When the Phoenix Sings ~ 15

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          The back wall collapsed forward,  releasing a belch of  smoke  and superheated  air,  forcing  Vincent to cover his face.  A wall of flame now filled what had once been  the  back  room.
          Vincent paused beside a sales counter, its brass fixtures gleaming in  the  orange  smoke-filled  air.  There  was  no sign of recent use. Holding his breath, he listened for any sound which might indicate that the store was occupied.  Lifting his voice,  he called out.  "Is anyone here?"
          He  listened  again.  There was no response.  Only the low crackle which was quickly crescendoing into a full roar.  The entire rear  wall was gone, replaced by an inferno -- fueled by old books, boxes, papers, and  furniture.  Without  the  support  of  the wall,  the ceiling over Vincent's head was beginning to sag,  and bits  of  burning  insulation were  filtering  down  upon his hood.  Brushing them away,  he wheeled, searching corners and moving between the closely spaced shelves,  until at last he was certain that he was alone.
          A plume of smoke moved into his path, blinding him and filling his lungs.  He  moved  back  seeking  fresher air,  blinking his eyes until cleansing tears  restored  his  sight.  Steadying  himself,  he  rested  against  a supporting column,  but he pulled away as the surface seared his sleeve.
          Seeking the clearest path to safety,  Vincent  looked  across  the open  space between him and the central book-lined passageway which led to the front door.  The fire's light was an engulfing brilliance  which  illuminated  the  passages  between  the  bookshelves,  filling the dim corners with an incandescence which made  everything  seem  larger  and nearer than it truly was.
          It was this light which suddenly revealed to Vincent the legacy of this   place.   He   stopped   in   his   tracks   at   the   sight  of books...beautiful,   leather  bound  books  engraved  with  names  like
     Emerson, Faulkner, Hemingway, Melville, Twain.  First editions, special editions, rare and beautiful volumes beyond any collection that Vincent had  ever  seen.  And  they  were shimmering now in the heat of a blaze which would reduce them to  meaningless  ashes  in  only  a  matter  of minutes.  In awe,  Vincent lifted his hand and caressed a first edition collection of Robert Frost's poetry.
          Glancing back toward the central core of the fire,  he  calculated the time left to him and made a rapid decision.  Without hesitation  he snatched  the  cloak  from  his  shoulders  and spread it on the floor. There was little time to be selective.  He knew only  that  he  had  to  save as many of these precious volumes as he could carry.
          With  a  sweep  of his hand he cleared a shelf,  sending the books cascading  into his cloak.  Gilded pages flashed as they tumbled to the floor, and more books followed.  Urgently searching the stacks, Vincent chose the dearest and most priceless,  his heart torn by the  certainty that he could salvage only a  fraction  of  this  treasure.  The  cloak  dragged  heavily  behind him as he moved to the opposite aisle where he found Tennyson,  Voltaire,  Yeats.  Dozens of  beautiful  volumes  fell into the rising pile which threatened to overflow the confines  of  the black cloth.
          Suddenly  a  sound  over  Vincent's head caused him to look up.  A  section of the ceiling was sagging ominously,  a cloud of  black  smoke pouring from its edges,  surging across the rafters toward the front of  the store.  Something up there was approaching  its  combustion  point. Vincent  knew  he  had  only  moments before the entire ceiling and the second floor would be  aflame.  Working feverishly,  he  searched  the shelves,  stopping  to  extinguish  sparks which landed amid the books,      beating at his sleeves and hair as bits of  flaming  debris  fell  upon him.
           At  last,  Vincent  gasped  with effort as he appraised the great pile of books in his cloak.  Conceding that it would  be  foolhardy  to try to carry more,  he bent over,  reaching for the hems of the  cloak, pulling them together to envelop the books inside.
          It was at that moment that a great "whomp" filled the air, and the superheated  ceiling  ignited  itself  with  a  roar,   accompanied  by brilliant  light  and a sudden rush of scorching wind.  The space above Vincent's head vanished in a billow of flame,  the gases  in  the  room exploding, leaving a vacuum waiting to be filled by smoke and fire.
