Chapter Text
Though They Go Mad
Prologue.
Journal of Charlotte Bakster.
Note by Dr. Muriel Malachy: Real names have been redacted to protect the innocent.
October 15th
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
That was the poem.
October 26th
I’m sorry Dr. Malachy. I have nothing to write.
October 29th
Dr. Malachy says I need to keep a journal of my thoughts and emotions as part of my treatment. I have few thoughts and fewer emotions. I’m a mad woman, perforce without a history, and without a future. All I want in this world never existed in the first place. I’m going back to bed.
October 31st
I was going to ignore this journal. I was writing terse commentary and allowing the entire thing to become a joke. But tonight I saw on the lawn a man in a black cloak. I caught my breath. I thought at first that I was going mad again. I even had a fleeting thought that he was actually coming for me. It was only a Halloween Dracula, and the moment he turned around I knew I was all right. But now I’m thinking I should try to write it down. It hurts so badly to think of it, and I’m afraid to consider what it all means. "Though they go mad they shall be sane." I think I was happier when I was still mad. Now I am sane, and I feel no joy in anything.
Dr. Malachy knows all of this. It took a long time to tell her what I’d been thinking; I was still in my fantasies and believed I needed to keep it all secret. When I finally admitted to it, she told me what it must have meant. False memories and self-induced psychosis, compounded by trauma and preeclampsia and postpartum depression. Lots of talk about my internal animus and the effects of mental and physical trauma. Denial of terrible facts. I think I’ve blocked out most of what they did to me, burying it in my fantasies. I preferred my fantasies, and who wouldn’t? I wasn’t alone in them.
I drove myself mad to keep myself sane. What irony. They captured me, I remember this clearly. And I was betrayed by M — , that’s public record now. When I finally got together enough to look it all up, I found all of that. How M — had been found out, his subsequent assassination, and the death of poor E — . Whatever happened to me was the tip of a very terrible iceberg which seemed to overshadow everyone I’d ever known. Not that I was involved in any of that. I was still howling at the walls and cowering in darkness under my bed, muttering poetry.
I miss being mad. I miss the strength and comfort I felt. I don’t miss those tortured times in the hospital when I couldn’t find any words but Dylan Thomas, when all I wanted to be was as strong and powerful as the animus I created, when I couldn’t find myself. But the early stages of this madness, still in my confinement, that I miss. When I created the dream of Vincent, when I truly believed in it, that he would come and rescue me, that the baby they’d forced me to carry was his, so I could allow myself to love it. I think I still love it, wherever it is. No matter it was theirs, it was also mine, and in many ways is still mine. I’d have named it for Mother if it was a girl. I think I remember it was a boy, and I hadn't decided what I would have named a son. I couldn’t name it Vincent, that’s me. Jacob, maybe, though that name came from my fantasies, too.
That’s the problem. After all this time, I can’t decide when I started the fantasies. It would make sense that I created them in isolation during my pregnancy, as they did their best to torture me softly. But if that was the case, why didn’t I make up any memories from before I was attacked in the park? I guess I did change a lot after that time. Did I first invent Vincent after that terrible cutting incident, five years ago? If I did then I’m madder than I thought, and it didn’t take much for them to push me over the edge.
I think I just created the memories to keep me amused in my confinement. That seems the most likely. False memories, overlaid over the real ones. I did relive them again and again, the first moment I saw Vincent, the times he held me in his hands, how he protected me, was there when I needed him. Thinking of Vincent was my only entertainment in that dark room they kept me in. The only thing that kept me, so I thought, sane. God, I loved him. How I needed him in that little room, when I was all alone. I even imagined reasons why he couldn’t come to me, an illness, a madness, such as I was slowly undergoing. I guess part of me knew I was going insane.
I even imagined he came to me as I was dying. As I thought I was dying. I suppose it was a morphine hallucination, but a lovely one at that. An angel to wing me to my rest. I wish I’d never woken up from that final fantasy, the feel of his warm lips on mine. But I did wake, to searing light and roaring grief and horror for my lost child and the kind of bestial madness that makes me shiver when I see the videos they made of me. I’m amazed I wasn’t squatting to relieve myself on the floor like a dog. I don’t remember much of that time.
