KALEIDOSCOPE  III
 Cynthia Hatch

"It was a compliment," Jeff insisted somewhat plaintively. "Honest, Cathy. And would you tell this woman there's a law against using the American flag as a weapon?" 

"Well, I intended to carry a musket instead," Marie pointed out. "but I couldn't find one. Molly Pitcher was a more exalting character than Betsy Ross. She got out there and fought while Betsy just sat at home and sewed, but anyway, Cathy, there's bound to be plenty of eligible men there tonight. Jenny's invited lots of people and so has Michael. An unattached woman could have a pretty good time." 

"The operative word is unattached." Jeff reminded her. 

"Oh, I know. I got one of the last terrific guys to crawl through." Marie reached over to give his bewigged head a placating pat. 

Catherine smiled serenely, letting the banter flow over her, as the darkened landscape slipped by. The name Molly evoked the vision of a dark-haired little girl, bittersweet, of feelings almost maternal. A dream image, she was sure. Molly . . . Pitcher . . . the woman with a pitcher in a painting. Water. What did it all mean? What were her own subconscious thoughts trying to tell her? Did they mean anything at all? The elusive messages lost their attraction in the realities of this night. 

Every mile took her closer to the party, every passing moment meant one less until she'd see him again. The two of them walking the midnight city, unafraid, arm in arm. The familiar streets and landmarks taking on a whole new significance as he held her hand, looked into her eyes, as they shared whatever the night might bring together. 

The massive stretch of buildings, punctuated by lights and the occasional glow of a jack-o'-lantern, began to shrink and break up into uneven stretches, now softened by the black shapes of trees. Not long after leaving the expressway, the car turned into a long drive, and the sound of gravel crunching under the tires replaced the steady hum of the pavement, as they swung around a curve flanked by orange lanterns. The house itself was brightly lit at every window. The sounds of music and laughter reached out to greet them as they left the car and joined the other guests, some wrestling awkwardly with their unfamiliar attire as they climbed the wide front steps. 

"Here, Cath, let me help you with your hat," Marie offered, and she handed it to her gratefully, shaking out the wide skirts and petticoats that had never been designed for the back seat of a Japanese car. 

The night was unseasonably warm, and fortunately there was little wind to fight with the tall, conical hennin, as she and Marie fastened it into place. The veil that trailed from the very tip fell almost to her feet, light as gossamer. "Thanks, Marie." 

"All right." Jeff had slipped a pair of spectacles onto his nose. He grasped his kite in one hand, gallantly offering an arm to each of his companions. "The two most beautiful women in the colonies. Ben Franklin never had it so good." 

"That's not what I heard." Catherine laughed, and together they swept up the stairs and into the bright foyer. 

It opened onto several large rooms, all crowded with brightly costumed revelers. A valet materialized to take her burgundy cloak. Beside the entrance to the left hung a huge mirror in a gilded frame. For an instant the image it flung back at her looked like a painting, a detailed rendering of a woman in the court dress of centuries ago: velvet of dusty rose, the low, square-cut bodice encrusted with tiny jewels, the generous skirts falling from a girdle embroidered with golden thread that encircled the high waistline. The figure moved and a glimpse of sheer, decorative underskirts flitted across the glass, the long veil of palest pink whispering out behind her in the drafty hall. The only jewelry she wore winked like fire and ice at her bosom. 

She studied the image only a moment before self-consciousness overtook her, but she was pleased with the effect. For all the crowds of people gathered here, some of whom were already turning to admire the vision in the doorway, this costume had been chosen for one man and one man alone. Somehow she thought the idea of herself as a medieval princess would make him smile. 

She spotted Jenny, resplendent in scarlet and black lace, the high, jeweled comb that held her mantilla bobbing as she talked, and Catherine thought she had never seen her look more lovely. There were several people in the group, but the slim matador at her side, his cape thrown jauntily back across one shoulder, must surely be Michael Compton. 

Jenny with her wonderful, strange intuition glanced up as if she'd felt Catherine looking at her, and her face broke into a wide smile as she spoke quickly to the matador. The two of them came to meet her halfway across the polished floor. 

"Cathy, you look absolutely gorgeous," she greeted her. "Like something out of a painting." 

"So do you, Jen," Catherine laughed. The dramatic colors her friend wore perfectly set off her dark coloring but were probably not completely responsible for the sparkle in her eyes or the flush on her cheeks. "Or should I say, Senorita?" 

"Cathy, I'd like you to meet Michael Compton. Michael, this is my oldest and dearest friend, Cathy Chandler." 

"Hello, Michael, I'm really glad to meet you." He was very blond for a matador, his eyes light blue behind the offbeat touch of aviator glasses, his smile easy and warm. 

"Cathy, I can't tell you how happy I am that we finally got together. Jenny tells me I won't really know her until I've spent some time with you." 

"Well, I'm not sure what that means, unless she wants me to be the one to tell you all the terrible things we did together when we were younger." 

"You've got it all wrong, Cath," Jenny admonished. "You're supposed to tell him how you've known me for ages and I'm a terrific human being." 

"I've known her for ages, Michael," she responded solemnly, "And she's a terrific human being." 

"A sincere endorsement, like that--what can I say? I'm sold." Michael grinned, slipping his arm around Jenny's waist. 

"Jenny's told me a little about the journals. They sound absolutely fascinating." 

"Yes, it's a little humbling to realize how tough the people were in those days--tough and idealistic. But at the same time it's inspiring. I even suggested to Jenny here that we hitch up the buckboard and head for the Badlands." 

"And what did she say?" 

"Oh, she's a city girl--she turned me down." 

"Not exactly," Jenny amended. "I offered a compromise. I told him he could put the top down on his convertible and I'd be willing to go as far as Newark." 