          Vincent  felt  the  back  of  his vest  ignite,  and he twisted to extinguish it.  But as he slapped  at  the  burning  fabric,  something snagged  the  thong  which  held  Catherine's  rose  in its pouch.  The      leather separated, and the pouch with its precious contents flew across the floor disappearing into the smoke and haze.  In disbelief,  Vincent stared after it.  Glancing down at his books,  he then peered into  the place  where  the  rose  had vanished,  and he weighed the value of one treasure against the other.  He  would  not  choose.  Tying  his  cloak around the books, he secured the bundle, and then abandoned it for only a  moment,  certain  he  could find the rose.  But as he moved into the smoke, the inferno intensified.
          Holding one hand in front of his face,  he tried  to  deflect  the heat  while he dropped to the floor.  With his free hand,  he swept the hardwood boards,  searching,  praying that his fingers would close upon Catherine's irreplaceable gift.  But it wasn't there.  On his knees, he crept forward,  raking through the hot embers.  The ashes swirled  into his face, and his throat tightened.  He coughed, gagging on the cinders and smoke.
          And then the fire  was  everywhere.  A  section  of  ceiling  fell nearby,  showering  the  area with burning timbers,  and Vincent shot a  glance behind him.  Beyond the flame he could  barely  see  his  cloak, waiting  there  on  the  floor.  Then even that view was obliterated by fire.
          Covering his face with both hands,  he struggled to his feet, only to be driven to the floor again by the collapse of a  nearby  bookcase. For an instant he lay there,  blindly gasping, smothering, certain that the rest of the ceiling would be down upon him in seconds.
          Pushing himself up,  he fought for footing among the fallen books, his chest heaving in its need for air,  his eyes useless in  the  dense smoke.  He stood,  lurching,  realizing that his sense of direction had failed him.  He had no idea where to find the front door.  Overhead, he heard the scream of splintering wood  as  the  ceiling  bulged  further downward.  Suddenly a heavy beam crashed free,  striking Vincent across the shoulders,  driving him down to his knees,  robbing him of the last of his breath.
          And Vincent knew he had waited too long.
          At  that instant,  he felt it.  A strong grip seized his left arm, bringing him to his feet, steadying his stance, silently forcing him to turn and walk.  He shook his head, blindly trying to sense the identity
     of his companion.  Only Catherine knew he was here,  and he pulled away trying to find the words to  tell  her  to  leave  him.  But  the  hold  was  relentlessly  urging  him  forward,  and  in a few steps he kicked against the resistance of his cloak on the floor.
          He couldn't remember reaching for  it,  but  in  seconds,  he  was dragging  the  black  bundle  with  the help of the other,  sightlessly surrendering himself to the lead of his silent companion.
          Behind  him,  he  heard  the  crash  of  the  ceiling  as it fell, exploding against the floor,  obliterating  everything  that  had  been Smyth's Bookstore, and burying Catherine's precious rose forever.
 
 
          As  he  staggered  out the front door,  Vincent collapsed into the snow, his soot-filled lungs laboring for air.  Unable to use his voice, he  reached  for  Catherine  to  assure himself of her safety.  But she  wasn't there.  He panicked,  terrified that she had brought him out  of the  fire,  only  to  be trapped herself.  He shook his head violently, trying to clear his mind, summoning the strength to rise and return for her, screaming her name with a voice that made no sound.
          Then  suddenly  he  felt  a surge in their bond,  and her presence poured over him like a soothing balm.
          "Vincent."  Catherine was at his side, kneeling, enveloping him in her arms.   She was there,  and she was safe.
          Vincent's strength vanished in his relief,  and he fell back  into the snow, sucking in great gulps of air.  For a moment he heard nothing but his own coughing and the urgency in Catherine's voice,  but then he became aware of a distant siren.
          Catherine must have  heard  it,  too.  Because  suddenly  she  was pulling  at  him,  pleading  with  him to get up.  Her words had little meaning to him,  but he could feel her terror as she tried to force him to  his  feet.  Drawing  upon  her  strength,  he came to his knees and willed himself to stand.  Still unable to see clearly, he let Catherine lift  one  of his arms over her narrow shoulders,  and with the last of his ability, Vincent staggered at her side, unaware that as they moved, he dragged the bundle of his cloak behind them.