That’s a lie, I remember it all too clearly. Every moment. I don’t want to remember. It was all much the same, one day exactly like the rest, except for those traumatic moments when they cut the mats from my head, cut the dangerous nails from my fingers. No visitors, no friends, no one who even knew my real name.
No, there was the one girl, now I think on it. (Since I’m writing things down, I might as well write this.) There was that moment when the pretty red headed woman came and spoke to me. I remember her. I still wonder about her. She was the first person I saw who seemed strong as I wanted to be. She seemed to have something like what I imagined Vincent to have, an empathy. I trusted her. There’s no official record of her coming to see me, of course. I was still Aurora Bird then, too crazy even for a new name.
The police tell me I can go if I want to sign myself out. They’ll help me build a new life as Charlotte. But I don’t have anywhere I want to go, and I don’t feel up to facing it. I don’t like this place, but the world Above... I should cross that out, but Dr. Malachy would probably like it if I kept it. The world Outside holds nothing for me now. I don’t know why they’re bothering to keep me under identity protection. I don’t know anything, and I went too crazy for my testimony to be of any use. Once you’re imagining huge lion men who leap into the fray to save you at the slightest peril, there’s nothing to say you couldn’t imagine anything else. But I suppose the men who captured me don’t know that, and if They knew I lived They’d still try to kill me. That is if They’re still around. Whoever They are.
There’s nothing for me now. I have no family. It isn’t safe for J – or J– or P — or any of my other actual – not imaginary – friends to know I’m still alive. Besides. I don’t want them to know I’ve gone mad, and still cling to this madness as my only lifeline. Yes, Dr. Malachy, I can’t bring myself to forget any of it, or accept the real memories I know exist. I still prefer the fantasies, in my heart. But I’d rather my friends accepted that I died, still the strong and healthy C— they used to know.
C– is dead. I’m "Charlotte" now. And Charlotte is a crazy woman, willingly confining herself to an institution.
I’m sorry Dr. Malachy. I’ve been at this journal for over an hour, but I don’t think this is helping.
***
Chapter 1
***
"Catherine," Vincent said, loving any excuse to say the word.
"Up, Vintint!" said Baby Cathy, holding her arms up to him imperiously.
"Sorry," said Lena, coming up behind her. "I was just about to take her to the creche. She just took off when she saw you."
"That’s all right," Vincent said quietly, lifting the young child up and giving her a hug. He was a little sore from a long day working on shoring up some of the older tunnels, and he had planned on taking a quick soak in the hot springs to wash the sweat and dust away before picking up Jacob from the creche. He wanted wash and get Jacob quickly, as he had a feeling the boy was somewhat upset. But Baby Cathy was not a child to be easily denied.
"Vincent! Vincent!" cried a young voice, running from the side tunnel which housed the creche for the smaller children while their parents were working.
"What is it Geoffrey?" he asked.
"It’s Jacob, hurry!"
So his vague feeling was more than just a feeling. Vincent passed Baby Cathy to Lena and took off more quickly than they could follow. He slipped into the comfortable room filled with baby toys and absorbed the scene in less than a second.
The small golden haired boy was wrestling angrily on the carpet with Julio. Jacob was crying out like a tiny kitten, pounding on the older boy with fast and furious hands. Vincent swooped down and grabbed the child, holding him firmly by the arms so that he could not continue his blind assault.
"I’m sorry!" Julio said, panting a little. He had a blackened eye and his lip was bleeding. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry!"
"What is this?" Vincent asked, trying his best to project an aura of calm. The truth was, he was frightened. Jacob was still squirming and cheeping in his arms.
"I’m sorry!" Julio cried again. "I wasn’t trying to upset him!"
Jacob finally realized that his prey was out of his reach and relaxed in his father’s arms. His angry roars collapsed into all out howls of remorse, and he buried his head in Vincent’s shoulder.
Vincent sighed and looked about. There were half a dozen children there, mostly under the age of five, but a few were older. "Where’s Mary?"
Samantha stood against the wall, looking shocked. "I’m sorry, Vincent," she said. "She went off to get a bottle for Elsie. I was supposed to watch the little ones while she was gone, but it all happened so fast. When I tried to get in the way..." Her voice was trembling.
