phoenix6c2

When the Phoenix Sings ~ 6
          "Where are you going?" Father opened his eyes as Vincent rose from the chair where he had been sitting for over an hour.
          The younger man moved nearer his father's bed. "I thought you were asleep."
          Father grimaced as he shifted slightly on his pillow. "You were leaving."
          With a nod, Vincent answered, "It's almost time for Catherine to be home from her work. I promised I would be there to meet her." His words were met with silence. "She said she would be bringing you a gift."
          The grimace darkened into a scowl. "The only things I want are a good hip and my Kipling first edition. Catherine can't give me either one of those."
          "No, but she can help brighten your evening. You told me earlier that you were glad she's coming."
          "Of course, I'm glad she's coming. Did I say I wasn't glad she's coming?" Father painfully tugged the blanket tighter over his chest.
     "This wretched hip is giving me hell. Where are those pills Peter sent down?"
          Vincent lifted a small bottle from the table, "It's still an hour before your next dose is scheduled."
          Father shook his head once, letting air escape between his teeth. "An hour more or less...the damned hip hurts now." When Vincent gave him a cautionary look, the old man dismissed it. "Who's the physician here? Give me the pills and go get Catherine." He swallowed the capsules as Vincent helped him with the water glass, then he lifted his pain-weary eyes. "And come right back to the study...I might need you."
          Vincent patiently took the glass. "Is there anything else, Father?"
          The old man motioned him away. "Go on. Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back."
          "I'll send one of the children in to sit with you."
          "Whatever for?"
          The blue eyes looked at him patiently.
          Recognizing the concern in that gaze, Father sighed. "Vincent, I know you're concerned about your dream...but I assure you, I am in absolutely no danger. We've lived in these tunnels over thirty-five years, and there's never been a fire. What you experienced was nothing
     more than a very vivid nightmare."
          "I hope that's true. But until I can be as certain as you are, please understand that I will feel more secure if you are not alone. Someone will be here momentarily."
          Father's only response was a slight wave of his gloved hand.
          After sending Paul to sit with Father, Vincent strode through the tunnels. He was eager to see Catherine, to assure himself of her safety. The dream still haunted him, dividing his concern between Catherine Above and Father Below.
          He considered whether to wait for Catherine at the basement threshold or if he should ascend to her balcony. There would be snow on the balcony, but he felt the need for fresh air and the cold, crisp view of the early evening stars.
          He had just decided upon the balcony and was approaching the outer edge of the home tunnels when he heard several young voices coming toward him from one of the lower levels. He stopped at a wide place in the passage, waiting to give them room to pass.
          "Geoffrey, you can forget it. He only has one, and he's already promised it to Mouse."
          The muffled conversation continued. "How do you know he only has one?"
          Samantha's voice answered. "He wears it all the time...why would he have two?"
          Geoffrey's response was more distinct as the children drew nearer. "I'm still going to ask him if he will trade with me, too. It can't hurt to ask."
          "Well, I think if you really want one, you should earn the money and ask Michael to buy it for you up top.   Mrs. Potterfield said she'd pay any kid who would help clean her basement." Samantha continued, "Besides that, you know Vincent says we should be grateful and not be greedy...and we already used some of his...
         "Uhhh..."
         The dark-eyed child came around the corner and practically bumped into Vincent, who stood quietly leaning against the wall. The girl took one step backward to regain her balance, and looked up at him in surprise. Vincent reached to steady her as she recovered.
          "Hi, Vincent."
          "Hello, Samantha." He looked down upon Samantha, Geoffrey, and two other children who were apparently on their way home from someplace below.
          A damp dark smudge streaked Geoffrey's cheek and there were stains on Freddie's shirt. Children in the tunnels were often dirty, but rarely muddy. Vincent tilted his head. "Where did you go to get so dirty, Freddie?"
          The boy glanced from Samantha to Geoffrey and back again as if they might know the answer better than he did. At last he muttered, "No place."
          Samantha threw a disgusted look toward the boy, and then added quickly, "We've been down in those old chambers that flooded last month...playing." Her eyes sparkled strangely as she looked up at Vincent, "Are you going to see Catherine?" For some reason, she seemed quite eager to change the subject.
          Vincent nodded, still thoughtfully appraising the children. "She said she was bringing down a gift for Father this evening."
          Barely listening, Samantha took Freddie by the sleeve and replied, "That's neat. We have to go now."   It was unusual for her to be so evasive, and even more unusual for the children not to be inquisitive about a gift.
          Geoffrey continued quickly, "It's almost supper time, and it's our turn to set the table. William told us not to be late."
          Vincent reached down and stroked the smudge from the boy's cheek. "See to it that you wash first. William insists upon a clean kitchen."
          With a quick nod, Geoffrey glanced at his companions, and then backed away, moving in the direction of the kitchen chamber. "I will. Well...See ya', Vincent." And with that, he and the other children scurried away without a backward look.
          Vincent straightened, then he stood watching them, wondering for a moment about their odd behavior. They were definitely up to something.
          He started to wipe his hand clean, but then he lifted his fingers, looking at them in the better light. He frowned slightly as he sniffed the dark substance he had wiped from Geoffrey's cheek. There could be no doubt. The mud on the boy's face was brown oil paint.

          "Vincent, I don't think it's particularly strange. After all, I did bring down several sets of oil paints just a few days ago. The children are bound to be experimenting." Catherine was cleaning the
paint from Vincent's hand with a small bottle of polish remover.
          He shook his head, looking at her as she sat beside him at her dining table. "But I specifically asked them to save the oils for the workshop I want to teach after Winterfest."
          She held a fresh cotton ball to the mouth of the bottle and shook it. "Well, maybe they couldn't wait that long. Why don't you go ahead and start the class now...while they're interested?"