 
          Catherine  strained  beneath Vincent's weight,  giving him all the support she could as they shuffled together  across  the  sidewalk  and into  the  sheltering  darkness of the alley.  She didn't allow them to stop until they had followed the alley sixty feet back from the street. There they crouched in the protection of an entrance  across  from  the bookstore.  They  couldn't  stay  long.  Soon  the entire area would be swarming with firemen,  but Vincent could go no  further.  She  lowered   him to the ground in the darkness and crouched beside him in the snow.
          The  fire  had  broken  through the roof of the store,  and in its eerie  light  she saw the charred tatters of the vest  across Vincent's back.  The stench of burned hair blended with the smell of smoke as she leaned over him.  In astonishment, she pulled back.  The smell...it was the same odor she had imagined in Vincent's hair for the  past  several weeks.  But now the smell had become all too real.
          Within her embrace, he lifted his head and gasped,  "Catherine,  I lost your rose."
           "Don't talk. You need your breath."  She held him tighter, but he seemed not to hear.
          He rasped, "It's gone...I tried to find it, but..."
          She could think of nothing but the terror she had felt for the man she loved. "Vincent, I was so scared.  I heard the roof falling in, and I knew you were in there."
          He  shook  his  great head,  his chest heaving as his lungs filled with cold,  crisp air.  One of his hands clutched  Catherine's  sleeve, and he turned his face up to peer at her through tear-filled eyes. "You  never should have come inside...Catherine, the danger was...too great."
          In confusion,  she pushed the singed  hair  back  from  his  face. "Vincent,  I was never inside."
          He blinked, trying to bring her face into focus.  "But I felt you. We saved  the books... together..."
          Catherine  frowned,  "Books?"
          Vincent pulled from her grasp, searching the ground for his cloak.  "My cloak...Where's..." His words were lost in a new spasm of coughing.
          When his coughing eased,  Catherine left him briefly  to  retrieve the  cloak  which  he  had  abandoned only a few feet away.  She knelt, handing it to him, and she was surprised at the confusion in his eyes.
          "Catherine, the books..."
          "Vincent, there are no books."
          "But  they  were  here."  He  tested  the  weight  of the garment. "Here...in the cloak."
          Taking it from him, Catherine stood, lifting the cloak and shaking it gently.  A mass of nearly weightless ashes tumbled from it, catching in  the wind.  In disbelief,  Vincent stared as they scattered down the alley like small black birds fluttering across the snow.
          "There's nothing here."  Catherine shook the cloak  once  more and carefully  brought  it  around his shoulders.  She glanced up the alley toward  the  street,  expecting  to  see  the fire trucks arrive at any second.  "Can you walk?"  she asked urgently.  "We can't stay here much longer."
          Ignoring her warning,  he repeated,  "But I felt you...inside  the store."
          Becoming more concerned with each passing second, she answered him urgently, "No, I found you outside in the snow." She was standing above him, "Vincent, we have to go."
     Finally responding to her fear, he struggled to his feet.  "But if it wasn't you, then who..."
          Vincent stopped at the sound  of  a  low  rumble  from  the  front section  of the store.
          Suddenly an explosion blew  the  bookstore's  wall  outward  in  a churning  cloud  of  flame  and  smoke.  Bricks  flew across the alley, bouncing off the wall of the adjacent  building,  missing  Vincent  and Catherine  by  thirty  feet,  filling  the  entire  alley with fire and flaming debris.
          Even in his weakness,  Vincent had managed to put his body between Catherine and the  explosion.  Sheltering  her  within  his  cloak,  he ventured  a  look  toward the burning alley...and he gasped,  unable to accept  what  he saw there.
          Catherine had seen it too.
          There,  almost within the fire,  was the silhouette of  a  man.  A young man, slim, casually dressed,  with a baseball cap pulled jauntily down  over  his  eyes.  He  stood  facing them,  watching them silently through the screen of smoke,  heedless of the flames which danced  near his  feet.  Slowly  he  put his hand into his pocket.  Then he extended his arm,  reaching toward them as if offering them the thing  he  held.
