KALIEDOSCOPE II Part 15

KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

PART 15

He said nothing, but she knew he was accepting her words, studying them to see if they could fit into the complex pattern of his thoughts and fears. Silently, she prayed she wasn't about to go too far, but his willingness to stay and fight this war of words gave her courage. It had been hard for him, she knew, to speak of his fears and what she was about to say would not be easy either, but there might not be a better opportunity to say it.
"I don't want to have any secrets from you or withhold . . . any part of myself.., from you. You know me so well -- what's in my heart and soul -- you have a right to know . . . to know the rest of me as well. "
She felt the protest rising in him before he even spoke. "Catherine, it is not a matter of 'rights'. Nothing gives me the right to."
"Yes, something does," she interrupted, afraid she'd phrased herself badly. 'I give you the right, Vincent. Freely, I want you to know me, to touch me, and I want so much to . . . to know you as well."
His response to her heartfelt statement churned through their bond, a chaotic mix of violent emotions, each trying to overcome the others. Fear and joy, denial and desire, hope and despair, an inherent pride and a long held mortification. She thought his auras around her had become as much a means of holding himself here, to resist fleeing a situation that unleashed such a volatile assault on his senses, as it was an embrace of affection. 'Catherine,' he said finally. "You don't know what you're saying. You cannot know."
The discomfort in talking about this subject was not entirely his. A shyness tinged her own feelings. She was aware of an involuntary flush accompanying her thoughts, the elusive images stirred by her own words, but it seemed important to drag this issue from the shadows, and she struggled to confront it in words that would create a minimum of embarrassment for them both. 'You're right. I don't know," she said, as matter of factly as possible, "but then, I don't know whether I . . . whether if you knew more about me... in that way · . . whether I would be pleasing to you."
His eyes met hers for the first time in this conversation with such an expression of incredulity that she had to smile. 'It's true, Vincent. There are still mysteries about me, just as there are things I don't know about you."
Actually, she wondered if that was true. Several times over the years, it had occurred to her to wonder just who had undressed her that night he found her in the park. She assumed it was Father. since it would have been his medical expertise at work, his impersonal examination of her battered body, but had he required assistance? If so, Mary would have been the logical choice. The alternative had always stirred such a disturbing blend of emotions that she'd quickly left off her speculation.
'Everyone who falls in love has to make discoveries about each other." It was a facile argument, and she knew it. Their case was hardly typical. If this was a courtroom, the opposing counsel would even now be thundering, 'Objection!". but his inexperience led him to suspect even the most normal aspects of their relationship. If she could only soothe his mind about those, it might be easier to deal with the extraordinary ones.
"Ce n'est pas exactement la meme chose." he murmured under his breath. A resort, unconscious she was sure, to yet another technique for distancing himself from a painful situation. How many must he have developed through the years, how many different ways to hold off the pain, the disillusionment that waited always to tear at his sensibilities? The thought twisted painfully in her stomach, and she grabbed his hand, kissing it with such fierceness that he blinked and looked at her.
"I know it's not the same, Vincent, but it doesn't matter."
"Catherine, your generosity -- the goodness in your heart -- they lead you to assume the best in everyone. That is a rare and beautiful quality. Sometimes it troubles me to see how brightly it burns within you despite the terrors and the ugliness you must face." She could tell by the workings of his mouth, by the way he seemed to be forcing his lips to form the words, that what he had to say was important to him and almost excruciatingly painful. "But that idealism can lead to disappointment -- or worse. What you could discover.., about me... could displease -- even repel you. I . . . I don't have the courage, Catherine, to watch the light in your eyes dimmed by disgust -- or pity, and I don't have the strength to survive being the cause of it."