Vincent frowned over Jacob’s cries. "What?" he asked.
Samantha held her shaking hand out as if she was ashamed of herself. A series of four puncture marks were clear on her hand, marked and bruised rather than bleeding, but clearly from a bite. Vincent sighed. "You take Julio and find Mary," he said, "and both of you should go to Father if you need to. We’ll sort this out after you’re tended to." Jacob was crying so loudly, and the rest of the children were still staring at him in horror. Vincent looked about for rescue and found it in the form of Lena, poking her head in the door. She had followed with as much speed as she could, carrying a two year old child. "Lena?" Vincent asked.
"I’m on it," Lena said, setting Baby Cathy on the ground with the others. "Okay, everyone, we’re going to play a game. Can everyone lift their hands over their head, and we’ll pretend to be the sun. Now," and she started a little rhyme. Vincent left before the children had really gotten caught up in the game.
Vincent held his son very tightly as he carried them back to their chamber. The little boy’s tears had subsided to something less strident, but none the less heartfelt for all that. Vincent was frightened. He had recognized the look on his son’s face, recognized a tiny version of his own roars of rage. If Jacob was prone to loss of control, it was very serious news indeed.
He had been pleased and amazed that as a baby Jacob had no sign of the same – he banished the word "deformities" and replaced it with "differences"– that Vincent had always had to endure. Shortly after Jacob started teething it became apparent that he hadn’t missed out on all of the differences. His slightly elongated canines had been a cause for concern. His flesh, tempered by Catherine’s, had been more delicate than Vincent’s, and he had lacerated the inside of his own mouth before the inside of his lips had scarred and – for lack of a better term – callused. His nails also seemed to be thicker than normal, though not as thick and clawlike as Vincent’s own talons. They had not been like Vincent’s claws, in they could be trimmed; Vincent’s claws were fed with blood vessels that caused them to bleed and ache if more than simply filed slightly less sharp. If Jacob learned not to smile too widely, he would probably be fine on brief forays to the world Above.
There had been some other differences, less obvious. He was quicker and more agile than the other children, and seemed to react to people’s emotions, the same way Vincent had even as a baby. Most curious, he seemed to age more quickly. Father said that Vincent had been much the same. Jacob was no more than one and a half, but he seemed like a child twice that age. He was speaking in short sentences and was more interested in stories than other infants. Father assured Vincent that the accelerated ageing had slowed nearer puberty, and that adolescence itself seemed longer than for most people. It was likely that the aging cycle evened out through these means. Vincent did remember his adolescence seeming to go on for ages. He had felt older than the other children until about thirteen, and then they all seemed to shoot up like weeds, changing their tastes and their interests and leaving him behind. It had evened itself out eventually, he figured, though he had felt very young in some ways until Catherine had drawn him out.
But this was the first sign that Jacob had shown of Vincent’s uncontrollable temper. Given a choice, that was one aspect which Vincent would have wished had skipped his son altogether.
Jacob wept until they got back to their chambers, and continued to weep even as Vincent sat with him and gently rocked him back and forth. Vincent suspected his son had a touch of empathy as well, so he suppressed all his worries and tried to exude a air of calm and acceptance. "We’ll make it right," he murmured. Jacob was probably frightened. When the beast rose in Vincent, it was frightening. Heart breaking. Jacob’s tiny body had never suffered that surge of adrenaline before, and his muscles were probably starting to ache, too. Vincent remembered that being a symptom he suffered post fury in his youth. "We’ll make it right. You can apologize to Julio. He’ll forgive you."
"Don’t wanna," Jacob hiccupped.
Vincent pulled him away a little and dried the tears from his face with the back of his hand. "What do you mean, you don’t want to?" he asked. "We’re not allowed to hit people. And Samantha! You know biting people is out of the question."
Jacob’s eyes widened. "I bit Sammy?"
Vincent nodded seriously.
Jacob’s brows hooded in concentration. "Don’t remember."
"I know," Vincent said. "You and I are special. We have to be very careful to control our tempers, more careful than anyone else. Because we can really hurt people, without meaning to. And if we hurt people, people will want to hurt us. And they would be right to."
"But!" Jacob cried out. "Julio said... he said...!" and he started to cry again.
