When the Phoenix Sings ~ 13

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          Catherine and Vincent shared several waltzes,  but during most  of the  evening she found herself moving with him through a gentle blur of introductions, casual conversations,  and a quiet game of checkers with Father.
          The old man reminded her of a king,  ensconced on his throne while his subjects came one after another to pay their  respectful  tributes. He seemed to be having a fine time,  but more than once she noticed his painful grimaces as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  he  became  steadily quieter.
          Always,  Vincent was at her side,  his hand gently  holding  hers. But he seemed unusually silent in the moments they spent apart from the crowd.
          She made a point of avoiding Royce Sanderson.  More than once, she had seen him watching her,  as if he were waiting for an opportunity to speak with her alone.  But  she  was  determined  not  to  allow  their awkward start to ruin the evening.
          Shortly before midnight,  Peter Alcott was waiting for Vincent and Catherine as  they  came  off  the  dance  floor.  He  appeared  to  be concerned,  and Vincent immediately threw a glance toward the cot where Father was resting with his eyes closed.
          "Vincent,  I  think  it's about time to announce that the party is over."
          "...Father?"
          Peter nodded. "He insists he wants to conduct the closing ceremony himself,  and I'm afraid he has overexerted himself.  He's experiencing some pain."
          Catherine asked quickly, "He's all right, isn't he?"
          The doctor lifted a reassuring hand.  "He's fine.  Or at least he will be as soon as he gets a good long rest."
          Vincent nodded.  "I will see to it." With a look at Catherine that seemed somehow regretful, he took her hand and guided her to the center of the room to make his announcement.
 

          The people had assembled into the circle which had served  as  the last  feature  of Winterfest since the beginning of the tunnel society.
     With Mary on one side of his cot,  and Catherine  and  Vincent  on  the other,  Father struggled to utter the  words  which  would  close  this celebration for another year.
          "As we part for another year let us  remember...darkness  is  only the  absence of light...and all..." he faltered,  "...all winters end."
          The  last words betrayed his failing strength and discomfort,  and as the crowd began to disperse,  Vincent moved quickly to his  Father's side.
          "Father, are you...?"
          The  old  man  waved  away  his  son's fears.  "For heaven's sake, Vincent.  You look as if you think...I am about to die."  He looked  up toward the doctor who stood nearby.  "Peter, tell him.  I'm tired...not terminal."
          Alcott nodded.  "He'll be all right, Vincent.  But I do think it's best to get him back up to his chamber as soon as possible."
          Vincent straightened,  looking around the Great Hall until he made eye contact the two young men who had helped  him  carry  Father's  cot earlier in the evening.
          As the two approached, Catherine clasped Father's hand. "It's been a  beautiful Winterfest,  Father.  You've made it a success for another year."
          He muttered tiredly.  "It has been rather  nice...hasn't  it."  He gave  her fingers a squeeze.  "But next year you must not be late...the party could not really begin until you arrived."
          She smiled at him and gave him a gentle hug. "Next year I'll be on time, I promise."
          Turning to Vincent, she touched his arm.  "If you can wait while I get my coat, I'll come with you."
          "It's not necessary,  Catherine.  I must come  back  to  help  put things away...and then I'll walk you home."
          Suddenly Jamie appeared.  She seemed quietly eager about something as she pulled Vincent and Catherine slightly to one side. "Catherine, I wish you'd stay...I have something I'd like to talk to you about."
          Catherine glanced from the young woman  to  Vincent.
          The slender girl continued, "I need your help with something." She added,  "Vincent,  you go on.  I'll take good care of her till you  get back."
          He tilted his head.  "You're very mysterious, Jamie."
          "I  just have something I want to talk to Catherine about.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to get her  away  from  you?  You  haven't moved three feet away from her for the past two hours."
          Vincent tilted his head,  giving her a curious half-smile.  "I had no idea that you thought I was monopolizing her."
          "Well,  you  know  now."  She  gave  him  a  small shove.  "Go on. Father's waiting for you."
          He turned to Catherine.  "I won't be gone long."   He embraced her briefly and moved away.
          As they watched him help two other men lift  Father's  cot,  Jamie pulled Catherine into a secluded corner.
          Noting the enthusiastic glow in Jamie's  eyes,  Catherine  smiled.
     "Vincent's right...you are being very mysterious."
          In a low voice that hinted of a conspiracy, Jamie stated, "We need your help."
          "What's  going on?"
          "An afterparty."
          Catherine grinned in surprise.  "An afterparty?  At  Winterfest?"
          "That's right."
          "And what do you have in mind for this party?"
          "Dancing."
          "Jamie, people have been dancing all evening."
          The girl made a face. "That was just waltzing with music from four violins and an accordion."  She  paused.  "I  mean  real dancing,  like Above."
          Catherine  looked around the hall.  "But what are you going to use for music?  Charlie and the violinists left twenty minutes ago."
          "We have it all planned -- you  know  the  tape  player  you  gave Father?"
          Catherine nodded.
          The girl lowered her voice even  further.  "Mouse brought it  down an hour ago...Michael borrowed some  tapes  from  his  friends  at  the university,  and  Sandra  brought  some music  for  slow dancing."  She paused,  "We thought we'd wait till it was just couples...and  let  the lights burn down real low.  Sandra said her tapes are really romantic."
          Catherine lifted her brow.  "Michael and Sandra...They were  in on this?"
          Jamie  nodded.  "Well,  Sandra  didn't  know until yesterday,  but several of us thought of it...right after you gave the tape  player  to Father.  We've been planning it for weeks."
          "But you didn't tell Father."  She knew the answer without asking.
          The girl grinned.  "Well, you know Father."
          "Yes."  Catherine smiled.  It wasn't hard to imagine his  reaction to the current style of slow dancing.  Things had come a long way since the fifties.  "It sounds like you have everything planned.  What do you need me for?"
          "We  need  you  to  talk  to  Vincent.  He  always  stays till the last...making sure everyone's gone and everything is closed up."
          "Do you think he might object to your plans?"
          Jamie gave a slow smile.  "He won't if you're here."
          Catherine  began a slow smile of her own as she thought of Vincent and a dark,  romantic afterparty.  Her pulse quickened, bringing a warm flush to her face.  She nodded.  "I'll talk to him."

                                   * * *

          "Catherine,  when  Father  finds  out  that  Mouse  took  his tape player..."
          She  looked  up into Vincent's eyes,  giving him her most innocent smile.  "He didn't take it...he just borrowed it."
      Vincent sighed.
          Catherine continued,  "Besides that, you said Father went to sleep as soon as he was in his own bed.  There's no reason why he should ever find out.  You and I can put it back in his chamber on our way up  when you take me home."
          He looked at her with his head tilted solemnly.
          "Vincent,  they  shouldn't  have  to  ask  Father's permission for everything...and they have asked you and me to stay."
          Jamie and Mouse stood a  few  feet  away,  watching.  Waiting  for Vincent's reaction.
          With a glance at them,  Vincent finally nodded  his  shaggy  head. "But, Jamie  and Mouse,"  he directed his voice to the couple,  "I hold the two of you responsible for this occasion."  As they broke into wide smiles,  he cautioned softly, "And next time, you ask permission before borrowing something which does not belong to you."
          Catherine noted with satisfaction that,  although Vincent had been unhappy about the "borrowing" of Father's tape player,  he had shown no aversion to the concept of a late party.
 