The almost imperceptible shudder that accompanied this confession wrenched at her heart, setting off an overwhelming urge to ease his suffering with some instant and extreme response. Images invaded her mind with the shocking clarity of lightning: herself offered up to him, right now, the insubstantial barrier of the pale, silk dress discarded in the shadows; her hands reaching suddenly to find their way under his layered clothing, hungrily seeking the forbidden reality of his flesh; the freeing of all the passion their fathom less love demanded in an all-out assault on his senses that would short-circuit all the doubts and fears keeping him in check; the temptation to wantonly seduce him past all the boundaries, and in that final blinding light of consummation, to reveal the truth of his self-deceptions.
She quelled the urge, even as it shook her, realizing her silence, the tumult of her emotions must seem to him a confirmation that what he had said frightened her.
"What are you thinking?" Beneath the nobility of his tone, the courage that it took to ask the question, was a hint of fear for the answer.
"I was was thinking," she said calmly, still stroking the softness of his hand, "that what I accused you of before -- not allowing me to make my own decisions -- I'm guilty of that too. Just now, I wanted very badly to make a choice -- for you -- for both of us, but I know that isn't fair. You have a right to share in the decisions about what happens to us, and they aren't really valid choices if we don't make them together."
His eyes told her she had lost him with this train of thought, but lost too was his concentration on that inner vision that filled him with such despair. "What you said, Vincent, just simply isn't possible. I love you -- all of you. Whatever it is about you that you think I might find unacceptable is part of who you are. It's not something I could ever judge separately. I don't need to know what . . . what you're like . . . to know that whatever defines you is precious to me. I love who you really are, and that automatically includes what I don't know, as well as what I do."
His sigh was less an indication that he'd accepted this argument than a sign of exhaustion. She thought these difficult discussions, this unaccustomed voicing of his deepest fears, were far more draining to him than any physical exertion. "I wish I could convince you that there's no way you'll ever lose me."
"I wish I could convince myself that it isn't wrong to want to keep you." It was an unexpectedly direct statement, but spoken with a hint of gentle self mockery that took the edge off its starkness.
"It works both ways, you know," she said, tracing the shape of his long fingers with a soothing touch. "There have been so many times when I was afraid of losing you." She could sense his ready denial and hurried on before he could voice it. "But I think I know now when the danger of that was greatest. It was a long time ago, and you can correct me if I'm wrong. I don't think it was any of the times when you were hurt or in danger or even any of those moments when you tried to push me away. I think it was that first time you came to my balcony -- when you saw my face."
He'd been watching her with open curiosity, and now she caught the faint flutter of his lashes, the fine gold filaments reflecting the tunnel's dim light, as they lowered to prevent her reading his response. He said nothing, presumably intent on watching her fingers caressing his.
"Am I wrong?" she persisted gently. "You saw my face, and in that moment, I think you were almost lost to me forever."
"You are not wrong," he conceded carefully, 'in thinking that I could have turned from you then, that I almost took myself out of your life irrevocably in that instant, but you are wrong, Catherine, if you think I could have banished you from my heart."
"Why did it trouble you, Vincent? What was so terrible about seeing my face that it almost drove you away?"
"There was nothing terrible. I was merely stunned to see how completely the doctors had repaired what was done to you and how beautiful you really were. I rejoiced for you, Catherine -- within, believe me."
"You didn't say so, Vincent. In fact, it seemed to repel you and make you sorry you came. Why was that?"
"Because I knew then how foolish I had been to think I could help you. When you saw what had been done to you, Catherine, you were frightened, doubtful that you could cope with your changed appearance. I knew you could, and I knew something of that world you were so suddenly forced to enter, a world where those who don't know you can wound with their rejection, where those who love you can wound with their pity. I thought, perhaps I could be there for you, when those things thrust you into an aloneness you were unprepared to face. Seeing you that night, I knew there truly was no place for me in your life."
"But you said you could never forget me."
"I loved you," he said simply.
"Despite my scars or because of them?"