"Is she a trouper, or what?" Michael said approvingly. "Can I get you both something to drink? Maybe we can find a relatively quiet spot to get acquainted." 

They placed their orders, and he headed for the bar, leaving them alone in the crowd. "So what do you think, Cath? Is he what you expected?" 

"I didn't know what to expect, Jen," she laughed. Her friend's enthusiasm was infectious. "But, yes, he's very attractive, and he certainly seems nice." 

"He doesn't look bad in those tight pants either." Jenny said wickedly. "Honestly, Cath, that really is an exquisite dress." 

"Thanks. I thought you might decide to get out the Medusa costume again." 

"Are you kidding? Can you imagine what a psychologist would make of his date wearing rubber snakes?" 

"I see your point." Catherine laughed. 

"You didn't bring anyone?" 

"No. . . I can't stay too awfully late. This is a beautiful house. The party already seems to be a success." 

"I know I'm having a great time," Jenny laughed. "Would you like me to introduce you to some---" 

"I really came to see you, Jen--and Michael, of course. Don't worry about me. I have every intention of enjoying myself tonight." 

When Michael returned, they sought out a sofa and spent the next half hour talking. Other guests drifted in and out of the conversation, and Catherine decided she liked Jenny's choice very much. He might have seemed an interesting man in any circumstances, but she found, when Jenny would leave them briefly to introduce some newcomer, that unconsciously his eyes kept returning to her across the room. It touched her--that telltale sign. She recognized the feelings that prompted it, the intense, secret pleasure just in looking at that special someone, the constant pull of that person's presence no matter how many others filled the room. 

For the first time tonight a wave of melancholy gripped her. The orchestra had embarked on a sweeping romantic tune. Did the couples dancing to it appreciate how very lucky they were? For a moment, she wished for nothing so much as to be away from the opulent surroundings and back in a stark, stone cavern, carving pumpkins among the sounds of childish chatter, basking in the glow of his nearness. 

"Cathy, I want you to have a turn with Madame Zola." 

"Who?"

"Madame Zola--the fortune teller. You'll find her in the garden room--first tent on the right." 

"I'm not big on that sort of thing, Jen. You know that." 

"She's really wonderful Cath," Jenny insisted. "Absolutely amazing. Wouldn't you like to know what the future has in store for you?" 

"I'd rather decide that myself." 

"But there could be other forces at work--powerful forces that can't be denied," Jenny enthused. 

"How do you feel about all this?" Catherine appealed to Michael. 

"Well, there's no doubt that you're being confronted by a powerful force, Cathy, it's been my experience that it's better not to deny her." 

"Okay," she laughed. "I guess it couldn't hurt. Wish me luck." 

"Oh, it will be good fortune," Jenny called gaily after her. "I'm pretty sure." 

It wasn't hard to find the garden room. Some of the French doors that made up one long wall had been opened to the unusually temperate night. The scent of water drifted in from the Sound, and a gentle breeze stirred the tiers of diaphanous cloth that formed a large enclosure in one corner. As she approached, a purple veil was pushed aside and a man in a gorilla suit emerged. At least she assumed it was a man. If Madame Zola was as amazing as Jenny said, he might be simply a customer who'd rubbed her the wrong way. 

Lifting the veil, she stepped inside where the gusts of air no longer stirred. The exterior of the tent was multi-colored, but here the surrounding cloth was all midnight blue, hung with tiny silver stars and moons. Only the woman sitting at its center interrupted the design. Her embroidered dress was vibrant with reds and yellows and greens, her hair, a dark auburn, tumbled around a plump face whose eyes were heavily kohled, the lips a bright scarlet. She wore countless bracelets and necklaces of gold and brass and vividly colored beads. Big, golden hoops swayed at her cars. 

It was only her highly trained sense of observation that saw behind the perfect image of a Gypsy to--she was almost certain--a half-remembered glimpse of one of the secretaries who worked at Jenny's office. 

"Come in. Don't be afraid." A hand rich with rings motioned her to take a seat on a low velvet stool near the table. "I am Madame Zola. I see all, know all. We will look into the crystal ball together and see many things." 

"Do I need to cross your palm with silver?" 

"No, no. It's included--part of the hospitality." The woman hunched over the gleaming glass ball in the center of the table, moving her bejeweled hands on either side of it with a coaxing motion. "Ah, yes. I see that you work in the city--a large building . . . lots of people working there . . .and papers--everywhere papers." 

Catherine nodded. So this was to be a generic fortune--one to suit almost anyone who might venture into Madame Zola's presence. 

"And the past. Yes, there in the crystal--a little girl . . . lots of happy times, lots of friends . . . but sorrow, yes definitely sorrow and tears too." 

"That's true," she said politely. 

"You went to school. Many years of school. Many adventures. What's this?" Carefully drawn eyebrows pulled inward as she squinted into the depths of the ball that seemed to Catherine only to make an intriguing jumble of the decor. All the little silver stars and moons turned topsy-turvy. It reminded her of something, but she couldn't recall what it might be. "I see a castle--very beautiful, very old. You are a prisoner in this castle." 

What now--past life experiences? Well, she couldn't fault the logic. A soothsayer would be on pretty safe ground describing visions of a past that her client couldn't possibly be expected to remember. Or had it merely been her costume that set Madame Zola's imagination soaring in that direction? If so, she wondered idly, what on earth had she told the gorilla? 

"Oh, yes. The sun is setting, but something draws you . . . tales of a horrible murder . . . on this date centuries ago. You long to stay and find out for yourself if the stories of hideous screams from the death chamber are true . . . and now it's too late. The doors are locked. There's no escape." 

Catherine gasped, her wandering attention suddenly focused on the woman's words. "Am I alone in this castle?" 