          The  sound  of "soft rock" filled the Great Hall while Vincent and Catherine  stood beneath the tapestries on the upper level.  All of the children and older helpers had left the celebration an  hour  ago,  and now  Michael  and several other young people with "top-side" experience demonstrated dance steps to those who lived Below.
          The music pulsated with a steady beat,  inspiring young dancers to explore  its  rhythms  as  they moved independently,  some even dancing without partners.  In the semidarkness,  the group of dancers  blended, losing their individuality, creating the impression of a large creature undulating across the stone floor.
          After a few minutes,  Vincent murmured softly  under  his  breath.
     "Catherine,  I  thought  Jamie  said this was to be a romantic time...I can't even be certain which young lady Michael is dancing with."
          With a laugh,  Catherine tucked her hand  firmly  under  Vincent's arm.  Watching  the  group  for  a  moment,  she smiled.  "It does seem strange, doesn't it?" Gazing across the Great Hall, she murmured, "This place is from another time."  She  watched  the  tapestries  above  the staircase,  and imagined they swayed slightly in the air which had been stirred  by  the  dancers.   "This  place  belongs  to   Tennyson   and Mozart...Lionel Richie and Cher are definitely out of place."
          As  if  on  cue,  the song on the tape ended,  and a new selection began to play.  This piece was slower,  a love song set to  a  gentler, more  sensuous  tempo.  Two  by  two,  couples paired off,  and someone snuffed out several candles,  sending the Great Hall a bit further into darkness.
          The  tapestries  no  longer swayed;  the shifting air had lost its urgency,  becoming suddenly still and strangely warm  with  the  tender message of the music.
          Vincent's eyes were intently following the dancers.  Then at last, he leaned his head closer to Catherine's.  "Is this the way it  is...at the parties you attend Above?"
          "Most of them." With a pause, she added, "You were there once...at Brigit's Halloween party."
          He nodded, "I was there, but the party is not the thing I remember about that night."
          She smiled,  moving nearer,  gazing up at him.  And then when  she looked into his eyes, she saw that same mystifying expression which had been there immediately after she had recognized Royce's portfolio.
          "Tell me..." she asked.  "What do you remember?"
          He lifted his free hand,  covering the fingers which clutched  his arm.  For a moment he was silent, but then his voice enveloped her like a gentle caress.  "I remember the lights,  and the warmth of the people who passed us as we walked through the streets.  I remember feeling the miracle of being an ordinary person, blending into the crowd, realizing that  the  only  reason  people stopped to stare at us...was because of your extraordinary beauty."  He closed his eyes as  Catherine slid both her arms around his waist,  pulling herself to him,  savoring the blend of his voice and the music.  "There was a time during that night when I was  certain  that  I was dreaming...that  the happiness  I was feeling
     could exist...for me...only in dreams." His hand came up and settled on her hair. "Then when the night was over and the dawn began to break, we sat hand-in-hand on the bench beside the river,  watching the sun  rise over  the  city...and  I remember the absolute astonishment I felt as I  saw for the first time the way your eyes sparkle with tiny green lights in the brilliance of the sun."  His  voice  continued  with  a  strange  raspiness, barely more than a whisper.  "And my joy was so intense that      I knew it could not be a dream,  because how can a man  dream  of  that which he cannot even imagine?"
          Catherine  held  her breath at his words...their unexpected beauty enhanced by the atmosphere of this miraculous place.  His fingers moved across her hair,  stroking it in a way that sent shivers down her neck. She pulled back, looking up at him, wanting very much to be kissed.
          "Vincent,...Catherine."
          At first she hadn't  even heard,  but finally  she became aware of voices at the base of the stairs, calling up to them.
          "Vincent."
          "What is it, Mouse?"
          "Come down...dance."   The blond boy was holding Jamie's hand  and grinning widely.  "No accordion.  Tape plays better than good."
          Catherine  turned in Vincent's embrace,  looking down at the young couple below them.  For a brief moment,  she was  disappointed  at  the interruption, but almost immediately she found that she highly approved of Mouse's suggestion.
          After a small hesitation,  Vincent nodded.  "Catherine.  Would you like to dance?"
          "I would like that very much."
          He took her hand,  and together they moved past the tapestries and down the stairs.
          Guiding her to a space slightly away from the others, he turned to      her  and  offered  his  left hand.  As she accepted it,  his other hand slipped to her waist,  resting there lightly  as  he  stepped  forward, leading her gently into the first movements of a waltz step.
          Catherine  smiled   silently.   Vincent   was   trained   in   the fundamentals of music...how could he not realize that this music wasn't a waltz?  Unwilling to point out his mistake,  she rested her left hand on his shoulder and stepped back,  trying to follow his  lead,  knowing that  this  popular  music  would  never adapt to the steps Vincent was trying to perform.  He led her into another  step,  and  found  himself uncharacteristically awkward.
          He stopped, frowning lightly, tilting his head.  Then he shook his  head once, as if clearing his thoughts, and  his  low voice came to her above the taped recording.  "Catherine,  the music..."  He seemed  at a loss for words.
          She nodded her head  in understanding and said softly, "It isn't a  waltz."
          "No."  He stood, holding her, as if uncertain what to do with her.
          Leaning closer to him,  she smiled.  "Don't try so hard,  Vincent. This  music isn't as structured as the waltz...It doesn't follow a pre- set pattern of steps,  You just let yourself feel the rhythms and  move with those feelings."
          His frown deepened.  "But how will you follow me?"
          Looking up into his face, she assured him,  "I'll follow."
          Lacking  confidence  in  her   assurance,   he   stepped   forward tentatively.  Catherine  felt  the  guiding pressure at her waist,  and  slipped  easily  into  his  lead.  For  a  few  moments,  she  felt his      uncertainty.  They moved at random across the floor,  neither  stepping on  the  other's feet,  but definitely lacking the fluid grace that was typical of Vincent.  She smiled,  knowing he was still trying much  too hard.  And then the tape ended.
          He  gave  a  sigh,  obviously  relieved  to  be done with this new experience.  "I'm sorry, Catherine."  Taking her hand, he began to lead her from the dance floor.
          Shaking her head, she resisted. "Wait, please.  Let's see what the next song is."
          He looked at her doubtfully.  "Catherine,  unless it's Strauss..."
          She shook her head again,  more firmly.  "Vincent, wait...please." She held his hand.  And then her wait was rewarded.  The  first  chords of  the  next  tape  wafted  across  the  hall,  heartbreaking in their plaintive sensuality...

                          Oh,  my love,  my darling,
               I've hungered for your touch a long, lonely time.

