They'd cycled, lifted free weights, and swam. They sat on the shore, looking out over the lake.

"What do you want to do now?" asked Vincent.

"Tag," answered Catherine. She shoved his shoulder. "Not It!" she yelled, and took off running. Vincent smiled, and watched after her.

She looks good, Vincent thought. For three weeks, they'd been working to rebuild her strength, and regain the use of her body. Catherine had surpassed by far all the goals Father had set for her. She was wicked powerful. Watching her, he could see quadriceps, hamstrings, calves, every muscle in her legs cut to sharp definition. She was wearing a tank top, exposing the deltoids in her shoulders, her biceps, triceps, her forearms, every muscle ripped and strong. He knew her back and abdomen were just as robust.

He set out after her. She was tearing up the hillside. He started to catch up to her as she came to the crest. She cut to the right, and pulled away. The ground sloped down gradually for about two hundred feet to a bluff that jutted out above deep water. He followed, just close enough to brush her arm with his fingertips. She whooped and pulled away. They were within twenty feet of the edge of the bluff. He mustered his speed, scooped her up and held her tight with his left arm, and jumped off the bluff. They surfaced holding each other, and kissed.

Her eyes twinkled. "Let's do it again—I bet you can't catch me this time!" They swam to shore.

"No diving," he reminded her.

"No diving," she answered. She had a crack in her C4 vertebrae. "Give me a five second head start," she said, and took off.

She was quick. She charged the hill, legs pumping over ground, arms pumping air, chest swelling and contracting. As she crested the hill, she heard him at the bottom. Argh! He's too fast! This time, she went left. Soon, she felt his fingertips on her arm. But this time, she skidded to a stop, regained her balance, and cut back to the right. He couldn't stop and maneuver that quickly; he ran several more steps before he could change direction. She put all her heart into her effort and ran for the edge of the bluff. He grasped air as she flew off, barely evading him.

She surfaced just after he did. "Were you trying your best?" she demanded.

"Yes, I was—" He glided toward her.

"You were? Really?"

"I was, I was absolutely trying my best." He put his arms around her and tread water for the both of them. She put her arms around his neck.

"You're trying to make me feel good."

"No, no, I was trying as hard as I could." He smiled; he was delighted with her. "You out maneuvered me. If it had been a competition of my strength versus yours, I would've won; I'd win every time. But that," he was clearly impressed, "was quite a feint."

"I think this is the first time you've been proud of me."

"Oh, no, no, no," he said very quickly, very seriously. "Don't think that. You've been through a lot of pain, and never complained. And you've changed. You've let the beauty of your heart shine through so we can all see it. I'm very proud of you, always."

She smiled the warmth of her heart at him. She leaned in and they kissed. She pulled back and ran the tip of her tongue, slowly, just inside his lips. She raised her hand to her mouth, licked the tip of her ring finger, and used it, in accompaniment with her tongue, to caress his lips, every so softly.

His body started to undulate, and he ran one hand up her back; he moaned very softly. Catherine could feel him slipping off to that magic place where men lost control, and let go.

Very suddenly, he pulled away from her. "Catherine, let's swim to shore."

"What's wrong?"

"We'll talk."

They swam in, and sat down in the short grass.

"What happened?" she asked.

He looked at her and smiled. "Don't be distraught. It's a good thing. What happened was that I…wanted…" He sighed. "I wanted to lay you down, peel off your clothes, and enjoy your sweet, sweet body…" His eyes roamed over her with almost palpable hunger.

Catherine smiled. "What's the problem? I'd like that."

"Here's the problem. Right now, we have a bond. I feel what you feel. When we make love, the bond will become complete; you will feel what I feel, as well."

"Also a good thing, I'd like that, too."

"Once the bond is complete, it's irrevocable. There's no such thing as divorce. There's no legal separation. No taking a break, no bouncing. We will be joined until the day we die. We will die on the same day, at the same time. I will not be able to live without you, nor you without me."

"So we have to be sure we want to make that commitment?"

"Yes."

"So we have to be abstain."

"Yes."

She sighed. "Okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"It's going to be difficult."

