THE WHISPER PASSES

by JoAnn Baca and Jo Fredericks

Author’s Note: This story is rated PG until the final few pages when the rating switches to R.

…And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand
The magic of the breeze’s breath that set their hearts aglow…

 

Andrew Barton Paterson – The Wind’s Message

It could be a scamp – impish, playful, harmlessly irritating. It could be a temptress – teasing, ruffling hair, insinuating itself inside the most tightly bound clothing. It could be a bludgeon – howling, whipsawing, staggering even the strongest person. The wind Below had a personality, just as the darkness did. It was friend to some, enemy to others. It was beneficent at times…at times, a demon. One learned to respect it, or at least to make peace with it, when one lived Below. And it sometimes was more in tune with the harbingers that fed Narcissa’s bones and shells than anyone realized….

***

Cullen nervously waited for Rebecca to finish her lunch, then jumped up as she rose so that they might “accidentally” meet at the dining chamber exit.

“After you, pretty lady,” he said, sweeping one arm before him as he bowed, indicating she should precede him into the passageway.

Rebecca smiled and her eyebrows rose in surprise. She was not accustomed to men noticing her anymore. Long past the ingénue stage, she had assumed the cloak of invisibility that single women of her age seemed to wear where men were concerned. She was used to being looked past or through, not…at.

“Thank you!” she replied. Cullen’s gallant action had just made her day.

He fell into step beside her. “Back to the salt mines?”

“If you mean the chandlery…yes. I’m trying to get a head start on the Winterfest candles. I know I say that every year, but somehow I don’t ever get them done in good time. One year the wicks weren’t set properly and the candles wouldn’t burn well, so I had to re-make them, and another year one of my helpers decided to add scent to the candles and she added too much and it caused an oily residue to form, and …” She realized she was babbling, and cut herself off before her companion made a quick exit.

“And?” he urged.

Astonished that he was interested, she added, “And…problems seem to always crop up, and so I usually have to rush to finish them. I’m determined to have them done far in advance this year.” Well, that kind of scintillating revelation was sure to dissuade him from continuing to chat with her…since it was all she had to offer in the way of conversation.

Cullen placed one hand tentatively on her forearm to get her complete attention.

“I happen to have some downtime right now. Happy to help.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. It was a messy job, and few Tunnel dwellers were eager to get stuck learning the chore. She loved it, but she had come to realize that few others did. “Really? Well…sure! Absolutely! Everything’s set up, and I can show you how to dip the colors, and… Thank you, Cullen!”

He inclined his head, nodding. “Lead on!”

***

In truth, Cullen was one of the many Tunnel dwellers not eager to learn this particular skill – the reward for a job well done was to be tasked with it in perpetuity – but he wanted to get closer to Rebecca, and this was the surest way to do it. So he gamely learned the rudiments of candle-making, and by dinner-time he had managed to turn out adequate Winterfest candles…if one didn’t look too closely or with too critical an eye. But Rebecca was pleased, and that was what mattered most to Cullen.

He had not been interested in another woman since his wife Betty’s passing. That pain – soul-deep – was with him still. But time had slowly softened the edges of it, and, for some reason, a few weeks ago, when he’d looked at the very familiar face of Rebecca, he had somehow “seen” her for the first time.

He had watched her interacting with others at mealtimes and at gatherings and, without conscious thought, his notice had graduated to fascination. It had surprised him, since physical attraction wasn’t what mattered most to him in finding a woman interesting. It played a part, yes, and Rebecca was definitely a lovely woman. But he wanted…needed…to get to know her as a person, to find out if he was attracted to her mind and heart as well as to her face and form. For that, he was willing to singe his fingers on wax and stand hip-deep in candle-making equipment.

As it turned out, as he got to know her, he found that he really, really liked her.

***

Rebecca couldn’t figure out why Cullen was being so solicitous. She had known the man for four years, and he had never spared her more than an occasional “Good morning” or casual nod.

She had been put off when he had first come Below by his sarcastic comments and his abrupt manner. But over time she had learned something of his background – secrets could not be kept for long in the Tunnels – and had come to realize that his pain ran deep. If he couldn’t channel it all into his work, as she did her own, then she couldn’t fault him too much for letting it out in other ways. Pain had to work itself through somehow.

Now, after having worked with him all afternoon, she had learned something new about Cullen: he was a good companion. A quick learner, he had taken on some of the drudge work and didn’t need much supervision, allowing her to focus on the part of her craft which required more finesse; between them, they had accomplished a lot. And through it all, he had entertained her with silly jokes and funny stories about his youthful indiscretions Above. She had – almost – been reluctant to leave her workroom when they heard the pipe code announcing that the evening meal was being served.

***

Over the next weeks, Cullen often found “extra” time to volunteer in the chandlery. With his help, the Winterfest candles were soon completed and stored, and Rebecca focused once more on making the plain candles which were burned in such great numbers by her Tunnel family every day.

“Need help today, ‘Becca?” Cullen grinned as he leaned against the entryway to her workroom.

She smiled and blew at a stray curl that had come loose from under a scarf. “I can’t afford to hire you full-time,” she said, laughing. “Don’t you have your own work to do?”

She’d meant it as a joke, but by the hurt look on Cullen’s face, she could see he hadn’t taken it as one. He stiffened and straightened, nodded curtly, and left without another word.

“Cullen! Wait!” She hastened to the doorway. But he had fled so quickly down the passageway that he was already gone.

At lunch, Cullen wasn’t in attendance. Rebecca went in search of him, but his chamber was unoccupied, his workroom empty. Perhaps he had sentry duty? She felt uncomfortable asking others about him, so she made her way back to the chandlery, her heart heavy. Even though it was inadvertent, she had hurt the man’s feelings, and after he had done so much to help her. She wanted to set things right with him as soon as possible. He was so clever and funny, in ways she had never seen him reveal before. And his presence had made her days fly by.

Thinking about him occupied her as she went about her afternoon. Why was one small misunderstanding having such an impact on her emotionally? She only needed to apologize to the man; he was an adult, he would accept it. He might even have forgotten the brief unpleasantness between them by now.

She began doing what she rarely had time for: creating scented candles in unusual shapes to give as gifts at Winterfest. It was personal work, and thus necessarily at the bottom of her to-do list, no matter how much pleasure she got from it.

