Author's Notes
This story is set in the aftermath of the episode No Way Down. There were really three things that prompted me to write it:
1) I felt that Vincent's traumatic experiences were not something he'd be able to just shake off, and I wanted respectfully to examine that and start him on his road to healing.
2) The episode is one of the few that show us something of Catherine's side of the Bond, and I wanted to explore that a little. I wish the show had given us more of that.
3) There were some interesting loose ends that I wanted to tie up.
I have purposely referred to Catherine as 'Cathy' in the World Above and 'Catherine' in the World Below, as it seems to me that this was the character's own preference.
Please note that I am British, and that British spelling, grammar, and punctuation may occasionally vary from US norms.
The Robert Frost and Shakespeare quotations are in the Public Domain.
Hope you enjoy the story!
A Dust of Snow
"He's doing very well," said Peter Alcott, taking up his medical bag. "Physically."
Father nodded. He glanced across the library, towards the passageway to Vincent's chamber.
"I've never seen broken ribs heal so quickly, but—" He raised a hand and dropped it helplessly. "He won't talk about it," he said. "Not even to me. God knows what they did to him up there." He repressed a shudder.
"He's still having the nightmares?"
Father sighed. "He barely sleeps these days. Jumps at the least little sound. Yesterday Kipper tapped him on the shoulder, and he snarled at him." He shook his head. "It's not like him."
"No." Peter frowned. "Well, Jacob, you wanted a second opinion, and I agree with your findings."
Father lowered his head in acknowledgement. "In my day, they still called it 'Shell Shock'," he said.
"What was he doing in that part of town, anyway? I thought most of the Tunnel entrances there had been sealed up long ago."
"Yes. And he knew it. That young woman has already caused him so much pain and trouble—"
"What young woman?"
Father shook himself out of his bitter thoughts.
"Oh never mind. It can't be helped. The question is, how do we help Vincent now?"
* * * * *
"Hey, Radcliffe! Your murder's turned up dead."
Cathy glanced up from her paperwork. "Which one?"
Joe's head had appeared round the corner. He came towards her now, a file in his hand, radiating that restless energy that she sometimes envied him.
"That guy from 'The Silks'," he said.
Cathy froze.
"Chris Romano." Joe didn't seem to have noticed her reaction. "Happened the same night as the explosion, the one that took out your witness. Somebody heard shots inside the old Beaumont Club and called the cops."
He handed her the file.
"That was two weeks ago. Why are we only hearing this now?"
Cathy skim-read the report as Joe talked to her. Three corpses found. All males…
"You know NYPD have been swamped lately. No one was bursting to go through fingerprints and mugshots to identify a few punks like that." Joe perched on the corner of her desk. "One of 'em was cut up pretty bad – like Tony Romano and his friend. Lieutenant Herman thinks the Subway Slasher may be back."
"This wasn't on the subway."
"Maybe he's branching out – who knows?"
…Herman found tracks in the dust, and evidence of a door being opened that led out of the room…
Cathy shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Do you really believe that?"
…Herman followed the tracks into a tunnel…
Joe shrugged. "Me? I think they wiped each other out. A power struggle that went too far. Anyway, nobody's gonna be shedding any tears for them."
…But the tunnel was blocked a few yards down and he couldn't find a way through. He thinks other gang members may have escaped that way.
Cathy released the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"Well," she said, "At least we have something to tell the store owner's family now." She stood up. "It might give them some closure."
Out in the cool shadows of the hallway, Cathy leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to push away memories of the night she would never forget – though how she wished she could! The cold, the darkness, the streets slick with that vile, greasy rain – and always that gnawing fear in her gut. Knowing he was out there in the dark and the cold. Knowing he was hurt, knowing he was in danger – and not being able to reach him.
Knowing it was her fault.
And now he might be in danger of another sort.
Well, at least she could do something about that. At least she could find out whether any further action was being taken about that Tunnel.
Cathy opened her eyes and straightened up – just as the elevator doors opened. A tall young man in a baseball cap and headphones came towards her.
"Benny!"
"Hey, gorgeous." Benny grinned as he handed her an envelope. "He said to wait for an answer."
Cathy tore it open and quickly scanned the cramped, careful handwriting.
"Please tell him I'll be there as soon as I can," she said.