          A gust of wind caught the flames,  fanning them  to  new  heights, hiding  the  figure  from  view.  When the flames receded,  the man was gone.
          With  only the briefest glance at Vincent,  Catherine tore herself from his grip and  ran  toward  the  place  where  the  silhouette  had vanished.
          "Catherine!"  Vincent stumbled after her, "Catherine, come back."
          When he reached her,  the fire had retreated to a  safe  distance, and  she  was  standing  in  startled wonder where the figure had been.
     There was no body crumpled among the fallen bricks.  There was  nothing left of the dark figure.  Nothing to indicate that he had ever existed.
          Then Catherine's gaze went to the ground at her feet, and she bent to  lift  something  small  and white from the melting snow.
          Catherine held her hand before him,  and,  even before  he  looked down, Vincent knew what he would see.
          There in the palm of Catherine's hand lay her mother's rose.

          Out in front of the store,  the wail of a siren grew very loud and abruptly  stopped.  Voices  echoed through the street as firemen jumped from the truck and began their battle.
          Shoving the rose into her pocket, Catherine grasped Vincent's arm, pulling  him  back  into  the shadows as she whispered,  "We can't stay  here...Where's the nearest place to get Below?"
           "I   came   up,"   he   panted,   "through...the  basement  of  a building...two blocks away."
          Taking his hand, she led him further back into the alley, where he leaned heavily against a  wall.  She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with concern.  His voice was breathless,  his motions far too deliberate, as if he were functioning at the very limits of his  strength.  Fearfully, she asked, "Can you take us there?"
          He nodded,  pushing off the wall,  pulling  her  with  him  as  he plunged  into  the darkness at the rear of the alley.
          Twice in the two blocks, Vincent had to stop, his breath wheezing, choking until he was forced to  pause.  Leaning  against  a  sheltering wall, he lifted his face toward the sky.  His arms encircled Catherine, holding  her  close  while  he  dragged air into his tortured lungs.
          It was during one of these moments that she saw the burns  on  his face, and she remembered the blackened fabric across his back.  Shaking  her head, she forced herself to concentrate first on their need for the safety of Below.
          At last, their destination loomed before them, and Vincent tripped the lock on a small wooden door that appeared to be a coal chute at the rear  of an old brownstone.  Guiding her through,  he squeezed in after her,  and together they moved down into the basement below.  In  almost total darkness, he led her to the rear wall of the room, where she felt him throw his weight against a large wooden crate.  Helping him as much as she could,  Catherine sighed in relief as the box moved, revealing a hole which glowed with the haze of the tunnel world.
          Moments later,  they had replaced the crate,  sealing the entrance behind them.
          Secure  at  last,  Vincent  lost  the strength that had driven him through the snowy streets.  Leaning heavily against the wall  near  the entrance,  he  gave  in  to the demands of his body,  and he collapsed, slowly sliding to the floor.
          Horrified by the strangling noises in his throat, Catherine was at his side, resisting the urge to hold him,  knowing that her touch could add  to  the  pain  of  his hidden burns and bruises.  In silence,  she waited until his labored breathing  had  calmed,  and  then  she  asked softly, "Vincent, tell me where you are hurt."
          He turned his eyes toward hers,  "...just a few minutes...to catch my  breath."
          Suddenly Catherine was afraid they couldn't  return  to  the  home chambers alone,  and she considered their need for help.  A glance down the tunnel revealed no pipes  for  communication.  She  would  have  to leave him and go for assistance.
          As if he were following  her  thoughts,  Vincent  gasped  quietly, "Carl is on watch...I passed him...earlier."
          "Where?"
          "Not  far."
          Taking off her coat,  Catherine tucked it behind Vincent as he sat leaning against the wall.  "Rest here".  Securing his cloak more snugly around his shoulders, she assured him, "I'll be right back."
 

          Catherine  had  run  only  a  short distance when she unexpectedly found Rebecca coming toward her.
          "Catherine,  is  that  you?  I thought I heard..."  The blond girl froze at the message  which  was  written  in  Catherine's  eyes.  With certainty Rebecca stated. "Something has happened to Vincent."
          Catherine nodded urgently, "There was a fire Above."
          "Where is  he?"