How often had she stayed up into the wee hours, exhausting herself around the holidays, because she just had not been able to carve out the time needed for this purely non-essential candle-making? Now, caught up on her other obligations, she was able to devote the afternoon to it. As the hours before dinner ticked away, and although she was enjoying the freedom to spend this “found” time on her holiday gifts, she could not help but continue to feel guilty about Cullen. His capable and willing assistance over the past weeks had made this afternoon possible. The dear man.

That description brought her up short. Was he, in fact, a dear man? He could be brash and even difficult at times…but when he was with her, he had revealed a softer side. He had been so solicitous, and really…kind of…sweet. She blushed just thinking about him…which caused her to pause in her work for a moment. Her heart was beating fast, and it had nothing to do with how hard she had just been working. It was…because of him?

Rebecca sat on the stool beside her work table and leaned an arm on the rough wood, cupping her chin in her hand. What’s going on here? His face in her mind’s eye, she began to evaluate him separate from the work he had done – just as…a man.

As her inner gaze lingered on his lean face and his long, unkempt hair, her smile widened. She liked the looks of him, she realized with some surprise. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was attractive. And he was fun to talk to. And he was interested in what she had to say. And…she liked him. A lot. A whole lot, if she was being honest with herself.

She felt even worse, suddenly, knowing she had somehow insulted him and run him off. He had dropped his usual guard and opened up to her. And how had she responded? She had hurt his feelings.

Now he probably wouldn’t want to open up to her again. Men like Cullen – men who pretended they were tough and independent – didn’t often give second chances. She had learned that with her father and with the boys she had been attracted to as a young woman.

She must have a type, she decided: guys who are hard to get to know and harder to get interested. And she had just blown it with someone who she belatedly understood could have been more to her, one she wanted to become more to her. And all because she was socially inept and didn’t know how to talk to him.

She made a fist with her free hand and gently knocked herself on the forehead. Stupid…stupid…stupid.

When dinnertime came and went and Cullen still hadn’t made an appearance, Rebecca wasn’t surprised to find tears stinging her eyes. She had to admit that his feelings were important to her, and in a way that was different than the feelings of others. She loved everyone Below, and she wanted them all to be happy. But that was an abstract thing – their happiness was not her personal goal. Yet Cullen being unhappy made her unhappy too, and she took it personally.

Ruminating on these thoughts, Rebecca entered her chamber, pulling her shawl more tightly around herself as she noticed a breeze stirring in the tunnels.

***

Cullen had been stung that morning by what he felt was a rebuff from Rebecca. It had caused him to retreat and make himself scarce. If she didn’t want his help, he sure wouldn’t impose himself on her anymore. But after an hour of harboring what he felt was righteous indignation, he realized how childish it was. When he thought back over it, he recognized that she had only been trying to joke with him.

Drat! Now he felt like a total idiot. He couldn’t face her, not for a while. She must think he was a big baby.

Quickly, he traded sentry rotations with a couple of others so he could be away from the Hub for the rest of the day, figuring that was the easiest way to avoid her. He’d had to backtrack to his chamber on his way to his first duty station, though, to pick up a heavier cloak – there was a breeze stirring that felt like it might pick up a bit, and the last thing he wanted was to be uncomfortable and shivering while sitting stationary for hours. He grabbed his staff, as well – he had begun carving the handle and thought he might get some of that done to fend off boredom.

But even with the carving to occupy him, sentry duty afforded him too much time to think, and all he kept doing was mentally kicking himself over ruining his relationship with the first woman in years that he actually felt comfortable talking with.

And it really wasn’t just that, he had to admit to himself, even if he couldn’t bring himself to tell Rebecca. She had made him happy. Which was something he hadn’t been in too long to recall.

Oh, he’d been content enough. He was grateful for the solace and comforts of the world Below as only someone who had lived a few perilous years on the streets could be. His life was filled with meaningful labor, his stomach was always full, and he had a sheltering place to call home. Contentment – after the tragedy he had endured, after the loss of Betty, of…everything – was not something to take lightly.  But true happiness – the kind that raised a smile on his face for no reason, that gave a lift to his step and an anticipation for the coming day – that had been elusive.

Until now. Until the time he had spent dunking strings into vats of wax as Rebecca had nodded with approval. Until her laugh had pierced his heart. Until her voice became the one he sought above all others.

Late that night, Cullen tramped home through silent tunnels, glad for the heavy cloak. The light breeze of earlier in the day had turned into a steadier draft that occasionally blew the hem of his cloak around his legs as he walked.

He met no one on his trek homeward. The other residents of the Hub were all snugged into their beds, sleeping the sleep of the hardworking.

His restless mind belied the exhaustion of his body. It would not stop the endless looping thoughts of Rebecca.

Was he in love with her?

The suddenness with which his mind had leapt to that question caused him to stumble as he trudged wearily to his chamber. He stopped for a moment, although swaying on his feet.

Was it love?

Love…

His tired mind lifted that word up, turned it, poked it, assessed it. Clarity woke in him as the response echoed from mind to heart, the rightness of it filling places in him that he had thought long dead. Exhaustion fled as the answer became a whisper on his lips.

Yes.

As he entered his chamber, Cullen set his staff aside, then made directly for the battered desk in which he kept the few remnants of his time Above, all he had managed to salvage and carry with him. From the center drawer he withdrew a scuffed and smudged manila envelope that held a few precious photographs, his marriage certificate, and several letters and notes. With trembling hands, he slid its contents onto the desktop, fingering the photos as he gazed with suddenly tear-filled eyes at the wife he had lost years ago, his wonderful Betty.

The pang in his heart would always be there but, as if she spoke to him now, he felt a ghostly whisper in his ear: There is room for one more.

Or perhaps it was just the wind.

He set the snapshots aside and unfolded one particular slip of paper; written on it was something he knew by heart but suddenly wanted to read again. It was the only poem he had ever penned, and it was pretty bad, but it was something Betty had loved so much, he had kept it even when so much else in his life had to be abandoned.

As sweet as life can be,
You make it sweeter still.
I’m happy as a clam
Because my heart you fill.
So be my Valentine
Now and in years to come.
My heart belongs to you.
This poem’s pretty dumb.
But if you know my heart
You know my meaning’s clear:
You are the one I love,
So love me back, my dear.

Cullen

He shook his head, as he always did, at the clumsy attempt to be a romantic soul. That just wasn’t him. But he had made his sweet Betty smile, and that was all he had cared about.

The exhaustion he’d held off now returned. Once more feeling bone-tired, he folded the poem and set it atop the photos on the desk. He stumbled over to his bed and sat heavily, toed his work boots off, wrapped himself in his cloak, and in moments was fast asleep.