* * * * *
Father leaned forward in his old, red chair, staring down at his hands as he gripped the handle of his walking cane. This was going to be more difficult than he had thought.
He raised his eyes to peer doubtfully at the young woman who sat opposite him at the table, looking elegant and composed, as always.
Well, almost always.
Two weeks ago, she has stood before him in tears, begging for his help.
Father sighed.
Was he really doing the right thing? Wouldn't this encourage the whole misguided business between the two of them? Might it not bring Vincent further pain, in the end?
Perhaps.
But he could see no other way forward.
His mind filled with the memory of Vincent, tossing in his sleep, sweating, suffering— waking with a roar, disorientated, not knowing where he was… Of Vincent sitting crouched in a chair, long, long into the night, his eyes glued to a book whose pages he had not turned in half an hour, struggling to stay awake, to escape sleep… Of Vincent starting at small sounds, growling when touched by a friend or loved one… Of Vincent becoming less and less Vincent.
Of Vincent turning away when Father tried to reach him, to help him, to comfort him…
Father cleared his throat.
"Thank you for coming, Catherine," he said. "I need your help."
* * * * *
Catherine made her way along the now-familiar passage. Through the doorway at the end, she could already see the warm glow cast across the chamber by the stained glass window. Her spirits lifted, as they always did when she was on her way to see Vincent – yet anxiety clashed with her other feelings as she thought of what Father had told her.
She found Vincent with his back to the door, sitting in his faded, high-backed armchair. A coldness closed around her heart as she caught sight of his face – his cheeks sunken, his eyes dark-circled. He looked so pale.
She should have come sooner.
She knew it.
She hadn't seen Vincent since a few days after— that night. Father had said he needed to rest, that he shouldn't have visitors… But she'd known, deep down, that she should have come.
That he needed her.
She'd reached his chair now. He was hunched over a book – she looked over his shoulder to see what he was reading.
…Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
"Robert Frost?" she said.
Vincent jerked upright.
"Catherine!"
He turned his head to her, and they stared at one another, appalled.
He didn't know I was here! The thought hit her like a hammer blow. Had this thing – this Post Traumatic Stress that Father had talked of – affected even their Bond? In these months that she'd known him, the Bond had become so much a part of her life, a part of herself, that she had begun to take it for granted. The idea of losing it – of losing that contact, that closeness with him… it was unthinkable.
She swallowed hard, struggling to control her horror, her sense of loss. This wasn't about her, it was about him.
"May I sit down?"
Vincent seemed to recover himself, too. He gestured towards the padded bench opposite him.
"Please," he said.
She passed the bed – unmade and rumpled, so unlike him! – and sat down.
And could not think of a thing to say.
What was he feeling? Thinking? How could she find a way into his private world of pain, to help him find the way out?
She almost felt that he was lost to her – like that night… when she had stood with Isaac in the dark and the cold… and she'd known – known – that he was alive… that he was hurt…
She closed her eyes now, seeking to recapture that feeling, that sense of him.
It did not flow easily for her, as it did for Vincent (or normally did) – but when she concentrated, when she focused her mind and her heart, she could feel it, resonating somewhere deep within her…
He was…
Confused. Afraid. Ashamed.
…Guilty?
Why should he feel guilty? It was she who was to blame for all this.
She opened her eyes, reached out, and took his hand.
He seemed to flinch at first – but then he responded, closing his strong fingers around hers.
"Vincent, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. If I hadn't taken such risks, none of this would have happened to you."
"Catherine." His rich baritone voice sounded the same as ever, full of comfort and assurance. "Catherine, you did not ask me to come to you." He closed his other hand warmly over hers. "You made your choice, and I made my own. You are not to blame."
Catherine felt her eyes filling with tears. Even when he was suffering so much, he could think of her suffering, be kind to her. Her own other hand rose involuntarily to join with his, and they both held on fiercely, protectively.
"Vincent," she said, "What happened to you?"
It was a long conversation, sometimes awkward and stilted, but little by little, it came out.
The intimidation and abuse by The Silks.
The escape.
The long journey in the dark, unable to see or hear clearly, always fearing that his enemies were close behind… the speeding car…
Catherine listened, her heart reaching out to his, wrenched and wrung out as she heard – as she felt – what he had been though, yet somehow glad to be able to feel it; to be able to meet him in his suffering, to share in it somehow.