"No," came the hesitant reply. "There is someone else, but the face is hazy. I can't make it out. You are both frightened now, but still you can't help laughing, and every moment you wait to hear the shrieks, echoing down through the centuries, of the poor king being murdered." 

"Edward II," Catherine supplied. 

"Whoever." Madame Zola dismissed the trivial point with a wave of a plump hand. 

"September 21--Berkeley Castle." There was only one other person who knew about that incident--she of the "hazy" face. 

It had been the summer before their senior year, and they'd come upon the castle in the late afternoon when its stone walls glowed in the last rays of the sun. They had lingered behind on the last tour, daring each other, mildly startled when they realized that everyone else had really gone. The old shadows had settled in and with them the palpable sense of the drama that had played itself out here over six centuries ago. Every creak and tiny sound in the ancient house made them jump, until they'd both set to hammering on the huge oak door, alternately yelling for help and collapsing in hysterical giggles. Madame Zola seemed to have missed the slight detail that she'd almost wet her pants.

"That's truly amazing," Catherine complimented.

"What else? I'm an amazing person. Oh, but this is bad. This is very bad. The work you do--it brings you into much danger . . . ruthless people, and you are not always as careful as you should be. The crystal tells me you have been very lucky, but you should beware. You would be wise to avoid such situations in the future. A nice desk job maybe. Mark my words," Madame Zola said ominously.

"Oh, I will. I'll be very careful." Yes, this fortune was definitely an Aronson production. 

"So enough of that already." The Gypsy smiled, and Catherine suspected it was an impression much more common to her, that she was relieved to have performed a rather onerous duty. "Now, let's see what the future holds. Ooh--this is nice." 

"What is?" Catherine asked amiably, staring into the pretty ball. 

"I see a stranger--a man. Very handsome. Tall and dark with eyes--"

As black as coal tar, she finished inwardly. 

" . . . that pierce straight to the soul." 

Well, two out of three's not bad, she thought. Even a fraudulent psychic was bound to hit the bulls-eye once in a while. 

"Romance." Madame Zola continued. "Such a good-looking man and nice, very nice. I see a wedding--lots of people, flowers like you wouldn't believe, and children." 

"At the wedding?" 

"No, no--this is later. They're your children--two . . . maybe three." She peered up, as if to gauge Catherine's projected cutoff point for offspring. 

"That's lovely," she smiled. "Tell me more." 

"They're good children, bright, very well-behaved. A handsome little boy and a beautiful little girl." 

"What's the other one?" 

"The other one?" 

"You said three children." 

"Oh, . . yes . . . that's hard to tell." 

"Really? Oh, the poor little thing." 

"I meant the crystal." Madame Zola shot her a reproving look. "The crystal isn't clear on whether that one's a boy or a girl." 

"I see. What about the office and all the papers--is that still there, or have I left it behind to stay with the children?" 

Once again she'd thrown a challenge to the Gypsy's powers, and brown eyes studied her swiftly, trying to determine which way the wind might blow on an issue for which she clearly hadn't been coached. "It's a little cloudy. Could be this is a choice the fates want you to decide for yourself. But you're comfortable, you know what I'm saying? He's a good provider--a house in the country, an apartment in town--maybe a nice cruise now and then. The details--who can tell? But no money worries." 

Chalk up another one for the Gypsy, Catherine thought, finding she was enjoying herself very much. "And will we be happy?" 

"What's not to be happy? The crystal is very clear. I see a long and happy life. You're crazy about this guy, and he treats you like a princess. You're one of the lucky ones." 

"One of the lucky ones," Catherine repeated softly with a smile. "Thank you, Madame Zola. I appreciate your . . . sharing your amazing powers with me." 

"So, what good are powers, if they can't bring a smile?" Madame Zola favored her with one of her own, as Catherine rose to leave. "And by the way, that's a drop-dead gorgeous thing you're wearing." 

"What . . . the gown?" 

"No--that necklace, the crystal. It's a very nice piece." 

"Yes . . . thank you." Despite all the jewelry that dripped from Madame Zola's ample figure, she was shrewd enough to recognize in the simple pendant something extraordinary, and Catherine thought, as she lifted the purple veil and moved out into the hubbub of the party, she might indeed have hidden perceptions.

She went in search of Jenny--to thank her. The session with Madame Zola was obviously meant as a loving gift, a light-hearted reminder that Jenny, who felt her own most romantic dreams coming true, wished the same for her best friend. She knew that impulse--being in love and wishing that everyone could share the feelings that suddenly made the world a wondrous place and all the people in it secretly good and kind if only they could find the love that would inspire them toward their better selves. 

She did, in fact, know many of the people at this party, though their costumes sometimes made identification an amusing proposition. She stopped to talk with several guests, refused invitations to dance from others with the excuse that she had to find the hostess. She'd always enjoyed dancing, but the thought of it, even as a casual diversion, had no appeal. Instead, she hugged an image in her heart--the image of the two of them waltzing in the Great Hall and the kiss that had followed. 

No, of course, that had been months before their first kiss. Sometimes fantasies . . . dreams could seem so real, but then the reality of him was so much the stuff that dreams were made on. Love blurred the boundaries between fantasy and reality, blending them together in a magical way that made every touch an emotion, every glance from those heavenly blue eyes a physical caress. Impatiently, she looked at the great rococo clock on the wall. Still two hours at least before she could make an exit, two hours till she would be free to gaze into those eyes. 

Two hours less than there had been, she reminded herself sternly, as Jenny rushed toward her. 

"Well, how was it?" 

"It was great, Jen," she grinned, giving her friend an affectionate hug. "You were right, she's absolutely amazing." 

"And I understand she takes terrific shorthand." 