"Your beauty shone from within, Catherine. Even in those first terrible hours, through your fear and pain, there was a warmth, a light, an aliveness. I could feel your strength when you were weakest, your courage when you were most afraid. You captured my heart, Catherine. Your appearance had nothing to do with it."
"And that didn't change when you saw they'd fixed my face?"
"No."
"And if something happened to me now -- some terrible accident that changed me forever -- you'd still feel the same?"
'"Catherine!"" He sounded appalled, holding her away from him to look at her fully in the light, trying to understand what had led her in such a macabre direction.
"Then what makes you think," she said softly, "that anything about you could ever change the love I have for you?"
He looked at her a moment, then slowly shook his head. "Is this what you do in your courts, Catherine?"
"In a way. My own testimony didn't seem to carry much weight with the judge. I hope you'll forgive me, Vincent, for calling you as an expert witness." With relief she noted the glint of amusement in his eyes. It might have been unfair, maneuvering him into an indictment of his own theory, but all's fair in love and war, she told herself, and at least he was gracious in defeat.
"Catherine, I don't wish to pass judgment on you."
"You don't. It's yourself, Vincent, that you judge so harshly, and sometimes I can't bear it. I would hate anyone else who did that to you, so how can I stand by and let you condemn yourself?"
He tilted his head. The catlike slant of his eyes accentuated, ever startling in their fascinating blue clarity. "There is a fierceness in you, Catherine."
"Sometimes we have to be fierce to protect the things we care about. You can't possibly know how much I love you. Please don't doubt that love is strong enough to endure whatever problems may lie ahead." She looked at him pleadingly, offering the sincerity in her eyes as proof of the words, her mouth trembling slightly in anticipation, longing for him to confirm his belief in her -- in himself -- with a kiss.
She sensed a reluctance in him, even as his eyes were drawn to her mouth. It left him in a soft expulsion of breath that whispered across her lips just before he covered them with his. Instantly, the reason for his hesitancy was clear. All their conversation, all the reasoned examination of their situation might never have taken place. It was as though the heat of passion, that had tumbled them oblivious to the pillowed floor, had never dissipated, as if they had never carefully retreated from that point of mindless temptation. She sagged against him, under the intensity of his kiss, fingers curled in the pliant suede of his vest. A soft, ecstatic moan echoed off the curved walls -- whose it was, she would have been powerless to say, but it served as a subtle alarm, and they drew apart.
She blinked at him in astonishment. If they truly intended to take this journey slowly, it seemed impossible to resume it tonight. Some turn in the path had apparently led to a precipice at which a single step might result in a free fall, deliciously inviting and utterly irreversible.
He seemed to gather strength of will around him with the same grace he showed in donning his cloak, and he leaned his head back to look toward the grating above them. "The concert has ended.'
She followed his gaze, half expecting some errant notes to tumble still through the iron boned window to the world above, but there was no music, and no sounds of stragglers heading homeward. Only the faint shudder of wind rustled leaves and the distant hum of the city. "Do you suppose it's been over very long?"
"I think it has."
"It's funny. I was really enjoying the music, but I didn't even notice it was gone."
"No . . . Catherine, we should go as well."
"Do we have to?" To her own ears, it sounded like a child's question, but she felt like a child, innocent of all but unquestioning love, filled with a wonder she was helpless to name. "I don't have to go to work in the morning. It can't be all that late. Or do you need to get back?"
He had subtly drawn away, so that they didn't touch, but his eyes still bathed her in tenderness. "Catherine, what's happening to me --to us -- it has a terrible power, terrible and beautiful beyond words."
"You have a power too, Vincent. It's always been stronger than any you've had to face, no matter how terrible."
"What I've had to face is nothing like this. Violence, Catherine, cruelty -- I know those forces. I know their weapons. Such things flourish in darkness. It gives them their power. It gives power to me.' His voice had grown lower, even as she felt the pain rising in him with every word. "I know the limits of darkness, Catherine. I do not know this light. I long to understand it . I need to confront it . . . as a man. But tonight I can only be blinded by its brilliance."