The breeze from the tunnel passageway blew into Cullen’s chamber. The note containing his poem fluttered off the desk. The wind caught it, flipping it over several times and eventually nudging it out into the passageway. There, the gusts were getting stronger. It was blown down the passage and lifted to twirl at head height for several yards before it was flung into a curve in the tunnel. The note abruptly twisted with the light impact and began to fall. But just as it settled at ground level, it was pushed along by the heady breeze up one passageway and down another, tapping lightly against the rock walls, sometimes flapping upwards to hit the ceiling as it made a slow, zigzag journey through the Hub.

One particularly strong gust carried the slip of paper into Rebecca’s chamber and deposited it on her pillow. She turned in her sleep and huddled deeper beneath her bedclothes, her face mere inches from the poem.

***

Cullen rose late, missing breakfast. While he yawned and stretched, his gaze took in the photos and documents he had looked through before bed. He’d meant to return them to their envelope but exhaustion had claimed him first, and now they were scattered across his desk. As he collected them, he realized the poem was missing.

That breeze last night…

A frantic search of his chamber and the passageway outside confirmed the worst. It was gone. His heart sank – even though he knew it by heart, the written version had been one of the few tangible reminders of his life Above, and of the relationship that had defined him for so long. He had been thoughtless about leaving the poem out and now it was lost.

Sighing, he washed up and headed for the dining chamber, checking the ground for the note along the way. He hoped that at least the coffee pot wasn’t empty, even if the food might be gone.

***

It was turning out to be a very bad day.

Lost note. No coffee. And William had been serving his favorite muffins…but the last of them had been snatched up moments before Cullen had appeared.

At least that darned breeze had died down.

Grumbling, Cullen stalked out of the dining chamber, headed for…he didn’t know where. Just…away.

His dark mood blinded him to where his feet were taking him. When he finally lifted his head to figure out if he was now lost on top of being hungry and thirsty, he found himself at the entrance to the chandlery.

His frown smoothed out as he took in the scent of melted wax. When had THAT become an enticing aroma? Then he remembered that he had left this chamber in a huff just yesterday morning, and he was unlikely to be welcomed back anytime soon after being an ass and not apologizing.

Hoping he hadn’t been seen yet and could make an unobserved departure, he began to back away. But the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps halted his progress. He steeled himself to face the music…only to feel 120 pounds of woman thrown against him and wrapping her arms around him!

Startled, Cullen staggered a bit, then finally caught his balance. Since the woman in question wasn’t showing signs of pulling away, he mentally shrugged his shoulders and decided to wrap his arms around her in turn.

Rebecca felt good there, within the circle of his embrace. Right. He breathed in the scent of candlewax and her shampoo, and his dark mood melted away as if yesterday’s breeze had carried it off.

“’Becca?” he finally asked. “You OK?” He couldn’t imagine what had gotten into her…not that he was complaining.

She pulled back a little, her eyes shining and a smile lifting her cheeks into dimples. “Oh, yes!”

Confused, he responded, somewhat flatly, “Well…good. That’s good.”

Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit, as if expecting a different reaction, and her smile faltered just a little. “I got the poem,” she said, almost defensively.

“You did.” He nodded matter-of-factly. This conversation wasn’t getting any clearer to him, but he wasn’t going to make the mistake he had yesterday, so he probed a bit, hoping for illumination. “The poem that…?”

“The poem that you left on my pillow.”

When he continued to look confused, Rebecca stiffened in his arms and began to pull away.

“Hold on, hold on!” He didn’t want to force her to stay pressed against him, but he hoped he could persuade her not to pull back entirely. He really enjoyed having her this close.

“Of course! The poem.” He shook his head. “I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’m a little out of it this morning.” He hoped that would pacify her while he puzzled this out. The only poem he knew anything about was…

Oh, lordy.

The poem he had last seen lying on his desk. Had to be!

The poem he had written for his wife nearly twenty years ago.

The poem that he had thought was lost this morning.

It had somehow found its way into Rebecca’s chamber.

Holy cr…!

She was eyeing him speculatively, and he could sense her gathering herself to take another step back…away from him.

“Did you mean it, or was that just your idea of a joke?”

Everything he had thought about yesterday came back to him in a rush. All the weird coincidences in the world couldn’t account for the situation in which he now found himself. So…perhaps the Universe was trying to ram something into his hard head. This was Rebecca, happy to have gotten that silly-ass poem. Delighted, and in a hugging mood. Maybe what that dead white guy had said was right: What is past is prologue.

The answer to her question was a surprisingly easy one…and a truth he realized even as he spoke his next words.

“I meant it, ‘Becca…with all my heart,” he replied, this time with as much enthusiasm as he could put behind his words.

Her answering smile filled his heart.

The kiss they shared warmed them both, despite the breeze that swirled around them for a brief moment before it faded away.

***

Mary pressed her lips to the folded note, a fervent prayer sealing it more firmly than the glue on the old envelope into which she had slipped it.

She amazed herself with her courage. After all these years, after pining after the man, after waiting in vain for him to notice her as something more than an efficient pair of hands, a calmer of childish tears, a smoother of waters – she had finally, finally, decided to tell him how she felt about him.

Turning sixty had forced the realization that life went on whether you liked it or not, that time passed that you couldn’t recover. The day she blew out her birthday candle, huddled alone in her chamber long past lights out – for nobody Below knew her birthdate or day except herself – she had made the decision to act on the wish she’d been making for nearly twenty years. If it was ever going to happen, she had to make it happen.

The letter had been finished tonight after countless false starts; all those earlier efforts were burned in the brazier in her chamber, for fear someone might read them if she merely threw them into the trash bin. Her plan was simple: she would place the note on Jacob’s night table, where he was sure to see it and no one else was likely to. Then…she would wait.

She recalled its contents, committed to memory after so many drafts to get the words just right…

Dearest Jacob,

How many times have I wished to say these words to you? And how many times have I failed in courage? That‘s why I’m writing to you now, to let you know how I feel, and to give you the chance to consider what I now confess.

I love you, Jacob. I have loved you for a long, long time. Through years of working together, of confiding in each other, of good times and lean times here Below. We are neither of us getting any younger, and before time seals our lips for eternity, I wanted to let you know how I feel.

I suspect my confession isn’t a complete surprise to you. And although you have never hinted at your own feelings for me, I hope my own admission will make it easier for you to broach the subject.

I don’t wish to make things awkward between us, however. Although I hope and pray that you return my feelings, I cannot be sure of that. So this is what I suggest – think about what I have confided to you.