"Michael, please," Jenny said with a blush. "This is Halloween--nothing is what it seems." 

"Sorry," he grinned. "Cathy, if Jenny doesn't mind, I'd like to ask you to dance." 

Catherine suspected that, far from minding, this too had been Jenny's idea. Or maybe Michael was just sensitive to her dateless status. It was funny to think that to them she must seem somewhat of a wallflower. They were going out of their way to alleviate her supposed loneliness, when she had never felt less alone, more thoroughly loved, more delighted with her status in life, but she loved them for caring and couldn't think of a graceful way to refuse the dance. 

"I'd like that, Michael." 

They moved out into the center of the large reception room. The musicians, who alone of all the men in the room wore tuxedos, were really quite good. Nevertheless, as they began to dance, she felt the dreaded wave of longing, the bite of injustice. It should be someone else whose arms encircled her, someone who could make everything else in the room disappear. 

"Is anything wrong?" 

"No, Michael. I'm sorry, I'm just a little out of practice." 

"It's not that. Your dancing's fine. You just looked a little sad for a minute." She didn't deny it, didn't explain, and after a pause, he spoke with a touch of uncertainty. "Cathy, I hope you don't think that what's happened between me and Jenny has all been too fast--that I've somehow been unfair, monopolizing so much of her time." 

"What?" she said, surprised. "No, Michael, that's not it at all. I'm thrilled that you two seem so happy together. I don't think you can put a timetable on these things. It's nobody's business but yours and Jen's." 

"Well, sometimes it surprises me," he said with an abashed smile that was somehow endearing. "I've never met anyone that I felt this way about before. There's a feeling like there couldn't possibly be enough time to say and do all the things I'd like to with her." 

"I think I understand." Catherine returned his smile. 

"I just wanted you to know that my intentions are honorable--whatever in the hell that means." 

"You certainly don't need my approval. Neither does Jen." 

"You'd be surprised how important your opinion is to her--or maybe you wouldn't be, I don't know." 

"Are you telling me that the only reason you asked me to dance was to win my approval?" she teased. 

"Definitely not." he returned in an injured tone. "However, if you'd like something to eat . . . or a contribution to your favorite charity . . . or maybe half my stock portfolio, I'm prepared to meet your terms." 

Her laugh pealed out, joining the last notes of the song as it ended. "Believe me, Michael. I know Jen. I could march right back there and announce that I've just recognized you from the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference." 

"That's even better," he grinned. "I get off cheap." 

"Your portfolio's perfectly safe," she assured him as Jenny approached.

"Stocks? You were talking about stocks?" Jenny exclaimed. "Honestly, am I the only person with an ounce of romance in their soul?" 

"Au contraire, Senorita," Michael replied with a flourish of his cape. "May I have the honor of this dance?" 

"Well, the language's a little garbled, but I like the idea." Jenny smiled at Catherine and turned back into Michael's arms. 

Catherine watched them whirl off across the floor, feeling their happiness waft over her. It was ridiculous to feel so cheated when the clock was ticking away--slowly, but it was ticking, and then all the reminders of other people's romances, other people's right to dance in each other arms would fade away in the brilliant light that waited somewhere in the city streets. 

The faint touch of the breeze drew her with its promise of solitude, a moment away from the raucous voices, the happy couples, the sweet sound of the music that made her feel his absence so acutely. She considered retrieving her cloak, but it seemed the cold night wind was yet to blow, and the heavy velvet dress should be warm enough for a short walk. 

At the doors she discovered that others had taken advantage of the gentle weather. The music carried easily on the humid breeze, and several couples were dancing on the lantern-lit terrace. She ventured past them to find that there were actually several levels, each only a few steps below the last. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw that the last of them curved off to the right, ending just above the water's edge. Ahead she could just make out the meticulous shapes of a formal garden, but there were no lights here, and inbred caution told her to go no farther. 

Besides it was lovely on the lowest tier. A harvest moon played full and bright on the water. Far away the lights blinked, tantalizing reminders that for her the night had not yet truly begun. How beautiful it was--the combination of limpid music and soft night air, and how impossible it was not to feel the gnawing sense of incompleteness. Would there ever be a time when she wouldn't miss him as sharply as if they were never to meet again? It was as if all the seeming perfection of the moment emphasized its fatal flaw. She closed her eyes, drawing in the night air, willing him to feel the pleasure of it. 

"Catherine."

She turned slowly, half believing the sound was only in her mind. Before her at the base of the steps a great stone urn loomed on its pedestal. As she watched in stunned fascination its shadow split, and a figure stepped toward her, moonlight picking out a fringe of gold beneath the black hood. 

"Vincent!"

"I'm sorry if I startled you." 

"Startled? No . . . how did you . . . why are you . . .?" 

"I felt a need in you, Catherine--a longing." 

"For what?" she breathed, unable to supply any but the most basic reactions to his words. 

"For a dance." 

"To dance . . . with you," she nodded slowly, in a trance she noted the cool, blue sparkle of his eyes, the fall of white linen ruffles that peeked through the familiar cloak. The garment seemed extraordinarily dramatic in this romantic setting. He himself seemed larger than life, but then didn't he always? There was no doubt that the vision regarding her patiently was more than an apparition of All Hallows' Eve. It was the real thing. 

He offered his arm, and she took it, floating like a sleepwalker up the gentle steps, her eyes never leaving his face. When they reached the upper terrace, he stood gazing down at her. "You look like a princess from a fairy tale--too beautiful for the real world." 

"Did you ever dream of holding a fairy-tale princess in your arms?" 

"Yes ... but I never could have dreamed this feeling." 