"I understand," she said softly, suppressing a tearful outrage that circumstance had rendered so noble a soul more comfortable with pain and hatred than with love.
An image of him flared across her mind, stepping from the deep shadows of the tunnel world to look directly into the face of the noon sun. As that sudden glory would assault his eyes. accustomed only to soft shadows, so this leap of faith into the light of their love must sear his heart. How could she expect him to enter its flames unblinking? "I really do understand, Vincent."
"I know you do. Your patience is extraordinary. Perhaps . . . for a time.., it would be best that we not meet this way."
Panic leapt from the pit of her stomach. The sensation had almost been forgotten, and here it was again, sharp and horribly familiar.
He turned to her instantly, his hand of its own accord reaching for hers. "Catherine, you misunderstand. I meant only that for a while perhaps, we should share our time together with friends or seek out places not so easily claimed by that...other power. The fault is mine for bringing you here."
He scanned the cozy space about them, as if noting for the first time how plainly this territory belonged to their wily adversary. As a field of battle, the seductive weapons amassed here should have given ample warning that the advantage would scarcely fall to the forces of chastity: The dim light, the solitude, the scattered pillows, even the lovely music, now hushed.
Yes, she admitted, it could certainly be viewed as the tunnel version of a carefully crafted bachelor pad. The innocence, which caused him only now to recognize it as such, touched her. "I was afraid there for a minute that you thought we shouldn't see each other for a while."
"Catherine, that power you see in me . . . It is not as strong as you imagine. I could sooner stop the breath in my body than stop myself from seeing you."
The admission held only a hint of melancholy, but it drew her comforting touch, her hand briefly touching his stubbled cheek. Impulsively she kissed the corner of his mouth before settling back.
He took her comforting gestures in the spirit in which they were given, though she felt a reflexive shudder pass through him at her touch.
"I don't have to go back, then?" Impossible to keep a note of yearning out of her tone.
A wisp of a smile crossed his features. "I want you to stay."
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say that," she said with a laugh of relief. "But you're right, it would probably be better if we leave this place for now. What shall we do? Is there anything special going on in your world tonight?"
"Very special," he assured her, "but we must try to ignore it. When you were here last, Catherine, Father asked us to join him for tea. My response may have seemed rude."
"Not to me, it didn't," she smiled, surprised to know she was blushing.
"Still, it would please him, I know, if we were to pay him a visit."
"I'd like that. Do you think it's too late to bother him?
He stood then, towering over her, offering his hand to help her to her feet. "It's never too late, Catherine -- for anything."
He didn't relinquish her hand. and as they walked the twisted passageways, she welcomed the crosscurrents of emotions that vied for her attention. There was relief that they had weathered the pain of unresolved questions and returned to a feeling of warmth and closeness. Whatever problems might beset them, however tense their disagreements, she knew in the depths of her being that their love was stronger than any pain, any conflict. It would always rise easily, surrounding them in serene light, to hold them close. There was the thrill of his confession -- that he was incapable of staying away from her, the forbidden memory of their lovemaking, threatening to blot out every other image, but it seemed important to identify them all, and the one that seemed most provocative rose strangely from the way he held her hand.
It wasn't merely that, being their only point of contact, it became the focus of that new consciousness that never left her, an awareness of his body, the seemingly endless longing for his touch. In some way, difficult to define, he seemed not just to hold her hand, but to possess it and in so doing to claim the rest of her as well. She had felt the same sensation when he slipped his arm around her, sometimes merely in the way he looked at her, and his kiss -- better not even to think about that. The feeling was so strong, but its source eluded her. Did it spring from his intensity?. That quiet command he exuded always? Or was it because he had never loved like this before, that all his passion, all his power were concentrated in his single-minded focus on her with a strength of feeling that couldn't help but dominate the object of its inspiration?