          Without offering an answer,  Catherine spun to return  to  Vincent with Rebecca following immediately behind her.
          As  they rounded a bend,  Catherine was surprised to see Vincent's great form filling the tunnel ahead.  He was carrying Catherine's  coat while  he steadied himself against the wall with his left hand.  He was shuffling toward them, his face a study in pain and determination.
          Instantly,  Catherine  was  beside him.  Taking her coat from him, she touched his arm. "You should have waited for us."
          Silently,  he  shook his head.
          With relief, she realized that he was breathing more normally.
          Rebecca joined them, her eyes frightened. "How bad is it?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on, "I'll send for help."
          "No." Vincent shook his head again.  "I'm all  right..."  He  took another step, and faltered,  swaying unsteadily.  Catherine immediately slipped  her arm around him,  and he willingly brought his arm over her shoulders.
          Wordlessly, Rebecca took his other arm.  And Vincent stood between them, depending upon their support as he gathered his own strength.
          Looking up at him,  Rebecca frowned.  "Your  face  is  burned."  A glance  at  Vincent's  hand revealed more burns and scorched fur.  "You need medical attention.  I'll get more  help,  and  we'll take  you  to Father."
          "No." Vincent  stated  emphatically,  "Not  Father...he  needs  to rest..."
          The  two  young women exchanged glances,  knowing that Vincent was probably right.  Father had  weakened  noticeably  at  Winterfest  last night, and they doubted he had the strength to help Vincent.
          Catherine  tightened  her  grip around Vincent's waist.  He needed attention quickly,  and there wasn't time for a  debate  here  in  this remote  tunnel.  Perhaps  it would be best to do it Vincent's way.  She asked quietly, "Vincent, tell us what you want us to do."
          He was breathing a bit more easily. "I can walk..." He looked down at her and asked softly, "I want to go to my chamber..."
          Catherine  nodded,  "All  right.  But  promise  me you'll let Mary examine you, and if she thinks you need Father, you'll see him."
          He  nodded  once in silent agreement,  and the three of them moved down the tunnel toward home.
 
 

          "Hold still."  Mary frowned at Vincent as he  flexed his  fingers. She  had  cleaned  and dressed the burns across his shoulders and arms, and now she was winding gauze around his left hand.  "Here,  Catherine. Hold  this  right  here  while I cut the tape."
          Wearing only the bottom half of a  clean  sweatsuit,  Vincent  sat quietly  in a chair beside his bed,  submitting to Mary's ministrations while Catherine and Rebecca hovered nearby.
          Catherine reached for his hand and carefully held the  bandage  in place.
          Feeling Vincent's eyes upon her, she glanced up and met his steady blue  gaze.  To her great relief,  the pain had left his eyes,  and his bare  chest  rose  and  fell  with  a reassuring ease.  If she listened carefully,  she could hear a wheeze with each breath,  but he no longer had to struggle for air.
          Catherine  addressed  her  words to the older woman,  although her eyes never left Vincent's.  "Mary,  are you sure he doesn't need to see Father?"
          "Father will insist on seeing him as soon as he finds out what has happened." She taped the gauze firmly into place.  "But for right now I think the best thing Vincent can do is rest."
          She glanced up as she worked,  her  eyes  catching  the  irregular patterns  in  the  hair  across  his  left  breast.  If she had noticed before,  she'd saved her questions until now.  "Vincent." Her  motherly touch  went to the rapidly healing scalds.  "What happened here?  These
     aren't fresh wounds."
          He answered softly, "No."
          "It looks as if you were splattered by hot grease."
          With a small shake of his head,  he responded,  "It was nothing... It happened when that can of varnish caught fire in Father's study."
          Catherine noted thankfully that his voice was almost normal.
          Mary frowned.  "Did you tell Father?"
          "There was no reason.  You can  see  it  was  nothing  but  a  few blisters."
          Mary shook her graying head. "Still..." She paused  and apparently decided not to scold him.  "Well, you were wise to trim the hair away." Her  head  shook  again  with  a  new thought,  "Two fires in one week. Vincent,"  she looked into his face,  "you frighten me.  You could have been terribly hurt...you must be more careful."
          He nodded dutifully.  "Yes, Mary."