He looked out over the lake. He inhaled sharply, and exhaled. "The way you touch me, the way you kiss me…the way you moan and move your body in my arms…I think you enjoy sex, my love."

She smiled. "I enjoy you. I trust you, Vincent. If this is what we need to do, we'll do it." She laid her hand on top of his. "Lead on."

He smiled and covered her hand with his. "You know, this would be a great time for us to visit with my family. Let's get cleaned up and go over there for lunch."

Her mouth fell open. A groan came out, then a sigh. "Oh, well," she said, "yeah, okay. I didn't get to see too much of them at that picnic, I just basically met them. What are they like? What's your mother like? What's your father like?"

He stood up, then reached down for her. He kept hold of her hand as they began walking back to the dorms.

"I don't know, they're like people, I guess. I just thought, it's been awhile since the horses had anyone ride them. Do you want to ride horseback to the village?"

"What a fun idea!" she said, smiling. Ugh! She thought. I do not want the first impression I make to be of stinking like a horse…

"You don't really want to?" he guessed.

There will be certain disadvantages to this bond… "Well, I don't want to reek of the barnyard while we're having lunch…"

"Oh, yeah. No, don't worry, they're washed down every week, brushed every day. You know, that could become your job."

"How fun would that be?" she feigned excitement. He looked at her. She signed. "Yeah, that might be okay, I don't know," she almost mumbled.

"…proud of you…" he intoned, smiling.

Maybe I would like to take care of these horses, she thought. They were riding beautiful Pinto ponies, primarily brown with splashes of white. Vincent had tried to help her mount, and she had tried to let him. But then he gave her that sideways look that she was beginning to get used to, and he started asking her if she'd ridden horses, where had she ridden, starting at what age, how many competitions? What kind of competition? How many? Polo?

And after solemnly promising to hold the horse to a walk, no trotting, galloping, or jumping, no competitiveness whatsoever, they were on their way.

"Why didn't you tell me you didn't need any help?" he asked.

"I don't know, you kind of assumed I did," she answered with no more emotion than if she'd asked about the name of a tree.

They rode for a long time in silence. She looked at Vincent, sitting perfectly erect; he didn't use reins, but guided the horse using his knees and heels. Catherine had read somewhere, that's how the Native Americans used to guide their horses. God, that's just what he looks like, too, a proud Native American, riding in silence, down a lonely forest path, sunlight filtering through the forest canopy…he was glowing gold and bronze…fiercely independent…strong…brave…free…

He arched his back, then turned to her. "Catherine? Whatever it is you're thinking about, please, stop…remember, I feel what you feel, and right now…" He widened his eyes at her as he tugged at the crotch of his pants; she looked away.

"Sorry. But you look really good…I mean…really…good…"

"Stop it!" he cried, tugging.

"I'm sorry! Okay, I'm sorry, I'm not looking at you anymore. I'm looking away from you. I'm not thinking about you. Not going to think about you," she said, and of course, immediately felt the actual thrill of kissing him…

She winced as she felt his eyes burning holes through her.

"Vincent, did I ever tell you that I went to see the sixth game of the 2014 World's Series in Kansas City? Oh, yes, I remember the fifth inning, Moustakas grounded a double over first-base, past Brandon Belt and down the right-field line. Then Escobar hit a bouncing grounder to Belt, and got tagged out at first. Peavy was yelling "Home!" and Salvador Perez was tagged out at third…"

Sometime later, she breathed a sigh of relief that she'd finally stopped thinking about you-know-what. But she had to ask…

"How the hell has your society functioned for all these eons? This has got to be thee singularly most wacked method of courtship and mating on the face of the planet-"

"How the hell do you take it upon yourself to judge my society? You don't know anything about my society," but just as he was building up to an emotional crescendo, he scaled back down, "which is why we are here. Dosal Dayeh." She followed his line of sight down to the valley below, where an arcadian village, idyllic, lay nestled. Small, tile-roofed stucco cottages set in half-moon patterns radiated from a common center, where it looked like a farmer's market was organized.