She thought if she tried to put this into words, it would only disturb him, he, who believed so adamantly in serf determination, who stood ready to honor her independence at the expense of his own happiness, would no doubt balk at the idea of controlling her. She could almost see the self recrimination that would follow such a confession on her part, no matter how she tried to convince him that, far from offending her, it pleased her, thrilled her in some unfamiliar way that was in itself a mystery.
In fact, she wondered if she was wrong to think it emanated from him at all. Maybe, it was only that she longed so fervently to be possessed, and that was a source of amazement as well. It seemed so foreign to everything she'd ever believed or felt before, and she thought it could be worth analyzing some time when she could give the question the attention it required. For now, she could only revel in the feeling.
Father was nowhere to be seen when they entered the comfortable chaos of his study, but the room was wreathed in light. Lamps and candles still burned cheerily in every comer, so he hadn't retired for the night.
Vincent's attention was directed at the gallery with its crowded shelves. Before he could call out a greeting, Father emerged, carrying a stack of musty looking volumes that he placed at the head of the curved staircase.
"Ah, what a pleasant surprise," he called down as he saw them. "Come in, you two. I've been attempting to bring some sort of order to our library, a Stygian task, I'm afraid. Please, have a seat."
"We were hoping to accept your invitation for tea, if you're certain we're not disturbing you."
"Really, Vincent. You know I'm always happy to see you -- both of you." He waved them toward the desk, as he descended the stairs. "It's good to have you with us again, Catherine."
She returned his small smile and sat down. Vincent had released her hand, but instead of taking a chair, he chose to rest on the sturdy, carved arm of hers. She had wanted to come here, to share in this important part of his life, and in truth she enjoyed Father's company, but the shift in relationships that might appear subtle to some implied monumental changes to the three people in this room, and she dreaded the tension that might result. It was part of the reason, she knew, that Vincent had taken his proprietary position close to her, though surely he would have been more comfortable in a chair.
She stole a look at him, but as usual he seemed totally at ease, placidly watching the older man prepare the tea. Though outwardly he didn't acknowledge her glance, she could feel his reassurance settling protectively around her, as if he still held her close.
"I understand there was a concert tonight." Father set the earthen mugs in front of them and took his customary seat. "So, tell me -- did you find it enjoyable?"
"Very," she managed, thinking her own silence would only precipitate the awkwardness she so feared.
"It was an exceptionally moving performance," Vincent added in such an even tone that the gentle humor instantly communicated to her could only have come through their bond. He was binding her to him, easing her discomfort with the gentle touch of a secret they shared, and instinctively she acknowledged that touch.
"It's true," she said solemnly. "I can't remember ever experiencing such deep emotion at a concert before."
"Is that so?" Father's brow wrinkled with interest. "Well, it's been a very long time since I've taken the opportunity to hear what our friends above are playing. Perhaps, I'll join you for one of these performances."
"Well," she said slowly, "as a matter of fact, Vincent and I were just discussing the idea of sharing some of these evenings." The irony of this conversation was fast being replaced by a sense of dismay, as she pictured their special place invaded by a third person.
"That's very thoughtful of you, Catherine. The truth is what little time I have to enjoy the finer things, I prefer to spend in this world, to encourage the talents of our own people. I like to think that what we lack in sophistication is more than redeemed by a sense of freedom here, a purity of motivation. What is produced in our community -- artistically -- is done solely out of love, and I believe that gives those efforts a quality difficult to achieve among the values of your world."
"That's true." she admitted. "It seems like often really creative people have to fight to be heard. Society discourages that kind of vision, rather than supporting it, but you can't say that's the fault of our culture or our time. I think it's always been that way."
"Oh, absolutely." Father shifted comfortably in his chair, settling in for the kind of conversation he most enjoyed. "The moment society becomes civilized enough to have rules, a frame of reference, such individualistic tendencies naturally fall outside the boundaries. That's one of the reasons I've tried to keep our own community free of too many restraints, to encourage diversity. I'd like to think a Van Gogh, for instance, would have been spared much of his suffering in the sort of society we've fashioned here."