My love, my heart – they are yours. I would give all of myself to you, if you just let me know you would welcome me.

If you love me in return, let me know.

If you don’t, let us pretend as if this letter never was sent to you. I will understand if you never speak of this to me…but oh, how I live in hope that you do!

I will close by saying that, no matter what your feelings for me, I will love you always, to my dying day. I want you to know that. I have lived too long with that love silent in my heart – no more.

Can we not be a comfort to each other in our last years, Jacob? Tell me, please, if we can!

Mary

Nearly silent in her soft leather boots, Mary approached Father’s bedchamber. The passageway was chillier than usual – a slight breeze was carrying the scent of the river through the tunnels, as it sometimes did when a rainstorm was building Above.

She knew his schedule to the second, as the man was a creature of habit. At this time of day, he would be in the Library, teaching a geometry class to the middle-schoolers. It was safe to enter his bedchamber, even though she had disguised the real purpose of her visit by carrying in freshly laundered shirts for his wardrobe. Those she placed neatly on a shelf, then turned to his bed. She sighed at the poorly made state of it – Jacob was neat enough, but he never got the making of his bed right.

A few quick flicks of the comforter and the plumping of his pillows gave her a satisfaction that belied the routine nature of the activity…and one hand lingered on his pillow, fingers trailing across it as she thought of the man whose head lay upon it each night.

Perhaps, very soon, her head would join his on the accompanying pillow, and these blankets would warm them both. She closed her eyes and imagined, just for a moment, how wonderful that would be.

Pulling herself out of her reverie, her hand slipped into the pocket of her apron. She fingered the letter – the repository of all her hopes and dreams for so many years – and gently placed it upright against the lantern that sat upon an end table by the bed.

She walked to the entrance and looked back. Satisfied that the note was quite visible, she sighed, sent up a silent prayer, and exited.

***

Half an hour after Mary had left the note, Father entered the passageway leading to his bedchamber. He was focused on the Council meeting to come; he wanted to review his notes to ensure he recalled each point he planned to raise.

The gentle breeze that had filtered down from Above was stronger now, lowering the temperature to a coolness that had him subconsciously clutching his sweater a bit closer to his body.

He neared his chamber entrance just as a gust stronger than usual blew in from behind. It ruffled his crisp curls as it pushed ahead of him. The candle in the small lantern he carried blew out. It was an irritant, but he had another by his bed. He knew his way in the darkness well enough that the few steps left between where he was and the matches he kept by his bedside would not be difficult to traverse.

As he reached the nightstand, the back of his hand brushed against something unexpected. He pulled his hand back just as the note, knocked aside by the pressure of his reaching hand, twirled freely on one edge. The breeze that had harried Father down the tunnelway gusted again, causing the dislodged envelope to topple from the nightstand. It fluttered in the disturbed air, pushed backwards by the pressure of the wind, until it landed atop a nearby bookcase. There the note rested.

As Father fumbled the match into light and reached for his lantern, one final burst of cool air blew through the chamber…upending the note and sending it from the top of the bookcase down into the chasm between it and the chamber wall. The sound it made as it landed was lost in the brief sigh Father exhaled after lighting the candle in the lantern.

He looked around, recalling he had bumped into something in the darkness. There was nothing out of place. He used the tip of his cane to raise the comforter and bent down to look under his bed, then scanned the floor, the bedclothes, and the pillows, trying to find what it was he had touched in the darkness. But he found nothing out of the ordinary.

Jacob shrugged to himself. It was probably just my imagination. He searched his cluttered bookshelf for his notes for the Council meeting, then turned to go.

***

Mary smiled in anticipation when Father entered the Council meeting. Her heart leapt as he smiled at her, but faltered as he turned his smile to the others assembled there. He said nothing to her privately as he sat down beside her before calling the room to order. Nor during the meeting. Nor after it.

Dinnertime came and went, and he paid no more attention to her than on any other day. Still hopeful, she took pains to dress in her nicest nightgown before going to sleep that night, thinking that perhaps he might only open up to her in the privacy of her chamber or his.

She slept fitfully – but alone – all night.

As he left the dining chamber after breakfast with Vincent and Winslow, Mary risked running to his chamber to check on the note. She didn’t bring anything with her that she could use as an excuse if he caught her there – she was too anxious to check on the note. Was it possible he had missed it?

His chamber was as he’d left it, bed slightly unmade, the lantern upon which she had rested the note still occupying its usual place. But the note was not on the bedside table. It was not anywhere in the chamber.

Biting her lip, Mary recalled her words:

If you love me in return, let me know.

If you don’t, let us pretend as if this letter never was sent to you. I will understand if you never speak of this to me…

Tears sprang to her eyes. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she thought she might faint. For a long moment, she stood hunched over, one hand to her chest, grieving for the hopeless heart inside. She had no idea how she would carry on – just the thought that he knew how she felt and did not choose to respond made her despair. How could she face him from now on? Despite the words she herself had written, such a feat seemed beyond her capability.

But face him she would. She at least now knew not to waste any more time in silly daydreams over a man who did not care enough for her to even comfort her – for despite her avowal in the note, she thought it cruel that he would not at least have a quiet word with her to let her down more gently than by his silence.

That thought gave steel to her spirit. Slowly, she pulled herself together, standing up straight and tall, neatening her hair unnecessarily with slightly trembling fingers, even as a slight breeze tickled stray tendrils down her neck.

***

Two days later, Vincent woke Mary from a sound sleep.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she sat up.

“My apologies, Mary. It’s about Father.” He noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, but the moment passed as his concern over-rode his usual empathic sensitivity. “He got a message from a Helper earlier today – The Wreck of My Memories – and he went Above. He hasn’t returned. Did he tell you where he was planning to go?”

Mary recalled a long night of the soul from decades ago…Father, when he was still drinking, revealing a small measure of information about his life before the Tunnels, of a woman he had loved, of the wreck of his memories… But he had sworn her to secrecy the next day.

His secret. It was his alone to share. And perhaps now she knew why he had not mentioned her note.

With a measure of perversity she didn’t know she contained – or perhaps it was pain? – she replied, “He didn’t speak to me.”

A cold breeze filtered into her chamber, chilling her suddenly. She lay down once more beneath the sheltering warmth of her quilts, turned her back on Vincent, and – dry-eyed – waited for the dawn.

***

Behind the bookcase in Father’s chamber, the lost note sat, gathering dust and cobwebs, until it was found… decades later, long after both Jacob Wells and Mary Singer had breathed their last.