          The shaggy head shook again. "In just a few days everyone will be far too busy with Winterfest preparations, especially with Father confined to bed. And I want to wait until after I have had a chance to talk with a friend who is coming to Winterfest with advice and suggestions about the class."
          "You mentioned him before...the artist from California."
           He nodded, watching her hair shift as she leaned over his hand intently dabbing at his fingers with the moistened cotton. "His mother and father were helpers when we were young."
          She looked up with a smile. "It amazes me when I learn how many people are helpers. I can still remember how surprised I was when I found out that Peter had been a helper all these years." Returning the lid to the bottle, she screwed it on slowly.
          Vincent sat at the table   in   her   dining   nook,   looking simultaneously very out of place and very much at home. She handed him a dampened washcloth and watched as he washed away the traces of polish remover and paint. She had expected to meet him at the threshold below, and it had been a pleasant surprise to find him waiting on her balcony.
          As he finished with the cloth, she saw him glance at the big brown sack that sat in the middle of the table.
          Leaning across him, she reached into the sack with both hands and withdrew a box bearing a picture of a large black and silver machine with speakers.
          She watched as Vincent read the labels on the box and glanced up at her with a question in his eyes. She answered, "It's Father's. Do you think he'll like it?"
          "It is a tape player." He stated the obvious.
          It dawned on Catherine that he might not have seen one before.
     "That's right...battery powered."
          "Mr. Ching has one in his rear work room.   He listens to English tapes while he sews." He watched as Catherine pulled the components from the box. "Catherine, a machine like this is very expensive."
          She ignored his statement, plugging the units together and tripping open the tape holder. From another sack, she produced a handful of cassette tapes. "Chopin's Preludes or Pachelbel's Canon?"
          He hesitated a moment. "Pachelbel."
          Ripping the cellophane from the pack, she dropped the tape into the player and pushed a button. Immediately, the strains of the gentle music filled the room.
          "I thought it would give Father something to do. He loves music almost as much as books." She handed Vincent the sack of tapes. "They're mostly classical...but there's some Gershwin, and an album of Broadway tunes. Some popular music and jazz from the 40's and 50's."
     She looked at Vincent with a hopeful grin. "I know this is a big step for Father. Do you think he will listen?"
          He fingered the tapes, silently reading the titles. His voice came to her gently above the Pachelbel. "Catherine, this is a wonderful gift."
          She looked at him hopefully. "...but will he listen?"
          The   broad   shoulders shrugged.   "I don't know.   He's very conservative about what is brought Below."
          She made a small face. "I know."
          For a moment longer they listened to the music, then Catherine stood. "Well, Father's waiting...and I need to change clothes. Would you pack the player back into the box? I'll be ready in just a few minutes."
          As she reached the bedroom doors, she glanced back briefly and saw him bent in concentration over the machine. She smiled. Sometimes at moments like these, Vincent seemed almost at home in the world Above.

                                   * * *
          Catherine laid the package at Father's side, carefully opening the sack to reveal its contents. Then she sat back in the chair beside Father's bed.
          "What is this?" The old man took one look at the box as if he had just seen something distasteful.
          Vincent took Catherine's hand, squeezing it lightly as he stood at her side. "It's a battery powered tape player, Father."
          The graying face scowled. "I know that...It's one of those things I saw young ruffians carrying on their shoulders when I was Above."
          "Catherine wants you to have it as a gift."
          "What on earth would I want one of those for? That hideous noise would wake the dead."
         "But, Father...Catherine has..."
          The old man interrupted as he pushed the box back inside its sack. "I'm sorry, but no. Something like this just doesn't belong in the tunnels. I've seen what this sort of thing has done to the young people Above...and I can promise you that no child in my charge is going to go about... rolling on the sidewalk and listening to the obscene clatter that passes for music these days."
          "But, Father," Catherine handed him the smaller sack filled with tapes. "That isn't the only kind of music available on tapes. Look at these." She handed him several selections, taking care to choose the most conservative of the recordings.
          He glanced only briefly at the titles and scowled again, returning them to their sack. "Catherine, I'm sure your intentions are good, but I just don't want this kind of influence in the tunnels."
          Vincent added, "Father, think of the pleasure you'd find in this music while you are healing. You can hear Mozart and Vivaldi...any time you wish."
          "When I want to hear Vivaldi, I will listen below the park." With an unyielding shake of his head, the old man continued. "If I have one of these...things, the children are sure to want one of their own eventually. It opens the door to all manner of unhealthy temptations."
     He looked at the young woman. "I'm sorry, Catherine. I don't mean to appear ungrateful...It's just best to stop it before it even begins. When we want music in the tunnels, the children can create their own."
          His comment gave Catherine a new approach. "Father, this isn't just a tape player, it's also a recorder. At the children's next concert, you could record their music."
          Her statement made an impact. For the first time, Father looked at her, a small hint of interest in his eyes.
          Vincent added, "And imagine the teaching advantage if the children could listen to themselves and critique their own work...to hear and correct their own mistakes."
          Hoping that Father's firm stance had been shaken, Catherine continued. "That advantage could apply to music and language both, Father.   Vincent told me that Mr. Ching uses a player to study English. Think what it could mean to the children to study from a series of language tapes... Russian, German, French..."
          Vincent pressed on, "With careful supervision, Catherine's gift could be a very valuable teaching tool."
          Father's fingers absently wandered over the sack containing the tapes. For a moment he was silent, then finally he said in a tentative voice, "As a teaching tool only...it would not be available for personal use."
          The pair nodded in unison.
          With more conviction, he added. "I would keep it here, by my bed...for safe keeping. When a valid need arises, I will decide who will take responsibility for the machine."
