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KALEIDOSCOPE  III
Cynthia Hatch

 Part 3a

Your eyes' blue depths are lifted,
With love and friendship stirred,
They smile; and lost in dreaming,
I cannot speak a word.

Heinrich Heine

What happened, Radcliffe? Somebody slip a Mickey into your trick-or-treat bag?"

"What?" She stared at him a minute, trying to place the face, and felt her cheeks color violently as she succeeded. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was up pretty late last night--Jenny's party, remember?" 

"She throw a pretty good bash, does she?" 

"Oh, it was incredible. I had a wonderful time." Best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Surely, she had to look different in some way. It was impossible to feel this soaring, all-enveloping joy and expect it not to be visible. Let him think it was the result of a madcap evening of bobbing for apples. 

The explanation seemed to satisfy him. He drifted off with no more than a speculative glance. At least he'd accepted her far-off expression as the result of sleep deprivation, when, in fact, she'd been dreamily reliving certain moments that reawakened a delicious throbbing, a detail that, thank goodness, even Joe's natural inquisitiveness was not likely to detect. 

She had little memory of the ride downtown--or of almost anything since she'd left the tunnels, except for the sense of regret as she'd stood under the shower, hating to wash away any trace of a night that seemed too fantastic to be real. Still, there were muscles that retained a lovely, nostalgic ache and even a bruise or two. They would distress the one responsible for them, disproportionately, if he was aware of their existence, but she'd been perversely pleased to discover them--physical proof that she hadn't merely hallucinated the whole thing under some Halloween witch's spell. Of course, next time he'd be bound to notice. Next time. 

When that night be was already becoming a subject of some anxious theorizing. It couldn't be soon enough. Couldn't be often enough. Talk about hungers that increased with what they fed on! She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the transcript in front of her. It was her primary clue as to what she'd said in the hearing. Fortunately, her role had proved minimal, but it was clear it would take some practice to suppress the tempting replay of everything that had happened between them. She'd always prided herself on giving the work the attention it deserved. It was only right to do so, but not as easy as usual. 

The image of those extraordinarily powerful shoulders, marred by her fingernails, popped unbidden into her mind. He bore a few souvenirs of their evening, too, but no one would be likely to see them. She wondered if the parallel with what had happened to Lisa would occur to him. It had occurred to her somewhere between 60th and 59th. Had their love-making liberated him enough to see the two incidents as manifestations of the same natural impulse, or would he continue to put a more sinister interpretation on that ancient memory? 

There was so much yet to learn, so many things that must now take a new and intriguing turn. Unfortunately, none of them had to do with the work in front of her, and as the afternoon wore on she made a habit of checking and rechecking everything she did to ensure that the hapless citizens of New York didn't pay the price for her abstraction. Nevertheless, it was with considerable surprise that she recognized one of the voices wafting around her as Jenny's. Glancing up from the file she'd been studying, she found both Jenny and Joe looking at her with the bemused expression of parents watching their child at play in its crib. 

"What is that she's reading?" Jenny directed the question to Joe. 

"Oh, that's the Davidson file. Isn't that right, Radcliffe--the Davidson file?"

''Yes, as a matter of fact it is," she said with a dignity designed to deflate his patronizing attitude. 

"Trouble is," Joe continued amiably, "it's the J.B. Davidson file, as opposed to the Bernard Davidson file. J.B. is currently accused of rubbing out his business partner--and his wife--so he wouldn't have to share the tidy profits of their construction business. Now Bernard on the other hand, attracted attention by having a couple a dozen Blaupunkts--and no car. Your buddy here is scheduled to meet him in court next week--make sure he pays for the oversight. Bernie's gonna be upset when he finds out that a few hot stereos qualifies him for murder one." 

"And they say the system is soft on criminals," Jenny grinned. 

"Will you two stop talking about me like I'm not here?" Catherine said, mortified to note that Joe was perfectly correct about the case file. "You're right, Joe. I'm sorry. I pulled the wrong file. I would have noticed it, you know, if you'd given me a chance to read it." 

"Oh, she's here, all right. She's only been staring at the thing for fifteen minutes. That must have been some party you threw last night." 

"Yeah, it went really well. I'm sorry you couldn't come, Joe." 

"Why are you here, Jen?" The question sounded less than gracious, but she was determined to become part of the conversation. 

"It's quitting time. I hoped maybe we could have dinner." 

Catherine stole a surprised look at her watch. "I better not. We have a meeting with Judge Kelly at 7:30." 

"There's plenty of time," Joe insisted. "Please, do me a favor, Jenny, and get her out of here. Maybe the cold air will bring her to." 

"Well, I think she's overworked," Jenny asserted, remembering her loyalties. 

"So what else is new? Nobody gets that ga-ga expression from work." 

"Ga-ga, Joe? Ga-ga?" 

"She must have had one hell of a time playing dress-up." 

"Well, for Pete's sake, Cath, if you were having such a terrific time, why did you have to leave so early?" 

"Okay, Jen," Catherine snatched up her coat and purse and nearly plowed into Joe as she hurried to steer Jenny away, but not before she'd caught the frown of suspicion on his face. 

"What do you mean, she left early?" he called after them. 

*****

"I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon," Catherine said when they'd given their orders to the waiter. 

"I couldn't wait. I had to find out what you thought of Michael."

"I thought he was great. Didn't I tell you that last night?"

"Well, yes . . . I guess, I just wanted to hear it again." 

"I think you just like to talk about him," Catherine grimed. 

"I know. Isn't it nuts? But when you're in love, it's like . . . you're just so full of this person. If you can't be with him, then you want to be talking about him, because he's all you can think of anyway. I suppose it must be boring to other people, but it's so hard to control it." 

Catherine knew that feeling, but she'd grown so used to suppressing it that the frustration of not being able to sing Vincent's praises to everyone willing to listen was a familiar, if not beloved, fact of her existence. "So go ahead, Jen. I promise not to be bored." 

No arm twisting was required. Jenny launched into an effusive account of her own experiences last night, complete with word-for-word conversations that she and Michael had shared. It outlasted the bird's nest soup and the spring rolls and only wound down as they divvied up the garlic prawns and Mongolian beef. 

"But what's with you, Cath. You look . . . different." 

"I do--in what way?"

"I don't know. Your face is flushed. Your eyes seem . . . I don't know."

"Maybe I'm coming down with something." Catherine offered glibly, apologizing inwardly--to whatever fates were responsible for her condition--for pretending to trivialize it. "So how are the journals coming along?" 

"I finally finished them. They're just amazing. You know, in a way Felicity Compton reminds me of you." 

"Me!"

"I mean in the way she grew up one way and then consciously chose a different kind of life. She turned out to have guts and resourcefulness. No one might have guessed that. She affected other people's lives, when she might just have stayed behind her lace curtains. That's kind of the way I think of you--after your accident." 

"I thought Felicity chose a different life because she fell in love."

"So maybe that was the catalyst. Maybe when you finally feel some incredibly intense emotion like that, it opens you up to other strong feelings and capabilities that you never even knew were there." 

"Are you feeling any strange new capabilities, Jen?" she teased with an affectionate smile. 