Vincent's story came to an end with the pursuit through the ruins of the Beaumont Club, and the final struggle between the two gang members, Chris and Howie.
And there it was – that guilt she had sensed earlier.
Vincent sighed.
"He risked so much to help me." He hung his head. "And in the end, I did nothing to help him."
"Vincent, you were exhausted, wounded, and in shock. You couldn't even see what was happening – what could you have done?"
"I don't know." He shook his head sadly. "I don't know. But I ought to have done something." He sighed again. "I don't even know for certain what happened to him. Perhaps he was still alive; perhaps we could have saved him. Perhaps he died slowly, alone in the dark and the cold."
Catherine shuddered. She had stepped over the two bodies without a thought, seeing only Vincent, thinking only of him.
She thought now of the police report, and of the autopsy reports that must be in the system somewhere. They might give her some answers – something that could set his mind at rest.
"Lucy, too – the woman who helped me," Vincent said. "I don't know what became of her." His great tawny head drooped again. "I wish I knew she was safe."
*
Cathy pushed open the familiar, safety-glass panelled doors and went in. The old smells met her like friends: the rubber of the mats, the chalk, the sweat. She walked forward, slowly, between the lifeless dummies and punchbags. Dust particles dropped silently around her, glinting in the light from the high windows.
Here she had learned not to let things just happen to her. Here she had learned her own strength.
She heard a slight scuffing sound behind her.
Cathy smiled.
"Hello, Isaac." She turned smoothly to meet her friend's answering smile. "Always know what's coming up behind you."
Isaac nodded. "Always know."
They hugged, then stood apart for a moment, unspeaking.
Cathy broke the silence.
"I haven't thanked you properly," she said. "For your help."
Isaac nodded again, his strong, sensible face solemn now. He took hold of the top of the nearest punchbag and leaned on it.
"It's okay," he said. "Like I said, friends do for each other."
After another pause, unusually awkward for them, he spoke again.
"So, how's your… friend?"
Cathy exhaled.
"He's… healing."
"But not fast enough?"
"Not—" Cathy raised her hands, then let them drop. "Not… inside."
"Ah."
"He's feeling guilty, Isaac. Apparently one of the Silks helped him escape." She made the helpless gesture again. "He didn't make it."
Isaac's face registered understanding as he nodded once more.
"Survivor guilt," he said. "You see it a lot."
"How do you overcome it?"
Isaac shrugged.
"First thing is to face that it's there. No good hiding from it. Gotta face that sucker head on." He punched the bag with his free fist. "Just like any other enemy."
"And then?"
"Talking helps." He raised an eyebrow. "Though I'm thinking your friend won't be joining any support group. Good job he's got friends. Like you."
Cathy nodded. "Anything else?"
"It also helps to put the blame where it belongs. Who really killed this dude?" He spread a hand expressively. "Not your friend."
"No. Thank you, Isaac." Cathy sighed. "He's also worried about a woman who helped him – someone called Lucy? I'm afraid we don't know her last name."
"Think I might be able to help there," said Isaac. "You remember when we disarmed those two Silks, there was a woman crouched there in the corner?"
"Vaguely," said Cathy. "My attention was… elsewhere."
"Well, when I went back, she was still there. She was pretty shook up, but not hurt. I saw her home safe," said Isaac."Her name was Lucy."
"That's probably her," said Cathy. "Could you take me to her? I think it would help Vincent to know that I'd seen her. And… I'd like to thank her, too."
Isaac smiled and patted Cathy's arm.
"Give me ten minutes," he said.
*
Cathy followed Isaac down the half dozen steps and through the archway. The alcove beyond stank of mould, rotting garbage, and tomcats.
Isaac knocked on the sturdy wooden door. It was some time before anything happened.
"Who's there?" A woman's voice, sounding anxious and suspicious.
"It's me, Isaac! Remember me?"
A brief pause, and then a metallic rattling and the click of locks being undone. Three clicks.
Then the door opened a crack, revealing a heavily made-up eye.
"Isaac?"
"Yeah, it's me."
Another metallic jangle as Lucy took the security chain off, and the door opened.
"Come to check up on me?" she asked, with a hesitant smile.