The statement rang with emotion, yet he appeared quietly self-assured. They might have been deep in the benign anonymity of the tunnels rather than standing here in full view of the other people on the terrace, of anyone who happened to look out the numerous windows. His attention was concentrated solely on her for reasons that spoke clearly in his eyes, in the soft curves of his mouth. He spared no uneasy glance for the alien environment, preferring, she recognized with a certainty that was as humbling as it was affecting, to dedicate these stolen moments only to her. 

Disbelief gave way to a soaring sense of delight, and she smiled, reaching up to slide the hood from his hair, baring it to the autumn moon and the exhilarating freedom of the night. The first sweet strains of a violin began to play and without another word he took her in his arms, his easy grace flowing through her slight frame as if they danced as one, effortlessly. 

Michael had said she was a good dancer. She had found him easy to follow as well, but if what they'd been doing was dancing, then there had to be some other word for this. There was no sense of being led. His touch, warm and light, spoke only of his love. She felt borne along on the crest of the feelings between them, the magical connection that gleamed in his eyes and fluttered with soft, insistent wings in her own heart. 

The other couples on the terrace were near the house, leaving the wide expanse of flagstones under the paper lanterns only to them, and as the waltz tempo increased, they swept in wider and wider circles, her long skirts swaying gracefully with the music. Was it the pleasure tilting the marvelous blue eyes that drew her smile or her own happiness finding its home in him? Whatever its origins, the sheer elation careening through their bond bubbled up inside her, and it was a moment before she realized that the soft, trilling sound among the flutes and strings was her own laugh of pure joy. 

He answered it with a rare, unself-conscious smile, his teeth gleaming white and beautiful, and as the music slowed, finally coming to a stop, her dismay that it must end at all shattered as he pulled her close and kissed her mouth. 

"I should go now," he murmured, drawing away. "I'll see you soon--after midnight."

"Where, Vincent? Where should I meet you?" Hands reluctant to let him go fingered the creamy ruffles at his throat. "What would you like to see in the city?" 

"Whatever you want to see, Catherine. When I'm with you everything is beautiful. Everything is worth seeing." 

"I don't want to go all the way back to my apartment. How about . . . how about Grand Central Station?" 

"I'll be there," he said, shrugging his cloak in place about his shoulders. "Thank you for the dance, Catherine." A swift bow over her outstretched hand, the tingle of a kiss across her fingers, and he had turned, striding away as if he owned the earth, his cloak swaying gently with each step. 

She watched as he disappeared into the cloistered shadows of the formal garden, her heart thumping so wildly that she thought its movements must be visible in the revealing gown. A glance downward showed only the smooth rise of her breasts, the crystal winking with bright fire. 

Half giddy and inordinately satisfied, she directed her steps back to the house, taking a deep breath to adjust to this different dimension, feeling as if she'd stepped out of another world. 

The din of music and conversations closed around her again, and she was immediately waylaid by a group of attorneys, all of whom she knew, and she joined them, pretending to have no other identity than what they expected, no more pressing interest than the shoptalk that inevitably followed. She sampled the food, indulged in a second glass of wine, and turned down several requests to dance with a cheerfulness that she hoped wasn't interpreted as callous. 

Spotting Michael Compton deep in conversation with Napoleon, she smiled, and he beckoned for her to join them. "Cathy, I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine--Jim Grafton. Jim this is Cathy Chandler. She's Jenny's oldest friend." 

"Dr. Grafton?" she exclaimed as he held out his hand. "I don't know if you remember--" 

"Of course, I remember, Cathy. How are you doing?" 

"Well, that depends," she laughed, momentarily flustered. "Is that a social question or professional curiosity?" 

"Obviously, you're already acquainted," Michael said diplomatically. "If you'll excuse me I'll let you two catch up." 

"A little of both," Dr. Grafton admitted when they were alone. "You certainly look well." 

"I'm doing very well, as a matter of fact," she assured him. 

"Does that mean you found a way to integrate the conflicting commitments in your life?" 

"Good heavens, you actually remember what we talked about? It must be . . . more than a year and a half ago by now." 

"You'd be surprised how many unanswered questions there are for someone in my profession. People come into our lives, share their innermost thoughts and problems, and then more often than not they move on. We never know how life worked out for them, but we're just as curious as anyone else--more so." 

"Well, to answer your question, I'd have to say that I learned what was most important to me and to let the other things sort of take care of themselves. I'm still working on the integration part." 

"That's good," he smiled. "Have you known Michael very long?" 

"No, as a matter of fact I just met him for the first time tonight, but Jenny's told me a lot about him." 

"He's a good man. It's nice to see him loosening up and having some fun." 

"Michael?" she said, surprised. "He struck me as pretty easy-going. He's got a great sense of humor." 

"I know. You have to understand that most of my dealings with him have been professional. He's very serious about his work." 

"I can relate to that," she nodded. "A while ago a couple of the other attorneys were talking about how tough I am. They were perfectly serious, and I suppose they were right when it comes to my job, but in my private life I don't always feel very tough. I guess you know that as well as anyone." she added with a laugh. 

"We're all a lot of different people, Cathy," he said, inviting her to sit down, while he pulled up another chair beside hers. "The problem comes when those different aspects of our personalities are in conflict or when one becomes so dominant that the others are at risk. It's all about balance." 

She nodded. "Yes, I see what you mean, Dr. Grafton--" 

"Jim--please."

"All right. Jim . . . do you ever deal with dreams in therapy?" 

"Sure. They're a viable tool. Sometimes dreams can tell us what's really bothering a patient before he realizes it himself. Why do you ask?" 

"Oh, I was just curious. Every now and then something will happen, and I have a sense . . . almost of déjà vu. I know it hasn't really happened before, but it feels familiar somehow, and I wonder if it might be something I've dreamed." 