          With  a  tiny  gasp,  Catherine  recognized  the  melody  that had inspired her romantic fantasies throughout her young  years,  a  melody that  was no less inspirational now that her fantasies had a face.  She thanked the fates that had chosen this music for this moment,  and  she took  a deep breath,  her hand almost trembling as she pleaded with her eyes and whispered, "Dance with me, Vincent."
          The ardent sincerity in her plea made him powerless to resist.  As he stood holding her right hand, she slipped her left hand again to his shoulder,  and  she  felt  the gentle pressure of his right hand at her  waist.
          Suddenly something rippled through their bond...something warm and unidentifiable,  but it was definitely there -- and it took Catherine's breath  away.  The warmth centered in her chest,  pulsating beneath the weight of the crystal which hung there,  nestled between  her  breasts.  And  she  wondered if that same warmth surged through Vincent,  warming his blood as it did hers.
          His hand remained at her waist,  but the pressure that would  lead her into the dance didn't come.  Vincent stood,  his eyes centered upon her face, unfocused...as if looking at something beyond -- or within.
          Her hand on his shoulder moved, sliding beneath his hair, touching his neck,  and at her touch he blinked  and she  felt  a  small shudder pass across his shoulders.
          He lifted her right hand into the classic dance position,  and the pressure  came  then...a feather touch at her waist that pushed gently, leading her,  guiding her.  His leg came forward,  brushing against her skirt,  and  instantly  he  drew himself back from her...increasing the space between them,  holding himself at a distance  from  her  as  they moved across the floor.
          Vincent  had found the grace in the unstructured steps.  He guided her slowly, feeling the intensity of the haunting melody,  transforming that  intensity  into  motion,  until  she  felt  the music rather than heard it.  And through those feelings came the words again...

                         I've hungered for your touch
                            A long, lonely time.

          Did  the  words  come  from  the  tape?  Or were they part of this ripple in the bond?  And if they were part  of  the  bond,  were  their origins in her?  Or in Vincent?
          It  didn't  matter.  Their  bond  could  not  be  broken  into its separate parts...defined as "his" and "hers".  It existed as a singular entity...because she and Vincent were a singular entity.  Two parts  of  an existence, neither of which could continue without the other.
          Then suddenly Catherine could  no  longer  tolerate  the  distance between them...those inches which lay barren between his body and hers.
          She murmured softly, finding speech almost impossible.
          "Vincent."
          Her voice seemed to startle him, and when he answered, she had the impression  that  he had just returned to her,  from another place.  Or maybe from a place where they had been together.
          "Catherine?"
          She sought a deep breath, still struggling with words.  Taking her eyes  from  his  face,  she  whispered.  "Look  at  the other couples," indicating Sandra and Robert who were dancing several yards away.
          The  tiny blond had reached up around her husband's neck with both arms,  and both his arms encircled her waist,  holding her, pulling her snugly  against him.  A quick glance across the hall revealed that most of the couples were dancing in this same manner.
          "It's the way people dance  now,"  she  murmured,  "It  suits  the music." As she pulled her right hand from Vincent's, and laid it on his shoulder, she realized how very much it also suited her.
          His feet froze...motionless,  bringing them to an abrupt halt.  He stood,  holding his breath  at  the  sensation  of  her  hands  on  his shoulders.  One  of  his hands rested on her waist,  and the other hung extended in space,  without purpose now that it had been abandoned.  He stared first at her, and then glanced at the hand in question.
         Catherine smiled up sweetly, giving him time, willing him to accept the intimacy she was offering.
          Then,  slowly,  his left arm came to her.  Hesitantly,  he touched her waist,  settling his fingers there with a feather touch,  ready  to snatch them away at the slightest provocation.
          Holding  her  own  breath,  Catherine  took  the  tiniest of steps  backwards,  pulling him with her,  setting their feet into motion,  and  she sighed with relief when he followed.

                    Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea,
                        To the open arms of the sea.

          They danced, moving as one, holding each other...the space between them reduced to nothingness.  They danced, and Catherine felt his every breath, anticipated his every move -- no longer leading or being led -- Rather,  it  was  as  if  they  had become one being,  sharing the same      physical space just as they had always shared the same heart and soul.
          They  had  held each other before,  warm and close.  But never had there been a sensation like this...the movement,  the constant shifting through space and time and rhythms in a union so perfectly blended that Catherine  lost  the  definitions which separated Vincent from herself. There was no self...there was only the bond --  the  "Vincent-Catherine entity"  which  stood  alone  and  apart  from  all else...making words unnecessary, almost meaningless.  But still,  Catherine was a woman who
     was comfortable with words,  and they came to her now,  distilling this moment into its  purest  form.  She  slid  her  hands  along  Vincent's shoulders,  reaching  to entwine them around his neck,  pulling herself even more tightly against him,  and with her lips at the hollow of  his  throat, she whispered, "I love you."
          The  pressure  at her waist changed.  No longer was it the fragile caress of a tentative lover.  She felt his  fingers  slowly  move,  his thumbs encircling her,  while his long fingers slid around to  meet  at  her  spine.  And  there  they held her firmly,  almost massaging her as each step shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

               Lonely rivers sigh, "Wait for me, wait for me."
                        I'll be coming home, wait for me.

          His long nails traced the small of her back,  gently  leaving  hot trails  of sensuality...hinting at a possessiveness she had never known in him before.  The music swelled,  growing in tempo and  emotion,  and Vincent's breath accelerated with it.
          She  couldn't see his face,  but she knew without looking that the strange ripple in their bond had returned in its full force.  That look she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  when   they   had   stood   with   Royce  Sanderson...that indefinable light which had mystified her.  She had no idea  what  had brought that light to the surface.  Vincent hadn't seen the sketches,  and even if  he  had...there  was  nothing  to  tie  the drawings  to  her.  Even  when  he  had felt her emotions through their bond...he could have read her embarrassment, but he had never been able to read her mind.  He couldn't know the full truth.
          Catherine closed her eyes,  marveling at  the  changes  that  were coursing  through  him.  With each passing moment,  Vincent's inhibited shyness was slipping away, to be replaced by a boldness that caused her heart to race.

          Just at that instant, Catherine felt something foreign jar through Vincent...he  sucked  in  his  breath,  suddenly  rigid  with  tension. Catherine's  eyes  flew  open,  and  she saw Royce Sanderson,  standing behind Vincent --  choosing this moment to tap Vincent's shoulder in an attempt to cut in on their dance.
          "Mind if I cut in?"  The California smile was still there.
          Catherine  stared  at him in silence,  wondering if he had planned this incredibly bad timing.
          Vincent stood, motionless...his only response, a slight tightening of the pressure against her lower back as he held her in both his arms.
          Sanderson tapped again.
          Vincent curved his shoulders forward...as if  he  were  trying  to surround her, isolating her from everything but his presence.
          "Vincent?"  Royce persisted.
          Then  it began -- the low rumble deep within Vincent's chest...too quiet to be heard...but it was  there,  vibrating  against  Catherine's breast as she held herself tightly against him.  More than a growl,  it was a warning -- the warning which males had used to defend their mates since the beginning of time.
          "Royce."  Catherine caught the man's eyes with a tiny shake of her head.  Her  hands moved gently to rub the back of Vincent's neck.  When she had the artist's  full  attention,  she  whispered  firmly,  "Maybe later."
          The man stood a moment,  as if evaluating the situation.  And then he shrugged once,  watching them.  Finally his smile changed, no longer cocky...but warmer, as if he had just made a surprising discovery about an old friend.  Knowing Vincent couldn't see him,  he  gave  the  broad shoulder one more pat,  his fingers lingering just long enough to serve as an apology, and he moved away.
          Catherine felt Vincent's shoulders relax, and his breath whispered across her hair in a relieved release.
          For  a  few  seconds  it  had  seemed  the  music  had  ceased  to exist...but  now  she heard it again,  and she pulled Vincent back into the motion of the dance.  He followed,  and with each step she felt his tensions  subside  --  until  he  again  held  her  with  the  familiar tenderness which she had always known in his arms.