"But would his work still have had the same impact? Doesn't adversity bring out our strengths? If really creative people didn't have to rise above the conflicts, isn't there a chance their art might become -- I don't know -- bland?"
"Bland -- Van Gogh? I hardly think so. There is a genius inborn in certain individuals that circumstance cannot alter, but of course you're quite correct -- great men are often forced into positions of conflict, of isolation. Their very greatness sets them apart, and perhaps their gifts flourish unhindered by the norms of society." His eyes suddenly sought his son's. "Vincent, you're very silent this evening."
"Merely listening, Father, absorbing."
And, she thought as she sipped the fragrant tea, deliberately fostering an interchange between the two people he loved most. "So you think the tunnel world with its tolerance and peacefulness is just as likely to produce someone who can change the way we think about music or art as my world, where they might have to struggle to be heard?"
"Catherine, encouragement and respect can nurture greatness. just as adversity may. And, I must say, although your view of this community as peaceful is a flattering one, it is not entirely accurate. We have our disagreements, our conflicts, I assure you. That diversity, in which we take such pride can give rise to friction, but remember too, Catherine, that many of those who've found peace with themselves here below carry within them memories of a harsher reality, wounds that may find healing here but nevertheless leave scars. Which reminds me, Vincent, I've called a meeting of the council tomorrow after breakfast. I shall need you there."
Vincent nodded, leaning forward to place his cup on the desk. Despite his silence, she had been ever conscious of his nearness during the conversation, and now as the fringe of his vest touched her ann, it seemed to fairly scream at her. He met her eyes, and she felt in imminent danger of forgetting their host who was clearly enjoying this discussion. Simple courtesy dictated that she return her attention to Father; something infinitely more beguiling made it impossible to do so. Loud voices in the corridor outside broke the impasse.
"What's that?" she asked softly, still gazing up at Vincent.
"Diversity," he whispered. "Friction."
William stomped into the room, a roll of papers under one ample arm. He was followed by Pascal and the sound of skittering footsteps that preceded Mouse's graceless plunge through the entry. Of the three, only Pascal seemed to have retained any dignity. His companions were both puffing ominously, and all three were smeared with dirt.
"Dear God," Father intoned wearily, "what now?"
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Father. Hello, Catherine, Vincent," he acknowledged them with a curt nod, "but we've got a big problem here, and digging isn't going to solve it."
"Well, what is it. Let me see." Father produced his glasses with one hand, motioning William to lay out the drawings with the other.
"You know where we've been working? There's a terrible problem with settling. The whole floor's giving way there, and we finally figured out why. There's a whole section of drain underneath --a big one, maybe eight feet in diameter -- that's broken loose."
"Broken loose?" Father stood to peer at the spot occupied by William's stubby finger. "That section is quite old, most certainly made of brick and mortar. If it's badly eroded, it will simply collapse. Until that happens and we can fill in the hole, we can only cordon off the area above it."
"You don't understand," William growled. "It's old all right, but at some later date there was a shield put around it. That's what's loose now. It's floating around down there in that liquefied clay like a battering ram, and it could damage any one of those perfectly dry tunnels around it. Why some damn fool would lay that drain in a pocket of clay when there's plenty of good bedrock on either side is anybody's guess."
"Clay -- diggings easy. Rock -- diggings hard," Mouse offered, taking the statement as a literal invitation to a guessing game. His prize was a scowl from William.
"Is there no way to brace it -- perhaps come in from the bottom with rocks to wedge it against this outcropping here?" Father was studying the schematic intently, and Vincent rose to stand beside him, drawn to the puzzle that this faded piece of paper represented.