"It's quite possible." He removed his tricornered hat, letting it dangle between his fingers. "There may be issues you've dealt with subconsciously that feel familiar when you're actually confronted with them in real life. Basically, that's a healthier way to look at it than the reverse. Some people dream about something significant to them. It piques their interest, leading them to explore the issue in reality, and then they swear they're psychic. They're convinced that their dreams told them what was going to happen, when it's much more likely that the dreams stimulated them in a direction that made it possible." 

She could appreciate what he was saying, but it couldn't explain away every instance of premonition. It couldn't account for Jenny. She wondered if Michael knew yet about those dreams. No doubt they would be irresistible raw material to anyone interested in studying the human mind. "I had a very vivid dream a couple of months ago. I say 'vivid', because that's the way it felt, but I actually remember very little of it. I've wondered about what some of the symbolism might mean." 

"If it was symbolic at all," Dr. Grafton cautioned her with a smile. "As Papa Freud reminded us, ‘sometimes a cigar is just a cigar'."  She laughed, remembering her unfortunate conversation with Father concerning boxes. "I have this image of being on a staircase--made of stone. It's a real one. It really exists, and I've been there, but nothing specific occurred there that would make me feel such a violent emotional reaction to it. Yet that's what I do feel." 

"What kind of emotion?" 

"Every kind. Shock, confusion, a little sadness and an incredible sense of joy. I know those things seem mutually exclusive, but that's the feeling it gives me. I can't help wondering if I didn't dream something that would justify it, but I don't know." 

"If you never had a strong emotional experience in the place you describe, then it could be symbolic. Stairs and steps usually represent the sexual act--the building in stages to a peak, the dropping off. It's a staple of dream imagery." 

"All I can picture is being in the middle." 

"Well, that could say a lot, too," he smiled sympathetically, and she thought it was easier discussing these things with a therapist--even one dressed like Napoleon--than it had been with Father. 

"There was one thing that kept cropping up--in different forms--throughout this dream. There were so many references to water." 

"Well, I'd have to know more of the context to give you any personal interpretation" he said, running a hand over his wavy hair. "In its most basic form water can represent movement or feeling and sensuality--particularly in women's dreams." 

She nodded, thoughtfully. "And beyond the basic?" 

"As an archetypal symbol water is the life--giving source. When it continually appears in different dream scenarios, it may mean that the dreamer is on the verge of a rebirth. Maybe subconsciously he's ready to purify his life, redefine his values in some radical way. It can be a very positive image."

"Rebirth," she repeated softly. Yes, the concept felt comfortable, as if somewhere beneath the surface, she'd been preparing along those lines for some time. The temptation to examine the feeling, to understand what it meant was beguiling. 

"Excuse me, but can I get you two another drink?" 

Michael's approach broke her reverie, and she looked up, remembering her manners. "No . . . thanks. You know, I just realized what I've been doing," she said, turning to Dr. Grafton. "I've been pumping you for free professional advice, and I really should know better. I apologize." 

"You'll be sorry," Michael interjected. "Just wait till he gets a traffic ticket." 

"You don't have to worry about that," he assured her with a smile. "Cathy was merely thoughtful enough to turn the conversation to a subject that interests me. I enjoyed it." 

"Well, thank you, Jim," Catherine laughed, "for making my rudeness sound like a social grace. It was good to see you again, but I think it's time I located my ride back to the city." 

"Stay happy, Cathy," he smiled, as she got up to go. 

"Is that the kind of shrewd professional advice you give all your patients?" Michael asked skeptically. 

"Hey, it works for me," Catherine assured him. "Have you seen Jeff or Marie?" 

"By the door," he pointed. "It was really a pleasure meeting you, Cathy. I hope I'll be seeing you again before too long." 

"I'm sure you will be. I'll look forward to it, Michael. Good-night." 

Jeff signaled for her to take her time as she hurried to say good-bye to Jenny. 

"Cathy, who was that you were dancing with?" she greeted her. 

"Dancing with . . . when?" 

"A while ago--out on the terrace. The big guy with the great hair. A bunch of us were watching--you danced so beautifully together. Where did he go?" 

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you, Jen," she answered. "I'm sorry, but I really have to leave. I've had a marvelous time, and I'm so glad I got to meet Michael." 

"So am I, but it's not even midnight. Are you worried about your coach turning into a pumpkin?" 

"Hardly--I don't think there's a pumpkin left in the entire state, but I really do need to get back." 

"Well, if you insist--but the night is still young." 

"I know," Catherine said with a smile that came straight from her heart. "That's what I'm counting on." 

*****

"It's gotten a lot colder." Marie remarked as the car pulled away from the house. "I think it might rain." 

"Well, that's good, it's been a dry summer. We could use it." 

"But not on the drive home--not till after your plane takes off tomorrow." Please, not tonight, Catherine agreed inwardly. The possibility of rain hadn't crossed her mind, but it was true that the wind off the water had been cooler they waited for the attendant to bring the car. Through the window she could see wisps of clouds sliding across the moon's round face. Not tonight--of all nights of the year. 

"I must be getting old," Marie yawned. "I'm really beat. How about you, Cathy?" 

Catherine murmured something she hoped would be interpreted as assent. In fact, she'd never felt more alert, more brimming with eager energy, but she wasn't particularly anxious to carry on a running conversation. She was enjoying the heady balance of remembering the magical dance, hugging it to herself with a secret smile, and luxuriating in the anticipation that set her nerves tingling.

This time they were not only coming closer together by the minute, but by the mile. Was he already there--in the city waiting for her? The details of how he managed to travel so far so fast were not something she cared to dwell on, knowing the inherent dangers that accompanied them. 