                 Time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much.
                               Are you still mine?

          Not until Vincent's breath had returned to  normal  did  Catherine allow  herself to think about what had just happened.  Never before had he claimed his right to  her.  Early  in  their  relationship,  he  had insisted that some day she must leave him and find another love  Above. And  more  recently  he  had persistently postponed their dream...never denying it totally,  but constantly pushing it into the distant future. But now...
          Even though the overpowering tension had been broken and his hands had moved up higher on her back,  he still held her firmly  within  his possessive  embrace.  And their bond rang with the words that Vincent's voice could not speak,  but which he could never again deny.  She  felt the  declaration  sing across their bond,  "This is mine.  This moment, this love, and this woman belong to me."

                      I need your love, I need your love,
                          God speed your love to me.

          She smiled,  basking in the knowledge that something  had  made  a difference  in  him.  Had  it been the music?  The dance?  Whatever the cause,  Vincent had claimed their dream --  even  if  only  for  a  few moments.  And  Catherine's  smile  widened  as  she  vowed to turn this moment into a lifetime.
          The song ended, and Catherine stood on tiptoe...and kissed him.

          During  the  songs  which  followed,  no  one  attempted  to  take Catherine from Vincent's arms again.  There were times when Vincent led her  from  the dance floor,  and they would stand,  holding each other, silently watching while the music created a  tender  spell  across  the Great Hall.
          When they danced,  Vincent enclosed her in his arms...holding  her close, sometimes pulling back far enough to gaze silently into her face with eyes that sparkled with unspoken thoughts.
          For a while,  she tried to read this new light in  his  eyes...but finally she chose to accept it joyfully...and to abandon herself to the pure pleasure of belonging to him.

          Time  had  little  meaning as the music continued.  The Great Hall seemed to be a place removed from  time,  and  Catherine  was  able  to imagine this evening would have no end.

          But the end came, too abruptly,  when a sentry came in through the huge doors, seeking Vincent, delivering a report from the pipes stating that  Father  had  awakened  in  pain...angry.   The  message   wasn't completely clear,  but apparently Father had noticed the absence of his tape player and was very unhappy that it was missing.
          Vincent threw a brief glance at Jamie and Mouse until he seemed to realize that he shared their guilt.
          Mouse had  seen  the  look  and  came  forward  slowly,  his  face distorted in a wince. "Party over?"
          Vincent nodded,  still holding  Catherine's  arm.  "The  music  is over."
          "Hoped Father sleep all night."
          Catherine  smiled.  Apparently,  Mouse  had  been  finding his own pleasures in the romantic evening.
          Unhappily,  Mouse  glanced at the machine which was still playing, even though all the dancers had come to a  halt  when  the  sentry  had entered with a blast of wind.
          The boy winced again, looking at Vincent.  "Who takes?"
          Jamie  came forward,  "I'll take it up to him,  Vincent.  This was mostly my idea."
          "No." Vincent paused. "If Father's upset, it's best that I go." He looked down apologetically at Catherine.  "He  exhausted  himself  this evening, Catherine.  If I don't..."
          "You  can  handle him  better than anyone else,"  she interrupted.
     "But you better hurry."  She tried to smile.  "He'll be  upset for  the rest of the night if he gets himself all worked up."
          Mouse brought the player and turned it  off,  eagerly  placing  it into Vincent's hands. "Better hurry."
          Vincent sighed.  The boy was moving much faster now  that  he  had escaped the prospect of facing Father's wrath.  Taking the machine from Mouse, Vincent returned his attention to Catherine.
          Seeing the hesitancy in his eyes, she hugged him lightly.  "You go on.  You can travel faster alone."  Glancing  around the  chamber,  she added, "Mouse is right...the party's over.  The rest of us can close up the hall.  You go, and I'll come up behind you."
          He tilted his head, frowning, unwilling to leave her...to have her travel up alone.
          Royce Sanderson stepped forward,  smiling gallantly.  "I'll escort Catherine up, Vincent."
          Vincent looked at the artist as if he weren't  certain  that  that would be an improvement.
          "It's all right, Vincent." Catherine smiled at him. "I'll be there as soon as I can.  Then if Father is all right, you can walk me home."
          Reluctantly, he nodded. "I'll try not to be long," and he followed the sentry through the great door.