“Vincent?” Catherine rose from her knees, having emptied the old bookcase and shoved it aside. “Look at this.”

They read the fine script, faded but still legible, then gazed in wonder at each other.

“He never said a word about this,” Vincent said. “Nor did she.”

“Poor Mary,” Catherine murmured. “I always thought she loved Father, but this… It’s too sad.”

Vincent shook his head and sighed. “He never could move on after Margaret, I suppose. Sometimes there is only ever…one.”

She smiled at him, her fingers tracing lightly across his cheek. He captured her hand and kissed her palm tenderly.

“What should we do with this note? It feels wrong, somehow, that we read it.”

In response, he took it from her, pressed a kiss to it, and placed it reverently in the brazier. A light breeze played with the flames just then, and they licked higher for a moment as they consumed the words that had turned to ashes in Mary’s heart so long ago.

***

Sighing, Vincent placed his capped fountain pen atop his now-closed journal. Each entry for the past few months seemed to end with the same phrase: What should I tell her that won’t frighten her? The same words he had uttered to Father those months ago when Catherine had come Below after her own father’s passing.

He had held her for hours as she slept in the guest chamber, captive to the exhaustion of her grief…then, months later, he had been held by her as he had slept so fitfully for those days and nights in her bed Above when he had descended into a kind of madness. And although he didn’t recall much about his illness, he distinctly remembered the desperate kisses that had brought him back from whatever dark place his soul had been plunged into after he thought he had killed his own adoptive father.

Those days…those nights…those moments…they had altered him forever. He could no longer easily subsume his desire for her, his need for her. What should I tell her that won’t frighten her? There had been no definitive answer when he had first uttered them, and the question had only gotten more insistent since then.

The words he had written in his journal echoed through his mind as he readied for bed. And they continued asserting themselves, disrupting his attempt at rest to the point that, after a fruitless hour of tossing and turning, he threw off the comforter and began to pace, feeling unaccountably constricted within the walls of his chamber.

Finally, after slipping on his boots, he strode to the chamber entrance, yanked his cloak off its hook, and stormed from the stone-bound room. He was headed… anywhere but here.

He let his feet carry him. As long as he was going away, he didn’t really care to where. And it surprised him not a bit that those booted feet trod a familiar pathway to a certain sub-basement threshold.

Groaning, Vincent stood with both hands gripping the metal ladder leading up to Catherine’s storage room. He could climb inside and use the deadbolt key to open it, slip through the now-darkened basement to the freight elevator, and be atop the roof of Catherine’s building within minutes. But…then what? He was wearing his nightclothes – one single layer beneath his cloak – definitely not enough to hide evidence of what he clearly wanted and knew he shouldn’t ask for…

The steel of the ladder squealed as he tightened his grip. Afraid he might snap it off the wall, he let go with a suddenness that forced him to step backwards.

This would never do. What would he be like should he encounter her now, with this powerful need inside him? He could barely control himself, and she was eighteen stories above him.

Control? He barked a sardonic laugh. Look what he had almost done to the steel of the ladder with these hands of his. Imagine trying to make love to Catherine with this kind of fire raging within him.

But that was just the problem. He could imagine such a thing…had spent desperate nights and fevered daydreams imagining it. Imagining the sensation of stroking her delicate flesh, of running his fingers through her honey-colored hair, of tasting her body with his lips, his tongue, of pressing his nakedness to hers, every curve and plane fitting perfectly with his – he just knew this would be true – and becoming one with her, merging their two selves into one being…and the ebb and flow of such a union, the inevitability of transcendent joy and fulfillment…

GAH! Why could he not stop picturing it all?!

Disgust with himself threatened to overwhelm him into uttering a frustrated roar. He barely contained the impulse – yet another example of why he couldn’t approach Catherine now…or ever…with the dreams that tormented him.

Vincent turned abruptly and fled the sub-basement, running headlong all the way back to his chamber. There he sat for a long moment, breathing heavily, until he tore the cap off his fountain pen and slammed open his journal. The rest of the night was taken up in committing his tumultuous thoughts to paper, the pen pressing so hard each word was lodged several pages deep in the Braille of his frustration.

***

Catherine lingered at the mirror, putting her hair up just so. The invitation that had been slipped under her front door read:

Please come to our concert tonight, Catherine! We’re playing Grieg, and Vincent said he’s one of your favorite composers.

Sincerely,
Samantha

P.S. It’s at 7:00.
P.P.S. It’s casual.
P.P.P.S. Geoffrey will be at your threshold at 6:30 to guide you in case you can come.

Catherine smiled, thinking of how the night might go. The concert would last about forty-five minutes, and then refreshments would be served. She would be social with everyone for half an hour or so, then she and Vincent could escape to spend several hours together…hopefully alone, hopefully without interruptions…

“Casual” might be the suggestion, but her outfit still required a lot of consideration. First, it had to be practical. Second, it had to be warm. Third, it had to have a silky or soft element that would be pleasurable to Vincent’s touch. Fourth, it had to be just a little enticing – nothing overt, just a subtle hint of sexiness. Meeting all of those criteria meant a thoughtful examination of the items in her closet.

There, the soft brown suede ankle boots with the rubber soles…and here, a long, lightweight navy wool skirt with a deep kick pleat in back designed for easy walking…and on that shelf, the cream-colored ribbed cashmere sweater with the heart-shaped neckline. Topped by a short brown leather motorcycle jacket, the outfit was casual enough to comply with the invitation but not frumpy; it was warm and practical but not too covered up; yet it was modest enough for the eyes of anyone who might be inclined to criticize her clothing selection (an image of Father briefly flashed across her mind).

She wrapped a flowing navy and brown silk scarf loosely around her throat, put on large silver earrings, then gazed briefly into her full-length mirror, pleased with the result. After she put the finishing touches on her hair, which was pinned in a loose chignon, she picked up her keys and headed out.

***

Catherine’s heart was light, and her anticipation sent shivers through their Bond. Vincent ground his teeth in frustration. He had still not tempered the frame of mind that had infected his past few evenings’ attempts at sleep. Seeing Catherine now…

His hands clenched. It would have to be endured. Explaining would do no good. Thank goodness the children had insisted on escorting Catherine to the concert. At least he would have the cover of the gathered concertgoers when he was with her tonight.

***

“Geoffrey! Thank you for coming to walk me to the concert.”

The young man blushed crimson. “My pleasure.” He held out a hand clad in a fingerless glove and she took it in her own.