          "Of course." Catherine nodded again.
          He sighed heavily. "I will think about it."
          "May we leave it here with you?" she asked.
          "Yes, yes." He waved the large object off.
          Vincent caught Catherine's glance as they exchanged a victorious smile. "We'll assemble it for you, Father."
          The old man watched while his son removed the player from its packing. As Vincent worked over the machine, the elderly voice asked noncommittally, "It plays on batteries, you say."
          Catherine grinned and gave Father's shoulder a reassuring pat. "They're already in the machine, and there's an extra set in the bottom of the sack with the tapes."
          "Well, I'm quite certain we won't be needing them."
          As Vincent gathered the extra packing and put it back into the box, Father watched over the top of his glasses. After a silence, the old man spoke. "Vincent, Mary was here a bit ago. She told me the children went down to the old chambers today, and the chambers are still full of water. I thought you were going to organize a crew to go down and reroute that drainage channel."
          "There's no hurry, Father." Vincent closed the box and slid it under Father's bed.
          "Of course, there is. Those are valuable chambers, and I don't want them lost to erosion and muck."
          "Father,   perhaps   after Winterfest..." Vincent straightened, standing near the foot of Father's bed.
          "Winterfest has nothing to do with it. You said you were going to see to it."
          Vincent threw a glance at Catherine.
          Father's voice droned on, "The point is...you let me believe you had nothing to do, then you spent the entire day sitting here, staring at me while there was work to be done."
          Vincent closed his eyes for an instant, pulling back with a sigh. Then he leveled a mild, silent frown at his father.
          For a moment, Catherine was tempted to intervene, but then she cautioned herself that this was between father and son.
          Vincent's response finally came, "Father, we've discussed this already."
          The old man waved him off, "I know... Your dream. But we simply can't disrupt essential work just because you have a dream." Vincent didn't answer, and the elderly voice began again. "Also, if I'm correct, the children should have been in class. Weren't there classes in literature and creative writing planned for today?"
          "Mary and I have agreed that classes must be postponed for a few days."
          Father's frown was immediate. "What on earth for? I thought Mary was going to take over my class."
          Vincent sighed again. "Father..." He paused. "Right now Mary and I have only one priority...that you recover completely and safely as soon as possible. The children's classes and the non-essential work will just have to wait."
          Catherine could remain silent no longer. "Vincent," she asked softly, "who normally teaches those classes?"
          "The literature class is Father's, and I teach creative writing."
          "How often do they meet?"
          He looked at her curiously. "Normally, three times a week."
          Catherine was beginning to develop an idea. "Would twice a week be sufficient for a while?"
          Father turned his head to look at her. "What are you thinking, Catherine?"
          She leaned forward, suddenly certain that it would be better to present her plan to Father instead of to his son. "Father, in the schools Above, when a teacher is incapacitated, a substitute is brought in. Let me teach the classes. I could come twice a week...on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I might not teach exactly like you would, but I love the children, and I have a respectable background in literature."
          The elderly eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
          She continued, "Just until you're able to teach again yourself. If I came, Vincent would be free to oversee your care and to do his work, and Mary would have more time for the smaller children."
          Catherine didn't look at Vincent for fear she would see an argument in his eyes. "Let me, please, Father. You need the help, and it would give me the chance to be useful here in the tunnels."
          He answered slowly. "Twice a week, you say."
          She nodded.
          He replied, "You are a very busy woman, Catherine. What of your work Above?"
          "I'll just tell them I have an important class on Wednesday nights." She smiled. This class was important to her in more ways than one.
          "Catherine..." It was Vincent's voice, but for once, Catherine was glad when Father silenced his son.
          "All right...very well." Father paused. "We shall give it a try. When can you begin?"
          "This Saturday. Vincent can show me what needs to be done, and the children and I can meet on Saturday afternoon."
          Father's eyes smiled for the first time since she and Vincent had come in the room. "Good." He paused. "Good. Saturday it is, then."
          Then his hands moved idly to the tape machine which Vincent had set on the floor at the bedside. After a moment, Father looked down at it casually and asked, "Where is that sack of tapes and batteries?"
          Catherine grinned and set the sack on top of the player.
          Father nodded, running his fingers over the package. "As I said, I'm quite certain we won't be needing them."
          Later, at her threshold, Catherine fielded Vincent's mild concern about the time and effort which teaching would require of her, assuring him it would be no hardship.
          Then, just before she ascended the ladder, he cautioned her again to be watchful of fire.
          She didn't see him for the next two days, but at least twice in the nights that followed, she had the impression that he had visited her balcony as she slept.
          On Saturday morning, when Vincent met Catherine at the threshold he was not alone. Mary Beth was riding on his shoulders, ducking her red head very low to avoid the rocky ceiling. In one hand she clutched a book, and her free hand was tucked tightly under Vincent's chin.
          Vincent's great hands were wrapped delicately around Mary Beth's ankles, holding her firmly while the child rode his wide shoulders with an innocent confidence, completely unaware of the power behind the clawed hands which held her so carefully.
          As Catherine watched, she wondered how Vincent could have ever believed that his hands were incapable of giving love.
          Then something about the child took Catherine's breath away. The blue in Mary Beth's eyes was an almost perfect reflection of the sapphire gaze which had captured Catherine's heart, and the tousled auburn curls caught the red glints in Vincent's golden mane.
          This could be Vincent's child.
          For an instant, she saw something in Mary Beth which also reminded her of herself. It was not the child's physical appearance... Then Catherine knew what it was. Mary Beth was embracing him, trusting him, giving herself into his care -- loving him in the same way that Catherine had grown to love him. The look of adoration in Mary Beth's eyes was the same look that Catherine saw in her mirror when her thoughts reached out to Vincent.