Vincent held his son carefully and tried to project calm at him. "What could Julio have possibly said that would be worth hitting him? I can’t think of a thing."
"Julio said Mommy was dead," Jacob said. "He was lying!"
Vincent closed his eyes, his head bowed. This again. It was confusing, with so many orphans in the tunnels, so many abandoned children. To get a child to understand that they had a mother – and that everyone knew who that mother was – but that she was gone, was sometimes difficult. Jacob had had a seriously difficult time grasping it since the moment he could speak. He’d call out, "Mama!" and would go crawling about into disused tunnels. When asked where he was going, he’d say, "Where’s Mama?" Vincent tried to tell him that Catherine was with them only in spirit. He’d showed him the portrait by Christopher Jenshen, which hung prominently in their chambers. He said that Catherine had passed away, and they had to live in honor of her. Jacob had never been able to grasp that Catherine just wasn’t going to come around a corner and scoop him up.
"That is no reason... to hit anyone. We may not like the truth, but we can’t get angry at anyone for saying it."
"But it’s not the truth!" Jacob insisted.
Couldn’t the boy feel how much this hurt him? "Jacob, I know it’s hard to accept." He had to pause and swallow. He had gotten over getting choked up when he spoke of Catherine’s life, but when he spoke of her death, it was still very hard for him. "Believe me."
Jacob shook his head. "You don’t."
Vincent looked up. "What?"
"You don’t accept. You know Mommy’s ‘live."
Vincent forced a gentle smile. "She lives on in you, Jacob," he said. He hugged his son. Finally he decided trying to convince his son – again– of Catherine’s death was futile. Not to mention painful for both of them. "It doesn’t matter what you believe, Jacob. If it gives you comfort to think of Mommy as alive somewhere, do that. But you can’t get angry when other people say that she is not. They aren’t lying to you, they are saying the truth as they know it." He wasn’t sure the complicated concept would get through to the very young child, uncannily advanced as he seemed to be, but he had to try. He stared into his son’s eyes. He wished Catherine had given him her grey green irises, but instead his own clear blue gazed back at him. "Do you understand? We never hit. Let them say what they like, we don’t hit."
Jacob looked a little ashamed of himself.
"Now, what don’t we do when we’re upset?"
"Don’t hit," Jacob said quietly.
"Yes. If you feel yourself getting angry, you should walk away. Run away if you must, but you must never hit! Repeat that."
"Never hit," Jacob whispered. "Should I say sorry now?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Vincent said, and set Jacob on the floor, holding onto his hand as he led him to Mary’s nursing station. Neither of the wounds had looked serious enough to merit anything more, and indeed they were both still there, Samantha working on the hot and cold water dip that eased almost every pain and prevented swelling, and Julio with a cold pack on his eye, his lip already tended with an antiseptic.
Julio sat up the second he saw Jacob. "I’m sorry," he said.
"Sorry too," Jacob said. "I forgot. Your mommy’s dead."
Julio nodded solemnly. "She is."
"I’m sorry," Jacob said, rubbing his fist on his chest in the ASL word for ‘sorry’. Vincent had been teaching him. "We don’t hit. Or bite." He looked at Samantha. "Sorry, Sammy," he said, signing the word again.
"It’s okay, Jacob," said Samantha, but both of the children looked on Jacob with new wariness in their eyes. Vincent suspected that it would travel quickly through the children not to get his son angry. It would result in a slight alienation. He sighed. Well, he’d endured it as a child. He was sure Jacob could too.
He walked the boy back to their chambers and began listing all the questions he needed to ask Father about dealing with this new-found difficulty in raising young Jacob. He knew the reason Father had always been so protective of him, meddled so in his affairs even as he aged, was that those actions had been vitally necessary while Vincent was still a child. If Father hadn’t been a hovering worrywart, Vincent would never have survived, and there would have been casualties. It was only Father’s strength which had surmounted those obstacles, and it was impossible for the old man to abandon that role as Vincent grew. Fortunately, his hard-learned skills could be revived now as GrandFather.
"Father?" Jacob asked. "When is Mommy coming home?"
Vincent closed his eyes. It was getting too hard to tell Jacob, Never. "I don’t know," he said finally.
"You should go get her."