          Catherine  watched as Mary gave him a maternal frown.  Everyone in the room knew that Vincent would continue to face  danger  whenever  he believed it was necessary.
          With a sigh,  Mary straightened.  "Rebecca,  would you look in his wardrobe and find something warm for him to put on."
          While  the  young  woman  brought  out  a  long fleecy robe,  Mary cautioned Vincent,  "Then it's straight to bed.  You must rest and stay warm."
          Returning to Vincent's side,  Rebecca held the robe  as  Catherine helped him to his feet and guided his arms into the sleeves.
          Under her breath,  so Mary couldn't hear, Rebecca whispered, "It's remarkable how neatly the hair was trimmed around those burns, Vincent. I would guess you had some help."
          He met her gaze,  and Catherine smiled at  the  look  that  passed between the two long-time friends.
          Changing the subject, Catherine asked, "Rebecca, were you on watch tonight?"
          The blond head nodded. "Unofficially."
          "But you spent all evening and most of the  night  at  Winterfest. Surely you weren't scheduled for  watch duty."
          "No,  Carl had that watch,"  Rebecca tied Vincent's belt, "but for some reason,  when I got back to my chamber  tonight  I  just  couldn't sleep...so  I took a walk.  I found Carl asleep at his post, and I sent him to bed."
          Lowering himself to sit on his bed,  Vincent rasped, "You took his watch?"
          Rebecca nodded.  "It seemed only fair since he'd  missed  most  of Winterfest, and I couldn't sleep anyway."
          Vincent and Catherine exchanged looks.
          Catherine asked quietly, "Do you usually take walks at night?"
          With a shake of her head,  the young woman answered,  "No,  I'm an early riser...I almost never walk the tunnels at night."
          Catherine  felt a strange prickle along the back of her neck,  but she silently chided herself.  There was nothing unusual about a  person trying to walk off a case of insomnia.
          She took a deep breath. "Well, I'm glad you were there.  We needed you." Turning her mind away from that thought, she helped Vincent as he carefully leaned back.
          Rebecca gave her attention to helping Mary repack Father's medical bag while Catherine readjusted Vincent's pillow, smoothing its fullness away from a burn just below his ear.
          She asked him quietly, "Is that better?"
          He nodded,  watching her in silence.
          Catherine sat down on the bed beside him,  and her gaze  moved  to the  shelf  under  his  window  where her mother's rose had been safely placed.  She leaned to touch its petals.
          Still watching her, he whispered,  "I thought I would never see it again."  He added quietly, "The pouch is gone."
          Pulling  her  hand  from  the  rose,  she  stroked the softness of Vincent's hair.  "I'll make you another one."
          Suddenly his eyes were  disturbed  by  the  memory  of  unanswered questions.  With  a frown,  he asked softly,  "Catherine,  I would have died tonight in that bookstore...I would never have found  my  way  out alone.  If you were not the one who led me from the fire..."
          A strange light flashed through her eyes, and she laid her fingers on his lips,  gently silencing him,  "Not yet, Vincent.  My certainties  are too fragile to think about that yet."  She shook  her head,  "Right now, all I want to think about is you...for you to get well."
          At that moment Mary came to Vincent and patted his arm.  "Will you be all right? I need to check on Father."
          He responded with a nod.  "Thank you, Mary."
          As  the  older  woman  gave Catherine final instructions,  Rebecca returned Vincent's chair  to  its  place  by  the  table  and  gathered Vincent's scorched cloak and clothes up from the floor.
          Mary paused on her way out.  "I'll take those  with  me,  Rebecca. Maybe they can be repaired...if we can get the smell out."
          Rebecca wrinkled her nose and handed them to Mary.  As she watched the older woman leave,  she murmured to herself,  "They smell just like those boxes."
          Catherine's  attention was on Vincent.  With only casual interest, she asked, "What boxes?"
          Rebecca had found a broom and was sweeping bits of  ash  from  the oriental rug.  "I found some old boxes in  a  storeroom  several  weeks ago...just trash..."  She stopped and mused, "but they were strange."
          "In  what  way?"  Catherine asked as she felt Vincent respond with sudden interest.