          "Hi, Catherine." The young voice came shyly from behind Vincent's ear.
          Yes. Catherine smiled silently. This could be Vincent's child, and she could also be hers.
          "Vincent said you're gonna teach the big kids."
          "That's right, Mary Beth. This afternoon, right after lunch. What are you and Vincent up to this morning?"
          "Mary Beth and I are..." When Vincent spoke, one tiny finger slipped from his chin into his mouth, and he pulled his chin to one side, trying to pull himself clear. His fangs shone white against the pink finger as Catherine reached up to take the small hand, freeing him to speak. Catherine's finger touched his lower lip, and the soft warm moistness was her inspiration for a whole series of new thoughts.
        Vincent's voice began again. "Mary Beth and I are scheduled for a private phonics lesson, and we have decided that you should be our special guest."
          Catherine smiled, tucking her hand under his arm. "That sounds like a lovely idea."
          As the three walked together toward the study, Vincent assured Catherine that Father was feeling much better, and that he had made arrangements with Cullen and Mouse to build a series of bookshelves in Father's study. Father had requested the shelves before his accident, and now the carpenters' constant presence during the day would prevent the old man from being alone.
          Catherine was about to ask Vincent if he was still concerned about a fire, but a quick glance at Mary Beth made her decide that this was not the right time.
          As they approached the study, Vincent reached up and lowered the child gently to stand at his side.
          Catherine smiled down as the tiny child clung shyly to Vincent's hand. "Mary Beth, are you sure it's okay with you if I stay while you and Vincent study?"
          The child's curls bounced as she answered Catherine's question with a nod. "It's okay." She tightened her grip on her Dr. Seuss book.
          As the three of them entered Father's study, Catherine saw evidence that Mouse and Cullen had already begun work, but for the moment the chamber was quiet. Vincent explained that Mary was still sharing breakfast with Father in his bedchamber.
          Helping the child into a large chair at Father's table, Vincent stated, "I think Mary Beth is about ready to read her book to an audience."
          The six-year-old nodded again, more confidently. "Vincent said I could have the book when I could read it."
          Catherine smiled as she took a seat. "And can you read it now?"
          "Uh-huh."
          The two adults gave the little girl their full attention while she proudly read her book, "The Cat in the Hat". Her reading was so flawless that it was obvious she had memorized the entire story, word for word.
     She was very proud of her accomplishments, and when she was finished, Vincent proclaimed that the book was hers.
          Catherine watched as he began the phonics lesson, and she marveled at his skill and patience as he helped the child unravel new words with her newfound knowledge.

          Several minutes later,   Mary emerged from Father's chamber, carrying a tray and shaking her head. As the woman passed, she nodded at the group and murmured something about "being driven to distraction by that insufferable man." She left the study with a sigh.
          Almost immediately, Father's voice rumbled from the bedchamber behind the stairs. "Vincent, are you out there?"
          "Yes, Father." Vincent threw a look at Catherine and lifted his voice, "Catherine and I are here with Mary Beth."
          "Well, you might at least have the courtesy to make your presence known. It's not as if I can crawl out of this bed and come in there."
          With a shake of his head, Vincent pushed back his chair. Standing, he strode to Father's doorway.
          The old man lay on his bed, propped against his pillows, with a cup of tea in his lap. He scowled, "Where are Catherine and Mary Beth?"
          "Father, we are in a lesson."
          "Good." The gray head nodded. "I'm glad to know that something around here is progressing as it should." His scowl darkened, "Well, don't just stand there. Bring them in and get another chair."
          "Father...I don't think..."
          Vincent was interrupted by Catherine at his side. "Father, what can we do for you?" She eased past Vincent and picked up a napkin which lay on the floor beside Father's bed.
          The elderly eyes followed the young woman. "Catherine, I spoke with Samantha. She assures me the children are pleased that you will teach them. Are you ready?" he asked as she folded the napkin and laid it on a nearby table.
          She nodded, "I came early so Vincent could brief me this morning. We will meet for the first time this afternoon."
          "Good," he nodded. "I'll look forward to a report. Now, sit down and offer me some intelligent conversation. People are avoiding me as if I were contagious." He muttered under his breath, "I have a bad hip, not the pox."
          The young woman smiled. She could make a good guess about why people were avoiding this chamber. "Mary was just here."
          Vincent added patiently, "And I'm sure Mouse and Cullen were here earlier."
          "Mary keeps clucking over me like a biddy hen, and Mouse and Cullen are driving me to distraction with their clatter and banging about."
          Catherine smiled at the old man. "They're doing you a favor, Father. You need those shelves."
          "Be that as it may. I can't sleep with their hammering and sawing." He paused fretfully. "The two of them argue constantly, and when they are not arguing, Mouse remembers to feel guilty. Then he comes in here to rattle on about my Kipling first edition...promising its return..." Father pushed his tea away with a frown, "...as if it were going to rise again like some sort of bloody Phoenix."
          Vincent threw the old man a warning look, glancing from Father to Mary Beth.
          For the first time, Father seemed to notice the presence of the little red curls which peaked out from behind Vincent's leg. With   a tug at his covers, the old man sighed. "Well, are you going to stand there all day? Get a chair and come sit down."   He patted the bed at his side. "Mary Beth." His voice was noticeably gentler. "You sit here."
          After a quick glance up at Vincent, the child scurried across the room and crawled up onto the bed. As Catherine seated herself in the chair at Father's bedside, she saw the pained look that flitted across Father's face when the child's movement jarred his hip, but she also saw his determination to hide his pain from the girl.
          Vincent brought a chair and placed it near Catherine's. "Mary Beth has just earned her book, Father."