          Catherine stood,  looking across the hall,  amazed at how  quickly the  party  had broken up.  The tunnel dwellers were gathering candles, games,  and other items that needed to be taken up,  while the  helpers from Above were pulling on their coats.
          She hesitated,  wondering how she could be the most  useful.  Then she felt Royce at her side.
          "Catherine,  I'm missing two of my watercolors.  If you'll help me find them I can pack my case and be right with you."
          She  sighed,  giving a longing glance at the door which had closed behind Vincent.  Well, she thought, the sooner things were packed,  the sooner she would be with him again.  Turning to Royce,  she asked,  "Do you know who had the paintings last?"
          Within  a  few  moments,  Catherine  had  located  the  watercolor pictures  in  a corner on a small table.  As she brought them to Royce, he looked up.
          "Thanks,  Catherine."  He  slipped  them  into  his large  leather carrier.
          She reached for her coat which lay on a nearby chair.  "You  don't have  to  walk up with me,  you know.  There are at least twenty people here all headed the same direction."
          He shook his head.  " 'Fraid  you're  stuck  with  me,  Cathy.   I promised  Vincent."  He paused,  "...And after those signals I got from him earlier this evening, I don't think I'd better take any chances."
          She gave him a level stare, trying to decide whether he was teasing her or not.
          He continued, "There, I think that's everything." He straightened, his  eyes searching the room for anything he'd forgotten.  After a long moment of silence,  a rather wicked gleam came into his  eyes.  Looking down  at  Catherine  with  feigned innocence,  he suddenly asked,  "So, Cathy.  Have you found out how he is between the sheets yet?"
          "What...?"  Catherine gasped in shocked surprise.
          He  went  on,  ignoring  her  reaction.   "You  and  Vincent  were transmitting vibes all over the hall."  He paused, "I just want to know how serious you are about him."
          "Royce," she shook her head, almost amused at the absurdity of his brashness. "I don't think that's any of your business."
          He  shrugged.  "You  may  be  right...but  I  like Vincent.  And I wonder  if  you  know how vulnerable he is.  I wouldn't want to see him get hurt." He suddenly grinned at himself.  "God, did I really just say that?  Every 'B movie' on the coast has that line in it somewhere." But then  he stopped smiling.  "I'm serious,  Cathy.  Vincent's special.  I can't help thinking a girl like you is out of his league."
          "You don't think I could make Vincent happy?"
          "On the contrary.  I saw him all  evening...he  looked  absolutely ecstatic.  I just want to make sure he stays that way."
          Catherine  smiled.  Well,  at  least she and Royce wanted the same thing.
          Royce continued,  "Vincent doesn't  exactly  fit  into  your  life style, you know."
          "And what do you think my life style is?"
          He shrugged.  "You grew up with  money,  power,  influence...maybe your  Dad  wasn't  listed with the Fortune Five Hundred,  but you could marry onto the list easily enough."
          "And you think I might leave Vincent for that?"
          "It entered my mind."
          He was brash and forward, and he reminded Catherine of Devin...and Joe.  "Tell  me,  Royce.  What  makes you think you know what kind of a person I am?"
           He shrugged again. "I really don't know...all I have to go on are memories of the way you were in college...and the fact that you lied to Vincent earlier this evening."
          She stopped smiling.
          After  he decided she wasn't going to respond,  he continued.  "Or are you still pretending you don't remember me?"
          Determined  not to let him win at this game,  she asked carefully. "What would there be to remember?"
          "Nineteen-seventy-six." He gazed into the space over her shoulder, slipping  back  in  time.  "My  two favorite classes were Ancient Greek Mythology and a study of the royal portraits by Velazquez and Van Dyck.  In 1976,  I wore black for six months  when  Moe  Howard  died  --  you      know...Curly, Moe, and Larry?"
          She rolled her eyes,  wavering between  amusement  and  annoyance. She  had never heard anyone include seventeenth century artists and the Three Stooges in the same paragraph.
          After  a pause,  he went on.  "You sat for the advanced life study class.  The  studio  heat was off a lot and you froze most of the time. I sat by the window and asked you to stay late so  I  could  draw  your face."  He paused. "Now do you remember me?"
          When she was still silent, he persisted,  "Earlier this evening, I  heard you shatter your punch glass when you saw me with  my  portfolio.  Is it safe to assume you never told Vincent about your modeling days?"
          "You make it sound like modeling is something to hide."
          "Not at all.  In fact,  I did a fair share of male modeling myself when  money was tight.  If I gave you a hard time,  it was just because you're the only model I know who's seeing Vincent."
          Suddenly she was tired of this verbal sparring. "If you knew who I was, why did you leave that portfolio where everyone here could see it? You knew it could be embarrassing."
          He shook his head. "Cathy, believe me.  I was just as surprised as  you were.  You would have been one of the  last  people  I  would  have expected  to  find  at  Winterfest."  He continued more gently,  "And I didn't recognize you until after you  grabbed  those  sketches  out  of Pascal's hands." He looked at her intently.  "You've changed, you know. When I knew you, you were too young to be really interesting...but even then,  I knew that you were going to grow into a  remarkably  beautiful
     woman.  There was something about your eyes..."
          She looked away from him, and he continued.  "You always seemed to be hunting for something...like something important  was  missing,  and you weren't even sure what  it  was."  He  smiled  slowly,  taking  the liberty  of  lifting  her  chin with one finger until she looked at him
     again.  After a pause, his smile broadened, "That's what the change is. Your eyes...that thing you were  hunting  for.  You've  found it."   He released her chin.  "What was it,  Cathy?"  After a pause,  she saw his eyes dance with a new realization as he  said,  "Vincent."  He  stepped back with satisfaction.  "It's Vincent, isn't it?"
          She found herself smiling again,  somehow glad that  her  feelings for Vincent were so transparent.
          Before she could answer, several people moved past them toward the large door, and the rear of the Great Hall fell into darkness.
          "Catherine,  Royce.  If you two hang around here, it's going to be in the dark."  Sandra was carrying a small tote  bag while  Robert  and several  other  men  carried  extra  chairs which belonged on the upper levels.
          Catherine looked around and found that while  she  and  Royce  had been  talking,  the  Great  Hall  had been put into order,  and all the supplies were packed.  Two men were already opening the  door,  holding it against the high winds in the outer passage.
          "We're coming." Royce answered Sandra and handed Catherine a small bag.  "Here.  This is something I brought for Vincent...  workbooks and color  charts...stuff  that he can use in that art class he's starting. Mind carrying it?"
          She took the bag and watched as he picked  up  his  large  leather case.  Hefting it by its brass handle,  he led her toward the door, and all conversation was lost in the howl of the wind.

          For several minutes the  group  trudged  up  the  stairs,  bracing themselves  against  the gale,  finally arriving at the small,  quieter tunnels  above  the  Chamber  of the Winds.  The way was illuminated by torches placed in the walls  at  regular  intervals,  making  the  path easier for those who traveled with their arms full.  The group  thinned out  along the narrow passages,  and Catherine soon found herself alone  with Royce.  They walked a little further  in  silence,  but  then  she  finally glanced up at him and spoke.
          "By the way,  I want you to know I don't make a habit of lying  to Vincent."
          The  artist  grinned  at her.  "You could have told him...he's not nearly as prudish as Father and the others would like to think."
          Stepping over a small outcropping in the rock floor,  she wondered at that statement for an instant,  and filed it  away  to  think  about later.  She  continued.  "Let's  just  say,  I'm  glad  he  didn't  see anything.  It's a little easier not having to explain."
          Royce gave her a questioning look.  "What do you mean,  he  didn't see anything?"
          "Well,  even if he saw those sketches,  they were just torsos.  If I'd been thinking,  I'd have realized that life  study  drawings  don't  include  facial  likenesses.  There was nothing to indicate that it was me."
          "Did you ask him?"
          "Ask him what?"
          "If he saw anything?"
          "No, of course not.  Why should I?"
          He shrugged.  "You might have found his answer very interesting."
          Catherine stopped.  "What are you talking about?"
          Pausing at Catherine's side,  Royce gave a small shrug.  "I  think there's  a  pretty  good chance he saw the semester project I submitted for my class final."
          "Royce."  Something in his  attitude  made  Catherine certain  she didn't  want  to  hear the  answer to the question she was about to ask. "Did that project have anything to do with me?"
           Royce  began  walking  again,  slowly,  without waiting to see if Catherine would follow. "Cathy, you're basically right about life study drawings...students are there to study form, not face."  His  back  was toward her, and she took several quick steps to catch up with him as he continued, "But I guess, even then, I was a budding portrait artist..." He paused, "and I really was inspired by that look in your eyes."
          For just a moment there was silence,  then  Catherine  drew  in  a quick  breath,  remembering all those times that Royce had stayed late, asking to draw her face.  "Inspired?"  She  grabbed  him  by  the  arm, pulling  him  around  to  face  her  under the light of a nearby torch. "Inspired to do what?  Royce, what did you do?"
          There was that irritating grin,  starting in his eyes and lighting his face.  "I made an 'A' on that class final, Cathy."  He set his case down on the uneven floor. "Want to see it?"
          Catherine felt her heart give a strange flip.  She was  afraid  to even guess what lay hidden in Royce's leather case.
          She  watched  numbly  as he bent to release the latch.  Sitting on his heels,  he sorted through the  contents  of  the  carrier,  digging toward the portfolio at the bottom,  and at last he grasped  a  mounted canvas, pulling it out into the dim light of the tunnel.
          He handed it to her, stepping back to watch her reaction.

