took his child from her.
She gave the baby a kiss. “Good night, Vincent.”
“Good night, Brooke,” Vincent replied.
After Brooke left, Vincent picked up a volume of Kipling’s Jungle Book from a shelf and settled comfortably on the rocking chair. He read to Little Jacob until the baby had fallen asleep, and then he rose, kissed him, and laid him in his bassinet.
When Vincent settled onto his bed, a powerful vision overtook him.
He was in the white mist again, but this time he heard Catherine crying. He walked through the thick mist toward the sound until he broke out of it and saw her chained to a large oak tree in a clearing. She was sitting under the tree, with one wrist chained to the tree, and she was sobbing. She looked up as he ran toward her, and she appeared as surprised to see him as he was to find her. “Oh, Vincent, I thought I would never see you again!”
Vincent dropped to his knees beside her and took her in his arms. “I’m here now, sweet Catherine!” With brute strength he broke the chain around her wrist, stood up, and picked her up in his arms.
Catherine wrapped her arms around Vincent’s neck and buried her face in his mane of hair. “I thought I had to be chained here forever, because I didn’t tell you that I was pregnant before I was kidnapped, and our baby was stolen.”
Vincent comforted her. “Never mind that now. Our son is safe. I’m taking you home.” He walked away from the tree through the mist and saw light beginning to appear in front of him.
Catherine sounded drowsy. “Vincent, I’m so tired. I can’t stay awake! I love you.”
Suddenly, Vincent was alone as Catherine evaporated from his arms. He let out a roar of heartbreaking frustration which Father heard all the way over in his chamber. Miraculously, the baby slept through it.
Vincent was now wide awake again. He got up and went to a remote corner of his chamber. From behind a large cabinet he pulled out an huge painting and took the cover off it. It was a spectacular portrait of him and Catherine. He sat on the end of his bed and stared at it for quite some time.
After a while, Father appeared in Vincent’s doorway looking very worried. “Vincent, are you all right?”
Vincent looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Father, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Father came in and sat down on the rocking chair. “Everyone has been telling me about this rocker. It truly is wonderful, isn’t it?” Vincent was staring at the portrait again and didn’t hear what Father said. Father watched him for a few minutes and then asked, “Tell me what has you so absorbed and distracted, Vincent.”
Vincent finally looked at him and said, “I’m sorry, Father. I’m just trying to figure out what Catherine needs for me to find or do. Ever since her death, I’ve heard her voice everywhere I go. I have visions and dreams about her, and it is very confusing. I often see her face very
clearly, with her eyes closed in death, which is the way I had to leave her in her apartment.”
Suddenly, Father realized what was happening to Vincent, and he barely managed to hide his surprise as well as his relief that Catherine’s breast milk was having the effect they had hoped for. Peter had been sending a bottle of Catherine’s pumped breast milk for Little Jacob, down into the tunnels every couple of hours, with the changing shifts of women in the community who had been caring for Catherine. What Vincent was seeing was Catherine with her eyes closed in deep sleep, not death.
All Vincent needed was more time. “That is the portrait that Kristopher Gentian painted, isn’t it?” Father asked Vincent.
Vincent looked back at the painting. “Yes, it is. These visions and dreams I’ve been having about Catherine, and also hearing her voice, made me think of the time when Kristopher’s ghost visited Catherine and me. He needed for us to find his paintings in that remote warehouse, where they were hidden
She gave the baby a kiss. “Good night, Vincent.”
“Good night, Brooke,” Vincent replied.
After Brooke left, Vincent picked up a volume of Kipling’s Jungle Book from a shelf and settled comfortably on the rocking chair. He read to Little Jacob until the baby had fallen asleep, and then he rose, kissed him, and laid him in his bassinet.
When Vincent settled onto his bed, a powerful vision overtook him.
He was in the white mist again, but this time he heard Catherine crying. He walked through the thick mist toward the sound until he broke out of it and saw her chained to a large oak tree in a clearing. She was sitting under the tree, with one wrist chained to the tree, and she was sobbing. She looked up as he ran toward her, and she appeared as surprised to see him as he was to find her. “Oh, Vincent, I thought I would never see you again!”
Vincent dropped to his knees beside her and took her in his arms. “I’m here now, sweet Catherine!” With brute strength he broke the chain around her wrist, stood up, and picked her up in his arms.
Catherine wrapped her arms around Vincent’s neck and buried her face in his mane of hair. “I thought I had to be chained here forever, because I didn’t tell you that I was pregnant before I was kidnapped, and our baby was stolen.”
Vincent comforted her. “Never mind that now. Our son is safe. I’m taking you home.” He walked away from the tree through the mist and saw light beginning to appear in front of him.
Catherine sounded drowsy. “Vincent, I’m so tired. I can’t stay awake! I love you.”
Suddenly, Vincent was alone as Catherine evaporated from his arms. He let out a roar of heartbreaking frustration which Father heard all the way over in his chamber. Miraculously, the baby slept through it.
Vincent was now wide awake again. He got up and went to a remote corner of his chamber. From behind a large cabinet he pulled out an huge painting and took the cover off it. It was a spectacular portrait of him and Catherine. He sat on the end of his bed and stared at it for quite some time.
After a while, Father appeared in Vincent’s doorway looking very worried. “Vincent, are you all right?”
Vincent looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Father, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Father came in and sat down on the rocking chair. “Everyone has been telling me about this rocker. It truly is wonderful, isn’t it?” Vincent was staring at the portrait again and didn’t hear what Father said. Father watched him for a few minutes and then asked, “Tell me what has you so absorbed and distracted, Vincent.”
Vincent finally looked at him and said, “I’m sorry, Father. I’m just trying to figure out what Catherine needs for me to find or do. Ever since her death, I’ve heard her voice everywhere I go. I have visions and dreams about her, and it is very confusing. I often see her face very
clearly, with her eyes closed in death, which is the way I had to leave her in her apartment.”
Suddenly, Father realized what was happening to Vincent, and he barely managed to hide his surprise as well as his relief that Catherine’s breast milk was having the effect they had hoped for. Peter had been sending a bottle of Catherine’s pumped breast milk for Little Jacob, down into the tunnels every couple of hours, with the changing shifts of women in the community who had been caring for Catherine. What Vincent was seeing was Catherine with her eyes closed in deep sleep, not death.
All Vincent needed was more time. “That is the portrait that Kristopher Gentian painted, isn’t it?” Father asked Vincent.
Vincent looked back at the painting. “Yes, it is. These visions and dreams I’ve been having about Catherine, and also hearing her voice, made me think of the time when Kristopher’s ghost visited Catherine and me. He needed for us to find his paintings in that remote warehouse, where they were hidden
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