As they walked, Catherine noticed a slight breeze wandering lazily through the tunnels. It wasn’t enough to chill her, but it did make her glad for the brown leather gloves she had found in the pocket of her jacket on her way to her threshold.

Geoffrey, very self-conscious and proud, was holding Catherine’s hand as he led her into the music chamber. The elders in the community smiled indulgently at him and nodded their greetings to Catherine. Her smile told them she was happy to be specially invited.

Vincent watched from an alcove above the chamber. He dug his nails into his palms, trying to use pain as a distraction from how Catherine made him feel when he gazed down at her. She looked so lovely. When she shed her jacket, his eyes lingered on the almost-form-fitting sweater she wore. And that skirt – it was long, but it fit snugly over her hips and thighs and… He swallowed hard. How am I going to get through this evening?

Geoffrey, noticing Vincent, pointed him out to Catherine. She nodded and thanked him, bussed his cheek, then mounted the short staircase to the alcove.

“Vincent,” she murmured, raising herself on tiptoe to embrace him.

He nearly groaned aloud at the ecstasy of her in his arms, the softness of her sweater inviting him to stroke his fingers down her back. Only the realization that the entire community was surreptitiously watching them stayed his hand.

He stood apart from her after a brief hug, and offered her a seat. When she took it, he sat, as well…but as far from her as possible on the small sofa. Catherine’s brow wrinkled for a moment, but smoothed as she smiled once more.

Shortly after her arrival, the little orchestra began its final tune-up, and now the concert master tapped her baton on the music stand for attention and silence. As the orchestra began its first piece, Catherine slipped off her gloves and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket, which she had slung over the arm of the sofa, allowing her movements to carry her a bit closer to Vincent’s side. She felt him stiffen as her shoulder made contact with his. Puzzled, but not wishing to make him uncomfortable, she eased back to her former position, leaving a good six inches of space between them.

The selections were among her favorites, as Samantha had predicted, and the concert would have been quite enjoyable had not half of Catherine’s mind been engaged in speculation regarding Vincent’s coolness towards her. She suspected their Bond reflected her confusion, since Vincent remained somewhat distant. Although he seemed absorbed in the music, she knew him well enough to doubt that was the case.

Then, shortly before the concert ended, Vincent rose and, without a word to her, slipped out the opening behind their seats and left via a set of rickety metal stairs rarely used anymore. She could hear the soft clink of his boot heels on the steps as he hurried down them.

Trapped by the post-concert gathering, Catherine mustered a smile and circulated, chatting, accepting a cup of punch from Geoffrey, munching without much appetite on a cookie that she otherwise would have thoroughly enjoyed. All she could think about was Vincent’s strange behavior. Surely others had noticed it, too, but apparently everyone was too polite to comment upon it, at least to her.

When she felt her presence would not be missed, Catherine gradually edged toward the entryway and, finally, she exited the music chamber. Not knowing where Vincent might be, however, she made for the one place she thought to try first: his chamber.

Although she had been warm enough standing with the others and conversing, in the passageway she noticed that the breeze she had felt earlier had picked up, giving her shivers. She donned her jacket as she walked, while the strange wind wafted around her, following her, sometimes even pushing her as it grew stronger.  It was quite brisk by the time she arrived at her destination.

Without much hope that he would be inside, she called out to request entry. No sound emanated from within. She peeked inside and saw that the only candle lit in the entire chamber had begun guttering. Well, at least she could do something about that.

Entering, she made for the trove of extra candles in the cupboard. She selected a short, thick one that didn’t need a holder and brought it to the large oak table that dominated the space next to Vincent’s bed, the one they had sat at so often, drinking tea. Today it was swept clean of the assortment of items that usually inhabited it. Only the guttering candle, a book, and a pen remained.

She took the nearly spent candle by its candlestick with the intent to light the new candle with the dying flame of the guttering one. As she dipped it towards the unlit candle, a gust of that errant wind that had bedeviled her in the passageway whipped in and blew out the candle she was holding. Aggravated at being plunged into relative darkness, she cautiously took the fresh candle out to a torch a little way down the passage, lit it, and cupped a hand around the flame to protect it as she returned to Vincent’s chamber.

It was then that she noticed that the book, which had been closed when she arrived, was now open, the pages riffling lightly in a now very gentle breath of wind.

She set the candle down and withdrew her cupped hand. The faint breeze blowing now would not threaten the flame. She was reaching out to close the book when she saw handwriting instead of print. She realized it was a journal, its pages filled with a cramped, rough hand very unlike Vincent’s usual flowing script. But it was his handwriting nonetheless.

She didn’t mean to read anything, but words jumped into her line of vision: Catherine…desire…frighten her…

Stunned, her fingers moved to the cover, meaning to close it on these clearly personal thoughts. But something stilled her hand and, instead of closing it, she pulled the journal closer…and began to read.

The words dissolved into blurs through the tears that sprang to her eyes as she realized the depth of the anguish Vincent was feeling. He needed her so much, yet felt absolutely sure he could not control his impulses. His desire – never spoken of – cried out to her from the pages. She understood as she never had before just how much he wanted her, and just how much her nearness tortured him as a result.

With trembling hands, she closed the journal. This was something she was never meant to see. Yet she couldn’t help but thank the Fates for the random gust of wind that had called her attention to its contents.

He had once enumerated the qualities needed to make their dream a reality: courage and care. Perhaps now, armed with the knowledge of exactly what kept them apart, she could help him…help them both…to reach for the dream they had spoken of so obliquely. Catherine left Vincent’s chamber, putting her mind to the problem they faced.

As she walked the passageways, her mind absorbed with what she had just read, she was less attentive to the turns she was taking than she should have been. She was unaware that she was following the lead of a coiling breeze that was subtly guiding her, twining around her and tugging her ever so slightly in a direction she had never taken before. Her steps faltered as she finally became aware that the passageway she had just entered was unfamiliar to her. She turned to retrace her steps, but the tunnel she had emerged from looked just as strange to her.

Glancing around, she was dismayed to find no pipes upon which to tap a request for assistance. She pursed her lips and went in search of a pipe, chastising herself for not paying attention to where she was walking in the miles of tunnelways that spread beneath the city. She could be anywhere Below, and far from the Hub – she hadn’t passed another person for quite some time.

A sudden gust of wind brought a faint sound to her ears: someone…walking? No, the sound wasn’t getting closer or farther away. Perhaps…pacing? If so, it could only be one person she knew.

Following the sound, Catherine came upon a break in the rock walls – a chamber entrance? The sound was emanating from within, and she followed it unhesitatingly, one part of her mind astonished that she did so without fear.