Vincent was well known and well loved in this village, judging from the greetings they received as they rode through the marketplace. He finally had to dismount to avoid being pulled off his horse. As he led the ponies through the crowd, Catherine saw many Taj males, some human men, and many human women, everyone buying and selling. She listened, fascinated, as Vincent began speaking in Taj to his fellows. He tied the ponies to a hitching post, and Catherine dismounted. He held out his hand to her, and as she took it, he said, "Meenya veetha," to his friends. "Mayo koraso," he said, and smiled at her.

He ushered her into the Chemist's Shop, which his mother, Sarah Stephens, owned and operated. After they exchanged greetings, Vincent said, "I wonder if you would excuse me? I want to talk to Father." Catherine raised her eyebrows. "My actual father," Vincent explained. "He publishes a newspaper."

"Certainly," said Catherine. She wouldn't mind having a private conversation with Sarah.

"By all means," said Sarah at the same time. She wouldn't mind having a private conversation with Catherine.

There were no customers in the store. Sarah strode to the front and hung the 'closed' sign, and locked the door.

"Catherine, let's sit down in the back, and get a cup of coffee," said Sarah.

"Sounds great," Catherine answered.

Sarah was explaining the basics of Taj culture. "First," she said, "the name of our race is not 'Taj'. The humans call us 'Taj' because it's short for 'montage', a work of art made up of a mix of different materials. They see us as part lion, part human. We see ourselves as a race of people, and we call ourselves Mayopelley, which means 'honey colored fur'. The males have a kind of a race memory, and we believe we've existed on earth as long as humans. We've lived in the Americas, side by side with the Native Americans. Our males were more susceptible to European viruses than the Native Americans, and they were almost made extinct by small pox and measles. They became a rarity, and have been living in hiding for generations. Only the men have the leonine features. The males marry human women, and if they have children, the girls are human, the boys are Mayopelley."

"Now, about this bond—"

"First, I have a few questions for you."

It was a reflex: she went into attorney mode. She looked directly into Sarah's eyes, smiled and said, "Lay 'em on me."

Sarah looked directly into Catherine's eyes and asked, "How are you going to live here with him?"

Catherine's attorney armor fell away, and her entire countenance dropped, her shoulders, her head, her eyes. Because she'd been asking herself the very same question for weeks, and still didn't have an answer.

"You know, it's pretty simple for everyone I know. I'm going to say I've decided to join the commune. And they can raise their eyebrows and shake their heads, and consider me crazy. The one problem, the one real problem I have, is my dad." She paused, because the next words were heavy and hard to say. "I don't know how to tell my dad. And I'm sick at heart, because I know it's gonna hurt."

Sarah took her hands. "We will all be here for you. You don't have to be alone anymore."

"What do you mean? I've never been alone."

"You've always been alone," answered Sarah.

"What has Vincent told you?"

"It's not him. It's you. Everything you do just screams, 'I don't need any help!' 'I got this!' 'Thanks, anyway!'"

Catherine sat silent for a long time, then blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. "It's starting to hurt, already," she said. Sarah put her arm over her shoulders.

Vincent strode briskly to the publishing house. He entered, and was glad to see his father was alone. They gripped each other's forearms in greeting.

"Father," he said, "I am desperate to speak with you."

"What is it?" asked Riordan. The resemblance between them was strong, Riordan having darker coloring, brown eyes, the same height, same build. He was standing behind a work table, files, books, paper spread over the top.

"Catherine and I have started to bond."

"Yes, you've told me."

"Father, my kobeesar for her, it's overwhelming…"

"Good, that's how it should be," he said, smiling.

'Love divine,

All love excelling

Joy of heaven

To earth come down.'

Bartlett."

"Yes. But I'm almost afraid to be in the same room with her! I don't see how I can bermanehser empedasus until the ceremony."

Riordan shrugged. "So limit yourself to korekunda sayca with her."

Vincent widened his eyes. "I don't think I'd be able to stop."

Riordan took in a breath and nodded. "Ah, yes. The trick is to make her dartudo first. When she does, your body is tricked into thinking you did, too."

Vincent blinked. "It can't be that simple."

"Yep. It's really best if you dar'morcam abokka…"

Vincent leaned, palms down, on a desk. "How did I not know, not realize?"

"We're not usually concerned with how to not do it, are we? Guy talk usually isn't about how to not do it."