          "Oh? And which book is that?"
          The child handed him her newest possession. "The Cat in the Hat."
          Father reached for his reading glasses and tucked the bows behind his ears. "Dr. Seuss." He nodded appreciatively, gazing at its cover. "And you can read the whole book now?"
          "Yes, Father."
          Father returned the book to its owner and sat back, expectantly waiting to be subjected to the story. To his surprise, he found that Mary Beth's interests had shifted.
          Placing the book under her arm, she cocked her auburn head to one side, and a small wrinkle formed between her blue eyes. "Father?"
          "What is it, child?"
          "What's a bloody Phoenix?"
          Catherine smothered a startled giggle, while Father suddenly needed to clear his throat. A quick glance at Vincent assured Catherine that he was hiding a smile of his own.
          When Father finally found his voice, he explained solemnly, "Mary Beth, 'bloody' is a word that polite little girls do not say."
          The wide blue eyes didn't blink. "Grown-ups, too?"
          "Grown-ups, too." He assured her.
          If he expected her to comment upon his use of the word, he was relieved by her next question.
          "Is 'Phoenix' a bad word, too?"
          He patted her hand. "No, quite the contrary. Phoenix is a very fine word. It is the name of a beautiful bird."
          She leaned forward in eager curiosity, sensing the presence of a story. "What kind of bird? Did you ever see one?"
          Father smiled, shaking his head. "No, Mary Beth. The Phoenix is a myth...like the unicorn and dragons."
          Her eyes flashed in excitement. She'd been right; there was a story. In her short time in the tunnels, she had already learned the joy of listening to Father's stories. "Tell me. Please, Father."
          The old man smiled tiredly, glancing only briefly at Catherine and Vincent. The two of them sat, waiting almost as expectantly as Mary Beth. He sighed contentedly. Father did love an audience.
          His voice began, captivating and expressive...skillfully charming his listeners like the master storyteller that he was.
          "Well, you see, Mary Beth, the Phoenix was a marvelous bird, unlike any bird that ever lived before or since. Because other birds were born of eggs...but the Phoenix was born and reborn of fire."
         "Fire?" The childish voice was hushed with awe.
         Father nodded. "He was very beautiful...larger than an eagle, with a golden head, and feathers of every color found in flame. Red and purple, gold and blue. He flew the highest of all the birds and gave great joy to all who saw him." He paused thoughtfully, "But even then, I think he must have been very sad because he flew alone and never knew the wonder of sharing his life with another. For, you see, in all the world, he was the only one of his kind."
          Catherine felt her chest tighten at the words, and her hand moved across the narrow space between her chair and Vincent's. Suddenly, she needed to feel his warmth and to hold his hand. Vincent's fingers met hers...as if they were expected. And when she looked up at him, his eyes greeted hers with a reassuring tenderness. She sighed, content that Vincent might be magical, he might be the only one of his kind, but he would never face life alone. Their bond warmed with the promise of wonder, of a life to be shared.
          The story continued. "The Phoenix lived for five hundred years, and then finally...old and tattered...he sensed his coming death. He flew to the highest tree in the country, and in its top-most branches he built a nest of cinnamon, and frankincense, and wonderful smelling spices. It took him all night to build the nest." Father paused, patting the child's hand again. "And then when the first rays of dawn came, the Phoenix began to sing. He sang about his life, about every dream he had known, and of all the beauty in the world. And finally he sang to the sun...calling the sun. The sun grew hotter and hotter, answering the song...until suddenly the nest of the Phoenix burst into    flame. And the bird was consumed in the sweet smelling fire."
          The small hand beneath Father's turned and clung to Father's fingers. Catherine saw a small tear slip down Mary Beth's cheek, and she felt a hot sting behind her own eyes.
          "And this was when the miracle occurred. When the smoke had drifted away, the ashes began to stir...and from the ashes the bird rose again, young and new. All its dirty, torn feathers were gone, and in their place were feathers as bright and beautiful as the flames themselves. The Phoenix rose up into the sky, circling higher and higher...so full of life and hope that he broke into a new song, wanting to share his great joy...but he sang so sweetly that no ears have ever been able to hear the song."
          Father's voice grew quiet as he looked into the child's face. "And from the ashes he claimed the life that had always been meant to be his. That is why the Phoenix will live forever."
          Then Father concluded tenderly, "And it is also the reason that, to this very day, children of all ages everywhere must be silent and listen very closely...because perfect love has been promised to anyone who can hear, when the Phoenix sings."

          For a moment, the chamber was silent, then at last Catherine spoke. "Father, that's a beautiful story."
          "I've always thought so." Father cleared his throat and cleaned is spectacles with the corner of his sheet. "Now, young lady," he looked at Mary Beth, "about this book of yours..." He settled the glasses on his nose and again tucked the bows behind his ears. "I have given a story to you. It's your turn to give one to me."
          The little blue eyes went from Father to Vincent, and the child leaned to whisper into Father's ear. Catherine could barely hear her say, "Vincent and Catherine already heard the story."
          Father nodded solemnly, "Then we won't be needing them any more, will we?"
          Vincent tilted his head as his father waved him and Catherine away. "Father..."
          "Go on with you. I want to hear Mary Beth read her book."
          "Are you certain?"
          "I am quite certain. Mary Beth and I have visiting to catch up on, and she'll watch over me if I need anything, won't you, child?"
          She nodded importantly.
          One last look from Father assured Vincent that they had been dismissed, and he led Catherine smiling from the chamber.
          Catherine leaned happily on Vincent's arm. "I've always loved the story of the Phoenix, but I don't remember ever hearing that last part before...about the song."
          Vincent shook his head as he led her from the study. "I've often suspected that Father sometimes gives his own embellishments to his stories."