"I've brought a friend to see you." He stood aside, and Lucy seemed to see Cathy for the first time. Her tentatively open expression quickly snapped to closed and distant.
Cathy stepped forward.
"Hello Lucy. My name's Cathy." She held out her hand. Lucy looked at it, but made no move to take it.
"Hey, you're that lady – the one who was with Isaac that night…" Her voice trailed off into silence.
"Yes, that's why I'm here. I wanted—"
"Hey, I don't want no trouble!" Lucy stepped back, starting to close the door.
"Please, Lucy!" Cathy put a hand to the door. Lucy hesitated again. "I just wanted to thank you for helping— my friend."
The door reopened an inch.
"Your friend?" Lucy looked doubtful. "You mean that guy…?"
"Yes," said Cathy, with a smile. "That guy."
Lucy's eyes met Cathy's for a moment.
Then the door opened.
"Poor Howie." Lucy rubbed the centre of her forehead with her fingertips. "Poor Howie. He wasn't a bad guy, y'know?" Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. "He wasn't a bad guy, he just, he just didn't have no people, like me. That's how he ended up with Tony and Chris and Python."
She sniffed and rubbed her forehead again.
"He had, he had this little doohickey," she held her thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart and mimed shaking. "This little… he shook it and it had snow inside…" A fleeting smile lit her face like sunshine, then was gone. "He wasn't a bad guy."
Cathy nodded. "Vincent said that Howie helped him, like you did," She said. "He's very grateful to you both."
The smile returned radiantly. "Aw, that's real sweet of him."
Cathy returned the smile and took Lucy's hand. "He'll be glad to know you're okay," she said. "He's been worried about you."
"Yeah, I'm glad he's okay, too. He got home safe?"
Cathy nodded.
"I thought he was dead or something." Lucy sniffed and rubbed her nose with one fingertip. "He's an okay guy, y'know? He was kinda weird looking – scared me at first! But he was a gentlemen." She laughed. "And believe me, honey, you don't meet many of them in my line of work!"
Cathy pressed her hand, saying nothing.
Lucy sniffed again.
"His name's Vincent?"
"Yes."
That brief beam of sunlight once more.
"Suits him."
* * * * *
Vincent pulled, strained, the chains clanking against the pipe behind him. His head throbbed and span.
Someone shouted in his face, the sound a senseless, rasping bray that, for a moment obliterated all thought.
Heat, and a blue flame close to his face—
"Hey, mister!"
Someone was shaking him.
"Hey, mister!"
Vincent jerked away instinctively from the blurred pink oval so close to him, a snarl rising in his throat.
"It's okay, mister, it's okay!"
The blur withdrew.
Vincent blinked. The cloudiness of sleep began to clear from his vision, and awareness returned. He was lying down, on something soft. He was warm, though his face felt clammy with sweat. A trace of familiar, orange-gold light fell gently across the bed.
His chamber.
He was home. He was safe.
He exhaled, closed his eyes again, lay back against his pillow, willing his racing heartbeat to slow, the adrenaline surge to recede.
It was a dream. Just another evil dream.
Breathe. Breathe.
"Hey, mister."
Vincent's eyes snapped open again.
He knew that voice.
He squinted into the dusk. There was something in the room with him – a large form, but hunched as though trying to make itself look smaller.
"It's okay, mister. It's just me."
Now the shadow crept closer, and a face emerged into the soft, apricot light. A face he had never seen clearly before, but somehow felt he knew: the heavy, solid bone structure; the thick eyebrows; the gentle, anxious brown eyes; the simple, hopeful smile.
"Howie?"
"Yeah!" the face lit up with uncomplicated delight. "Yeah, that's me, mister!"
Vincent rubbed his face with both hands, trying to dispel the murk of sleep from his brain.
"I thought you were dead," he said.
"I came to make sure you was okay," said Howie. " 'Cos you was hurt, mister, and you'd had a bad time. So I came to make sure you'd got home safe."
"Yes." Vincent returned the smile. "Yes, I got home safely." He sat up, throwing back the blankets. "I'm very glad to know that you're safe, too. I was— worried."
"You was worried about me?"
"Yes. More than worried." Vincent sighed.