"Well, I'm certainly thinking some strange thoughts. Michael wants to go out west in the spring to find the places described in the journals. The town still exists, though it was renamed. He'd like to spend some time there, try to follow the trail of the diaries through legal records, maybe even find some unknown branch of his family. I'm thinking of going with him." 

"What about your job?" 

Jenny shrugged. "I'll try and get a leave, but of course it's a busy time of year for us. If I can't . . . well, there are other jobs, but there's only one Michael, and there's this one chance to share something really special with him. Not only that, Cath," she threw her an uncertain look. "But I think we might move in together." 

"Just 'move in'? No thoughts of marriage?" 

"My family would have a fit if I said I was marrying somebody I'd only known a couple of months. No, Cath, I'm trying to do the sensible thing here, the responsible thing." 

Catherine couldn't help laughing. "You're right, it's a strange thought. You think marriage would shock them, but living with a guy would set their minds at ease?" 

"Under the circumstances, I do. Once they've gotten used to the fact that we're really serious, it would be a lot easier to announce I'm getting married. I mean they're so used to my being independent." 

"You're certainly that, Jen." 

"I've come to the conclusion that independence is a lot more fun if you have someone to share it with." Jenny laughed sheepishly. 

"I'm just a little surprised to hear you're concerned about what anyone thinks--after making your own choices for so long." 

"This isn't just another choice, Cath," Jenny said. "It's a life-changing decision. I want everyone to be as happy about it as I am--that is, if that's the way things work out." 

"Well, I for one will be very happy for you if they do. Have you thought about where you'd live?" 

"That's a problem. Michael's been rooming with a friend since his last lecture tour. My apartment's great for a romantic evening--it's so small you have no choice but to get close. Ideally, we'd have to look for something else, but it just so happens my lease is up next week. I wasn't prepared for this, and I sure don't want to wait another year to be with Michael." 

"So what are you going to do?" 

"I don't know. Michael says things have a way of working out."

"Isn't that attitude a little fatalistic for a therapist?" 

Jenny grinned. "I guess it is, but there's something about falling in love that makes you feel like there's some other force at work. You probably think I've really flipped out, huh?" 

"I wouldn't know, Jen. Sounds more like Michael's department. Haven't caught him measuring you for a straitjacket, have you?" 

"I said I was nuts, Cath--not majorly kinky. Look, I'm sorry--I know I'm going on and on about myself--as usual. Your problem is you're such a good listener." 

"I like love stories." Catherine smiled. "So, have you told Michael about your dreams yet?" 

"Yeah, I finally got the nerve to do that. He was fascinated--the idea of having a real guinea pig to practice his psychological research on . . . well, I'm afraid I'll wake up in the night to find him hovering over me with a pad and pencil, waiting to document everything. Which reminds me--I dreamed of you again the other night." 

"I'm not sure I want to hear it, Jen. Was it something creepy?" 

"In a way, but it wasn't like anything bad happened to you exactly. It was more like you happened upon something bad. There's a doorway of some kind, and you come in, and there's this dark shape lying on the ground, and you scream . . . that was it. I thought it night have something to do with your work. You know, you go to the scene of a crime or something." 

"I spend practically all my time these days safe within the hallowed halls of the justice system," she pointed out, unperturbed. "Not all my dreams make sense either, Jen. It doesn't have to mean anything." 

"Oh, I know. I actually dreamed one night that I was traveling in a covered wagon. Fat chance." She ripped open her fortune cookie and laughed. "It says I'm about to meet the man of my dreams. I think this was meant for you--would you like to trade?" 

"No thanks." Catherine demurred. "I'll stick to what I got." She folded the little pink slip of paper with the message "You have the power to make your deepest dreams come true," and tucked it securely into her wallet. 

*****

It was late when she entered her apartment and turned on the light. Hesitating, she scanned the room with an odd sense of detachment, as if it belonged to someone else. She shut the door and walked slowly through the rooms, really looking at the familiar objects. This was the world she'd fashioned for herself, and it was attractive. It was pleasant. Several times friends had complimented her and asked for the name of her decorator. She'd been mildly flattered at the time, since she'd done it all herself. 

Kicking off her shoes, she flopped down on the couch, continuing to run an objective eye over her surroundings. That was it, she decided. A decorator really could have done it, and the same treatment would have pleased any number of clients. There was little on display that was really personal-- few knickknacks, her paperweight collection, some cherished pictures, and, of course, her books--especially the ones that Vincent had given her. 

She thought of his chamber below--every object a personal treasure, each decorative piece with its own unique story to tell. The room could belong to no one else. It bore the stamp of his personality in every corner. That was true, she realized, of all the chambers she'd visited below. Father's--a perfect reflection of his eclectic mind and . . . Mouse's . . . Surely no one but Mouse could stand to live in that jumble, but to him it must seem perfection. 

If she were to sell this place tomorrow, chances were a new tenant could move in and change very little in order to feel perfectly at home. But there was more to it than that, she admitted as she rose, drawn as usual to the balcony doors. The memories here were extremely personal. They could belong to nobody else--particularly here on the terrace. 

It had turned biting cold, and she would not have ventured out in her stockinged feet, if it weren't for the gleam of something on the little bench. She darted across the icy titles to retrieve it, returning to the warmth of the living room. A scarlet rose, glittering with bits of frost, but it was the creamy piece of folded parchment she brought to her nose, hoping to catch a subtle scent of the sender. 

With a smile she opened it and read the brief poem: 

Dark wills us to our separate spheres, 

Yet in my heart one perfect night 

Stays you in eternal light, 

Makes bright reflections of the tears. 

Thank goodness, sheer physical exhaustion would cause her to fall asleep with just enough time to drift hauntingly back to a place where she lay trembling in his arms--and not quite enough to feel the pain of not being there still. 

*******

"Ms. Chandler, my name is Dr. Aaron Stratton. I'm calling from Crestmore Sanitarium." Her euphoric mood teetered on the edge of the pause that followed. "I'm calling regarding a patient of ours--Steven Bass." 

"What about Steven? Has . . . has he--" 

"No, nothing like that. There's been little change in his condition." 

"Then I really don't understand why you're calling me. My relationship with Steven ended with his admission to your hospital. Beyond that--" 

"Yes, I quite understand. Still, something has come up that I think you should know about, something I'd prefer to discuss in person." 

"I'm very sorry, Doctor, but I don't see that I'm in a position to be of help to you--not legally and certainly not personally. I hadn't had any contact with Steven for years prior to his illness, and my schedule's full. I can't just drop everything and drive out to Long Island." 

"That won't be necessary. I'll be in the city tomorrow for a consultation. If you could spare me just half an hour to explain . . . I don't want to alarm you, but it's actually your welfare that concerns me." 

"My . . . ?" Warning bells sounded behind the sense of faint annoyance, possibilities as yet not fully formed in her mind, but she doubted much more information would be forthcoming over the phone. "All right, Dr. Stratton. Where shall I meet you?" 

She jotted down the address--a private clinic on the upper East Side, and agreeing to be there at 1 p.m., hung up the phone. The Grand Jury would convene in less than an hour. There was little time to ruminate on the purpose of his call, but after dinner that night, curling up with a cup of tea, she let her mind range over the alternatives. 