          "Well, even if he did...I think the story is beautiful."
          As they walked toward Vincent's chamber, Catherine looked up, recalling a passing statement of Father's. "He mentioned Mouse and the Kipling book again. It still upsets him, doesn't it?"
          Vincent nodded. "I'm afraid it'll be a long time before he accepts the loss."
          "What if I could find him another first edition copy?"
          He looked down at her, his head tilted, "Catherine, it was irreplaceable."
          "I know. I couldn't give him back his father's book...but what if we could at least find a similar copy? Would it help?"
          He nodded slowly. "It might."
          Catherine made a promise to herself. "I'll see if I can find one."
          "Catherine, such a book is very rare...I wouldn't get my hopes too high."
          She smiled, lacing her arm through his. "Well, it can't hurt to look. At the very least, I'll enjoy a good excuse to haunt some old bookstores."
          Then for an instant, her words hung in the air like a cold breath, and she shivered lightly. Vincent felt it, too. Not very long ago, they had shared a rather remarkable experience with a "haunted" bookstore.
          After a morning of lesson planning, Vincent and Catherine shared the noon meal with Father, whose mood seemed much improved. Catherine met her class while Vincent worked with Mouse and Cullen in Father's study. Then, when Catherine was free, Vincent explained that he had
promised Father he would survey the damage to the flooded chambers, and he offered to walk Catherine home.
          "I'd rather go down to the chambers with you." She stood with him outside the study entrance.
          He gazed down at her quietly. "The flood has created a lengthy detour, Catherine. It'll make a long afternoon for you."
          She smiled. "Not as long as it'll be if I have to spend it apart from you."
          She had the distinct impression that he had hoped for just this
response.

          "Be careful, Catherine. These rocks are very slick." Vincent held her hand as she balanced her way across a damp outcropping.
          He had completed his survey, and she had waited while he had made written comments and several sketches to present to Father and the work crew. Now she and Vincent were deep within the detour, working their way home.
          Catherine had no idea what time it was, but her stomach assured her that they had missed the evening meal.
          Almost on cue, Vincent made a suggestion. "We'll stop just beyond these rocks. There's a dry place there, and we can rest while I unpack something for us to eat."
          She looked at him in surprise. "You brought supper?"
          With a nod, he led her a few feet further up the passage. Setting his lantern on a low ledge, he spread his cloak on the floor of a small recessed area off the main tunnel, and he produced a paper sack of      sandwiches, fruit, and cheese. "Are you hungry?"
          Settling herself on his cloak, she nodded eagerly. "Famished."
          "Good." He sank down beside her, stretching his left leg forward, bending his right knee. After handing her a sandwich, he put the sack down near his knee, took a sandwich of his own, and leaned back against the wall, watching her.
          As he ate, she felt his eyes follow her every move. She looked up, smiling awkwardly around her sandwich, suddenly self-conscious under his stare. "Vincent, what are you thinking?"
          His answer was silken. "I was wondering how it's possible that anyone can be so beautiful after a day of children, difficult old men, and long hikes...," his eyes smiled, "...even with a spot of mud on her chin."
          "Mud?" Catherine frowned. "Where?" She wiped her fingers across the dirt on her chin, succeeding only in smearing it further across her face.
          Vincent leaned forward, pulling a napkin from the sack and taking Catherine's hand. For a moment, he wiped her fingers, then he smiled at her, taking her chin in his hand. Lifting her face gently, he instructed, "Stick out your tongue."
          Feeling like a child, she grinned and obediently opened her mouth.
          Finding a clean corner of the napkin, he dabbed it across the moistness of Catherine's tongue and wiped the smear from her chin...in the same way that Catherine had seen Mary clean the children's faces.
          He leaned very near while he worked, and his breath was cold as it whispered across the dampness on her face. She could see the sparkle of the lantern light in his golden lashes, the light making wonderful feathery shadows across his eyes. She held her breath until he was finished.
          At last he pulled back.
          She struggled to find her voice. "Better?"
          He smiled. "The mud is gone. But I thought it gave you a sort of earthy charm..."
          She laughed. "Well, at least it was real mud and not oil paint."
     She rubbed her sleeve across her chin, "It was a lot easier to get off."
          Suddenly a strange look came into Vincent's eyes as he reacted to her words. He straightened, frowning as he returned the napkin to the sack.
          She shifted closer to him. "What is it? Is it something I said?"
          He hesitated a moment, pulling his arm around Catherine as she turned and leaned against him with her back against his chest. He brought his right arm across her, just below her throat, in a wonderfully protective gesture.
          After a silence, he reached for a piece of cheese with his left hand. Holding it uneaten, he finally answered. "Catherine, something peculiar is going on in the tunnels."
          "Peculiar? In what way?"
          He answered slowly. "It seems to center mostly around the children...and Mouse. They are secretive..."
          "You mean like when Geoffrey had oil paint on his face and let you believe it was mud."
          Nodding, he said, "That. And other incidents in the last few days. The children whisper among themselves, and large amounts of their time cannot be accounted for." He added with concern, "There have been hints that an intruder has been in the lower sections...around the Serpentine. At first, I thought it was just Mouse and his imagination, but yesterday Pascal said he heard the children on the pipes below the Serpentine. Every person has a distinctive style on the pipes--Pascal
compares it to handwriting--and he was certain one of the senders was strange to him...even though the use of our code was perfect."
          Her eyes widened anxiously. "Do you think the children could be in any danger?"
          "No." His chin rested against her hair. "I have confidence in Samantha's judgment, and several of the older boys grew up on the streets. They recognize danger and know how to avoid it."
          "Have you asked the children about it...directly?"