"Oh," said Howie. "Well, you don't need to worry, mister, because I'm okay. See, I found this, and it's real neat!" He held up a tiny, rounded object. It looked so small and frail in that huge hand that Vincent wondered it wasn't crushed by the force of Howie's enthusiasm. "See, you can shake it up—" he did so "—and it snows!"
Vincent's face softened into another smile. "So it does," he said.
"Yeah," said Howie. "It's real, real neat, ain't it mister?"
"Yes." Vincent studied the gentle, beaming face. "I'm glad you came, Howie," he said. "I'm glad I have this chance to thank you, for all that you did for me."
Howie glanced up shyly. "Oh, that's okay, mister." His eyes returned to his toy.
Vincent took a deep breath.
"I also wanted to— to say sorry."
"Sorry?" Howie's attention lifted from the snow-globe. He stared at Vincent, his face creased in puzzlement.
"Yes." Vincent sighed heavily again. "Howie, I'm so sorry that I didn't— that I didn't help you. At the end. When you were fighting Chris."
Howie's face cleared, and the childlike smile returned. Vincent suspected that this was the natural state of his face, if only he'd been allowed simply to live life as himself. If no one had cowed his kind, timid nature in order to make use of his strong body.
"Oh, that's all right, mister," said Howie. "It wasn't your fault – it's just Chris was mean. He was always mean." He looked earnestly into Vincent's face. "And, and you don't need to worry no more, because, because Chris can't hurt nobody now."
"You're very kind," said Vincent. "And I'm truly glad that you're safe. But after all you'd done for me, I should have managed to do something—"
"Hey, I tell you what, mister," said Howie, "I'll let you have this. So you know it's all okay."
He held out the snow-globe.
"For me?"
Vincent hesitated, then opened his hand, and Howie laid the little curio in it, setting the tiny snowflakes whirling around the little snowman inside. Vincent stared at it for a moment.
"Thank you," he said. "That's very… generous. But you love it so much, I don't want to—"
He raised his head.
He was alone in his chamber.
* * * * *
"You've been to see her?"
"Yes, Isaac took me." Catherine smiled gently. "She's okay. She hasn't had any trouble since Shake's gang and The Silks have been out of the picture."
Vincent's face relaxed in relief.
"I'm glad," he said.
"And Isaac thinks he can get her into rehab. Help her find a job afterwards."
Vincent inclined his head gravely. "I'm glad of that, too."
"I'll give her what support I can, to help her get through it."
"I'm grateful Catherine – as I'm sure she will be. But in the end, she must choose it herself."
"Yes. There's no other way."
Catherine took a deep breath. She'd been dreading this part.
But there had never been lies between them. Their mutual respect demanded that they tell one another the truth, even when it was hard to hear.
There was no sense in putting it off.
"As for Howie—"
"I know!" Vincent smiled. "He came to see me."
"What?"
"Last night, he visited me here."
Catherine listened in growing amazement as Vincent told her of his experiences.
"…And he gave me this." Vincent picked up a small ornament from the shelf below his window and handed it to her.
Wordlessly, Catherine took it. As she turned it over, examining it, tiny snowflakes swirled and fluttered inside.
She looked up.
"But Vincent – how did he get in? Or out again? Did anyone else see him?"
"I don't think so." His brow furrowed.
Catherine put the snow-globe down amongst the bric-a-brac on a small table beside her. She reached out and took his hand.
"Vincent, the police report said Howie was dead." She gazed earnestly into his face, searching for the pain she dreaded to find there. "They identified him by his fingerprints."
Vincent frowned, then stood up and paced across the room.
"But he was here!" He turned sharply. "I'm sure it was him!"
"Could it have been a dream?"
Vincent strode back and picked up the snow-globe.
"If it was," he said, "Then how did this get here?"
*
"Yes, he's dead all right." The Medical Examiner, a cheerfully brusque, balding man, seemed happy enough to answer Cathy's questions. There was a heavy metallic clank as he opened the door of the cold locker, then a shunk as he slid the drawer out with a practiced hand. "No reasonable doubt about about identification, either."
Cathy studied the large, pallid face sadly. It looked a gentle face, and even in death, seemed to bear a look of mild confusion. "And he died of a gunshot wound to the heart?"
"Yes." The M.E. glanced at his report. "He would have been unconscious almost immediately, from the drop in blood pressure. Brain death takes longer, of course."