They laughed. A huge burden shifted off Vincent's shoulders.

Vincent re-entered the Chemist's Shop, a spring in his step, light-hearted—and saw Catherine sitting by Sarah, dabbing her nose with tissues, eyes red-rimmed.

He looked at Sarah. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing."

"She was fine when I left her here. You broke her."

Catherine looked up then, and smiled. Vincent brought a bouquet of field flowers from the market out from behind his back, knelt down, and presented them to her.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm afraid of telling my dad that I'm staying here."

Vincent nodded. "That's a heavy burden, Catherine. Will you let me help you with it?"

She nodded. "It's easy," he said. "Hold me." She put her arms around his neck, he put one arm around her waist, one behind her back. He held her close. Gradually, their hearts beat to the same rhythm, their breathing took on the same pattern. The image of a white dove came to her mind.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, surprised and relieved.

He smiled. "Good. I've got good news for you. Do you feel like shopping in the market? We'll get a few things."

"Shopping? Always," she smiled.

The air was fresh, the sun was bright. Birds were chirping, children were laughing. Shopping with Vincent was fun, fun, fun. They bought wine, cheese, bread, apples, grapes. They were passing a Mayopelley version of a boutique, and some body lotion caught Catherine's eye. She sighed, "Ooooooo," involuntarily. Vincent stopped. He smiled, and picked up the bottle. Then he noticed a bottle of massage oil, scented with a complementary fragrance. He bought them both for her. They stopped at the gold smith's shop, and looked at wedding bands.

"Are you ready to pick out a design?" he asked her.

She shook her head. She was too excited; her heart was pounding. He smiled, and squeezed her hand.

They walked on to the inn, where they met Sarah and Riordan for lunch.

"You two look like you're enjoying yourselves," said Riordan.

"Shopping was fun," said Catherine. "And now I feel like I've stepped into Don Quixote. This inn is wonderful!"

They chatted, drank, ordered, ate.

"Vincent, did you tell me you had good news?" Catherine remembered.

"Yes, I do. Papai? Could we use the cabin for a few hours?"

"Of course, Moso."

"Catherine, you will love it. It's at the top of a hill, so the view is astonishing, plus it's private. And there's a hot spring up there—you've got to try it," said Sarah.

Catherine looked at Vincent, but he did not return her look. After lunch, they mounted their ponies, and set out for the cabin.

"Vincent? Is this going to be okay?" she asked as they set out.

He smiled. "Yes," he answered.

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"For now," he answered. "Why don't you enjoy the view?"

She looked out into the forest, green, green, dense growth of trees, tall, tall trees. It appeared to go on forever, infinite, timeless. The birds were flitting from tree to tree, to the ground, back up to the trees, feeding their babies. Squirrels barked at them. Grass rustled when the rabbits caught sight of them, and scurried away. Otherwise, it was very quiet, and she felt at peace. She was still trying to give herself permission to feel peaceful and not intense, rushed, pressured.

The cabin was a small log cabin, and very charming. "It's beautiful," she said.

"Yes," he answered.

They tethered the horses in sweet grass, and Vincent pumped their trough full of cold, fresh water. He opened the cabin door for her, and she stepped in. There were no partition walls, and the hardwood floors were whitewashed pine. Light flooded in from the windows. The airy ambiance felt magical. Vincent laid their shopping bags on the kitchen counter. He turned to her, and took her shoulders in his hands.

"At last, I can tell you my news," he said softly. He looked into her lovely green eyes, and had to catch his breath. He pulled her close, held her tightly, and kissed her, long and deep.

He pulled back, panting, a little dizzy. "We can make love," he whispered. Her eyes popped open wide, her jaw dropped. "Not intercourse, but…in Maypelley it's called dar'morcam abokka. It's…" he whispered the translation in her ear. "Are you okay with that?"

"Oh, my god, ye-es! Yes…Vincent!" she cried. Her eyes narrowed, and she clutched the fabric of his shirt in both her hands.

He started to unbutton her shirt. The bed was in the back left corner of the cabin, and they moved toward it, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake.

"Kiss me like you did when we were swimming…" he murmured.