When the Phoenix Sings ~ 7 Fire. He couldn't remember how it had started, or when he'd first discovered it, but it was everywhere. He'd been dragged into its midst, along with something lovely which unfolded its petals in the searing heat. Something more precious than life, which he must guard and protect with his very last breath. He lunged through the flames, forcing his way through the burning debris, drawing nearer and nearer the precious form which lay at the very heart of the inferno. The fire snatched his breath away, whipping across his face, blinding him in its fury. And then...just as his furred hand reached for the priceless treasure, the walls about them exploded, burying them both in a white- hot brilliance.
"No!"
Vincent sat up, hearing his own voice echo through his chamber. His breath came in great heaves, and the sound of his heart pounded at his temples. For a moment, he sat on his bed, one foot still entangled in the blankets, the other on the cold floor.
He looked with glazed eyes, searching first the chamber, and then the tunnel beyond. Inhaling deeply, he tested the air for smoke.
Then sighing heavily, he swung the other leg to the floor and pulled on his boots.
Experience had taught him that it would be impossible to go back to sleep until he had seen with his own eyes that Catherine was sleeping peacefully in her apartment Above.* * *
On Monday, it was late evening by the time Vincent returned from the drainage channel to his chamber. He was still towel-drying his mane after stopping along the way to rinse the mud from his face and hair. After hastily changing clothes, he settled heavily on his bed and shook his head with enough force to create a misty shower as his hair settled about his shoulders.
It was then that he looked down and saw a white cardboard package resting on his pillow. It was about six inches square and bore no markings. He looked about the chamber for an instant, seeking evidence of its source, but nothing else in the room had been disturbed. Finally he reached for it, taking it into his lap and lifting the lid.
Inside, he found a wooden box, polished to a satin luster, a delicate design of floral swirls carved into its top. A tiny bow- shaped key extended from the bottom. Unfastening the latch on the box's side, he lifted the lid and was greeted with a tinkling melody.
He gave a small snort of appreciative surprise.
For a moment, he listened...trying to identify the unfamiliar tune. The simple melody repeated itself twice, finally slowing until Vincent closed the lid and rewound the key.
Lying back against the pillows at the head of his bed, he listened again until the box ran down.
Suddenly it became important to Vincent that he should identify the tune. He stood, taking the box with him as he strode toward Father's chamber.
Father was reading when Vincent entered, but his book was immediately laid aside, as if the old man were glad for company. "Vincent."
Hesitating only a moment in the entrance, Vincent moved to slide into the chair at his father's side. "I thought Mary was here."
"She was. She'll be back from the nursery shortly." Father noted his son's wet hair. "I'm glad you're back. How is the work below progressing?"
The golden head nodded, "We've made a good start."
"I imagine you miss Mouse and Cullen. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have them on your crew than banging about in my study?"
Vincent nodded again. "I'm sure." He had told Father about Mouse's peculiar behavior near the Serpentine. "Mouse has complained about our working so near his aqueducts, but I assured him we wouldn't touch them without consulting him first. And for now, I'd like him here where you can keep an eye on him."
Father sighed. Mouse's presence was definitely a mixed blessing.
The elderly man noticed the box in Vincent's lap. Lifting a hand, he motioned toward it. "What have you here?"
Vincent replied, "A music box, Father."
"A music box?"
Placing it in his father's hands, Vincent sat back. "It appeared mysteriously on my bed while I was gone today. I found it just a few minutes ago."
"A gift."
"Apparently." He paused. "It arrived anonymously." Vincent watched while Father turned it over in his hands. "I wondered if you could tell me the name of the melody."
Father raised a brow. "Something unfamiliar? Well, let's see."
His gnarled fingers opened the latch, and as the lid opened, the music began. Father listened, a gentle smile coming into his eyes. He nodded in recognition, his fingers tapping the box quietly in time with the piece.
"You know the melody, Father?"