Vincent picked up the young boy and held him very tightly. "If I knew how to do that," he said feelingly, "I’d do it in a heartbeat."
***
His name was Brian, and he didn’t exactly want to be there. At least, he didn’t want anyone to know he wanted to be there. Every time he talked about it to his friends all he did was complain about what a drag it all was.
When his father said it would be good for his college resume for him to volunteer to read to the inmates at the institute, he actually thought it would be a good deal. Get him out of the house, give him an excuse to spend hours away. He could make up new Dungeon scenarios on the train. Moreover, he was starting to use his skills as Dungeon Master to write a fantasy novel. He was having troubles. He tended to want to add more action scenes than strictly necessary, dropping in the monsters he used in his games without weaving them into the plot, sacrificing established characters without any qualms, and he knew he needed more characterization. But this was his first novel, and he was rather proud of how it was progressing. His mom didn’t approve, of course. Neither did his dad. It was probably the first thing they’d agreed on in years; that Brian was wasting his time writing tripe.
It wasn’t as much fun as he’d originally thought it would be. Often he was stuck reading the Bible or Fisherman’s Weekly, as most of the inmates at the institute were elderly, mentally impaired because of dementia. But it had its upside. The younger inmates were all really weird, and he had added many of the stranger characteristics into his novel. The schizophrenic who believed that aliens lived in the rose bushes was priceless. The best thing about reading at the institute was that sometimes, if he got a sympathetic listener or someone too blitzed out to care, he could read chapters of his own novel aloud to them.
He was doing this now, and was just getting to the good part. "The Lady Catherine stumbled, her autumn gold hair catching the torchlight as she fell. Thorns dragged at her skirts, and the goblins laughed, sensing an easy victory. ‘No,’ Lady Catherine shrieked. ‘Vincent!’ But it was too late to call for help, the goblins were less than a stone’s throw behind her. Her heart would be roasted tonight, and eaten still crackling from the fire. The Lady Catherine wept, knowing that she had failed. Then, just as all seemed lost, Sir Vincent, Knight of the Dark Cavern came roaring from the night. The goblins cowered, and then began to chatter in disbelief. The golden lion on Vincent’s shield glittered under the moonlight, and he grinned, showing feline fangs as he sized up his foe. One of the goblins took the opportunity to attack. Without a word, Vincent moved his sword, and the creature was left writhing in the dust."
"Hey!" someone complained. "You stepped on my foot!"
A newcomer looked down distractedly. "Sorry," she said to the dottering old man who had been sleeping during the recitation.
Brian looked up from his manuscript, annoyed... and froze. "Ms. Chandler?" he asked.
The woman twitched as she saw his face. "My name is Charlotte," she said hurriedly. "Charlotte Bakster." She turned and ran from the common room.
Brian blinked. He knew he recognized Ms. Chandler from his father’s apartment building. What was she doing here, in New Jersey? What was she doing anywhere at all! It was a well known fact that Catherine Chandler had died. Brian had worried and waited during her disappearance, scanning the newspapers for news of her. He’d wanted to go to the funeral, but his father wouldn’t let him, telling him it would be tactless, they barely knew the woman. Brian thought that unfair, but he’d let his father win rather than argue with him. It wasn’t worth it. Besides, he didn’t want anyone to know that he had a slight crush on Catherine Chandler. On the day of the funeral he’d written her a graphic and epic death scene... it was later in this very manuscript, touching and heart wrenching. It had made his girlfriend cry when she read it.
He knew that was Catherine Chandler. But she was supposed to be dead.
If Ms. Chandler wasn’t dead... why wasn’t she Below... with Vincent?
***
"I found this wandering the tunnels," William said, pushing the sixteen year old boy into Father’s study. "He said he needed to speak with you."
"Brian!" Father said. "What are you doing here? You know it’s dangerous–"
"No, I haven’t run away again, no one’s expecting me for at least an hour, and no one knows where I am," Brian said quickly. "I just didn’t know how to get a message to you other than to just... come down. It’s not like you guys have a phone."
Brian held a unique position Below. He knew and kept their secret, but he was not a Helper. It was suspected that someday, when he was older, he might be made so, but apart from being young, his actions had been rather irresponsible. He had been asked not to return to the tunnels, and finally agreed to this. There were many Below who found his knowing their secret quite vexing. He wasn’t truly trusted by any of them.