The dim light of a single candle showed her the massive figure which had halted its pacing as she entered.

Vincent.

“Where…?” she began.

“Winslow’s chamber,” he responded. “He liked living apart. He said it prevented people from casually dropping in and bothering him.”

Catherine nodded. In the brief time she had known the man, he had been kind but brusque. She could well believe he preferred solitude.

Letting her gaze travel around the room, she took in the large, comfortable furnishings – a four-poster bed, an easy chair with a torchiere behind it, a massive table with forged iron legs…the home of a big man who valued his living space. There were personal objects scattered about, as well: books piled on an end table, an old coffee pot sitting on a one-burner hotplate, tools in a handmade toolbox lying beside the entrance… The chamber looked as if its former inhabitant had left it only moments ago.

As if reading her mind, Vincent added, “We haven’t had the heart to remove his things. If someone had wanted this chamber, it would have been done, but so far no one has claimed it, this far from the Hub.”

The overstuffed easy chair beckoned, and Catherine sat in it. Without preamble, she stated, “I made you uncomfortable at the concert.”

Vincent inhaled sharply, his whole body lifting in response to the shift in conversation. “I apologize, I…”

She shook her head. “I’m not looking for an apology. But when you left, I began to think of your reaction to me over the past weeks.”

His sudden stillness showed her he was tensing for an abrupt departure. Quickly, she added, “Now that you’ve recovered from your illness, everyone expected you to go back to your old self. I’m guilty of that, too.”

The tension in him seemed to abate the slightest bit. He didn’t seem as ready to flee as he had a moment before.

“Nobody goes through what you did without being changed by it. I need to apologize to you for not realizing it.”

His shoulders sagged at that, and he reached out a hand to lean on one of the posters of Winslow’s bed. His head bowed, as if the strain of keeping up the pretense of normalcy was suddenly too much for him.

Catherine’s voice continued softly, “Tonight I…acted without thinking. I should have seen the signs before. My presence…affects you differently than before.”

She waited, hoping for acknowledgement. Finally, she heard him murmur, “Yes.”

Leaning forward in the chair, she said, “I’m not going anywhere, Vincent. I want you to know that.”

His eyes, when they lifted their gaze to her, looked bleak. “Perhaps you should.”

“No,” she said quickly. “That’s not possible. I love you. We love each other…too much to separate now.”

He lifted his hands, palms up. Even in the dimness of the light in the chamber, she saw the effort it took him to say the next words. “These hands, Catherine…they may be yours…you may find them beautiful…but still…they are not meant to give love.”

“I don’t believe that,” she murmured. She rose and approached him. When she placed her arms tenderly around his waist and laid her head upon his chest, she heard and felt the deep, trembling sigh that shook him. “We belong together.” Looking up at him, she vowed, “We will be together!”

An errant tendril of breeze played with the ends of the scarf Catherine wore. As she looked down at it, an idea formed in her mind. Her gaze moved back to Vincent’s. “I have an idea.” Her lips twitched at the thought of it and how he might react. It was the very definition of “a desperate measure,” but if it would ease his mind even a little… “Do you trust me?”

His eyebrows rose, the response almost mechanical. “Of course.”

“Then please…trust me now?”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded.

“I’m taking my jacket off, and I suggest you remove your cloak. We’re warm enough in this chamber together, don’t you think?”

Instead of a verbal response, Vincent began to shake off the long suede and wool cloak; he tossed it onto the bed beside him. Catherine slipped out of her jacket and did the same, then removed her earrings. Finally, she unwound the scarf from around her neck.

“Sit on the edge of the bed, please?” she urged him.

He did as she asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

She sat beside him, holding the lengthy scarf bunched in her grip. “I’m going to bind your hands with this. Whatever you do, don’t try to remove it.”

Without waiting for his reaction, Catherine wound the scarf around Vincent’s wrists as they rested on his lap, careful to avoid touching him anywhere but his forearms. It was long enough to tightly imprison his fingers, as well, before she tied a double knot in it. She supposed that he could tear through the scarf with his fang-like eyeteeth in one slashing bite, but thought that it might otherwise take him a few seconds to maneuver his hands free.

“Your hands are now out of the equation, do you agree?”

He shrugged, then considered the silken binding and nodded.

“Now, close your eyes.” She encouraged him with a nod and a gentle smile.

For a long moment he ignored her request, and they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. Catherine held her breath, hoping he would not decide too soon to abandon this experiment. But gradually his face relaxed and the loving, longing look he gave her assured her that he was on board for whatever happened next. Perhaps it was a measure of his desperation, but when his eyelids fluttered closed, she breathed out a soft sigh of relief.

Catherine shifted on the bed, moving to kneel beside him on the comforter. She cupped his face with the palms of her hands to hold him steady. Then, with infinite tenderness, she leaned toward him, pressing the softest of kisses upon his mouth. “This…” she murmured, “this…oh, I’ve longed for this.” The sibilance of the last word faded only when she kissed him again, using a bit more pressure.

When he began to respond, she deepened the kiss, parting her lips and tracing his with her tongue. A groan from deep within Vincent’s chest let her know how much this was affecting him, but when his arms came up, struggling inside the silk binding, she lifted her face from his and moved one hand to press his arms back down against his thighs. He inhaled deeply in response and breathed out slowly, calming himself.

Eager to taste her again, Vincent tilted his head and leaned towards her to capture her lips once more. She moved her arms to drape them around his shoulders, leaving her hands free to delve into his mass of burnished golden hair and use that purchase to pull him closer. Again, she felt his arms writhe to try to free themselves from the trussing, but this time when she pulled back from their kiss, she gave him time to reflect on that subconscious desire and stop struggling on his own…which he did.

Catherine continued to lavish him with kisses, moving from his lips to his delicately furred nose to his arched brows to the deep crease between his eyes, then tracing down to his high cheekbones, and from there to his strong chin.

The effort to regain the use of his arms continued with diminished force, as Vincent began to find his control more easily. Eventually, when they were both completely absorbed in the twin sensations of kissing and being kissed, he ceased fighting the binding, fully succumbing to Catherine’s lead.

Giving over control seemed exactly what Vincent needed in order to accept what was to come. Catherine knew the exact moment of his surrender, when he threw his head back with a rumbling groan. Shivering with delight, she took advantage of that movement to press reverent kisses along the pulse point at his throat, sliding her lips down the thick column of his neck until the cotton of his shirt prevented further exploration. She growled in frustration at that, and Vincent’s eyelids flew open in surprise.