          She felt him nod. "They always have a logical explanation, but I have the feeling their answers have been carefully rehearsed." Quietly, he bit into his cheese and offered Catherine a drink from his canteen.
          As she drank, she let her eyes wander across the walls of the small chamber and the tunnel beyond, peering into the deepest shadows and fissures. Then she stopped herself, wondering just what it was that she expected to see.
          She was silent for a moment, then asked, "If there is a stranger in the tunnels, do you think that could have a connection with your dream? Is there a chance of arson...or an accident?"
          "I've thought of the possibility. But the impression in my dream wasn't of the outer tunnels."
          Catherine waited as he continued softly. "I feel the dream strongly in Father's study, as if the books bring the dream into focus."
          "Were there books in the dream?"
          He shook his head. "I don't know." Then his voice fell to a whisper. "But I also have a strong sense of the dream when I am with you." The arm across her chest tightened slightly.
          After a moment's silence, she whispered, "You came to my balcony during the last two nights, didn't you?"
          He nodded.
          "Because you were afraid there might be a fire?"
          His answer was very quiet. "I needed to be certain."
          "Vincent," she snuggled against him, "don't worry about me. My building has alarms and a sprinkler system. There's no way a fire could hurt me there." She reached up and squeezed his arm. "And as for the children...have you or any of the other adults seen anything out of the ordinary?"
          "No."
          "Well, it probably has something to do with Winterfest. Children always love holiday surprises."
          "Perhaps."
          Shaking off a slight feeling of apprehension, Catherine reached
     for an apple and handed one to Vincent. "Rebecca stopped by my class to ask me about Winterfest."
          Vincent bit into the fruit, waiting for her to continue.
          "She's going to teach me how to make the candles. We're going to start next weekend."
          Vincent nodded quietly. "She told me you wanted to help."
          "She said there'll be a lot of people at Winterfest this year."
          "Every year it grows, just as our population does." He paused, "It's possible that eventually we will truly need these flooded chambers."
          "Will it be hard to drain them?"
          His head nodded against her hair. "Mmmm." His arm still was wrapped around her, lightly holding her against him.
          She turned to look into his face. "Show me the charts you drew. I want to know about your work."
          "Some other time, Catherine." He threw his apple core into the sack. "Right now, we have a long way to go, and I'm afraid we're going to be very late getting you home."
          Finishing her apple, she realized she wasn't ready to face her empty apartment.
          Recently Vincent had been increasingly hesitant to allow her to stay Below, but, maybe if she presented the idea casually enough... She took one last piece of cheese, and ventured, "It's Saturday night, and I don't have to go to work in the morning. Maybe I could borrow a gown from Rebecca and spend the night in the guest chamber."
          He took his arm from around her and rested it on her shoulder, in a less intimate pose. His voice was gentle in her ear. "It's been a long day. You'll rest better in your own bed...and tomorrow morning you'll be glad to be home."
          She refused to give up so easily. "It has been a long day, and I've felt needed."
          "Catherine, you are always needed," he said sincerely.
        She smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way. I want to be useful in the tunnels, and now...between the classes, and caring for Father, and Winterfest preparations...there's so much I can do." Holding her breath, she decided to play her hand. "Vincent, I've been thinking. I know you didn't want me to move Below right after Father's accident, but now..."
          Almost as if she had flipped a switch, Catherine saw the easy good humor leave Vincent's eyes, to be replaced by a sudden guarded defensiveness. He took his hand from her shoulder.
          She stopped, a small frown knitting her forehead as she found herself loving him and hating the reaction that came every time she suggested that she should move Below.
          "...I think you need me here." She added, "And with your concern about fire...you wouldn't have to divide your time worrying about Father and me if we were both in the same place."
          Behind her, his body straightened, no longer embracing her.
     Suddenly, the comfortable closeness between them became cool and remote. He pulled away.
          She whispered, "Don't do that."
          He sighed, his voice very quiet, almost tired. "Catherine."
          "Don't tell me I can't come when I need to be here." Shaking her head, she continued, "You wouldn't let me stay after Father's accident. I needed to be here for him, and for you. At times like that, you make me feel like an outsider when you send me back Above." She paused, pleading, "Don't shut me out, Vincent. You and Father need me more than just two days a week. I want to move Below...at least from now until after Winterfest." She watched as he turned his head, leaning it
     against the wall behind him. Knowing she was probably pressing too hard, she also knew there would never be a better time. "And if it works out well, I want you to ask me to stay permanently."
          Suddenly he shifted, and he was on his feet, his back to her.
          Alone on his cloak, she looked up, watching the tension in his shoulders. "Vincent, do you remember...when I came Below after Dad died...you said you didn't want me to go back."
          He muttered to the far wall. "I remember."
          "You told me that I should never be afraid of the truth. And the truth is...everything that matters to me is here. I love you, and I love your world." Her chin trembled through a half-smile. "I even love that crotchety old man lying up there pretending he isn't dying to hear the tapes I brought him."
          She continued, "When Dad died, I said I had nothing to go back to, and now I've discovered I truly don't. Everything that matters to me is here."
          She hoped he would reply, but he was silent.
          After a long moment, she murmured, "You said then that the time wasn't right...that it wasn't time yet for our dream. You said we would someday find our dream and be truly together. I think the time is finally here."
          He began to pace. Catherine watched him in silence, determined that it was his turn to speak. For a fleeting instant, something in the back of her mind smiled ironically. Had there ever been a crisis which hadn't driven Vincent to pace?
          His voice finally came, in rhythm with his steps. "Catherine, there are things you do not understand."
          She nodded. "I'm sure there are. I never knew a couple who understood everything about each other."
          "But we are not like other couples." His arms spread at his sides as he walked.