 

          She froze in stunned silence,  staring in disbelief at the picture in her hands.
          It was a drawing worked in charcoal and pencils,  and although  it was in black and white,  the absence of color wasn't a factor...just as color isn't  missed  when  a  scene  is  viewed  by  moonlight...Or  by candlelight.
          The  subject  was  a  young  woman,  standing  alone  and  totally unadorned, her long hair flowing in waves which ended just short of her full  breasts.  Her  empty  right  hand  was  poised  as  if offering a gift...or  possibly  waiting to receive one.  Her other arm was lifted, her wrist pressing against the yielding mound of her left breast as her fingers traced the  erect  firmness  of  her  right  nipple.  Catherine recognized  the  pose  from  one  of  the  torso  sketches  in  Royce's portfolio.  But  that  is  where  the  comparison  ended.  This  was  a finished  piece -- every detail,  every subtle bit of shading carefully worked,  enhancing the erotic intimacy of the  sensuous  body  and  the pensive longing in the young face.
          The face.  Royce's talent had captured the mood and the  likeness, creating a work of unusual beauty,  and leaving no doubt that the woman in the picture was a younger version of Catherine Chandler.
          "Well?"  Royce's voice startled her.  "What do you think?"
          Catherine continued to stare at the  picture,  just  beginning  to comprehend  the  full implications.  She  finally  looked  up  at him.
     "Vincent saw this?"
          He nodded.  "I  think  so.  Everybody  was  watching  you  and  my portfolio at the time,  but I saw Vincent put this down on the table... and he sent me some very subtle signals that I was to  get  it  out  of sight."
          Catherine's mind suddenly swirled with a tangle of recent memories and  impressions:  her  first reaction when she had realized that Royce had  brought  his  pictures  to   Winterfest,   Sandra's   enthusiastic encouragement, the marvelous sensation she had experienced as Vincent's long nails had trailed hot paths across the small of her back,  the low growl which had swollen deep within Vincent's chest as  she  had  stood within the protective curve of his shoulders, the peculiar feeling that she  had dubbed "blush-smile",  and her suspicion that Vincent had been hiding a secret of his own.
          This,  then,  was the secret.  Vincent had seen this piece of  her past, and she couldn't even begin to guess what his reaction had been.
          Catherine slowly became aware that Royce was talking.  "...so, you still haven't told me what you think of the picture?"
          She pushed her thoughts aside, needing to sift through them alone, without  this  man  and his unsettling smile.  Her voice croaked as she asked,  "It was life study class.  What on earth possessed you to  turn this into a piece of erotica?  I never posed touching myself like that. God, it was Radcliffe College, Royce, not a Playboy centerfold."
          He peered over her shoulder at the picture.  "I did get  a  little creative with the pose...It wasn't hard. And it suited my purpose."
          She glared at him.  "And what exactly was your purpose?"
          As she asked the question, two young stragglers came up the tunnel from the direction of the Great Hall,  and Catherine pushed the drawing back into the portfolio.  Together, she and Royce watched the people go by, and then he returned the portfolio to the case and latched it.
          As he straightened,  he motioned her forward.  "I think we  better start moving again."
          She  glared  a  moment longer,  then started up the tunnel without him.
          In three strides, his long legs brought him to her side. "There is a story that goes with the picture, Cathy.  Want to hear it?"
          Still carrying the small case that was for Vincent, she shifted it to her other hand and walked a little faster.
          "That drawing was just a prototype,  Cathy.  The first draft of  a much bigger project that never was finished."
          "Really."  She  answered unenthusiastically.  She very much wanted to be alone to think.
          He nodded.  "You would have liked it.  If you  love  Vincent,  you have to be something of a romantic."
          "Royce,  I  was  posing  in  a freezing studio while young artists indulged themselves in creative erotic fantasies.  I don't see anything particularly romantic about that."
          He nodded.  "Right.  That's why you have to listen to my story."
          With a sigh, she slowed her pace, finally giving a half-nod.
          "Are you listening?" he asked.
          "I'm listening."
          With a deep breath,  he began.  "I told you my favorite class  was Greek Mythology."
          She nodded again.
          "I  loved  mythology.  The  bigger-than-life conflicts,  the power struggles, the love stories.  The love stories most of all." He paused, "I found all kinds of  inspiration  for  my  drawing.  Greek  gods  and goddesses have inspired artists for centuries."
          Catherine sighed impatiently, and he talked faster.  "I loved them all...Ulysses and Penelope, Pygmalion and Galatea, Paris and Helen.  My favorite was Persephone."
          With a start, Catherine glanced at him.
          Without noticing, he continued. "What do you know about Persephone and the King of the Underworld?"
          "Quite a bit, actually.  The subject came up recently in a class I was teaching the children."
          Royce  lifted  his  brow  and  nodded  appreciatively.  "You're  a teacher?"
          "I was filling in for Father."  With wry satisfaction,  she added, "In the world Above, I'm an Assistant District Attorney."
          He nodded again, obviously impressed. "You really did get that law degree..."
          Finally she prompted him.  "Why Persephone?"
          With a quick glance at her, he returned to his story. "I disagreed with the concept that Persephone was necessarily unhappy  about  moving in  with the King of the Underworld."
          Catherine felt the prickle of goose flesh across her neck.  He had just paraphrased Amanda's comments from a few days ago.  Was  some sort of remarkable coincidence at work in the tunnels?
          He continued,  "I grew up in a family of helpers,  and I suppose I was influenced by my exposure to the  tunnels  and  all  the  contented happiness  I always felt down here."  He paused and helped her across a small rift in the tunnel floor.  "Anyway,  I had the idea  of  doing  a portrait  of  Persephone  in  oils.  Something  that  would capture the feeling I have about the tunnels...a way that I could share the  beauty of the underworld without giving away its secrets."
          He continued, "But somehow I could never get the face right.  This was a lady about to be married, leaving her mother, marrying a powerful and  frightening man she hardly knew.  With everybody feeling sorry for her and expecting her to be miserable.  And I have the warped idea that
     she is enjoying herself." With a smile,  he looked at  Catherine,  "I'd been  working  on it for quite a while before you walked into that life study class.  And the minute I saw you, I knew I had found Persephone's eyes."
          Royce's  voice was more serious than it had been since she had met him.  "I wanted to do a picture of Persephone's wedding day...you know, early  in  the  day when her handmaidens were helping her dress..."  He stopped in thought.  "She had to be beautiful -- sad to be leaving  her mother  and  the  world  above,  but  I wanted her to have this look of expectant hope...an eager readiness to share the life and  bed  of  her new  husband in the world below.  And a sort of quiet courage,  because she knows he can  be  frightening...and  she  is  about  to  take  this tremendous leap of faith."
          Catherine whispered softly.  "Because she loves him."
          He nodded, continuing eagerly.  "Exactly.  I envision her waiting, draped in a revealing wedding garment,  wearing the jewels he has given her,  contemplating her wedding night,  and happily waiting for him  to come  and take her for his bride."  He paused at the sound of voices up ahead.  "The myth said she cried...I like my way better."
          Catherine smiled, deciding it might be easy to like this man.
          "So," he sighed. "I used you for my Persephone."
          "Did you ever do the oil painting?"
          He  shook  his  head.  "School kept me too busy,  and as soon as I graduated,  I  started  taking  commissions,  doing  shows,  trying  to establish a following.  One thing led to another...and then I painted a couple  of  West  Coast celebrities,  and I developed a reputation as a portrait painter who could make everybody  look  young  and  beautiful.
     Suddenly everyone in California was leaving messages on my machine.  So five years ago I moved west."