There was another secret to enjoy as well. Jenny had seen him. Jenny had seen them dancing together. Someday she hoped it could be more, but for now it was enough to know what Jenny didn't--that she had unwittingly witnessed the proof of dreams come true. All Jen's wishes that she too might find someone to love had long been granted, and tonight they had whirled and glided under the autumn moon in front of her very eyes. Someday perhaps Catherine would remind her of the scene, remind her and tell her what it meant. 

Jeff reacted to her request to be dropped at the station with surprise. "What on earth for, Cathy? You're not going somewhere tonight?" 

"I'm meeting a contact--to pick up some important papers. I'll grab a cab afterwards." It wasn't often that an outright lie was necessary, but she couldn't chance the curiosity a less direct excuse might arouse. 

"You sure you don't want us to wait?" 

"I'll be fine. It was great seeing you both again, and I really appreciate the ride." She slipped out of the back seat, fastening the tall hat in place once again, and walked with determined steps toward the glass doors. As the car pulled away, she paused, and before she could decide which way to go, he was standing in front of her, hood thrown back, not looking the least like someone who had recently undergone a harrowing journey. 

"It will be hours until dawn, Catherine. There's still no trace of rain, and by the grace of some powerful sorcery--" 

"One side, buddy. You're blocking the door." A stout man, clutching a briefcase, cut cleanly between them to push his way into the terminal, puffing down the concourse without a backward look. 

". . . I've become invisible," he finished, amused. 

"Not to me, you haven't." She bathed him in an unabashed look of approval, savoring the rare chance to enjoy every detail of his face, illuminated in stark electric light. Without the shadows cast by moonlight, the softening effect of candle glow, it remained so breathtakingly beautiful that her heart fairly ached in trying to comprehend it. 

"Ah, but you're different, Catherine. A princess may be granted special powers by her fairy godmother." 

"The same one who allowed me to dance with my prince at the ball and keep my fine clothes after midnight?" 

"Perhaps your beauty touched her heart. She couldn't bear to see you reduced to wearing rags." 

People were still milling around them, in and out of the bank of doors, but they'd moved too closed together now for anyone to pass between them. "I never thought the tragedy of Cinderella lay in her return to being poor. It was sad because she seemed to have lost her chance for love." 

"That too is still yours, Catherine. No sorcery in the world could take it from you."

Tears of happiness threatened to well as she smiled up at him. "Would you mind?" an irascible voice interrupted. 

She glanced at the speaker--harried looking, laden with luggage--whose trajectory straight from a taxi to the entrance where they stood left no room for compromise. He was not about to deviate one inch from his projected course to use another door. 

"Excuse us," she murmured in a tone not quite as polite as the words, and Vincent moved a hand across her shoulders, guiding her down the row of lighted glass out of the traffic's flow. "Flexibility is not exactly a strong point with New Yorkers," she apologized, feeling suddenly responsible for the behavior of everyone in this world he'd come to visit. 

"Not in small things, perhaps, but so many people--in such close proximity. Much of what affects their lives must seem beyond their control, it's not surprising that they should wish to control whatever they can." 

"I notice you say 'they', Vincent," she smiled. "Don't forget I live that way too." 

"But you're a princess," he reminded her. "This world is yours to command."

"Don't I wish. Why do you say that--because we princesses are rich?" 

"No, because you have the power to understand your people, better than they understand themselves." 

"It doesn't help to understand, when you can't really change anything. If I really had powers, Vincent, I'd wave my magic wand and make this world more like yours."

"They might storm the castle in protest, Catherine. For all the problems, Father says the people here share a common passion for material gain, for accumulating as many . . . things and as much power as they possibly can. A monarch who took that way of life away from them could be in danger." 

"Father exaggerates . . . but not very much," she admitted with a rueful smile. 

"His view of this world is colored always by his own tragic experiences in it. You're living proof that there are exceptions to his concept." He stood looking down at her a moment, clearly appreciating everything he saw. "Where shall we go?" 

"Everywhere," she beamed. 

"You're sure you're not too tired?" 

"I've never felt less tired in my life. Would you like to go inside, Vincent--to see the station?" 

"I just came from there," he admitted. "Its beauty is remarkable." 

An immediate and dismaying scenario flashed through her mind: Long Island Railroad to Penn, subway to the Times Square station and the trek to the shuttle. Of course, tonight he might simply have fallen in with the passengers hurrying to transfer. That he also could have found a way to pay the fare and join them inside the train was too much to hope. She suspected his method of travel was too ingrained to make that a possibility. Still, here he was safe and sound, and she squelched the temptation to vent her fears. He offered his arm, and she took it falling into step beside him, loving the easy rhythm of his movements. 

"Do you suppose Father misses anything in this world?" 

"I'm sure he does. This was his home. He has happy memories as well as sad ones." 

"Does he talk about it much?" 

He shook his head. "He is at heart a scientist, Catherine. His commitment to creating a place free of the injustices that drove him below leave little room for compromise. If he should waver, if he thought too much about the things he loved above and attempted to bring some of them to us, it might upset the balance, jeopardize something he wants very much to keep pure." 

"He can't be certain which variables might invalidate the experiment," she nodded. "I can understand that. Still, I feel bad for him if there are things he's denied himself that he might enjoy." 

The traffic plodded past them even at this hour. Pedestrians, a few in costume, many dressed in their usual attire--anything from furs to tattered blue jeans--filed past with an occasional curious glance. She felt he was taking it all in, the people, the windows stashed with every kind of merchandise, and yet his attention to the conversation, to her, seemed also total. "You are a better judge of that, Catherine, than I am. If you were in Father's position, what things would you miss most?" 

