Sorry, this took so long to update. This chapter is short, but I will be posting more very soon. Thanks for your patience.
Chapter 7
Vincent felt something give way inside Catherine like the bursting of a dam. At the same second, Catherine's knees gave way as well and she would have sunk to the floor. But Vincent was there, tightening his grip and sweeping her up into the strong arms she had so desperately missed. As she began to sob uncontrollably, he cradled her tighter.
Alarmed, Father drew closer in concerned, but Vincent merely shook his head. He knew these tears were not grief, but healing tears of release.
He returned to the chair he'd occupied earlier and put Catherine onto his lap. Snuggling her close, he held her tightly until the emotional storm passed. Catherine's sobs turned to soft sighs and soon she quieted completely. Her deep, even breathing alerted Vincent that Catherine was now asleep again. When he was certain she wouldn't awaken right away, Vincent returned her to the bed. After caressing her cheek lightly one last time, Vincent rose and spoke quietly to Mary.
"Mary, will you sit with Catherine until I return? I would like to go to my chamber to clean up and change before she wakes again." The words were music to Mary's ears and she readily agreed. Vincent returned with amazing swiftness, his damp hair a testament to his haste. But to Mary, he looked vastly improved. The most welcome change had to be the prominent smile now firmly plastered on his face.
'"Let me get you something to eat, Vincent." His surrogate mother urged. "You'll need to keep your strength up for Catherine and the baby." To her delight, he agreed. At once, she headed for the kitchen.
After eagerly downing the first decent meal he'd eaten in days, Vincent sat back feeling utterly content. The room was now quiet. Father was sleeping on a cot at the back of the chamber, getting what rest he could. Little Faith was sleeping as well, her breathing eased by the poultice. Vincent took advantage of the silence to turn his thoughts inward to the Bond, greedily savoring the gentle warmth of Catherine's presence as it settled over him. Carefully, he knelt next to her bed, lightly caressing her soft cheek and hair, still almost afraid to believe she was really here.
It was then he discovered a book on the floor of the chamber, sticking out from under Catherine bed. As he picked it up, he noticed it seemed oddly familiar. Puzzled, he examined the cover more closely and to his astonishment recognized it as one of his journals. It was, in fact, the one he had been writing in at the time of his madness. To Vincent, this was bewildering since he knew the journal was buried at the bottom of the old trunk at the foot of his bed with all his others. A quick trip to his chamber confirmed this; yet, here in his hand was an exact duplicate. Perplexed, he returned to the infirmary, sat down and opened this enigma.
Vincent perused the diary, finding it much as he remembered it. Frowning, he reread the rambling, disjointed entries that catalogued his slow downward spiral. But, when he got to what should have been the last entry, Vincent received another shock. Where there should have been only blank pages, the entries continued in another person's writing. Vincent easily recognized it as one he had seen all his life: the script was Father's. The first words written there had his breath catching in his throat. My son is dead.
Vincent's attention was riveted to the book by the astounding tale it told. In it, the tale of his own demise and Catherine's move Below were meticulously catalogued in Father's familiar hand. But, after only a few pages the entries abruptly stopped as a much more delicate script took over the writing. The writer could only be Catherine.