          "They were nothing really...just empty boxes."  Rebecca wiped  the tabletop  clean.  "But  they  were sealed and labeled with instructions saying that only Father could open them."
          Catherine  watched Vincent.   With his eyes on Rebecca, he echoed, "Father?"
          The  young  woman  nodded,  then she turned toward Vincent with an afterthought.  "The labels said that only Father could  open  them...on the  day after Winterfest."  She paused as she realized, "That would be today."
          Vincent's head came up  off  the  pillow.  "What  kind  of  boxes, Rebecca?"
          "Just plain, large, cardboard boxes...three  of  them.  They  must have been there a long time.  They were scorched and dirty and stunk of sulphur  and  burnt paper...like damp ashes.  I remember I didn't think too much about them,  until I saw the clean labels.  Somebody must have cared."
          Catherine asked softly, "Did you ask Father about them?"
          Rebecca shook her head. "No.  Frankly, I forgot about them.  There was so much to do,  getting  ready for  Winterfest."   She  paused,  "I probably would never have thought of them again...except that just now, when I smelled Vincent's cloak..."  Her nose wrinkled again. "The smell  was just the same."
          Vincent  lowered  his  head  and rested  thoughtfully  against the pillow.  His eyes went to  Rebecca  again.  "You're  sure  they'd  been burned?  Sometimes  mildew  and  dampness  can  cause discoloration and strange odors."
          Rebecca  threw  him a slightly peeved look.  "Vincent,  I know the difference between mildew and ashes."
          He  frowned.  "But  we've  never  had  a damaging fire in the home tunnels."
          Catherine was watching him closely.  "Maybe somebody brought  them down from Above."
          Vincent  stared  at  her,  still  frowning.  Returning his gaze to Rebecca, he asked,  "Where are those boxes now?"
          "In a storeroom beyond the central storage area.  Why?"
          Suddenly pushing himself up from the pillows,  he sat up  sharply. "Take me there, I want to see them."   He would have swung his legs off the bed if Catherine hadn't been in the way.
          In astonishment, Catherine gasped, "What are you doing!"
          Supporting himself on one arm, he tried to push away the blankets. "I want to see those boxes."
          For a moment she stared at him in disbelief.  "Absolutely not."
          "I'll be careful, Catherine."  He persisted, "It won't take..."
          Her voice rose.  "You aren't going anywhere!"   She held her place on his bed,  blocking his way.  "Vincent,  you almost burned  to  death tonight."
          "Catherine..."
          She interrupted,  "I thought you  were  dying...you  could  hardly breathe, and..."  Her voice broke, "You're hurt, and you can barely get your breath,  even in bed.  And if you think I am going to let you  get  up and go off to some storage room to rummage through trash..."
          Vincent  sat staring at her,  listening in astonishment.
          Her  face contorted,  reflecting all the fear and confusion of the night, then the contortion melted into frightened tears.  But her irate determination never softened as she held her defensive position on  his bed.
          Speechless,  he lowered himself back  to  the pillows.   Then  his bandaged  hand  came up to touch her cheek,  wiping away the tear which left a shining trail through the soot on her face.
          When she was certain he wasn't going try to get up again she let a shudder pass across her shoulders,  and she reached up to hold his hand more firmly against her cheek.
          For  a  long moment,  neither of them spoke.  Then finally Vincent whispered, "I'm sorry."
          With a weak smile, she answered,  "You should be."  And she turned her face into his palm, placing a kiss on the fresh white bandages.
          Rebecca  watched in silence.
          She seemed to consider  the  situation  a  moment,  and  then  she ventured  a  suggestion.  "Vincent,  if  you really think they might be important, I could ask some of the men to help me go get the boxes.  We  could bring them in here...or to Father's study.  We  could  have  them
     here in an hour or so."
          Vincent listened,  still watching Catherine press his hand against the  softness  of  her  face.  Almost  afraid  to speak,  he whispered, "Catherine?"
          After  a  brief  hesitation,  she asked softly.  "You'll rest till then?"
          He nodded, and Catherine turned to Rebecca. "Father's study."  She smiled,  "Maybe  Father will be so interested in the boxes he'll forget to scold us for hanging around burning buildings."