Father looked at the boy, frowning. "You needed to get a message to us," he said, incredulous.
"Yeah. Look, I... something happened to me the other day. I’m pretty damned sure, but she said her name was Charlotte Bakster, and when I tried to find her again, her name wasn’t on the room charts. I wanted to talk to her, but... I could have been wrong. I hardly recognized her, she looks really... well, nuts. Considering where I saw her, I guess that isn’t surprising."
Father tried not to laugh. He wanted to look stern, but this boy was so scattered. "Slow down and start at the beginning. What exactly are you trying to tell us?"
Brian took a deep breath. "I volunteer down at the Maplewood Institute, across the bay in New Jersey. You know, the nuthouse. Well, slightly nutty house, more like, no one’s dangerous there. My dad knew a guy there, don’t ask. I read aloud to the inmates. Lots of ‘em don’t get any visitors at all. I was there the other day, and I saw her there! But how could she be there? I know you probably all know about it, you have all these secrets, and I’m probably just getting my foot in it. But if you didn’t know, I needed to know, you know?"
"No," said Father patiently. "Who exactly did you see at the Maplewood Institute?"
"Ms. Chandler."
The stillness in the room was so thick it settled around them like an eiderdown. After a long, tense moment Father found his chair and slowly lowered himself into it. A thousand thoughts were going through his head, and none of them were very pleasant. "Are you sure?" he asked.
William made a small sound. "I’ll go and get Vincent."
"No!" Father said, so vehemently it surprised him. "We have to be sure, before..." He turned back to the young boy from Above. "Are you positive of this?"
"I recognized her," Brian said. "She looked different. Her hair’s short and she’s, you know, thin, and she’s not so stylish as she used to be, but..." he looked a little embarrassed as he said, "I’d know those eyes anywhere. I think she recognized me, too. Maybe not, I’ve changed a lot in the last three years. At least she recognized the story I was reading. Or bits of it."
Father frowned. "Story?"
"Yeah. I used Vincent as one of the characters. Don’t worry, it’s a total fantasy, he’s fighting goblins, no one could connect it to this place. But she came out as I was reading it. I’d never seen her in the common room before, and I’ve been going there for the last three months."
"You only saw her the once?" Father asked.
"Yeah. When I saw her she said her name was Charlotte Bakster, and she ran. I found the name on a dining list, but I couldn’t find out her room number. I looked under Catherine Chandler, too, but there was nothing." He frowned. "You really didn’t know she was there?"
"We’re still not sure she’s there," said Father, trying to sort out his feelings. On the one hand, on a personal level he was thrilled with the possibility that Catherine could be alive. He had come to love her in the years she had been with Vincent. That said, the possibility had myriad horrors attached. Vincent was only beginning to come to terms with his grief. To spark this hope and crush it again would likely kill him. It might not really be Catherine, and then what would become of him? Worse still, she might not be the Catherine they knew.
The Catherine they knew would never sit somewhere and keep herself from Vincent. This was a mental institute. If this woman Charlotte Bakster was Catherine Chandler, she might be so mad she was not capable of making decisions on her own. She might have forgotten Vincent, and them. She might not want anything to do with them, and was hiding from the world Below as much as the world Above. If she was mad, she might be thinking anything. Her mind might be completely shattered. What would that do to Vincent? To have his Catherine, and yet not his Catherine returned to him would likely drive him mad, too. And what would that do to young Jacob? Father was no longer strong enough to be a Father to a boy such as Vincent had been, not alone. Jacob would be lost without Vincent.
Yet how could he keep the possibility of her survival from him? That would be a crime in and of itself.
There was one person he knew of he could trust to check this possibility out. "Thank you very much, Brian," he said. "I’ll have Jamie show you back to the surface."
"Couldn’t I see Vincent before I go?"
"Not now," Father said. He surprised Brian by adding, "He’s with his son. Please don’t repeat this to anyone else Below. It’s a rumor we cannot risk spreading. When we come to know the truth of it, we’ll get a message to you. Do you know how to contact any of our Helpers?" He gave Brian a sheet of paper with the contact information of three different Helpers on it. "I’ll have you know, Brian, that should you turn out to be right about this, you will likely be considered one of our most valuable assets Above. In either case, you handled this very well." He looked at William. "See that he’s invited to Winterfest, would you?" he added.