For a fleeting moment his movement away from her -- only a few feet -- might have been a journey across the earth. She felt so acutely in tune with his physical presence tonight, that even this small parting was disconcerting, but she immediately chided herself for the feeling. It was serious business they pondered. If she was helpless to contribute to the solution, she could at least forget her own suspect yearnings long enough to let him address the problem.
"There's no way," William insisted. "We've got no access down there. We can't get under it, and we can't pull it up to anchor it."
Father peered up over his glasses. "That explains our practical problem, but not why you three were quarreling amongst yourselves."
"We weren't quarreling exactly, Father," Pascal asserted loyally. "It's just that I thought Mouse should have a look at these drawings --in case he had any ideas, but William said it would be a waste of time. Mouse overheard us, and well, here we are."
"It would be a waste of time," the big man blustered. "This isn't the kind of situation that can be solved by some crazy machine or blasting holes in the bedrock."
"Mouse deserves the chance to form an opinion," Vincent said quietly.
"Yes, of course," Father agreed. "Come here, Mouse. This is what we're talking about -- this section right here."
The boy leaned over the desk, frowning at the spot indicated for a moment before straightening. "Needs water," he said.
William's broad face assumed a smile of grim satisfaction, as though the inanity of the statement proved his point.
"Mouse," Father said, unable to keep the exasperation from his tone, "I hardly think you've grasped the situation. It is an excess of water that's caused the problem."
"Needs more," Mouse said stubbornly. "Pump water in here --lots of water -- goes under here -- pipe floats to the top. Grab it. Fasten it."
In the silence that followed Father looked to Vincent, perhaps expecting a rebuttal to the suggestion that failed to come to his own mind, but he met only a look of blue tranquility, and he turned to William who frowned down at the drawing, as if its complex lines could deny the simplicity of the solution.
"Well," Father rolled the papers up again, handing them to the perplexed cook. "It appears Mouse has furnished us with a possible solution. It's most certainly worth a try, wouldn't you agree?"
"It's easy enough to try," William conceded. "We'll start first thing in the morning. Of course, there's no guarantee it will work."
"Few things in life are guaranteed," Vincent observed midly.
"Got a guarantee," Mouse remarked, as a point of interest. "Came in a box with a welding thing. Not sure what it's for, though."
"A guarantee," William said, placing a beefy arm about the boy's shoulder as they started toward the door, "is like a promise that something's going to work."
"Thank you, Father," Pascal called back, as he followed them out of the study.
"Now what on earth is he thanking me for?" Father said, sinking gratefully back into his seat.
"For bringing order out of chaos -- as always." his son assured him, returning to rest once again on the arm of her chair.
The older man removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. "For appearing to bring order out of chaos," he corrected, "which I suppose in my position is sufficient. Now I'm left to ponder the question of why one of Mouse's 'found' treasures should still be accompanied by a guarantee."
"That too is a privilege of your position."
Father greeted the comment with a wry smile. "I shouldn't be too complacent if I were you, Vincent. Someday all of these privileges will be yours. Catherine, I must apologize for not being a more attentive host."
"I don't mind. I'm intrigued by the way things work in your world -- and honored that you let me share them."
"You are more than a guest here, Catherine. I know that. But tell me, what's become of your investigation? Has there been any progress?"
"Oh, heavens, I haven't even told Vincent." How many hours had she spent this week thinking of nothing but the case, and now how many hours had it been since it had even crossed her mind? She wondered if her personality, too, wasn't dividing into two distinct parts. "Everything's changed," she began and proceeded to tell them about the week's events.
"Will this ransom be paid, Catherine?"
"No, not really, but we'll have to pretend to do it. It's our only chance of finding the thief."
"A half million dollars,' Father repeated incredulously. "How much is the painting worth?"
"The latest figure is sixty million dollars, but it probably wouldn't bring that much at auction. It's a publicity ploy. By announcing an exaggerated value, it limits the thief's ability to find a buyer, although now, of course, it doesn't appear he ever intended to sell it."