Oh no! Cathy looked up. "Could he have been saved? If someone had found him sooner?"
The man shook his head, his lips pursed in professional thought.
"No," he said. "Not with this damage. Even immediate help would have been no use to him, I fear."
Cathy exhaled her relief. She looked back down at that simple, sad face.
"What a waste."
"Indeed."
"What will happen to him now?"
"Well, it's certainly been more than 48 hours since his death, and no one's claimed him or reported him missing. He'll probably end up as a cadaver in a medical school. If not, he'll be shipped off to Hart Island."
Cathy nodded grimly. Hart Island. 250 coffins to a trench. 3 coffins deep.
Howie didn't deserve that. No one deserved that.
She raised her head again.
"Who can claim the body?" she asked.
* * * * *
Vincent gazed down at the open casket and sighed. He felt Catherine put her hand on his left shoulder and squeeze gently. More than that – he felt her presence. He felt her care for him. Her love.
At his other side, Father made the same gesture.
They stood for a while, silent in the guttering torchlight, before the bier that the Tunnel Folk had made for Howie down here in the catacombs.
"Poor Howie," said Catherine. "He had a good heart."
"Yes," said Vincent. "It amazes me that so much kindness could live in a heart that had known so little kindness from others. He could have been… so much more than he was, if he'd had a little help – people to care for him and guide him." He hung his head. "I'd hoped he could come to the Tunnels, and stay among us."
"He will, in a way." Father patted Vincent's shoulder. "He will always live in our hearts." Vincent heard the tears in his Father's voice. "And we will honour him."
Vincent brought Howie's toy out of his pocket. Catherine reached out and touched it, setting the flakes gently twirling around the little snowman.
"I checked the evidence locker," she said softly. "The snow-globe was missing. No one knows what happened to it."
"I think we do," said Vincent.
He held the tiny orb up to the light for a moment, then set it down in the casket beside Howie's head.
"Thank you, Howie," he said. "Thank you for everything."
In the miniature world of the globe, the snowflakes performed their spinning, swirling dance, then slowly settled for the last time.
* * * * *
As the little party reached the library, Catherine took Father's arm and drew him aside, while Vincent went on towards his own chamber.
"I've made discreet enquiries," she said. "It doesn't look like anything else is being done about the Tunnel entrance from the Beaumont. NYPD just doesn't have the manpower right now." She tried to smile her reassurance. "I think you'll be safe."
Father nodded.
"I'm glad to know that," he said. "We've put a temporary blockage in place, of course – we did that straight away – but we'll make sure that way is sealed off completely as soon as we can."
Catherine smiled, then moved to follow Vincent.
"Catherine—"
She stopped and turned back. Father stood leaning on his cane, his face furrowed by the concerns he carried every day – not least, she knew, for Vincent. Not least for Vincent's relationship with herself.
What had it cost him, she wondered, to ask for her help? To acknowledge that she could reach Vincent where he could not?
"Yes?"
Father swallowed, his eyes beginning to swim with tears again. He glanced down for a moment, then met her gaze once more.
"Thank you," he said.
A sudden warmth filled Catherine's heart. She stepped back over to him and kissed his cheek.
She had never seen him look so surprised before.
He cleared his throat.
"I still think you are both making a terrible mis— taking a terrible risk," he said.
"I know," she said. "But it's our choice to make."
Father lowered his head.
"I know."
* * * * *
Vincent walked slowly into his chamber and sat down in his old, familiar chair.
Had he really dreamed it all?
It was clear that he hadn't dreamed the snow-globe. Probably he would never have all the answers. There are more things in heaven and earth…
He took up the Robert Frost book from the table beside him. He leafed through the yellowed pages and soon found what he needed:
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Vincent smiled.
* * * * *
Thank God!
Father looked down at Vincent's face, finally peaceful in sleep. He lay quite still, his breathing steady and shallow. No sweating. No murmuring. Father thought perhaps the dark circles under his eyes were already fading – though he acknowledged to himself, regretfully, that this was probably wishful thinking on his part.
It was only the beginning of the journey. He knew that.
But it was a beginning.
Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care…
Gently, Father tucked the covers round Vincent, kissed his forehead, and silently stole out of the room.
Behind him, in the amber-lit peace of his chamber, Vincent slept.
© R.M. Fanshaw
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