          "I'm sorry  you  never painted it."  Catherine smiled.  "I think I would have liked it."
          He nodded, "Yeah, I think you would have, too."
          Looking up, he motioned ahead. "I think someone's coming for you."
          There in the dark bend, Catherine saw the flash of golden hair and the broad shoulders that seemed to fill the entire tunnel.  Vincent was moving toward them,  his long strides rapidly covering the ground which separated them.
          Royce murmured,  "We're still a good distance from home.  He  must have run all the way." With a quick glance down at Catherine, he added, "Understandably."
          Giving Royce a quick smile, she moved forward.
          "Vincent."
          He was instantly at her side, his blue eyes lingering on her face, then  looking at Royce,  appraising the situation.  He seemed satisfied with what he found there.
          Catherine stepped nearer,  sliding her arm around his  waist.  She detected a  slight  laboring  in his breath.  Royce was right...he had been running.  Looking up at him,  she  asked,  "How's  Father?  Is  he still angry?"
          Vincent  shook  his  head.  "When  I  arrived,  Mary had given him something for the pain,..and he was too tired  to  be  angry.  He  fell asleep as soon as I began to play his favorite tape."
          He  looked  down  and  noticed  the small bag in Catherine's hand. Evidently recognizing it,  he took it from her,  then clasped her empty hand possessively in his.  He nodded at his friend. "Thank you, Royce."
          Catherine wondered whether he  was  thanking  Royce  for  the  art supplies  or  for  escorting  her  up from the Great Hall.  Either way, something in Vincent's voice sounded very much like a dismissal.
          Royce noticed it,  too.  He gave Vincent  a  smile  and  a  shrug. "Think  nothing of it." He paused,  "Did I hear voices up ahead a while ago?"
          Vincent nodded again.  "Michael and  several  of  the  others  are waiting  for you at the first junction which leads Above.  Michael said to tell you they're  going up to get something to eat at an  all  night cafe near the campus.  He said to ask if you wanted to go with them."
          "Sure."  Royce smiled.  "Sounds like fun."  He couldn't resist one last shot.  "How about you, Catherine?  Want to come along?"
          Her level stare was his only answer.  He gave her that tanned grin for a final time.  "No, I don't suppose you do."
          There was a brief pause.
          Vincent's  fingers  held Catherine's hand a bit more tightly as he broke the silence,  "Will Father and I see you again before  you  leave New York?"
          "I'll be in town for a couple of days.  Tell Father I'll  be  down to see him tomorrow or the next day."
          "Good."  Vincent nodded, "We'll look forward to it."
          Catherine extended her free hand to the artist, "It's good to meet you, Royce..." And then she added meaningfully, "...again."
          He almost laughed out loud.  "See you at Winterfest, next year?"
          "I'll be here."
          After a quick glance at Vincent,  Royce released Catherine's hand. "Stay warm,  Cathy."  He gave her a look which assured her that  he was referring to much more than the chill of the January air.
          "I  intend  to."
          As the artist walked away toward the upper tunnels, Catherine gave Vincent's hand an extra squeeze,  glad finally to be  alone  with  him.
          But  much  to Catherine's dismay,  Mouse and three adolescent boys chose that moment to appear from behind Vincent,  full of  chatter  and comments  about  the afterparty.  Mouse had been particularly impressed with the spontaneous secrecy of the event,  and was eager to talk about
     his  contribution to the evening.  Rarely had he been able to "take" an item as important as Father's tape player  without  being  reprimanded. And this time, Vincent had even covered for him.
          Vincent remained almost silent as the boys fell into step with him and Catherine.  Mouse and two of the boys were intent  on  teasing  the third boy for his romantic conquests on the dance floor,  and there was a  great  deal of laughter and scuffling.  For long minutes,  the group walked upward, passing the place where the helpers had gone Above,  and finally arriving at the fork which  led  toward  Catherine's  apartment threshold.  It  was  there  that  Vincent finally interrupted the boys' banter.
          "Mouse,  I am taking Catherine home."  He extended his  hand which carried the small case, "Would you take this with you, and put it in my chamber?"
          The  blond  boy's  face  erupted  in  a  grin  as he took the bag.
     "Taking Catherine home." He leaned toward one of the younger boys. "Saw Vincent  dance  with  Catherine.   Every  dance.   Nobody  dances  with Catherine but Vincent.  Vincent has a love."
          "Yeah,"  one  of  the  boys hooted.  "Like Willie and Annalee." He slapped the third boy on the back and took off up the tunnel.
          With that,  Willie gave chase,  and a moment later all four of the boys were gone.
          With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Catherine  turned into Vincent's arms.
     "Thank goodness.  I was afraid they were going to walk us all  the  way back to my basement."
          She'd  expected  him  to  reply,  but  he  remained silent,  as if somewhere far away in thought.
          As they turned toward the passage that led toward  her  apartment, Catherine took his arm, leaning against him lightly. "I had a wonderful time this evening."
          He nodded, still apparently withdrawn.  "Good."
          "I like your friends."
          He  silently  helped  her up a short incline,  ducking under a low place in the tunnel ceiling, and then taking her by the hand.
          She continued,  "Especially Robert and Sandra.  Did you  know  she once wanted to study law?"
          "Yes."
          Catherine had the strange feeling that she was trying too hard  to keep the conversation flowing.  "She  has  a  secret  that's  going  to complicate their lives, and she hasn't decided how to tell Robert."
          "A secret?"
          "Mmmm,"  Catherine nodded.  "She's pregnant."
          "I thought she might be."
          She looked at him in surprise. "How could you possibly know?"
          "She  spent  much  of the evening sitting down...letting Robert do things for her.  That isn't Sandra's normal behavior.  I was  concerned about  her  health.  When  I  pointed it out to Father,  he said she is 'glowing'."
          Catherine smiled.  "I never quite figured  out  what  that  means. Brides  and pregnant women are expected to 'glow'.  What about the poor women who don't develop the knack?"
          "I'm certain there are ways to compensate."
          She  nodded,  enjoying  the  feel  of his hand holding hers.  They walked a distance in silence.
          Finally she commented casually, "Royce Sanderson is an interesting person."
          Vincent answered evenly, "He's been blessed with a great talent."
          "He also has a rather wicked sense of humor."
          Another long pause.  Then he glanced at her and asked,  "I noticed how you said good-bye.  Did you decide that you had met him before?"
          She nodded.  "After we talked a while, I remembered him."
          Something flickered through Vincent's eyes.
          Catherine  continued,  "He  was  telling  me  about  a  project he conceived  while  he  was  in college...an oil painting that would have combined his talent for portraiture with his interest in mythology  and his love for the tunnels. It was an interesting concept...of Persephone on  her  wedding  day."  She added carefully,  "He had a portfolio with him...and a pencil prototype of the picture."
          "And the finished portrait?"  Vincent was staring  straight ahead, with a forced casualness.
          She  shook  her head.  "It was never even begun.  But he did bring the prototype."
          Watching him carefully for a response, she pressed. "Royce told me something..."  She hesitated,  "And I just wondered if he knew what  he was talking about."
          "What did Royce tell you?"
          Almost afraid to breathe,  she asked,  "Royce said he thought  you were the only one who saw the prototype."
          "I saw many of his pictures, Catherine."
          "But this one was different."
          Silence.
          She couldn't stand this uncertainty,  and she'd never been able to play word games with Vincent.  At last she took a deep breath. "He said he saw you lay it on the table."
          Suddenly,   Vincent  stopped  walking  and  turned  to  face  her. Strangely,  his  eyes were void of expression.  "Catherine,  what is it that you are trying to say?"
          She  hesitated,  "I  guess  I'm  asking if...I wonder if I need to explain..."