"The obsession with money in that world never ceases to amaze -- and disgust me. And, if it should result in the destruction of something irreplaceable -- well . . . Would you like some more tea?"
"No, thank you. It's late. I really should be getting back."
Vincent rose from the position he'd relinquished only briefly in their visit here. How it could have been comfortable she couldn't imagine, but then he seldom seemed uncomfortable, as if wherever he was accommodated itself to his satisfaction. "Good night, Father." He reached across the desk to briefly caress the older man's hair. "I will see you at the counsel meeting."
"Sleep well, Vincent, and you, Catherine. I hope we'll have the pleasure of your company again soon."
"I hope so too," she smiled gratefully. "Thank you for the tea, and I hope Mouse's plan works tomorrow."
"If it doesn't, I'm afraid, we'll have more than one large, unruly object with which to contend. Good night."
They left him, sitting back in his chair, looking tired but relaxed. A warm smile followed them across the room.
Outside Vincent paused to give her a knowing look and offered his hand. The physical touch they had denied themselves since entering Father's territory now surged like an electrical arc when a vital connection is made, vibrant and satisfying, as if some elusive law of physics were proving itself. She noted the little alcove wistfully as they passed.
"Father enjoyed your company tonight, Catherine."
"I hope so. I want him to see me as a person -- not just a symbol of everything he distrusts."
"You won his affection long ago, Catherine, and his respect. What he distrusts is the unknown, as we all do."
"Then the more we find out, the more we face those mysteries, Vincent, the less there'll be to fear."
He didn't answer, and she wasn't certain whether to take his silence as agreement or merely an unwillingness to raise such a thorny issue when they were so near to parting.
When they reached the entrance, she told him she'd promised to stick close to home in case the ransom demand came through.
"If such a demand is made, Catherine, will you join in the pursuit of this man?" In the shadows his eyes were hidden from her, but she felt the reluctant unease that prompted the question.
"No. I may need to go along for the drop. I don't know, but there's no reason for me to approach this person in any way."
"He has explosives."
"I know, but I'm not going to purposely put myself close to danger. I promise."
"I'm glad," he said simply, and she knew he hadn't seen past the fear for her safety that compromised his belief in the choice being hers. Haunted by a fear for her, he didn't guess that her motivation in this decision was a refusal to risk his becoming involved. The satisfaction of seeing the case to its close wasn't worth the possibility of his responding to her fear.
"It's been an extraordinary evening, Vincent."
"Yes."
She wasn't at all sure that he would kiss her good-bye. Their sensitivity to each other had become so intense that he might not want to fuel it, even in these parting moments. They were both exercising a commendable degree of restraint, proof that they had the wisdom and determination to keep the larger goal in mind, but here with the anonymous shadows of the park awaiting her, the uncertainty of when they might meet again, she knew that even the willing acceptance of restraint had limits.
She let her hands find their way around his neck -- intimately under the gleaming mantle of his hair. He said nothing, but the tremor that passed through his body as her fingers touched bare skin told her everything. "I'm not trying to make this more difficult," she whispered. "I just can't help it. Please, Vincent."
His small groan was lost in the kiss as he locked her to him. Lost too was the fact that she had instigated this, as his sensual conquest of her mouth reduced her to a single pulsing need to flow into him and reach some point of perfection that seemed tantalizingly near.
She quivered against him as he broke the contact, resting his forehead against hers. "Catherine, I cannot think."
"I know," she whispered, caressing his face with unsteady fingers. "I know, but it's all right, Vincent. Everything is all right."
They stood for long minutes that flew like seconds, their breaths against each other's faces slowing together into a manageable cadence.
"Go carefully, Catherine," he said finally.
She nodded, feeling fairly choked with the words of love that longed to smother him, but she said only, "You know, don't you, Vincent?"
"I know," he confirmed quietly, his voice a rough gentleness that echoed in her ears all the way home and was the last thing she heard before sailing off into a sleep of wild and elusive dreams.