden. If you didn’t exist, I’d have to invent you."

"Catherine!" That got Vincent’s attention and his azure eyes stared into her sultry green ones. He dipped to kiss her lips. He could feel her happiness like a sun ray. His voice was low and almost a purr when he spoke.

"I’m not magical. I just am, that’s all – exactly as you see me."

"I beg to differ, Vincent. You are beyond belief, at the very least. And what you hide under this coverall is more wonderful than anything I could have dreamed in my wildest moments growing up."

Vincent was silent for a moment and then remembered one of his favourite Tennyson poems, which coincidentally included a white peacock – and a princess.

"And she glimmers on to me," he quoted. "But not like a ghost. You’re too real, too precious."

"And far less fragile than that feather," Catherine whispered as she looked up at him, then quoted from the same poem, one they had often read together.

"And all thy heart lies open to me.
"So fold thyself, my dearest thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me."

She had given him an unmistakable invitation – and it was one he never refused.

Vincent hugged her closer and whispered into her hair.

"Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet." And infinitely more lovely than the peacock’s, he thought to himself.

They walked arm in arm into the house and upstairs to their chamber. Vincent put the plume carefully into a tall, glass bud vase on the bedside table. The vase often held a rose from their garden during the summer. The white marvel seemed no less surreal inside. It was a gift, he decided, from something as unique as himself.

But another imperative soon captured his full attention. There, in the spring sunshine streaming through the skylight, he and Catherine proved themselves neither magical nor beyond belief – just in love.

END