The old man waited until a few more notes had played. "I do."
Vincent waited expectantly.
The elderly voice came softly. "I know your tune...and I suspect I also know your mysterious gift-giver."
Tilting his head, Vincent leaned forward.
"The melody was popular when I was young. It's called, 'You Are My Sunshine'."
Vincent sat back.
Father continued. "If I can recall...the words go something like..." His raspy voice fell in with the song, half singing, half speaking the words. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...you make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."
Vincent sat in stunned silence.
Father smiled. After a moment, he inquired gently, "As I understand it, you and Catherine had something of a tiff over the weekend?" He paused, watching his son. "I suspect this is a peace offering."
Examining the box more closely, Father added, "These boxes frequently have a compartment...ah. Here it is." He pushed a hidden button and a tiny drawer slid forward. Inside was a small white card. Father handed it to Vincent. "It rather looks like a business card."
It was. The card was printed with Catherine's name, title, and her office phone number and address. Vincent fingered it for an instant in one hand, then slowly his fingers turned the card over, revealing a brief message on the back in Catherine's handwriting:You are my sunshine, and your eyes are my sky.
Father smiled as he watched the expression in Vincent's eyes. When the younger man rose to his feet, his father replied, "It's cold Above, Vincent, and your hair is still damp. Take care to cover your head when you go."
***"Your hair is wet." Catherine spoke from her open doorway as she stood gazing at him, feeling his uncertainty.
Then nothing mattered except being in his arms. Throwing herself against his chest she welcomed the feel of his embrace. "I was afraid you wouldn't come."
"Catherine," he rasped into the cold night air, "I wasn't certain you wanted me to."
"I was just now changing clothes to come to you." Then she added quietly, "...but I wasn't sure you wanted me Below."
He glanced down at her. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and was standing in her stocking feet, leaving small wet imprints in the snow on the balcony floor.
In silence, he bent to place one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, and he lifted her, carrying her easily into her apartment through the open doors.
Inside, he pushed the door closed, then stood for a moment, holding her as if trying to decide what he should do next. Then he moved to the nearest of the twin couches and set her there, kneeling on one knee while he pulled off her snow-encrusted socks and dried her feet with the corner of his cloak.
She watched him as he worked, intent upon rubbing the color back into her toes. Softly she asked, "Did Geoffrey deliver my package?"
He looked up through damp bangs. "I wondered who your accomplice was."
She answered. "I sent a call on the pipes for one of the children at the end of my noon hour..." She gave him a subdued grin. "Did you know that you can hear the message Below if someone taps on the pipes
in the ladies' room in the sub-basement of Bloomingdale's?"
She waited a moment, but he continued to work over her feet as if he hadn't heard. At last she said, "I wasn't sure you'd be familiar with the melody."
He finally seemed satisfied that her feet had thawed, and he sat back on his heels, his cloak sweeping into soft folds around him on the floor.
"Father identified the song for me. He was even able to remember the lyrics."
She smiled. She herself had been surprised at the new significance in the words of the simple song which she had taken for granted since childhood. Answering softly, she said, "The words made me think of you."
He shifted his weight slightly, and his eyes didn't meet hers, making her wonder what he was thinking.
After a moment's silence, he pushed himself up, standing, towering above her. "It was a lovely gift, Catherine. Thank you." His voice was sincere, but it bore a briskness which assured her that he wasn't ready
to pursue an intimate conversation.
She gazed up at him an instant longer.
It was enough that he had come to her. Nothing could be gained by pressing him again so soon.
She lifted a notebook from a small stack of papers and books which sat on the nearby coffee table. "I worked on these last night...I've been putting together lesson plans for my class."
His shoulders relaxed almost visibly.
She stood. "I need your help. If you'd look them over, I'll go make us something hot to drink." The room had chilled while the balcony doors had been open. She added almost as an afterthought, "...and it would be nice if you'd light a fire."