She had made it clear when Steven was admitted to the sanitarium that she was making the arrangements only because he had no one else--no family to accept that responsibility. Her first efforts to visit him had been rebuffed, and it wasn't long before she'd realized that the nagging sense of guilt which prompted her to try, was inappropriate and unhealthy for them both. 

Guilt for what? For being the object of his obsessive delusions? That feeling, the sense that their long-dead relationship obligated her in some way, had nearly cost her life--and endangered Vincent. 

Vincent. His image lay at the heart of her fears. Because Steven was one of the few--one of the very few--who had fallen to the voracious blood-rage and lived to tell about it. Lived because she had stopped it. Was she sorry she'd done that? No. Less for the memory of what he'd once meant to her than the certain knowledge that he was sick, not responsible for the horrible things he had done. 

No, she couldn't be sorry for intervening--for her sake, Steven's and Vincent's too, but that meant there was someone alive who could attest to Vincent's existence, who had the scars to show for it, someone with more than the justification of his injuries to inspire his vengefulness. 

But who would believe him? Clearly, no one had. Little of what Steven said had any basis in reality. After all this time, there was no reason to think his ravings would be given credence. The doctor had said there'd been little change in his condition. That meant there was no possibility that he would be released, so how could he be a threat to her? 

Once again the memory of the dream--and her rescue of the mentally ill woman returned. Had the seeds of that scenario been planted long ago, even before Mitch's assault. In the bizarre confrontation with Steven, in her failure to recognize his instability that had precipitated such disaster? It made no difference. Cold reality was the issue at hand. 

She finished the tea and looked longingly at the terrace door. As always, it drew her with its promise of the park view and the sense of being closer to him, but for that very reason she resisted the urge to leave the couch. She was purposely ordering her thoughts, attempting to examine the possible ramifications of the phone call with a minimum of emotion, determined not to let her feelings disturb Vincent unnecessarily. Somehow it seemed less likely to happen if she remained inside, safe from the well of emotion that arose so strongly on the terrace. 

And there was, she decided, no reason for alarm. It was difficult to come up with an eventuality that could pose any serious threat. Far more likely that the psychiatrists merely wanted to check some information--something that Steven had said--for its factuality. Or perhaps there was some problem with the arrangements for his care. His parents' estate had been sizeable. There was more than enough to maintain his treatment--whatever the cost--and the responsibilities had immediately been shouldered by the executors. Why she should come into the picture at all was a mystery that might simply be explained by some mix-up in the hospital's bureaucracy. 

Dr. Stratton had said he was concerned for her welfare. Was it possible that she had misinterpreted the remark? What if he had meant it in a positive sense? A wild thought occurred to her, one she found immediately repugnant. Could Steven have possibly made a will? With no living relatives and considering his state of mind, it was altogether within the realm of reason that he had left his inherited wealth to her. Surely, no one would accept the validity of such an action--not when he was clearly incompetent, and why should it come to light now? 

Sighing at the futility of such idle speculation, she carried the cup and saucer to the little kitchen, washed and dried them, and put them back on the shelf. By this time tomorrow she would know the truth behind the perplexing phone call, and it would no doubt prove to be inconsequential. Left with an evening alone, she had at her disposal far more appealing thoughts to while away the time, and ones that had the added charm of certainty, sweet and irrefutable certainty. 

*******

"Damn it. Just let me out here, please." The cabbie threw an indifferent hand over the back seat to accept the bills, and she scrambled out in the midst of a midday traffic jam that found her stranded a block and a half from her destination. 

She slammed the door and hurried between the gridlocked cars to the tree-lined sidewalk. Anxious to have his meeting over and done with, she hardly needed the added frustration of being late, which she noted she already was, and it took her a moment to regain her composure as she plunged breathless into the determinedly quiet ambiance of the fashionable brownstone. Only a discreet brass plaque at the polished door distinguished the clinic from any of the elegant homes on the street. The waiting room in which she found herself was coolly elegant and understated, as was the woman at the reception desk. 

"I'm Catherine Chandler. I have an appointment with Dr. Stratton." 

"Yes, of course. He's waiting for you in Dr. Thornburgs office--the second door. You can go right in." 

"Ms. Chandler." The sole occupant of the office, a balding man in horn-rimmed glasses and a well-cut suit, rose from the desk chair to greet her. There was a definitive air of professionalism in his manner, but his smile was warm. "I'm Dr. Stratton. Please, sit down." 

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said, feeling an apology was in order, and having delivered it, composed herself for whatever night come next, regarding him with cool expectancy. 

"Considering that the traffic couldn't possibly get any worse--but it always does--I'm impressed with your punctuality. And I am grateful you agreed to see me. I realize the request must have seemed a little odd." 

"Yes, I'm afraid it did. I've had no contact with Steven Bass for quite some time."

"Of course, and I'm well aware that there's every reason you should not wish to be reminded of him." 

"I do care about Steve--what happens to him, but I was given to understand there was little hope for any real recovery." 

"Sadly, that's true. You've had no contact with him at all since he came to us--is that correct?" 

"None."

"Well, if you'll bear with me a moment, I'll explain. Steven, as you know, suffers from severe delusions, many of them revolving around you. He has a rather elaborate reality in his own mind that shifts and takes on new forms, all built around a fairly consistent core." 

"A fictitious one," she said firmly. 

"Without question, but one in which he stoutly believes. He can be a most charming young man, as I'm sure you know, quite convincing in his sincerity." 

"Surely not convincing to his doctors." 

"No, but to the other patients--that's a different story. Most of them tire quickly of his repetitious accounts and ignore him, but there was one--a young man named John McConnell--who attached himself to Steven. John's a very dependent type, very impressionable. He was willing to listen to Steven's stories over and over again, which of course created a symbiotic relationship between them." 

"Is that healthy?" 

"It is not necessarily unhealthy," Dr. Stratton replied with less authority in his tone than before. "A certain amount of interaction between patients is necessary and many times beneficial. In this instance it was harmless to Steven who was not likely to abandon his delusions in any case. It calmed him to have someone always willing to listen. And for John the situation merely fulfilled his own need for attention. He was in his own way indispensable to Steven, and he thrived on that." 

"I'm afraid I don't see what any of this has to do with me," she said with an effort at patience. It seemed all her conjecture that there could be something to fear had been a waste of time. 

"As I've said, you figure very prominently in Steven's stories, Ms. Chandler. The central theme to which he always returned was his love for you, and his fear that you were under the control of some fantastic creature--a monster--who was responsible for his injuries." 

She'd expected no less, yet it was disconcerting how her pulse raced hearing the words, and she fixed the doctor with a disparaging look. 

"Yes, I know, all quite removed from reality, and there was nothing in John's pathology to suggest that he actually believed a word of it. He confided as much but said Steven was his friend, and if it pleased him to have someone listen to his wild tales, John didn't mind indulging him." 

The note of discomfiture had crept back into the otherwise professional demeanor. She couldn't help wondering what it signified. Experience told her that this was a man to whom doubt was an infrequent visitor, yet there was every indication that one troubled him now. But why--when he was so obviously reluctant to address it--was he exposing it at all--and why on earth to her? He heaved a sigh and continued. "A little over a month ago John was released from our facility--into the care of a sister who lives in Murray Hill. He still sees a therapist, and, of course, I'm not at liberty to discuss the particulars of why he was with us to begin with, but there was every indication that he was perfectly capable of resuming a normal life." 

"Was that upsetting to Steven?" she asked, searching blindly for some point to at this. "Has it made him worse?" 

"Well, certainly it was a loss from his point of view, but, no, I wouldn't say there was any significant regression. His condition is fairly constant at this point. He merely followed the others around regaling them with his stories, and John wrote to him a few times, assuring him of his friendship." 

"Dr. Stratton, I don't want to seem insensitive, but I still have no idea why you're telling me this or what I could do to help you." 

"I do apologize. Perhaps I'm belaboring the subject a bit defensively." 

She looked at her watch. An afternoon with not nearly enough hours in it for the work on hand was gradually ebbing away, while a total stranger seemed about to embark on self-analysis for her benefit. 

"Yesterday a letter came for Steven," he said hurriedly. "These you understand are routinely read by staff for any content that might upset the patient. In this letter John--very excitedly--explained that he had seen the monster Steven had described." 

Impatience slowed to a halt within her, and she said with careful disdain, "He'd seen a monster." 

"So he claimed--exactly as Steven had described it." 

"When?" Her thoughts flew unwillingly to the remote possibility. Murray Hill wasn't far from the park. However unlikely the idea that Vincent would allow himself to be seen, it was the one place he'd be most likely to venture. But after dark. Was a man like John McConnell allowed to wander around by himself in the middle of the night? The coincidence seemed reassuringly far-fetched. 

"Two days ago--nights, I should say." 

"Two--Dr. Stratton," she said, almost laughing with relief, "two nights ago was Halloween. The whole city was crawling with monsters. It sounds to me like the man was just courting approval by claiming he saw Steven's phantom come to life." 

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," he smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared. "What concerns me is the rest of the letter. He said that he had seen this creature and with it a woman exactly fitting Steven's very detailed description of you. The letter was rather . . . manic. He wrote that the monster still had this woman in its power--that he actually saw them kissing near Times Square." 

Even as her heart plummeted to her stomach, she grasped at the fact that she had been trained to be unreadable by her opponent, that she was practiced in hiding the effects of intimidation when they struck home. But he was a trained observer of human behavior as well. With a sense of relief she realized that he wasn't looking at her at all but at his own interlaced fingers, an uneasy expression on his face. 

"You're not going to tell me you believe any of this? Really, Doctor, I have a busy afternoon ahead. I just don't see the point in your telling me the ramblings of an obviously sick individual." 

"Well, I'm afraid that is the point, Ms. Chandler," he said, meeting her eyes with an air of resolve. "John McConnell is obviously not as stable as we had diagnosed. As a psychiatrist, I can assure you that this letter was no exercise on his part just to please Steven. He clearly believed what he was saying, and he promised Steven he would pursue the matter further--find a way to revenge the terrible wrongs that he'd suffered--the injuries, the loss of you, even the injustice of being thought insane when his story was perfectly true." 

"What you're saying is you released someone from your sanitarium who clearly had no business being on the streets." She spoke with a vehemence no less intent for the fact that it wasn't strictly true. McConnell had seen what he claimed--but the promise of revenge, that sent chills up her spine. The same cycle of dangerously ill people set free to victimize the innocent seemed destined to recur--in her life, in her dreams. 

"I'm sorry to say that may be the case." 

Regaining her equanimity, she smiled. "Well, with Halloween over he's not likely to find any monsters around--at least for another year. Maybe he'll forget the whole idea." 

"That's not really the part that worries me, Ms. Chandler. If John has this idea in his head, he will of course be unable to locate Steven's monster, but having pledged to pursue the matter, I'm concerned that he may fixate on you. You're very real and unfortunately not anonymous, it's entirely possible he may try to locate you. I doubt that he would approach you directly, but he might try to observe your activities in order to curry Steven's favor." 

"And there's nothing you can do about that." It was a statement, not a question, since she knew full well the answer. Far more lethal individuals than McConnell, people with histories of violence, people who had made specific threats, were untouchable until they acted. 

"I'm afraid not. John's was a voluntary hospitalization, and I assure you there is nothing aggressive in his history. I'm stile convinced from a psychiatric standpoint that he's incapable of acting out any so-called 'revenge,' but he might very well make a nuisance of himself to feed the relationship he craves with Steven. In view of your profession, I thought it best to make you aware of the situation, in case you found yourself being followed by a stranger--so that you wouldn't draw a more sinister conclusion than is warranted. That's the reason I insisted on seeing you personally--to show you this." 

He pulled a Polaroid picture from his coat pocket and handed it to her. It showed a plump-faced young man with a tentative smile and anxious eyes. There was nothing obviously malicious in his appearance. "Please, keep that Ms. Chandler, and if he should, in fact, prove to be a nuisance . . . well," he deferred to her own expertise, "of course, you'll know the appropriate steps to take." 

"I'm grateful for your candor, Dr. Stratton." She put the snapshot in her bag and rose to shake his hand. "I realize you were under no obligation to tell me about this." 

"Well, let's hope it was all for naught," he said, guiding her to the door, "but I feel better having you know, so there's no chance of your mistaking John for a dangerous felon. I assure you he's harmless." 

"And I assure you, Dr. Stratton, that even if he weren't, our policy is not to shoot first and ask questions later." 

"Of course." If her sharp retort told him she was more disturbed by his revelations than she pretended, he didn't let on. "My number is on the back of the photo if you should wish to contact me. Good-bye, Ms. Chandler." 

How often had that label of "harmless" proved to be false, she couldn't help thinking. Outside the cross-town traffic was moving again at its typical lugubrious pace. An elegantly dressed matron stepped out of a cab to enter the clinic, and Catherine took her place for the ride back to the office. 

Steven had seemed harmless. Well, that had been her own wishful thinking, clouded by feelings of sentiment and obligation. And the man who had nearly killed her; how long had she tried to rationalize that a voyeur wouldn't act on his obsessions? That misconception had been fostered by her fears of compromising Vincent and their secret. And the odd little man in her dream whose name--if he had one--he couldn't recall. He had seemed harmless, too. Dr. Stratton's opinions on the other hand were based on professional experience and a more than casual acquaintance with his patient. 

With a jerk the driver sped into a coveted stretch of lane that opened miraculously to the left. The burst of speed was followed inevitably by a screeching of tires and a halt at the next intersection. The resulting jolt seemed small retribution for the guilty knowledge that Dr. Stratton's fears of a mis-diagnosis were unfounded. He'd been kind enough to allow his own reputation to be called into question by sharing his concerns, and there'd been no way to tell him that he wasn't wrong. John McConnell really had seen exactly what he'd described. Thank goodness no one had the right to go after the poor soul with a butterfly net. 

Even Halloween that had seemed so safe, so enchanted, had precipitated complications. It would be like that always, she thought, as long as they tried to straddle two worlds. 

Ahead loomed the Pan Am Building, provoking thoughts of their rendezvous beneath it, the meandering route they'd taken across town and north. McConnell had spotted them near Times Square, but what if he'd followed? In the excitement of seeing Steven's fairy tale characters come to life, isn't that just what he'd do? Would they have noticed? Not if he'd been furtive. They'd had no reason to be suspicious, and, in fact, she wasn't at all sure she would have noticed Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade had it chosen to pursue them up Fifth Avenue. She'd been too lost in his presence, in the rarity of seeing the city together. 

At worst, he might have lost them in the sudden deluge when they entered the park. She was certain there'd been no one nearby when they'd left the mounted policeman for the shadows of the trees. A tempest in a teacup, no doubt, but the picture of John McConnell would stay in her bag just in case. 

And Halloween would stay in her heart, untainted--the most perfect night of her life. 

*******

The warning about John McConnell provided a legitimate excuse for her precipitous behavior. Not that she needed one. It was possible Vincent might come to her tonight, but suddenly she couldn't wait. She had always taken her cue from him and his respect for her busy life above, conscious that he made an effort not to intrude, not to disturb the rhythm of the obligations that kept her schedule so erratic. 

He had responsibilities of his own, vital to the welfare of the community that depended on him, and increasingly, she'd tried to be mindful of that. No doubt her own problems had often forced him to compromise those responsibilities, and she thought she'd been selfish in falling to consider that side of things in the beginning. 

He should be made aware of the possibility that someone might be looking for him--for them both. and besides, her need to see him had begun to overflow its carefully prescribed boundaries. 

Once the decision had been made to go below, the anticipation took over, accelerating her heartbeat as she quickly changed from her work clothes into a turtleneck sweater and slacks. The hand that pushed the button for her elevator shook. The ride down might have been a cross-country flight. She shoved aside the heavy cartons that concealed the entrance as if they were empty and almost tumbled down the ladder. The bright sensation singing through her told her what she needed to know before she even looked, and she let go, turning, to be caught smoothly in his arms. 

Their twin gasps were the only sound as he crushed her to him. The solid fortress of his chest against her cheek, his hair curtaining her face, the long fingers caressing her neck, tucking her close, overwhelmed her senses. She locked her arms around him to rise and fall with his breath. 

"It seems like such a long time--like Cleveland."

"Longer," he breathed. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't in last right." 

"Oh, I knew you weren't before I went there but . . . I wanted you to know I was thinking of you." 

She smiled her gratitude, basking in the warmth of his gaze. "And you've been well. I honestly think I would feel it now if you weren't--that something happened when we were together, something that would make it impossible for me not to know." 

"I've been well," he confirmed, eyes sparkling with a gentle happiness. "And you've been safe." 

"Oh, very. I seem to spend most of my time pushing papers now. There was one thing, though." She told him about her meeting with Dr. Stratton and ended by pulling the snapshot of John McConnell from her pocket. "You haven't seen him, have you?" 

He shook his head. "But it's you who must take care, Catherine. This man must know where you live--where you work." 

"I'll keep an eye out, but Dr. Stratton seemed convinced there was no real danger, and he's a better judge of character than he knows. I think it really threw him to find McConnell going on as if he took Steven's mythical enemy seriously. He didn't expect that, and, of course, I couldn't tell him that what his patient had said was true." 

"I'm sorry, Catherine." 

"It's not your fault. It's just the way things are. I guess there'll always be a danger that someone may stumble onto a part of our secret or make a connection between some of the things that have happened." 

It was the closest she'd ever come to confessing a fear that had nagged her throughout their relationship: the fear that some alert law officer would see a pattern in the unexplained deaths that accompanied a number of noteworthy cases. See it, and realize that her name appeared in each of these files. That no one had done so yet, she credited to the fact that those cases--unlike so many others--had for all intents and purposes come to a successful close. The end had inevitably seen a satisfactory halt to some criminal activity, and everyone involved was too overworked to spend much time contemplating the means. 

His silence told her he realized the underlying danger all too well. He had no answer for it--or none he would presume to suggest. 

"What about you, Vincent? Was William right about an intruder?" 

"Someone had been there, Catherine, in a culvert near one of our hidden entrances. Its not unusual at this time of year. When the weather turns bitter, the homeless ones find what shelter they can. No one can begrudge them that." 

"But you have to be careful--that they don't happen on your secret. Vincent, wouldn't it be possible . . . do you ever consider letting any of them become part of your world?" 

The shadow that passed over his face told her the possibility had long been a thorny issue. "If it were a simple matter of mercy, of kindness . . . but the rules that have allowed our community to survive are based on great care. Nearly everyone who comes to us is known to someone we trust." 

"I understand." Undoubtedly, there were plenty of decent people who'd been forced by circumstance to wander the streets, but addicts, people unwilling or incapable of taking responsibility for their own lives, inevitably wound up there as well. And the memory lay between them of the feral group who'd penetrated the tunnels last winter--with tragic results. 

They hadn't moved from their place beneath the ladder or let go of each other, putting only as much distance between them as was necessary to gaze into each other's eyes. "What are we going to do now, Vincent?" she asked, and though she'd been careful to allow no wistfulness into the tone, his breath caught. "What?" she pursued, tilting her face up to his with a suggestive smile. "Something tells me an idea crossed your mind." 

"An idea," he admitted ruefully, "but not an option." 

That wasn't surprising. She'd faced the fact that the way he lived seriously limited their options for intimacy. At this time of day the community would be bustling with people. There was probably an anxious line of would-be interlopers outside his chamber even now. Still, she loved the knowledge that it was the first thing he thought of and couldn't resist pursuing the subject. "You mean you believed me when I said we could actually do that again?" 

"I always believe you," he said smoothly. "And if I did not . . . if I thought I could never . . . " 

For a moment he looked so genuinely distressed it was almost comical. "Believe me, Vincent, we'll find a way. Desperate cases require desperate measures, that's all." 

"Catherine, I don't mean to imply that I'm not grateful to be with you, to see you, talk with you . . . it's only that the vision is very difficult to dismiss from my mind." 

"I know," she grinned, snuggling up against him with an instant flash of what lurked beneath the layered clothing--how the warm golden skin had gleamed with their love-making. "I've spent so much time wrestling with it, Joe assumes I've taken leave of my senses, but there's nothing wrong in that, Vincent. When you've found the perfect way to express everything you feel, it's hard not to want to use it."

They held each other a long time, contemplating the truth of the statement, resisting the kiss that would inevitably exacerbate the situation. "Mary's finished cleaning your costume. She asked me to tell you."

"It was really nice of her to go to all that trouble. Was it salvageable?"

"All but the hat--and the shoes."

"The hat? Vincent, I left that up in the utility building. You didn't go back there!"

"It was necessary. The storm drain beneath it had to be blocked again before anyone checked below."

It struck her as terribly dangerous--for him to venture so close to her world--all the way up into the half--buried room, but before she could vent her fears, he took her hand and guided her through the ragged brick wall. "Tell me--what else have you done since I saw you."

"Well, I had dinner with Jenny," she said, allowing herself to be distracted. "I'm happy for her. She seems very much in love with Michael. They're thinking of living together."

He made no comments and she wondered if it was only the acoustics of the concrete pipe they were passing through that made the last sentence seem to echo off the walls.

"Michael has asked her to go out west with him next spring in search of his roots. It might mean giving up her position at the publishing house, but she thinks it's worth it."

This too failed to elicit a response.

"She's always really loved her job." She looked at him, but if there'd been any doubt that he was listening to her it was quickly dispelled. The eyes he turned on her were clear and full of quiet interest. "I wasn't sure what kind of advice to give her," she finished lamely.

"Was she seeking advice? Surely, only Jenny herself can make that decision."

That was true enough, and she wondered why she was the one who was now at loss for a response, but she went onto other things, telling him about the cases she'd been working on, until they reached the common tunnels.

"When I was on my way to you, there was a summons on the pipes--a message from Father. I should see what he wants."

"I'll go with you. Actually, it would be nice to see him." It seemed like a long time since she'd talked to Father. She was surprised to find how much she'd missed him.

He was bent over a cardboard box when they entered, and she could see that it contained yet more books.

"Father, I've brought Catherine."

Was it only her imagination that made it sound like he was presenting a rare and wonderful trophy? In any case she felt a blush rising and in the next minute thought of at least two things to justify it. Father had probably spent a sleepless Halloween night, worrying about the fact that she'd once again lured Vincent above. And would the change in her that even Jenny and Joe had noticed escape his scrutiny?

He peered at them over the rim of his glasses, giving her the hopeful thought that his eyesight wasn't the best. "Well, come in, come in. Vincent, Cullen's looking for you, it's dark up there, and he says this would be the best time to get that false wall into place. Catherine, please sit down. Help yourself to the tea."

Vincent gave her a questioning look.

"I'll be all right," she assured him quietly. "If you need to help Cullen, go ahead."

"You're certain?"

She thought the same pitfalls that had occurred to her were concerning him, but after all it might be easier to hide whatever aura she might lately have acquired if it weren't blazing around both of them at once. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Father for a while."

"I won't be long," he promised and swung gracefully up the little stairs to disappear.

"Is that a new batch of books?" she asked, grateful for the neutral subject. "New to us anyway, thanks to a thoughtful helper. Some of them will need repairs, and no doubt there may be duplicates in these stacks . . . somewhere. Still, there's always something exhilarating about the prospect of unopened books, new treasures to be discovered."

"I always felt that way when I went to the library as a little girl. Here--can I help you with those?"

"Thank you, yes."

She pulled out several volumes--two novels, a cookbook, a two-year-old almanac, and a book on applied mathematics--and followed his slightly stooping form to the shelves under the stairs. "Is there a system to this?"

"If there is, it seems to elude everyone but myself--and Vincent. When we began, there were so few volumes--primarily my own . . . and John's. There seemed no need for any particular order, but over the years, as you can see, our library has grown a bit like Topsy, I'm afraid. I keep meaning one day to organize it, but I never seem to find the time."

That was clear, she thought, as she had to stand on tiptoes to extract a still-bright copy of Good night, Moon which no tunnel toddler had probably ever laid eyes on. "The children's books--it would be nice if they were down where they could see them. Would you like me to arrange them?"

"Oh, lord, Catherine, it would take ages. And as you can see," he added brushing the dust from his hands, "it's not the cleanest task."

"I'd really like to do it," she insisted. "I could come down on my day off and at least make a start."

He looked at her, and she thought she saw a flash of humor in his eyes, but all he said was, "That would be very kind of you, Catherine. I'm sure you could find some willing hands to help. Now . . . shall we have our tea?"

They returned to the desk, and he handed her a cup, which she nearly dropped when he said. "It's . . . uh.. . . too bad that your Halloween was spoiled by the weather. There was quite a storm, I understand."

"Yes . . . there was. I'm sorry, Father, if it worried you. I know you don't approve of Vincent's going above."

"No, I never have, but still he persists in doing it. And I suppose there's something in his insistence that Halloween may be the safest time. I would far rather he take an innocent stroll in a costumed crowd, than race up there to confront the criminal element."

"There was none of that," she assured him, though the memory of Rab and his cohorts played guiltily at the back of her mind.

"Thank God, it only comes once a year," he dismissed the subject. "But you're looking exceptionally well, Catherine. Perhaps your time away did you some good."

For a moment she didn't know what he meant. Her trip to Ohio seemed to have taken place in another life, an insignificant moment compared to what had happened since. "Yes, I think it was worth doing, and Vincent's time away--it seems to have helped him too."

"Do you think so?" To her surprise he frowned.

"Well, yes. Don't you?"

"I couldn't be sure. The day he returned he seemed quite tranquil one moment and uncommonly nervous the next, but I must say that after that his moodiness seems to have vanished. He's been as untroubled as I've ever seen him--until the last day or two."

"He seems troubled to you?"

Above his beard, the lips pursed thoughtfully. "No. . . not troubled. He's been quite affable, actually, but not entirely himself."

Uh--oh, thought Catherine. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn into this particular discussion, and was it only her imagination that he was secretly amused? With no desire to spur the conversation along, she took a long, slow sip of tea, but Father needed no prodding.

"Last night, for example, he suggested we have a game of chess. It was his idea, mind you. Of course, I was quite pleased. It seemed ages since we'd had the chance to play. Perhaps he only suggested it because he knew how much I missed it. In any case, I won."

"You won?"

"Rather quickly, actually."

"Well, congratulations. Your game must be improving."

"I played abominably."

"You did?"

"Yes--not that that's typical of my game, you understand. I was merely so distracted."

"Distracted--by what?"

"Oh, it was a little thing really. I can't think why it struck me as so interesting, but he had been working all afternoon--a wall up near the park had apparently crumbled, and he'd gone to repair it. When he returned, I saw that he had pushed his sleeves up to the elbows. He didn't trouble to pull them back down all evening."

"Maybe it was hot."

"Perhaps . . . but he simply never does that. I recall watching those brawny arms reach across the chessboard . . . such a golden color, when the rest of us are unavoidably pale . . . It was quite unnerving."

"But you won anyway. Maybe he did it to make you happy. Maybe he let you win."

"Please, Catherine. His kindness might countenance such an act, but he would never insult my dignity so blatantly. And then there's the matter of his cloak."

"What about it?"

"Well, he seems to have misplaced it . . . somewhere today, which is rather like my losing track of my walking stick. He retrieved it eventually, but, no, he's definitely not himself. I only hope the cause will turn out to be something benign."

"I'm sure it will." She hoped she looked appropriately concerned, but, in fact, she felt a secret delight that he shared her uphill battle to focus on trivialities--trivialities suddenly including anything that didn't have to do with their love. As much as she liked to talk about Vincent, the disturbing suspicion that the subject brought the color to her cheeks caused her to search for another topic.

"The false walls going up . . . You must be changing the routes. Is that because of the street people coning so close?"

He nodded. "It's a problem every year at this time. Our council meetings invariably become polarized between those who feel we must guard our security at any cost and those who feel in turning our backs on the needy. We are perhaps weakening the moral fiber of the community."

"Which side do you agree with?" she ventured, though sure she knew.

"Ah, Catherine , it's best in these discussions if someone play a neutral role. It is not as difficult as you might think for me to do that. There is a part of me that winces at even referring to these poor wretches as a 'problem' but my first concern, as always, must be for the safety of the people already here."

"But surely, it's not good for the community to remain stagnate. Wouldn't a few more willing hands help to strengthen things in the long run?"

"In theory, of course, but you mentioned two vital words. 'Few.' Our system is too fragile here to absorb more than a few new residents at a time, and there are thousands shivering in the streets up there. And 'willing.' How are we to know--among all these strangers--who would be willing to live by our philosophy, to share in the responsibilities? Some of these people, Catherine, need more than a safe place to live. They need help that we simply aren't able to give them. Then there are those who are beyond . . . any kind of help." His expression tightened into grim lines, and she knew he was remembering the inhuman little band that had brought so much suffering to the community.

"They were an extreme, Father, but at the other end of the spectrum there was the idealistic young man who came here over 30 years ago. It's a good thing for all the people who've thrived under his leadership that no one turned him away."

The compliment brought a crooked smile. "Well, I certainly don't mean to imply that there might not be someone equally useful among the disenfranchised. It's simply a problem of knowing who they are. Just yesterday, Kanin was above replacing a broken tool, and he stopped to talk to a young couple. They were foraging for cans that they might sell to buy food. He talked to them--of course, telling them nothing of this place--but he's asked that we give them sanctuary. His sympathy is understandable, but we know nothing about them."

"If you did . . . if there was a way to find out about their circumstances, their motivations . . . would you consider it then?"

"I suppose, but--"

"What if I talked to them, Father? I have a certain amount of experience in interviewing people who are frightened and wary. I'd find out what I could check up on what they tell me. I can make up a story about doing some bureaucratic survey--something."

"I hardly think a starving man with no roof over his head would cheerfully submit to a survey," he said dryly, but she could see his interest was piqued.

"I'll find some way."

"You'd really be willing to do that?" he said thoughtfully.

"I'd love to do that."

"Well, then, I'll ask Kanin where we might find these people."

"What about Gina, Father? How is she doing?"

He sipped his tea, considering a moment. "All in all, I think she's adjusting. She's still very quiet--except with Willy. They've developed quite a friendship, but yesterday he asked her to read to him, and it was apparent the poor child has had no schooling at all. I hope to take some time with her myself--or perhaps Vincent, assuming, of course, that the ability to read has not somehow slipped his mind."

Her first impulse was to leap to his defense, but she knew the man, sitting across from her was incapable of actually having a disparaging thought about his son. No, he was definitely in a sly mood tonight, and she refused to rise to the bait. "You know, there are boxes of books that I loved as a child just packed away in storage. I could get them out and bring them down here for the children."

"That's very generous of you, Catherine, but surely you should keep them for your own family."

"Exactly," she smiled, looking him directly in the eye. Two could play this enigmatic game, and she thought she'd scored a hit with that one.

A wonderfully warm sensation told her that Vincent had returned even before she heard the voices in the passageway, and a half dozen men tromped into the study, though she could have only identified one of them. He came directly to her, as Father rose to join the others. They seemed to be having a lively disagreement about a sample of rock they'd brought back, but Vincent put one hand on the arm of her chair, bending close so that his hair tumbled around her face, creating a lovely intimacy that isolated them from the rest of the room.

"How was your conversation with Father?"

"It was fine--why? Is anything wrong?"

"Wrong? No, I don't think so. It's only that . . . several times recently . . . I've noticed him looking at me . . . strangely."

"I felt that too. It's almost as if he suspected something, but he didn't seem particularly upset--or angry."

"Stranger still."

"I missed you while you were gone," she whispered.

She watched the pleasure of her declaration flow through his loving look. "I thought I knew what it was to miss you, Catherine . . . with my heart, my soul, but now it's as if my body is incomplete as well."

It was a simple statement of fact, but her efforts to accept it as such were impeded by the imminent danger of meltdown. "Since everyone seems to be in here," she said wistfully, "maybe we could grab a few minutes of privacy in your chamber."

"It would take more than a few minutes to satisfy such a longing."

"Really?" she breathed, unthinking under the spell of his eyes and the words that were both torture and delight. "How long?"

"I don't know . . . perhaps forever."

"That's a wonderful word, Vincent."

"It's a true--"

"Yes, it's a terrible blow--Mary's running off to join the circus like that. Don't you agree, Vincent?"

"I'm sorry, Father." Vincent straightened up focusing on the source of the interruption. "What did you say?"

"I said . . . that I believe this deposit here is mica. What do you think?" Catherine, having bent over to fuss with her shoelace, nevertheless sensed the long breath he took before replying. "No, Father, it's glauconite."

"See, I told ya." Cullen said triumphantly.

"What was the bet--I have to get the rocks for the next wall, right?"

"Ah, hell, William, you could be the next wall. I'd settle for another one of your chocolate cakes with the cherries in it."

"Rocks are easier to come by than cherries," William grumbled, but that particular dispute seemed to be at an end.

"All right," Father said, rubbing his hands together, "let's see how far you've progressed." Kanin stepped forward to roll a faded sheet of paper out on the table, and the crew gathered around it. pointing out the places where work had been completed, the others yet to be done. Mouse darted between them, one minute fascinated by the structural challenges, the next bouncing away to examine some object totally unrelated to the subject at hand.

She began to think it might be possible for the two of them to slip out without being unduly missed.

Father stepped back, regarding the plans with a critical eye. "This passage under Soho--does it really require such extensive changes? Here, Vincent, what's your opinion?"

Obligingly, he gave it, and a few minutes later was drawn into the discussion again. Well, she told herself, her visit had been spontaneous. There was work to be done. She contented herself with his presence beside her, as he leaned casually on the back of her chair.

At last the strategy for reconstruction seemed agreed upon, but no one showed any intimation to leave. Olivia and Mary came in, and when Mary saw Catherine, she gave an untranslatable little sound and left again to return with the velvet gown, now miraculously clean. The petticoats, too, were bright and crisp again, and Catherine thanked her.

"Is that the gown that got rained on?" Olivia exclaimed. "You must have looked lovely in it, Catherine. Was she beautiful, Vincent?"

"She was beautiful."

Olivia's compliment barely registered, coming so close on the heels of further proof that the tunnel grapevine was embarrassingly efficient, but Vincent's version made her cheeks burn. Kanin had been deep in conversation with Father, but he approached them now, slipping an arm around his wife.

"Father, tells me you'd be willing to have a talk with the couple I met yesterday."

"I'll be happy to, Kanin, if you think it might help, but I'll want to check out whatever information they give me--through official channels." It was a warning of sorts. The empathy he'd obviously felt for these strangers would have to bow to the hard facts of her investigation.

Kanin nodded. "Nobody knows better than I do. Catherine, your faith in the system--or your fairness. I'll trust whatever judgment you make. Tomorrow I'll go up and look for them and tell them you're a friend of mine."

A visible shudder passed through Olivia's body. "I wish you never had to go up there again. It scares me. I always feel like you're never coming back."

"But I always do," he reminded her gently, planting a quick kiss on her forehead.

They drifted off, and Catherine smiled. "They're still so much in love."

"Yes."

Unaccountably, she found herself growing warm again and eager to escape. "Hey, Vincent, we'd better get started on that third section." That was Cullen already headed for the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine caught Mouse, laying a restraining hand on Cullen's arm, nodding toward them with exaggerated subtlety.

"Not Vincent, Cullen. Vincent has company. Vincent has Catherine."

"Hey--we've got a concrete slab that weighs a ton up there. Who's gonna put it in place--you?"

"Three of us," Mouse said obstinately. "Three of us can do it."

"Why should three of us risk a hernia when Vincent could flip it up there without breaking a sweat? It's not my fault that their big date got rained out."

Catherine felt her cheeks flush again. When had a weather report provoked such universal interest? Vincent had been studying the schematic still left on the table, and without looking up, he said. "I'll deal with the slab, Cullen, just as soon as I've seen Catherine safely back."

"Right. Come on, Mouse. Let's make ourselves useful."

Mary bundled the dress and the clean undergarments into a voluminous string bag and handed it to Catherine. "I enjoyed working on such a beautiful gown. It was quite a change from the clothes here."

"I think the clothes here are beautiful," Catherine returned with sincerity. "I think everything here is beautiful." She kissed the older woman's soft cheek. "Thank you, Mary."

"Have a nice walk back, and don't pay any attention to Cullen's bullying. You take your time, Vincent."

"Catherine," Father said, hobbling toward them, "I'm sorry your visit had to be so brief. Please . . . come back when you can stay longer."

"Oh, I'd like to stay . . . a lot longer," she said, fixing him with a steady gaze just long enough to see him wonder at its meaning. "I'll come back on Saturday to see about sorting out the library."

"Uh . . . yes, that would be very good of you. Good-night."

"You intend to organize the library?" Vincent asked, as they left the chamber. He took the bag from her, swinging it over his shoulder, his other hand reaching for hers.

"Yes. I offered to do that . . . and to bring some of my own books down for the children . . . and to speak to the couple who caught Kanin's interest."

He kept his eyes on the tunnel ahead as they made their way back along the familiar route. "Your own work is demanding. Are you sure you have the time?"

"We always have time for the things we love," she said cheerily. "I'm glad you made time for us tonight. Vincent, I can see it wasn't too convenient."

"Convenience seldom makes its way to the top of our priorities here. It's a concept that flourishes more in your world than in ours."

"You're right about that, but it's one of those overrated qualities--like luxury. When you think about it, it's relatively unimportant."

He glanced at her thoughtfully, but she only rewarded him with a sunny smile.

Usually, these moments when parting was so near were filled with things she wanted to tell him while she had the chance. They had never been at a loss for subjects to discuss. The most insignificant details of life took on a larger meaning when they talked about them together. Her most profound thoughts, locked away for years, seemed only to have been awaiting his sympathetic ear in order to spill out.

But suddenly the reality of her hand in his, demanded all her attention. It opened a conduct to memories of what his hands could do--how easily the poetic depths of his love had been communicated in this new way. How his hands had trembled--with the shock of discovery, the dictates of passion. And how they had moved unerringly to the beat of her own desire, sure and shattering and erotic.

She swallowed back the swell of remembered feeling as they reached the little room where the ladder waited, the iron path back to the city above.

"It's so strange, Vincent. When I'm coming to see you, this place seems magical--the portal to everything I've ever wished for and dreamed of, but when it's time to leave, it looks cold and depressing."

"Darkness and light together . . . as it must be in everything."

"Well, I have to admit," she smiled, slipping her arms around him, "in this case, it's mostly light. We've shared so many wonderful moments here together . . . it feels like it belongs to us."

"I'm sorry, Catherine, that there isn't a place more completely ours . . . someplace where we could be sure to be alone."

She knew what he meant. For all its endless labyrinths, the lovely spots where they had often shared each other's company--undisturbed, the tunnels by definition belonged to everyone who lived here. There was no place respected as theirs alone, and any effort to set one aside would no doubt give rise to considerable speculation.

"You know, in some ways this community is very much like any small town. I couldn't believe how quickly everyone found out that we got caught in the rain or how much interest that seemed to provoke."

"Even the children," he nodded "asked me to tell them the story of our night above. They seemed to see it as a fairy tale--someone from their own land, transported for one enchanted night to a faraway realm. They were eager for every detail."

"I hope you didn't give it to them."

"Even if I had wished to . . . there are no words."

"No . . . no words." They flowed together, naturally, their kiss alive with new significance and the memory of countless new sensations, eagerly waiting to be reborn. The loss of fear and doubt and uncertainty, so long companions of their passion, let desire rise with startling speed to take charge of her body, reminding every muscle, every nerve of the forbidden pleasure hovering just out of reach.

"Vincent," she gasped from the warm nest of hair where she had buried her face, "there is still one place where we could have complete privacy. We still have the balcony, and I know you've never been comfortable with the idea," she added, leaning back to look at him, "but my apartment is an obvious possibility."

"Catherine, when what seemed destined to remain a dream can become real--more real than anything I've ever known--the world seems suddenly filled with possibilities."

"I feel that, too," she smiled, wondering if he was about to suggest a couple, but when he didn't she returned to the one she'd mentioned. "I'm not sure I understand completely why you've always been so reluctant to go inside my apartment."

"It's a part of your world, Catherine," he said without hesitation, "yours alone. The balcony always seemed a place apart--from both our worlds."

"I thought that was it--only I wondered too, after we got so much closer, if maybe you were avoiding it because it was so private. Remember that time--with Laura--when I was hurt, and you took care of me? I wanted you there beside me, and you stayed, but you managed to put as much distance between us as you could."

"I was . . . uncomfortable," he admitted with a flash of admiration for her astuteness, though she felt his embarrassment as well. "There is a dream, Catherine--one I've had over and over again since we first met. I find myself alone in your apartment--in the darkness, and I . . . I wander through the rooms . . . looking, touching the things that belong to you." He met her eyes, suddenly apologetic. "I'm sorry."

She smiled, tilting her chin up, so she could look at him without relaxing the determined hold she was keeping around his waist. "There's no need to apologize for what we dream, remember? Besides, you haven't gotten to the best part--in my bedroom, when you turn and look at me." His expression sent her laughter pealing upward through the shaft of light. "Oh, Vincent, it's so hard to surprise you. I've seldom seen you look like that."

"Catherine, you have continually surprised me since the moment we met, but how did you--"

"Because it's my dream, too, and every time I have it, I hope that it will last a little longer, that this time something will really happen between us."

He nodded, "Before you vanish."

"Is that what happens? I've never known. Only . . . now if we wanted to, we could make it come true--with the kind of ending it deserves." The concept hung between them, tantalizing and seductive. "I will understand," she added, "if you'd rather keep that particular fantasy only in our dreams. We have so many others we can live. But the apartment's mine, and that makes it yours as well."

"I've stood on your balcony, Catherine . . . watched others from your world inside. Although it's your home, it has always seemed to me a gateway to the city beyond--to your friends, colleagues--even your enemies."

"Ah, but they don't hang out in my bedroom," she challenged. "That belongs only to me."

"As I do," he reminded her in the low, dulcet tones that always sent her heart into free fall. His eyes took command of the rest of her, and the next moment her mouth was hot and eager against his own.

It was some time later when she realized, he had effectively derailed her closing argument, and later still as she let herself into the apartment that she wondered if what she'd said was even true. Lately, it had seemed less a place that belonged to her in any real sense. Whatever affinity she had once felt for the carefully planned rooms had paled until she thought she might have been a tourist lucking upon a particularly nice hotel suite. Well, that wasn't true of the balcony, and it wouldn't be true of the bedroom either if he once decided to relent.

A few more hours spent together, unable to express the passion racing mercilessly through them, would probably tip the scales. Or would it be the time spent apart? She was still trying to decide which would be more likely to banish any consideration beyond being safely a