William nodded. Brian left feeling a bit overwhelmed and rather pleased with himself. He even managed to try flirting a little with Jamie on the way back to the surface, which didn’t get very far, but at least it made them both laugh.
"William?" Father said as soon as Brian was out of earshot. "Arrange to have a message sent to Diana."
***
"What is this about?" Diana asked. She’d been told to meet Father in a blind alley, which made her nervous.
"I need to be able to trust you on something... something very important," Father said. "I can’t stress enough to you the urgency of the situation."
Diana frowned. She didn’t like the intensity in Father’s voice, or the lines of stress on his face. "Has something happened to Vincent?" she asked.
"No," Father said. "I’ll get right to the point." Diana rather thought he’d been dancing around the point for a while now, considering he could have just written her a letter, but she held her tongue. "I have reason to believe that Catherine Chandler may not be dead."
Diana blinked. "You know this?"
"No," Father said, but something in Diana’s looks worried him. She did not look wholly shocked. Surprised, yes, but not stunned rigid. "Did you have a hint as to this possibility before now?" he asked.
Diana shook her head. "Kind of," she said. "But I thought she was dead, too. I didn’t see how she could survive." She frowned. "I never did see the body..." she mused. She shifted to professional stance and turned back to Father. "Do you know where she might be?"
"That is the difficult part," Father said. "And will require some delicacy. If the woman our contact spotted was indeed Catherine Chandler, she might not be the woman we all once knew and loved."
Diana nodded. "If how I saw her last is any indication, she wouldn’t be," she said. "Where is she?"
"At Maplewood mental hospital, in New Jersey," Father said. "She said her name was Charlotte Bakster."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "She said her name?" she asked. "Sounds better than I was expecting. Unless it’s some new poem. I’ll check it out right away."
"Wait," Father said. "If it is not Catherine, no further action need be taken. If it is Catherine... or was once Catherine, I need to know approximately the state of her mind before I..."
"Before you tell Vincent?" Diana said.
Father looked down. "Yes."
"Don’t you think that’s a little unfair to him?"
Father shook his head. "If there was any hope, I’d never try to keep her from him. If there was no hope, I would try to keep him from that pain." He looked at Diana. He did not know her very well. Her relationship was almost exclusively with Vincent, which was something that disturbed him. He had thought at first that it was merely desperation, a rebound connection with another woman Above. As he had come to know a bit more about her, he began to suspect it was more than that. There was something uncanny about Diana, almost as uncanny as there was about Vincent. He suspected they shared a gift, and that the bond they felt had less to do with love than with kinship.
Vincent’s relationship with her was nothing like with Catherine. She always disappeared the moment she truly enveloped herself in another case, and would stay immersed in these fresh cases for months. Only then would she drop a line to the world Below, asking if they needed anything of her. Mostly keeping a line open for Vincent. Father knew Vincent had visited her, occasionally, as he wandered the world Above. He knew Vincent’s feelings for her were not love. He was concerned what Diana’s feelings were. "Would you not try to spare him?"
Diana shook her head, more confused than negating. "It wouldn’t be my decision," she said.
"But it is," Father said. "If she is beyond reaching, it might be better if he were not to know."
"If she is beyond reaching," Diana said, "she might not be beyond him."
Father pursed his lips. "I will consider that," he said. "But it would be best to warn him, no matter the situation."
Diana nodded. "Very well," she said. "I’ll head over there tomorrow. You’ll know the way of things by evening."
"Thank you, Ms. Bennet," Father said. He returned to the car his Helper was driving him in, his incredibly out-of-date suit making him stand out even more than he would have in his tunnel clothes.
Diana took a deep breath and asked herself if she was ready to face Catherine Chandler again. The last time she had done so, it had nearly broken her heart to pieces. Now that she knew Vincent, if things were as bad again, she knew she’d be hard pressed to recover.
Wait. Vincent. Realization slowly dawned over her face. With a gasp, Diana began to run. If her suspicions were correct, there might just be a happy ending after all.