He nodded, and she put the pad back down on the table, asking, "Is hot chocolate all right?"
He nodded again.
As Catherine moved into the kitchen and pulled a pan from the cabinet, she glimpsed Vincent in the dining area, removing his cloak and draping it across a chair near the glass doors. Then he vanished back into the living room and she heard him working at the fireplace.
A terrible tension had gripped her since she and Vincent had parted at the threshold. Alone in the early morning hours on Sunday she had feared that maybe this time she had pressed too hard. She had lain in her empty bed, trying to imagine a life without him...choking back the frightening possibility that his fears and walls were truly insurmountable. If he truly could give her nothing more than a lifetime as a visitor in his world, she would accept that. She'd have to, because the thought of leaving him completely was unbearable. Without him... She shook her head, erasing the thought. There was nothing without him.
She heard the soft sound of the gas in her fireplace igniting, and, with a grateful sigh, her tensions released. He had come, and he seemed willing to stay. And for now, that would be enough. If he insisted upon keeping his walls, she would press herself gently against them, and collect all the warmth that he was willing to give.
When she returned with the hot cocoa, she found him at the foot of the sofa nearest the dining area. He was seated on the floor between the couch and the crackling fire, leaning against the end of the couch, his shoulders at its arm as he read her notes. His right knee was drawn up, supporting his elbow, and his left foot rested very near the fire.
The room was lit with only one lamp, and for an instant she wondered if he needed more light to read by. Then she remembered that Vincent had spent a lifetime reading by candlelight.
She came to him, handing him a large mug. "Be careful, it's hot."
He moved the papers into his right hand and took the cup. "Thank you, Catherine."
He glanced into the mug, and she saw him react appreciatively to the swirl of whipped cream that floated at the brim. Earlier this fall she had discovered his taste for hot chocolate and whipped cream. Once she had made him cocoa without the topping, and she had sworn there had been a trace of disappointment in his eyes.
She settled on her knees on the couch behind him, facing his back, resting her elbows on the arm of the couch. She held her own mug between both her hands, only inches from his hair.
Again reading from her notebook, he silently sipped his chocolate.
Blowing softly to cool her drink, Catherine watched as her breath played across her cup and on into his still-damp hair. For an instant, she thought of getting him a towel, but she wasn't willing to disturb this cozy setting. Perhaps he would stay long enough to let his hair dry by the warmth of the fire.
At last he put down his cup and the notebook, and reached for a paper cylinder that rested on her coffee table. He began to unroll it, revealing a large commercial poster.
As he held the poster vertically, one hand at the top and the other at the bottom, Catherine looked over his shoulder. If he was comfortable talking about classes and lesson plans, that was what they would do.
"I bought this at the Metropolitan Museum of Art," she said. "It's a copy of a Tiffany window."
He responded softly, "This is beautiful, Catherine."
The poster was a large, full color replica of a stained glass window, depicting a placid pool, edged with brilliant yellow and purple flowers and trees. In the distance, purple mountains rose behind a blue and green waterfall, and the sky was streaked with the myriad colors of a sunset.
She nodded behind him. "This window is part of a collection at the museum. I love to stand and look at them...when I'm not getting lost in the Egyptian section."
Regretting that she couldn't see his eyes as he looked at the poster, she continued, "I was trying to come up with an idea for my class, when I remembered the window over your bed...it made me think of this poster. I thought it would be a good subject for a discussion...to give the children ideas for their creative writing."
She added as he peered at the picture, "Maybe you saw in my notes. I was trying to think of poetry that relates to this window. You know, like Wordsworth's...'I wandered lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils.' "Vincent nodded approvingly as he put down the poster and picked up her notebook. "You've listed Shelley's 'To a Skylark', 'Flower in the Crannied Wall'..."
"I thought we'd talk about these, then the children could suggest other poetry and stories. You and Father have taught them so much."