          "Catherine."  His  voice  was  also  without expression.  "If  you modeled for Royce Sanderson, no explanation is necessary."
          She gasped.  "Then you did see the picture."
          He replied softly, "A glimpse."
          She  lowered  her head,  allowing her hair to hide her face.  "I'm sorry if I..." Her voice failed her,  and then she muttered  under  her breath, "God, this is embarrassing."
          "Catherine,  you are a beautiful woman.  Beautiful women have been the subjects of fine art throughout the centuries.  You should  neither apologize nor be embarrassed."
          She  looked up to see if he truly meant those words.  "But you hid it when you found it."
          "It  seemed  the  discreet thing to do..."  He added,  "I was very aware of your reaction to the portfolio."
          "You saw those, too?"
          He didn't nod or speak, but she could read the answer in his eyes. She sighed,  taking the time to choose her  words, "Vincent, I'm  sorry this happened.  I was young when I posed for that class, and it sounded like  fun...if  I'd  ever  suspected that the pictures would show up to haunt me thirteen years later under these circumstances..."
          She paused at a new thought.  "Father didn't see the one with   my face, did he?"
          "No," he shook his head. "I'm certain he didn't."
          She sighed in relief.  "I really didn't want to  explain  this  to Father."
          Vincent  watched  her  carefully.  "Catherine,  are you ashamed of those pictures?"
          "No",  she answered quickly,  "I'm not  ashamed.  There's  nothing wrong with what I did."
          "Then why do  you persist  in  apologizing?"
          She looked at him in surprise, and Royce's words came back to her.
     He's not nearly as prudish as Father and others would like to think.
          She smiled weakly. "I want you to know that Royce embellished that pose,  the sensuality came from his fertile imagination.  I never posed with my hands in that..." She paused, seeking words. "...like that.  He was trying to capture a mood."
          Slowly,  Vincent turned and again began  walking.  His  eyes  were focused  on  the  far  bend  in  the  tunnel  as he asked,  "And did he accomplish what he set out to do?"
          She nodded, trying to keep up with his strides, which were somehow longer that usual.  "Yes,  I believe he did.  The picture was meant  to express the feelings that Persephone had on the day of her wedding."
          He  still  didn't  look  at her.  "But the face in the picture was filled with pleasure.  Persephone was stolen from her mother,  forcibly taken.  It was hardly a time for happiness."
          She shook her head. "You heard my class when we talked about that. I happen to agree with Amanda.  By some astonishing coincidence, Royce, Amanda, and I all think Persephone was more than willing to go."   Then silently she thought,  Or possibly it wasn't a coincidence at all.
          She continued, "Royce said that he thought the painting would be a way to capture the feelings he had about the tunnels.  He said  he  had wanted to share the beauty of the underworld without  giving  away  its secrets.  A smiling Persephone seemed the perfect answer.  He wanted to paint  her  as  a  bride,  coming  with eager willingness to her bridal chamber...to her husband's bed."  She paused, but he remained silent as they came to a small rise.
          He took his hand from hers,  freeing it to steady her elbow as she climbed.  They  had  been  touching  ever  since the boys had left them alone,  but after she reached the top of the  incline,  Vincent's  arms hung loosely at his sides, leaving her hand feeling abandoned.
          He   was  pulling  away  from  her...physically  and  emotionally. Suddenly his insistence that he  needed  no  explanation  or  apologies seemed  overshadowed  by  the cool distance that was developing between them.
          Seeking to defuse the moment, she murmured, "There is great beauty in your world, Vincent.  Places like the waterfalls and the Mirror Pool are  so  lovely  they  take  your breath away.  And the people who live Below are kind and supportive.  You open your hearts to each other  and take care of each other.  That is the greatest beauty of all."  After a moment, she added,  "It is a great privilege to live Below."
          If  her  words  had  an  effect  on him,  she couldn't tell by his manner.  He still walked with those long strides, and she found herself straining to keep up with him.  For long moments,  they  moved  through the tunnel,  in a tense, hurried silence.
          Catherine tested their bond, trying to understand him, but all she found there was a knot of rigid control which gave her no comfort.
          At  last  she  could  stand  it no longer.  She took a quick step, leaning forward, and snatched his huge hand in hers.
          "Vincent, stop."
          He  moved one more step,  then halted,  taking a deep breath,  and closing his eyes.  When he looked down at her,  she found a strangeness in his eyes that she couldn't define.
          Still holding his hand,  she stepped in front of him, blocking his way.  There was only one reason she could think of for this tension.
          "Vincent,  are you angry with Royce and me because I  modeled  for him?"
          "No."  He  seemed genuinely surprised by her question.  "Of course not.  Why would you ask such a question?"
          "It's just that you seemed so cool towards him a while ago..."
          She paused,  and he interrupted before she could continue.
          "If I was uncomfortable with Royce,  the problem is within me...it has nothing to do with Royce."
          She continued as if she hadn't heard, "...and for the past several minutes you haven't seemed very happy with me."  Then she realized what he  had  just said,  and she took a small step back,  tilting her head, looking up at him in wonder.
          "What  problem?"  Releasing his hand,  she ran  her fingers up his forearms and slid her hands between his arms and the silken softness of his shirt. There her hands rested, lightly holding him.
          With a great sigh,  he turned his head,  unable yet  to  meet  her gaze.  "Catherine...when  you speak of bridal chambers...when you speak of Persephone and tell me Royce was going to give her your face..."
          She lowered her voice, needing to reassure him, but still refusing to  hide the truth.  "I do feel a certain kinship with Persephone.  She and I have a great deal in common." When he still wouldn't look at her, she moved one of her hands up to touch his face.  Possibly it was  only by  exposing  the  whole  truth  as  she knew it,  that she could learn Vincent's truths.
          "Vincent,  you  and I both know we aren't talking about characters in an ancient myth.   We're talking about you and  me.  This  is  about our lives...our life, together."
          "Catherine, you don't understand."
          "Tell me, Vincent.  What is it that I don't understand?"
          He looked at her in silence,  then turned away,  placing his  left hand against an outcropping above his head,  leaning his weight against it with his back toward her.  After a long moment,  his voice came,  as if from very far away.  "When you speak  of  a  bridal  chamber..."  He stopped, lifting his face toward the ceiling.
          When his voice finally came again,  it was very quiet.  He  began, "I  should  never have allowed us to hold each other as we do...to kiss and embrace as we do." He paused, continuing in a whisper.  "Perhaps it would  be  best  if  we  stop.  Maybe if we didn't see each other for a while..."
          "No," she interrupted,  her voice rising as a plea as she moved in front of him again.  "I don't want that."  Her head spun with a feeling of deja vu.  She had said these same words to  him  once  before,  felt this same urgency before.
          "But  my  feelings  have  become  so  intense..."  His  breath was labored  as he lowered his arm and straightened.  "At times my feelings seem as if they belong to someone else...someone apart from who I am."
          "Tell me your feelings, Vincent."
          He stood silently,  his head slowly descending until his hair fell forward,  almost as a  protection  from  her  gaze.  "Catherine,  those feelings would frighten you...they frighten me."
          Raising her hand,  she lifted that golden  screen,  revealing  his face  and all the warring emotions she found there.  "Vincent.  We have come too far toward our dream to stop now.  If you have feelings  which stand  between us and that dream,  it's my right to know them.  You owe me that.  Tell me, so I can understand.  And then we'll be able to work through the fears together."
          He looked at her for a long time, and then finally closed his eyes and sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement.