The Fire and The Rose (2)

Emerging from her shower, Catherine decided that she would never be ready in time unless she forced her mind to remain in the present. That was not an easy task, with so many vivid memories of the last six months to dwell on, and so many hidden hopes for the future that she guarded in her heart like seedlings still too fragile to be exposed to the outdoors. Constant vigilance was necessary, but she was successful enough that she was able to finish her preparations with time to spare. Eyeing herself critically in the mirror, she decided she made a passable Maid Marian, as long as she had Robin Hood beside her to suggest something beyond generic medieval. Early though she was, she left her apartment and headed Below. No sense sitting around getting the dress wrinkled; she could always spend extra time admiring the children's costumes ... Laughing at her feeble attempts to hide her real motivation Catherine swept down the hall to the elevator.

"Catherine--you are a vision." Father greeted her with a flourish as she entered his chambers.

"I know I'm early, Father, but I didn't want to just sit around my apartment," Catherine admitted. "Do you think Vincent will be ready soon?"

"I fear you may have quite a wait." Father shook his head. "Mouse insisted on helping Vincent don his 'getup,' as he puts it, so it should take at least twice as long as it would have otherwise."

Laughing, Catherine settled into a chair, arranging the voluminous skirts of the gown around her. "That's quite all right. It's nice to have time to visit with you, since you won't be coming to the party."

Father leaned forward in his chair. "I'm very glad Peter offered to have this party. I confess I feel better knowing Vincent will be there rather than on the streets, even on the one night he can be seen Above with some measure of safety." He sighed. "I suppose it was inevitable that he would begin to feel trapped Below, especially as he got older." Father rose to retrieve a teapot from his desk and offered some to Catherine. "I regret how often I blamed you for his restlessness. The truth is, his wanderings Above began well before he ever met you. He never would have found you in the first place if he hadn't been on one of his customary explorations."

"And I regret many of the arguments we've had about it in the past," Catherine told him. "Let's face it, you and I are both firmly wedged between a rock and a hard place. We love him, and want to keep him both safe and happy ... but as long as the world is as it is, and Vincent is what he is, there's no way he can be completely safe without shrinking his horizons more than he-or we-could bear." Catherine laughed ruefully and leaned back in her chair. "Today my boss accused me of being a witch. I wish I were, so I could solve the whole problem with magic."

"How would you do that?" Father asked her, intrigued. "Turn Vincent into a handsome Prince?"

"No!" Catherine cried. "I wouldn't change a hair on his head, or anywhere else. Vincent is the closest to perfect of any man I've ever met, or hope to. What I would do ... " Her voice turned wistful. "I'd change the world, so he could live in it without fear. Not only would it be good for Vincent, it would be a damn sight better world."

"O brave new world, that has such creatures in it," Father quoted softly.

"Well put. Vincent always claims Shakespeare knew everything." Catherine laughed. "Here we sit, rebuilding the universe to our order over cups of tea."

"For the present, at least, " Father smiled, "we shall have to do with Peter's party. It's really an excellent idea. It will make the older children feel very grown up and daring to go to a party Above."

"And Vincent can indulge his well-developed sense of responsibility chaperoning them with me, in an environment where everyone knows him. Just the children, some Helpers, and quite a few Tunnel 'alumni.' "

"You know, Catherine ..." Father fixed her with a steady gaze. "It really was remarkably fortuitous that Peter came up with the idea for this party. You and I were so concerned about ensuring Vincent's safety this year without making him feel too confined, and then this ideal solution presented itself Nothing like it ever occurred to Peter before."

"It's lucky he thought of it when he did," Catherine agreed innocently.

"If one had a suspicious nature one might question the source of his inspiration."

"How fortunate," Catherine responded with a smile, "that you don't have one."

As they talked of less consequential things, Catherine reflected that one positive result of recent events had been the deepening of her relationship with Father. Especially since Charles Chandler's death, Vincent's family had become more than ever her own. More than anyone else it was she and Father who suffered through Vincent's agonies, and their love and care that guided the long, slow healing throughout the summer and fall. Some of the wounds he suffered were so deep they might never heal completely, but Catherine was determined she would always be there whenever the scars plagued him with remembered pain. Catherine had spent more time with Father in those months than ever before. Many times, after Vincent had finally achieved sleep less troubled by vivid dreams, they would sit in the next room and talk softly far into the night. Father seemed to have decided Catherine had the right to know more about Vincent's past. He told her many stories of Vincent's long and often heartbreaking struggle to become the man they both loved more than any other.

As she learned more and more from Father, and as she reached her own conclusions about the meaning and possibilities of her problematic relationship with Vincent, Catherine began to understand how strongly Father's assumptions-not always conscious, not always well examined-influenced Vincent's view of himself. She began to ask questions of Father, as subtly as she knew how, that might lead him to question some of those assumptions. Perhaps, given a nudge in the right direction, Father might come to the same conclusions she had, or least be more receptive when she finally felt confident enough to articulate them.

"Maid Marian, Robin and his Merry Persons have finally arrived!" Catherine turned at the sound of Jamie's voice to behold a sight more glorious than ever graced Sherwood Forest.

"Vincent, you look magnificent!" she exclaimed in appreciation. "Jamie, Mouse, you've outdone yourselves. The costumes are wonderful."

"Mary helped sew," Mouse was forced to admit. "But Mouse helped Jamie with gizmos."

Catherine smiled at the thought of medieval "gizmos," but agreed the archery paraphernalia was beautiful as well as authentic. Jamie had insisted on making a bow that was suited to Vincent's stature. It was a work of art.

"Vincent's tunic is really too long," Jamie complained, "but he said if I made it any shorter he'd refuse to wear the tights."

Clearly uncomfortable with this discussion of hosiery in front of Catherine, Vincent hastily suggested they should go find the younger children right away. He wanted to read the first round of ghost stories before turning the task over to Father. Since Jamie and Mouse were clearly eager to show off their handiwork, Catherine acquiesced with good grace and tried not to mourn the loss of the shorter tunic too much. Patience was, after all, a virtue. She reminded herself that the Grand Canyon had started as a humble stream bed.


* * *


"Vincent," Catherine exclaimed with satisfaction, "I would say this party is a rousing success."

Vincent emphatically agreed. "I've never seen Mouse act so..."

"Civilized?" Catherine suggested.

"I was about to say, mature," Vincent admonished her as he slipped an arm around her velvet-clad shoulders.

"Of course you were," Catherine replied without conviction as she leaned contentedly into his embrace. She let her gaze drift around the room, enjoying the variety of costumes and people. "I'm so happy Michael is doing well," Catherine said fervently. "I may never forgive myself for being so blind about him; I should have realized what was happening. I caused him so much pain ... "

"Catherine, stop." Vincent admonished her. "You can hardly hold yourself at fault for the natural course of adolescent hormones. The most innocent actions can seem like cosmic transgressions at that age."

"But he felt so guilty about it ... " Catherine stole a careful glance at Vincent's face.

"A guilt quite disproportionate to the nature of the offense. As if loving you could be considered an offense."

As Vincent smiled down at her tenderly, Catherine began to find it increasingly difficult to give this conversation the concentration it deserved. Turning her face reluctantly back to the room, Catherine kept her voice casual. "Michael is so sensitive ... I hope he's been able to put the whole thing into perspective."

"He talked to me about it more than once," Vincent informed her. "I think I was able to help him see that he was blaming himself unduly."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Vincent," Catherine said with satisfaction. "Very glad." She turned to him and smiled."And now, good Robin, may I have this dance?"

It was well after midnight by the time the Tunnel contingent had been rounded up and escorted Below by their sympathetic but implacable chaperons. It was several hours after that before Catherine reluctantly agreed it was time to go home, while she was still conscious enough to climb the ladder to her building. She and Vincent walked very slowly along the familiar route.

"Vincent ... " Catherine asked uncertainly, "did you mind too much that we didn't spend the whole night Above like we have before? It's so unfair, when it's the one night a year that we can do that, but the children did enjoy the party so much ..."

"And, coincidentally, it was much safer for me." Vincent looked at Catherine with a raised eyebrow. "How nice that Peter's alternative presented itself so ... fortuitously."

There's that word again, Catherine thought. "Perhaps Peter did have an ulterior motive." She tried with all her might to project feelings of total innocence. "He is very fond of you, and Father. He's concerned for your welfare."

"And yours as well," Vincent pointed out. "Catherine, of course I would have preferred to spend the night Above with you again, but it's too dangerous for me to be seen in your company. After the events of last spring it would be too great a risk. Too many people might make the same connections Spirko did." His voice became rough with pain. "It would have been bad enough before. People in your world might have regarded me mostly as a freak. Now they would view me only as a dangerous killer. Which, of course, I am."

Catherine stopped and, pulling with all her strength, turned a startled Vincent around to face her. "Vincent, don't you dare talk about yourself that way!" Her voice held equal parts of pain and fury. "You have never killed anyone that wasn't trying to kill you at the time, or me, or someone you loved!"

"And what of Paracelsus, Catherine?" Vincent asked her roughly. "You were there. You saw. I killed an unarmed man in anger."

"You killed a man who was trying to destroy you, using words as his weapon. Oh, I admit that would be the hardest to justify in court, especially to anyone who didn't know Paracelsus." The hatred in her voice startled her as much as it did Vincent. "I have never known anyone so thoroughly evil as that man. He was a conscienceless murderer many times over, including of his own wife. He was a master of manipulation who could have driven a saint to kill!"

"Still, it was I who did kill him, Catherine ..."

"Vincent!" She was almost shouting in frustration and anger. "Don't you think anyone else wouldn't have killed him, given the chance? William? Jamie? Me? Don't think any one of us wouldn't. But as usual, it was you who got to do the dirty work-despite the pain it brings you. How can your people keep doing this to you?" She was almost in tears.

Vincent pulled her close to him, and she buried her face in his neck, trying to regain some measure of calm. "Catherine," he admonished softly, "do you think you're being fair? It has always been my choice to make."

Catherine clung to him for a long moment, then stepped back enough to see his face. "Vincent, what would they do if you didn't exist?" Her voice broke a little at the mere contemplation of such a possibility, but she plunged on. "They'd have to do things for themselves. What I'm trying to say is, what you've done is no different from what anyone else would. You just get stuck doing it more often because you're better at it. Like the 'artistic' kid in school who always ends up doing the bulletin board."

"Catherine, the two are hardly comparable." They resumed their walk toward her building, hands tightly clasped.

Catherine's tone was very serious. "Vincent, you attribute so many things to your difference-even if there are other, simpler explanations. Lately I've been thinking how hard it must have been for Father, how heartbreaking, to curb a child's natural trust and fearless curiosity. He had to stress your differences to keep you safe; I don't see what else he could have done. But sometimes I think he did his work too well."

"You can hardly deny I am different." Vincent drew their hands up in front of them as if to emphasize that difference.

Catherine drew his hand toward her to kiss his fingers. "No, I can't deny that," she admitted softly. "But most of that is a difference of degree, not of kind. Great power brings great responsibility. You've had a harder battle than most, because you are so powerful. Your responsibility is a terrible burden, but you've borne it in a way that no one else could. Killing to defend yourself or those you love is something anyone would do. Including me."

"What of the times my power has been used to hurt those I love, not defend?"

"Are you thinking of Lisa?" Catherine's voice was very quiet.

"Yes. And Father, the time I broke his arm. When I was under the influence of Paracelsus' drug."

"Let's take the last case first." Catherine slipped into her lawyer mode. She needed something to keep away the tide of feelings that would overwhelm her, given the least chance. "If you had taken the drug on purpose, with your strength, that would have been reprehensible. You would be responsible for the consequences of unleashing unpredictable and potentially deadly power without control-like a drunk driver. But you didn't take it on purpose; you didn't even know what was happening to you until it was too late. The responsibility for what happened is all on Paracelsus' head."

"Perhaps that wasn't a good example," Vincent conceded, "since an outside force was involved. But what of Lisa? Only I was responsible for what happened to her. My failure of control. My selfishness."

Catherine steeled herself against the pain and bitterness in his voice. She had to keep alert; what followed might be the most important words she would ever say. "All right," she said carefully. "Let's look at that. How old were you when it happened? Sixteen? Seventeen"

"I had just turned seventeen."

"And Lisa was even younger, right?"

"Yes."

"So ... two adolescents with all those overwhelming hormones and a background of near-total innocence. I get the impression that sex education was not Father's forte...hardly surprising considering when he grew up. I expect he hoped that if the issue was ignored it wouldn't arise. I'll bet he didn't prepare you at all well for what you were feeling, at least in any way specific enough to be of much help."

"I ... I suppose it could be seen that way," Vincent admitted reluctantly. "But I think neither Father nor I believed it could ever become an issue for me."

"Which supports my contention that you've always given too much weight to your differences." Catherine waited for a moment, but Vincent was silent. "Vincent," she continued, "You've obviously assumed two things. First, that Lisa pulled away from fear or disgust directed towards you, personally-because of your difference-and that you held on because you were overwhelmed with selfish desires you couldn't control."

"And wasn't it true?" Vincent asked hoarsely. "It happened. I hurt her."

"Vincent, what happened between you and Lisa could have happened between any two people your age. Lisa wasn't afraid of you, she was afraid of a whole new and frightening world of sex and desire. That's pretty powerful stuff, Vincent." Catherine fought to keep her voice impersonal. She was treading on dangerous ground, approaching the place of his greatest fear. "Any large, strong male would be frightening to someone as unprepared as Lisa was. And you were even less prepared. You'll never know what would have happened if Lisa hadn't panicked. I'm sure you've always assumed the worst, but for all you know she could have gotten through to you if she'd kept her head a little longer. Please don't think I'm blaming her, it wasn't her fault any more than it was yours. But the truth is you'll don't really know how that would have ended. You've been castigating yourself for half your life on the basis of a possibility, attaching more significance to the whole thing than Lisa herself ever did. Do you remember our talk about Michael?"

Vincent lifted his bowed head in confusion. "Michael?"

"Yes, Michael. What happened between him and me was different in degree, not in kind. The way he hung on to me, if he'd had claws I'd have scars on my back right now. You refuse to let him condemn himself for that, nor should you. Why are you so hard on yourself?"

Vincent stopped dead in his tracks. "I ... I never looked at it in that way before. Perhaps ..."

Catherine wondered if she really saw the distant glimmer of understanding in his eyes, or was deluded by her own hope. "Perhaps?"

Vincent took her hands, but was reluctant to look at her. "Catherine ... dear Catherine ... I admit my fear is all the greater because it is a fear of the unknown. To risk myself is easy for me, perhaps too easy. To risk you ... I could not live with myself if I ever harmed you. Your love for me is the most precious thing in my life, more precious than my life." His voice shook with emotion as his hands entwined with hers. "I know you have great faith in our bond. I know I have always told you to follow your heart, but I am afraid to trust my own in this. How can I know if it tells me truth, or what I so desperately want to hear?"

"I understand, Vincent," she reassured him. "If you're afraid to listen to your heart, then, what about listening to your head? I've been thinking ... thinking a lot lately about the times you've come to save me, to protect me. I've developed a theory about it. I'd like your opinion."

As she had hoped, her words brought him a little out of his pain. The look he gave her was dubious, but intrigued. "What theory?"

Catherine breathed a silent prayer that she could find exactly the right words. "From what I've seen, and heard from others, your control is much easier when I'm not directly threatened. Those people that were after Lin and Henry-you dealt with them like a soldier who's doing something he may hate doing, but that has do be done. You did what you had to do efficiently, intelligently. With those outsiders, you were able to hold back even when they were threatening Mary and Father; you held back until they gave you no choice. And even then, you didn't really begin to ... lose yourself at all until they found me. It's only when I'm being directly threatened that your control slips, like it did with Stephen... "

"Catherine, that still haunts my dreams. I didn't need to kill him to save you, but I would have if you hadn't stopped me..."

"But that's just it, Vincent, I was able to stop you. I've always been able to stop you." Her voice was almost shaking with the strength of her conviction. "Like I did when you were lost after Paracelsus drugged you. Like I did when you ran away from us all into the dark. I've always been able to pull you back from the brink, haven't I, even when no one else could?"

"Yes," Vincent whispered. His eyes were fixed on her face, and his whole soul was in them.

Catherine gently touched his sleeve. "Vincent, don't you find it curious that I seem to be the one that can trigger the greatest rage in you, and am also the one that seems to able to bring you out of it?"

"I never realized it before ... perhaps there is a pattern in it ... but what could it possibly mean?" His longing to understand was almost palpable.

"When we were going through that terrible time with Spirko, I told Father I was afraid that I was putting myself in danger because I knew you would come to me."

"Catherine!" Vincent was horrified. "How can you think such a thing? You would never ..."

"Not on purpose, not consciously, anyway." Catherine admitted. "But in the dark depths of the mind ... I had a dream, you know, not long after Paracelsus' death. I dreamed of all the times you'd killed for me, and then I dreamed of fire. Two kinds of fire-volcanoes, forest fires-the kind that kills, destroys. But I also dreamed of the kind that gives life, like sunshine, or hearthfire."

Vincent seemed confused at her change of direction. "Catherine, I don't understand ..."

"Neither did I, at first. Then I realized it was telling me that fire is an impersonal power, that can be used equally well for creation or destruction."

Vincent's reply was thoughtful. "That is true of most things. Fire, water, even tools ... "

"Or our own passions. You and I have a great deal of passion in us, Vincent." She felt the hand she held tense suddenly and then relax as if by an effort of will. "Passion isn't something good or bad. Like fire, it's a power that can express itself in many ways. Some people have a passion for justice, or a passion for God; some have a passion for death that can only be fulfilled in war."

They had reached the entrance to her building. Catherine turned her eyes to the shaft of light, not daring to look at Vincent. "There's a lot of passion between us, Vincent, but we've prevented it from seeking its most creative outlet. You won't let yourself use it to love me, only to kill for me. And I let you, because I want, because I need that passion so much. I give you opportunities to demonstrate your love for me in the only way we've allowed ourselves. We've chosen Thanatos over Eros, without realizing what we've been doing."

Risking a look at Vincent's face, Catherine had no need to ask what he thought. He looked stunned, stricken. His eyes held hers, beseeching. "Catherine, I ... I don't know what to say."

"I don't want you to say anything," she told him gently. "Just think about what I've said. It took me a lot of very ... painful self-examination to work it out; I don't expect you to take it in all at once. Just think about it. Maybe ... maybe what you think is a problem is really the solution." She turned her face to the light, then back to Vincent. "It's late, you should go back to your chamber ... we're both dead on our feet." She carefully refrained from touching him. "Take care, Vincent." Her voice was almost a whisper.

Vincent looked at her a long time, leaning against the wall as if he might forget to stand upright without its help. He nodded slowly. "Take care, Catherine. Good night."

Climbing the ladder to her building, Catherine wondered if she would have the strength to make it to the top. She found herself in the elevator, hardly knowing how she had gotten there. Leaning against the wall, almost weeping with exhaustion, she realized she had just delivered the summation in the most important case she would ever argue in her life. All her seeds had been sown. All she could do now was wait--and hope as she had never hoped before.


* * *

Part Three

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