She paused, "Then we'd use ideas from this picture for our original creative writing. What do you think?"
Still reading through her notes, he replied softly, "It's a good idea. You should have very interesting results."
"I hope so. I wanted to ask you..." She paused, putting her mug down on the table. Returning to her knees on the couch, she reached over his right shoulder, "Here..." She leaned over him, her face
brushing the side of his head while she indicated a place in her notes. As she moved, his thick damp mane tickled her cheek, and she brought her left hand to gather the soft golden mass, tucking his hair back behind him.
Her action revealed his ear and the paleness of his neck. Catherine's gesture had been automatic, but as she again leaned forward, and her breath whispered past his ear, she felt a small tremor pass across Vincent's shoulders, and suddenly the gesture resonated with intimacy. The base of her throat came in contact with the coolness of his bare neck, his leather thong -- which supported her rose and its pouch -- making a soft imprint upon her flesh.
For a moment, Catherine froze, unable to remember why she had been reaching toward the notepad in Vincent's hand...wanting desperately to kiss that soft, white flesh below Vincent's ear.
But she cautioned herself. He had come, and she very much wanted him to stay, and she had no idea how wary he might be. Taking a deep breath, she vowed to follow his lead.
"I wanted to ask..." she murmured, finding speech strangely difficult, "...who wrote this." She pointed to a passage in the notebook. "I could remember just this phrase, and I can't remember
where it came from."
Vincent read softly, "...Like a dome of many-colored glass..."
"Do you know it?"
He nodded. "I believe it's Shelley...toward the end of 'Adonais'."
His voice was a near whisper. "Perhaps a little solemn for your purpose."
"Can you give me some better ideas?" Allowing a small space between his neck and hers, Catherine was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
His throat rumbled with a soft affirmative.
She sighed softly and pushed back from him. If she stayed there any longer...inhaling his fragrance, feeling the tickle of his hair against her cheek...
Sliding from the couch, she reached for a pencil on the coffee table and moved to the floor at Vincent's side. Purposefully avoiding a glance at his face, she sat beside him, reaching across his lap to make further notes in her notebook.
His left arm lifted to enclose her, and he rested his hand lightly on her arm as he suggested the title of an appropriate poem. He gave her a list of selections, waiting as she entered each item, explaining where she could find the resources and reference books Below.
When he had completed the list, she sighed, "Thank you. You've saved me a lot of time." She put her pencil inside the notebook and closed its cover, laying it on the floor. "I'm afraid I am finding I'm not nearly as well-read as I thought I was."
He was silent for a moment, then said gently, "Catherine, you have so much to give the children...You bring them joy and the courage to believe in themselves. If you had nothing more to give them, that would be enough."
She ducked her head, smiling, then finally she turned within his arms, facing his chest, lifting her face to look up into his.
His hair was still swept to one side where she had tucked it earlier, exposing his neck and ear.
He was watching her through heavy lidded eyes, and for a moment she felt a mild concern. She hadn't realized how tired he looked. Perhaps he'd been losing more sleep than she knew.
But then she shifted her gaze, finding to her delight that the whiskers on his upper lip bore traces of whipped cream.
He must have seen the amused reaction in her eyes, because he murmured, "You're smiling."
With a nod, she replied gently, "You have a mustache." He tilted his head in a way that Catherine found almost irresistible. Widening her smile, she explained, "Whipped cream." Lifting her fingers to his face, she touched his lip, lightly tracing the velvety whiskers, pausing at his cleft, wiping away the sweet creamy foam.
He had been looking down at her, but now his eyes lost their focus and finally closed, his chest rising sharply beneath her as he inhaled. Then slowly his breath was released in a sigh as she pulled her hand away.
When he looked at her again, she was licking the cream from her fingers, running her tongue over them and gently sucking the tips. Vincent's lips parted, and his breath was slightly labored.