Her heart skidded inexplicably in her chest. The question was natural, his tone mild, yet it seemed intensely important to consider her answer carefully. "I don't know. Friends, mostly, I think. People. Places and things just don't seem that important. Sunshine, I suppose, would be the hardest thing to do without, though the sun certainly doesn't shine all the time up here either." 

"There are places below where the sun can reach," he reminded her. 

"Yes, I know," she grinned, squeezing his arm. "I'm sure the things that Father's created below far outweigh what he might miss from above." 

"And the most important of those did find its way to us, after all." 

"Margaret . . . It must have been so wonderful for him. Vincent, not just to find her again, but to be able to share with her all the fantastic things he's accomplished, all the beauties of your world--to introduce her to you." 

"It was a joy he richly deserved. Catherine, and all the sweeter for having had to wait so long." 

"But the waiting, the years apart--it was tragic too. They might have had so much more time together." There was a lesson to be learned from that, she thought, one she'd become increasingly sensitive to in recent months. 

"Patience and Fortitude, Catherine." 

"What?" For a moment she assumed he was addressing her unspoken thoughts, but he nodded toward the darkened bulk of the public library, now catty-corner from where they stood. 

"The two lions--those are their names." 

She laughed, "Vincent, just who's showing who the city? This is supposed to be my terrain, but when you know even the names of statues . . . " 

"I'm not unfamiliar with the city, Catherine," he said in what she felt was a typical understatement, "but what I know of it has been seen from its back alleys, studied in books. It's a far different thing to walk its streets unhidden, to see it all through your eyes." 

"For me, too," she smiled. "Patience and Fortitude. I'll have to remember that." 

They continued up 42^nd, stopping to look in windows, talking about the things they saw there. As they neared Times Square, the late night activity increased around them. Groups of people congregated at the garishly lighted storefronts and under the marquees of the theaters. This was New York at its least inhibited, and they began to draw comments from passersby--wolf whistles, and simulated shrieks of terror from girls who dissolved into laughter, shouts of "great costume" and "lookin' good" along with less articulate mumblings that she wondered if he knew how to translate. He seemed impervious to them all, only drawing her a little closer to his side as they strolled, pausing to study one outlandish curiosity after another. 

"This isn't exactly the cultural high point of my world," she felt duty bound to point out. 

"Oh, I know that. So many things, Catherine. Do people really feel they must own all of these to be happy?" He was staring in frank amazement at a jumbled display of electronic gadgetry and cameras, appliances and knickknacks, all under a banner that screamed "lowest prices in the city--buy now before it's too late!" 

"That's what the people who sell them would like them to feel. Father's right about one thing. There's a tendency to pretend that happiness can be bought, that it depends on what you own and wear and drive." 

He made no comment, blue eyes wide with their effort to take in all there was to see. She could almost feel the wheels turning as he tried to assimilate it all, make sense of it in the context of his own very different values. That he who understood so much, more than anyone she'd ever known in her life, should find this a struggle made her love him all the more, and she slipped her arms around him, smiling. 

"You'll never figure it out, Vincent, because it doesn't make any sense. It isn't real, not in the way that you're real." 

He looked down at her upturned face and, ignoring the fact that they had never been more subject to public scrutiny, bent to give her an intense, if all too brief, kiss. 

"Oo--whee! Look out for them fangs, honey." She turned to find a woman in silver hot pants and thigh-high purple boots grinning at them. At Catherine's icy look she resumed a hip-swaying stroll. "Hey, it's cool, girl," she tossed back over her shoulder. "You saw him first." 

"Believe it or not," Catherine said steadily, "that is not a Halloween costume she's wearing." A glance at his face told her he was well aware of that. "I love your teeth," she added, afraid that his feelings might have been hurt. "I've always thought they were beautiful, which reminds me, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?" 

"I was merely confirming your reality, Catherine. Forgive me. It was inappropriate in a public place." 

"I have a hard time ever considering your kiss inappropriate," she confessed, but she took his arm again, and they started up Broadway. 

"What you said before--about being invisible. It's so strange when you think about it. Tonight you can walk around and no one cares. The worst you can expect is rudeness, and nobody who lives here escapes that. Yet tomorrow, if you dared to do it, everything would be different. You'd be in very real danger. It's crazy. You haven't changed. Nothing's really changed, and yet a date on the calendar makes all the difference." 

"Tonight everyone expects the unexpected. They accept that appearances may be deceiving. By tomorrow most of them will have forgotten that." 

"But that's all it is--appearances. Doesn't the truth count for anything?" 

"There's nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so," he reminded her gently. 

"Hamlet again," she nodded, memories soothing her frustration. "How are the children? Were they having a good time tonight?" 

"Mm--hm. They spent the day making costumes. Several of them asked if you could come to see them." Disappointment touched her briefly, but she knew he had only wanted to please her with the importance she held in the children's eyes. "Father read the usual stories. There were more doughnuts and cider. I'm sure they enjoyed the night immensely." 

"I wish I could have seen their costumes, but I suppose they've all been in bed for hours. Vincent--I can't believe I forgot to tell you. I tracked Gina's family." 

He stopped, looking down at her, his expression carefully noncommittal. 

"It took some digging, but I discovered an aunt--her mother's sister. She's apparently the only living relative, and she . . . she wasn't in a position to accept responsibility for her sister's child. There's nothing preventing Gina's staying below." 

He nodded and said only. "I'm glad," but she could see the relief in his eyes.

"I'm glad too, Vincent. I really am. There's nowhere a child like Gina could have a better chance to heal and grow and make something positive of her life than in the tunnels. I really believe that." 

"I know you do," he whispered, slipping an arm around her, reassuring her again that he understood the conflicting pressures she alone faced, being a woman of both worlds. 

They walked a while in silence, passed by a clown, a witch and a giant Hershey's kiss. "Did you dre