          She nodded again, echoing his words from long ago. "We are something that has never been. You said we'd have to go with courage and care." She said firmly, "I think we've done that."
          At last he stopped, "Catherine, you are a woman who has spent your entire life in the world Above, living with sunshine and blue skies. I can't let you leave those behind."
          "I already have, Vincent." She pulled the hem of his cloak over her legs and pulled her knees to her chest, feeling suddenly chilled. "When I'm Above...without you...the sunshine and the sky just remind me that we're apart. Maybe someday we'll find a way to walk in the sunshine together...but until then, the sun means nothing to me without you."
          "...But what you are suggesting...to abandon your life Above..."
          She tried a new tack. "Vincent, all I'm asking is that you give me the same chance that you would give to anyone else who asked to come Below." She remembered the auburn haired child on his shoulders. "Why did you let Mary Beth come Below?"
          He answered cautiously, "She had lost her family, and she had no one...she was completely alone, and she needed us."
          Catherine's eyes leveled on him, solemnly forcing him to listen to his own words, giving him no other response.
        He didn't miss the implications. He couldn't have. Both she and Mary Beth were orphaned topsiders, needing the tunnels, and needing Vincent.   But Catherine's needs from Vincent far   exceeded   the child's...and Catherine's need was for the one thing which Vincent believed he could not give.
        "Catherine, no. I'm sorry, but...no."   He sounded almost like a stranger.
          Suddenly Catherine felt a disturbance in their bond.
          Fear.
          She frowned. Something echoed through her, making her heart pound, clutching at her stomach until she felt almost nauseated. More than fear, it was stark terror. It hadn't come from her; it had to have come from him.   She'd expected many reactions   from   Vincent... But...fear? Thinking for a moment she might be imagining it, she watched him carefully, needing to see his eyes. When he finally glanced at her, she saw it. He looked trapped, his eyes darting, looking anywhere except into hers. She'd seen that look only once before... When she had lowered his hood three years ago, revealing his face to her for the very first time.
          She sighed raggedly. She had said enough...almost enough. Her heart hurt to think that he was in pain, but it also hurt for herself.
     How many times would she be forced to allow their dream to recede into the future -- forever beckoning, elusive and unfulfilled?   She was a lawyer who spent her days pleading cases for hundreds of broken and unhappy people. She was a good debater, an excellent counsel. Why
     must the one case which she was destined never to win...be her own?
          She paused, ashamed to add to his fear, but feeling her own agony at the prospect of losing again. She whispered, "Vincent, please don't make me feel like a visitor in the only home that means anything to me."
          His shoulders jerked with the impact of her words, and for an instant she wondered if she should regret them. But suddenly all she wanted to do was to go home. Anything else she could say would only hurt him more...and when Vincent was hurt, her heart bled along with his.
          She pushed his cloak off her legs and stood slowly. Fighting back tears, she bent, reaching to pick his cloak up off the floor, but suddenly she had the sickening feeling that if she did, she might lose her supper. Putting one hand to the cold wall, she felt Vincent press something in her other hand, and she looked down to see him offering her the canteen. Accepting it from him, she put it to her mouth and took a hesitant sip. The cool water almost immediately settled her churning stomach, and she watched while Vincent stooped beside her to retrieve his cloak. Then, as he straightened with the wrap in his hands, his hair swept past only inches from her face. And for a
fraction of a second, she smelled the unmistakable stench of smoke.
          A shiver prickled across her neck and down her arms, and she flashed a quick look toward both ends of the tunnel. She gasped, uncertain why. Had something moved in the darkness? And if it had, would Vincent know -- as occupied as he was with his own fears?
          Catherine took a deep breath and returned the cap to the canteen, tightening it as Vincent shook his cloak once and slipped it around his shoulders.
          Gathering up the remains of their meal, he packed away the paper sack and took the lantern from its shelf. For a moment, he stood beside Catherine, still silent, except for the pain which reverberated through their bond.
          This was the moment when she always took his arm, when she should lean into the pillar of his body and close out the rest of the world.
          But his rejection hung between them like a curtain...or a wall. And Catherine was too tired to push through it.
          She didn't dare to look at his face, to risk the penetration of that crystal blue gaze. She knew if she did, she wouldn't have the strength not to collapse against him in tears.
          So when he offered his arm, the lifeline which had been her salvation for so many countless times, Catherine had already moved forward, leaving him and his light behind.
          The walk down to the flooded tunnels had been lovely. The return was agonizing for them both. And finally, a little after midnight, Vincent stood at the base of the threshold ladder, waiting for Catherine to make her ascent.
          Physical fatigue had taken the sting from Catherine's frustration. She lingered, aware that a miserable night lay ahead.
          He had said almost nothing on the way up, and now at last his voice broke the stillness.
          "I'm sorry, Catherine."
          She nodded, determined not to let her tears escape. "I know. So am I."
          "You will come on Wednesday." He didn't phrase it as a question, but she knew he needed assurance.
          "I'll come. I promised I would."
          "The children will be waiting."
          Her eyes darted up quickly to meet his.
          He added softly, "I will be waiting."
          She touched him for the first time since they had left the chamber so far below, resting her hand on his chest. "Vincent, you know I love you. I'll love you forever...there's nothing you could say that would ever stop that."
          He let out a quick breath, and his hand came up to cover hers.
          Standing on tiptoe, she stretched to kiss him, making contact with only his bottom lip, feeling the barest response in return. Then she turned and climbed the ladder, leaving him standing in the fall of light.
          At the top, she turned and watched from the basement shadows as he stared after her for a moment, then he faced the darkness behind him and walked slowly back into the tunnel. Finally when she was certain he was beyond hearing, she murmured, "Don't think you've heard the last of this, Vincent."