Now he was truly irresistible. Catherine again put her fingers to his lips, feeling the softness, trailing a path across his mouth, coming to rest at his cheek. Then, tenderly, she slid her fingertips behind his ear, drawing him down as she lifted her face until her lips brushed his in the softest of kisses.
Still acutely aware of his vulnerability, she pulled away before he could react, lowering herself to rest again in his lap, cradled against his upraised knee.
With her hand still on his neck, she ran her tongue across her own lower lip, licking away the last of the cream as she whispered, "Your kiss is sweet."
His eyes followed her, silently adoring her.
Lifting her other hand, she caressed the bare side of his neck with her palm, sliding it behind his head. Splaying her fingers in his hair, she caught his golden mane, gently coaxing it back into place until it fell in a cascade over his shoulder.
Then she again leaned back against his leg.
Suddenly he whispered unexpectedly, "Catherine, earlier you said you'd been afraid I wasn't going to come." He looked into her eyes. "You must know by now that I could never stay away."
Somewhere within their bond, she thought she heard the tinkling melody of the music box she'd given him, and he must have heard it too, because he continued, "You are my sunlight...the colors in my life...like a dome of many-colored glass. You bring beauty and brilliance." He paused, taking her hand in his, "Without you, there would be nothing but darkness for me, and I would be like the yellow daffodils in the Tiffany glass which would wither and die without the sun."
She smiled through the single tear which slipped down her cheek.
Silently, he wiped the tear away and slid his hands behind her, pulling her tenderly against his chest as her arms encircled his waist.
And the tensions were gone. When he held her like this, when he surrounded her, holding the world away, she felt safe and warm, and her thoughts could go no further than the boundaries of his arms.
For long minutes he held her, with no sound in the room except the gentle crackling of the fire and the quiet drowsy rhythm of their shared breathing.
She had closed her eyes and was very still. At last, Vincent whispered, "Catherine, are you going to sleep?"
She murmured, "I might. I will if you will."
His huge hand massaged her gently between her shoulders as he whispered again. "I don't think that would be a good idea."
With a small sigh, she answered, "Then maybe you better talk to me."
"Talk." It was a gentle question.
She nodded, her hair shifting as she snuggled even closer against his chest. "A poem maybe...something that goes with the window."
He paused, searching his memory. Then quietly his voice began:"And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves.
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."Vincent's voice fell silent, and he looked down into the placid face which rested against his vest. Catherine's breath came evenly through slightly parted lips, her eyes still closed. He whispered, unwilling to disturb the peace in her face. "Catherine, are you still awake?"
"Mmmmm." She murmured, barely moving. "I was just thinking."
"Thinking." He echoed.
"When you said the words about the setting sun. I was remembering the most beautiful sunset I ever saw."
"Tell me." His voice was husky in the stillness.
She opened her eyes and moved slightly, bringing her arm from his waist, resting her hand against his chest where her fingers played with the thongs of his vest. With little more than a whisper she began. "It was summer vacation my sophomore year at Radcliffe, and I had convinced Dad to let me tour Europe with three of my girlfriends. I can remember Dad was skeptical that four girls could manage, but I convinced him we'd be fine. So we crammed into this little English car...with the steering wheel on the wrong side and all our junk
stuffed everywhere." She paused as the memory came into sharper focus. Vincent chuckled softly, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand with a reassuring ease. "We were driving along the road outside Paris, and it was getting close to supper time. We were hungry and were looking for some place to get a snack to hold us over until we could find our hostel in the center of Paris. I remember the trees that lined the streets and roads, and I recall thinking I should have been able to see the Eiffel Tower from miles and miles out of the city...that it would be so huge it could have reached up and touched the heavens. Yet, there we were, not even five miles away...and nothing.
"Then Jenny turned the car into another little street where we'd seen a sign for a place to eat, and there above the trees was the most fantastic sight..." she paused, "I thought I would never again see anything so beautiful."