His head came down as hers came up, and they regarded each other, both breathing heavily. So much that was unspoken passed between them while their Bond quivered with their mutual desire.

Vincent curved his fingers inward and his sharp claws sliced with ease through the silk scarf binding him. But he didn’t even realize he had done it. All he knew was the desperate urge to hold Catherine close, to bend her to the bed beneath them.

Carefully, he lifted his hands to her back and, leaning toward her, urged her down until they were lying on the bed. With one arm he held his body slightly above hers. Although the scant inches between them felt like too great a distance, he was slow to lower himself to her, fearing his greater weight would be too much. But her acceptance was immediate; her arms slid around his upper back, pulling down to cover her, clinging to him as she offered her neck to his desires.

Their kisses had made him ravenous to taste more of her. Now here she was, surrendering herself to him. He indulged the fantasy of years by capturing one of her delicate earlobes and sucking it, then licking that supple arc of flesh.

Catherine shuddered in ecstasy, his hot breath on her dampened skin causing tremors to pulse low in her stomach, her body readying itself and craving his, even though he had only begun his exploration.

The hands he had dreaded touching her with seemed to have minds of their own now, stroking and cupping her small breasts, stretching her sweater until the cashmere was pulled taut. His head dipped to the lowest point of her décolletage, but still the soft fabric covered the parts of her he wanted to taste.

A frustrated growl escaped his lips, even as Catherine uttered another low growl of her own. She reached beneath him to the sides of her sweater and yanked it up and over her head.

Surprising her, Vincent caught her upraised wrists with one large hand.

She lay compliantly, offering herself to his gaze…his touch, watching him as he gathered his courage to reach for what he desired…and smiling when he did.

Touching her…it was nothing like he had expected. It was like coming home. This…his hands worshipping her, her reaction to him…it all felt so natural, so inevitable. He was in control – enough control that he was sure now he couldn’t hurt her. And he was out of control…deliciously…deliriously…

Passion warred with logic as these thoughts flew through his mind, then were banished for the sake of fulfilling the desire that had grown into a firestorm of need. Each caress was a once-forbidden dream come to glorious reality, and made more wonderful as he felt Catherine’s fevered response. She craved each kiss, each touch, each stroke of his searching tongue…

He released her wrists, and then Catherine’s hands were on him, too, peeling off layers of clothing – and her own after his – and he was grateful that she did that, as he had no desire to take his eyes, his hands off her, even for an instant. His nakedness was no longer a concern for him, as he focused on her, aware through their Bond, even if he hadn’t had the evidence of his other senses, that Catherine was in need of what only he could provide her.

He felt her hands on his bare chest, caressing him, and he gloried in her desire. All those fantasies that had tormented him? They were nothing – pale imitations of this moment, her need for him something he truly believed in now. She slid her fingers down his sides and over his hips, and when they came together at his groin and began stroking him, he tilted his hips forward to fill her hands more fully. How this could be possible was no longer a thing to wonder at, only to believe in, and revel in, and want with all his heart.

The moment was fast approaching when he could no longer restrain the impulse of his body to seek more from this onslaught of sensation. Catherine seemed to sense this, lifting her hips to him and urging him closer to her core. She was so wet, so ready for him, and her body so receptive…he barely had a second to be surprised at how perfectly they fit together before the need to rock within her overwhelmed him, and he fell into the rhythm of lovemaking as if they had done this all before, through lives and ages and all of time itself.

It was as close to heaven as he ever imagined he could be. He lifted Catherine in his arms so that she rode him, facing him, as he knelt on the bed. They were so close to the edge of ecstasy now, and then…their bodies soared into a mutual completion so intense that sanity briefly left him. They clung to each other, carried on the tidal wave of their release for seemingly eons, until finally they rested on some opposite shore, spent and trembling as the waves slowly receded.

Gratitude that their long journey toward their dream was finally over would come later. For now, there was only relief that the fears of a lifetime were unfounded. For Vincent could finally believe that – whatever else he might be – he was a man. He bent his head and sobbed against Catherine’s neck, his arms holding her close, his fingers splayed across her back, kneading lightly.

Catherine crooned into his ear, “I love you…oh, Vincent…thank you…” as she stroked his back soothingly. She accepted his tears as a form of release,

knowing how seismic the shift in his thinking was, now that her instinct had become his experience.

She began a gentle rocking motion, still filled with him, and what began as comfort transformed as his body responded immediately, the surge of his need heightened by the stimulation she was providing. Her undulations were intensifying the immediacy of his renewed desire, unslaked even from the release of moments ago.

He leaned back on his hands, his upper torso glistening with perspiration, allowing her to carry him along with her as she took the lead, surging forward, riding him more forcefully with every downward stroke, her forehead resting on his chest.

Their second completion caught them by surprise – an intense rush of ecstasy that swelled and flooded through them for a full minute. Catherine’s moans of pleasure spilled into his ears, burgeoning the intensity of his own orgasm. When the aftershocks finally died away, he cradled her against his chest, pressing grateful kisses to her temple, her shoulders…anywhere his lips could claim her.

A draft wafted into the chamber, raising goosebumps on Catherine’s damp, exposed skin. Vincent loosened his embrace only so he could lift the topmost quilt and settle it around them both. Cocooned in the warm embrace of the heavy fabric, they snuggled, spent and languid, fingers trailing along bare flesh…yet the need for rest was banished as their caresses stoked their mutual passion, which flared into brilliant life once more. Catherine stroked his long, furred fingers with kiss-swollen lips, uttering the words that broke the final chain of Vincent’s fears. “How beautifully your hands give love…”

This time, Vincent took the lead without urging, covering Catherine with his heavily muscled body, hers pliant and willing beneath him. He lavished her breasts and stomach with kisses, until his own need overwhelmed him and he sought her body’s comfort. Filling her yet again, his desire meeting her equal one, caused them both to gasp. Would they ever tire of the sensation of his hot, hard flesh sinking deeply within the welcoming surrender of her body’s embrace?

The answer to that question – Not this night…not ever – echoed within their Bond, but they were beyond sensing it for the moment, as passion swirled within them and they succumbed to it once more.

Exhaustion finally claimed them as they lay together, breathing as one.

The flame of the chamber’s lone candle fluttered and flared, teased one final time by a wayward gust before the restless draft left the chamber, left the inhabited tunnels, and vanished into darkness, far from the couple now sleeping curled together, hands intertwined, a new dream rising between them.