A secret thrill ran through her as she peeked through her lashes and gazed upon the sight which had proven even more beautiful. Nothing could ever compare with the vision of Vincent's face, his blue eyes growing heavy as the soothing sounds of the warm fire blended with the gentle rhythm of her voice. She closed her eyes, returning her cheek to his chest.
"Peering above the branches was the top one-third of the Tower. I believe I might have been disappointed that it wasn't taller...but, Vincent, the huge red ball that flamed behind it took my breath away.
The setting sun silhouetted the Tower against the soft blue sky, and I made Jenny park the car by the side of the road while I stared and stared. I could smell the flowers from the open market, and somewhere a night bird was already starting to sing. The sun slipped lower, down the Tower and then began to disappear behind the trees. It was absolutely stunning. As it went down, it never seemed to diminish in size, it just sank, slowly, majestically, as if it had all the time in the world. I can still see it in my mind...that great red-orange ball, glowing warm and wonderful in the cool, blue sky. My words just can't begin to tell you what my eyes saw...or what I felt as I stared in awe at the magical sight."
Catherine stopped and looked up toward Vincent's face...to discover that his head was resting against the arm of her couch, his eyes closed. She lay quietly in his arms, not moving, for fear she would destroy the moment. His hand against her back relaxed, slipping suddenly downward, and the motion startled him back to wakefulness. With a small gasp, he opened his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Catherine."
She smiled. "Don't be. I love to watch you sleep."
His voice carried a slight lisp. "Your story was beautiful...I think, for a moment, I dreamed I was in Paris."
"Was I with you?"
He nodded, lifting his hand to push her hair back from her face. "Yes. You were standing on the sidewalk at the open market, holding a huge bouquet of yellow daffodils. And you gave one to me."
She nuzzled against him. "Next spring, on our anniversary, I'll bring you enough daffodils to fill up your whole chamber."
He smiled and shook his head. "I don't need flowers, Catherine...but I would like to have..." He glanced down at the poster which still lay spread upon the floor at his side.
She lifted her brows, waiting for him to continue. "...what?"
He took one hand from behind her back and ran his fingers slowly over the stained glass daffodils in the picture. "Sometime...the next time you are in the museum...I wonder if..."
He stopped, and she realized it was the very first time he had ever asked her for anything.
"I would love to bring you a poster, Vincent."
He smiled again, then shifted, straightening his body and flexing his shoulders.
"I think I've stayed long enough, Catherine. It's late."
She smiled reluctantly, taking satisfaction in the fact that he had stayed long enough to dry his hair. Leaving his lap, she pushed herself to her feet, watching as he rose.
He moved a bit more slowly than he should have and the sleepy look still haunted his eyes. "You look tired." She reached up to touch his face as she asked carefully, "Were you on my balcony again last night?"
His face lowered, his eyes not meeting hers.
"You are still dreaming of a fire."
His nod was unnecessary.
She shook her head. "Vincent, it's almost every night. You work all day in the flooded chambers and spend your nights watching over Father and me...I worry about you."
Taking her hands between his, he stated softly. "Don't. Father can tell you, I require very little sleep."
Still holding her hand, he took her with him to the dining area and gathered up his cloak. While she helped him settle the black fabric across his shoulders, he murmured, "I haven't told you...Father asked if you would allow extra time for him on Wednesday evening. He wants to record the children's rehearsal for their Winterfest performance, and he would appreciate a lesson on the operation of the tape machine you gave him."
She smiled. "Tell him I would love to."
Lifting his hood, she brought it up over his head, smoothing his hair.
Then again he caught her hands. For a long moment, he gazed down at her, then he slipped one hand behind her neck and bent, slowly bringing his lips to hers. He lingered in the kiss, as if reluctant for it to end...then he straightened and opened the doors to the balcony. Just before he stepped into the darkness, he turned and touched her face once more. "I love you, Catherine, and I will always come to you."
And before she could answer him, he was gone.