************

Preston is out of it for a long while.

It unsettles her to watch him there, asleep.  The tight concentration that normally marks his features is gone.  He looks vulnerable.  Innocent even.

Mary blows out a sharp breath.  Nothing could be more absurd.  The Cleric thrive on death and destruction.  Preston is hardly an exception.  No doubt he has killed hundreds -- more perhaps -- for no worse offense than wanting to be alive.

She waits to feel the familiar contempt for him and all his ilk, but it doesn't come.  Instead, what she feels is empathy.  That...and other things.

Rising, she paces restlessly through his living space.  It would be wise to get a better handle on what she is dealing with here. 

Because she cannot help a certain level of respect for what Preston has done so far.  That little Prozium charade as he brought her home was virtually flawless.  It would seem he is determined to proceed very carefully.

Clearly, he has not given up yet.  But what about her?

A new kind of understanding is taking shape on the edges of her consciousness.  Mary frowns, scrolling through the actions and reactions of the past few hours.  Hers and his.  What does it all mean?  She is not certain.

But there is one thing she is sure of.  She can feel it again, the spark. 

Fascination.  Attraction. 

Her fingers drift to the soft velvet at her throat.

She wants to know more about John Preston.

The thick rubber soles of her slip-ons make hardly a sound as she glides from room to room.  A cursory inspection yields nothing.  On the surface, everything is exactly as it should be.

Shadows lengthen as day turns into evening.  Eventually, Mary finds herself chilled.  His climate control is likely set at the requisite sixty-eight degrees, which is uncomfortable after the heat of her cell.

She heads back into his bedroom.  Preston's Clerical coat is draped across a chair.  She shrugs it on absently.  The thing nearly swallows her, but at least it is warm.  She wants to cuff the sleeves, but the weapons harness makes it awkward.  After a brief struggle, Mary simply gives up.

Her eyes scan the harsh, utilitarian corners of the room once more.  There are no photos of his children, and certainly none of his wife.  She didn't really expect there would be.

Mary bites her lip.  She wonders if he ever got far enough to keep a cache.

Maybe.

It takes her less than fifteen minutes to find it.  There is a hairline crack in the baseboard at the back of his closet.  After twelve years as a sense offender, she knows nearly all the tricks.

It surprises her, though.  A Search team would never locate this, but a Cleric might. 

Preston would know that of course, so whatever is in there must be worth the risk.

Mary pries off the molding.  She reaches into the wall and pulls out what looks like an ancient LP. 

She moves back into the room, toward the light.  Her eyes scan the album cover.  With a gasp and a smile, she covers her mouth.  It is all she can do to keep from laughing out loud.

The Ninth Symphony.

So, Preston found his way into the glory of responsiveness through the indomitable Ludwig Van. 

How very prosaic, she thinks.  Stanley Kubrick would be spinning in his grave if he knew.

Mary wishes she could share her delight with Jurgen.  He would undoubtedly appreciate this little irony. 

Oh, what she wouldn't give to lock Preston in with her at the Underground's garden of digital delights.  Immerse him into something a little less...refined.  Mahler, perhaps.  Or Morrison.

She closes her eyes for a second, remembering the sheer, compelling force of that kind of music.  Lyrics like poetry spray-painted across a catastrophic wall of sound.

Mary sobers when she realizes that opportunity will probably never come.

Quickly, she goes to replace the LP in its hiding place.  When it meets some resistance, she reaches inside again.

This time, she comes up with a shattered volume of poetry by William Butler Yeats.  The ragged pages are spattered with what appears to be dried blood.

Partridge's blood, she thinks, shocked.  Preston actually kept the book after...

But he was still on his interval then.  She knows that.

Mary puts everything back in place with shaking hands.  If he kept the book while he was still dosed...

Had Partridge actually managed to get through to Preston before he was killed?  Or was there something else all along?

Her eyes skip over the vacant sleeping pad next to his.  His wife's space.

Could he feel it when they took her away?  Could he feel it when she burned?

Perhaps Jurgen was right.  The family unit can hide a multitude of sins.  Perhaps there was always more to the Cleric than met the eye...

Even if he never knew it.

She heads for the children's room to verify what she already suspects.

There is nothing worth finding on the son's side.  Probably proof that the kid is smarter than all of them put together. 

The daughter is more creative than her father, but still susceptible to a motivated search.  Her cache is carefully tucked into her juvenile translation of the Manifesto.  A virtual menagerie of tiny origami creatures flutters into Mary's hand.  Rabbits, tigers, cranes -- as delightful as they are fragile.  A few of them fall to the floor.  Pastel hues of lemon, rose, and violet wink against the dark surface.

She puts them carefully back into their hiding place.  The Manifesto is the one spot a Cleric might not look, she thinks.  And the paper is soluble, easily disposed of.  Pretty clever, actually.  Perhaps the brother leant a helping hand.

A flood of recognition sweeps through her.  Mary suddenly recalls her own first forays into the realm of sense -- her earliest feelings.  She wasn't that young, but her happiness was nearly childlike in its simplicity.  Preston's daughter and likely his son have found that very same thing.  And they did it while under his watch -- the most intuitive Cleric of them all. 

How very interesting.

She wonders if Preston really and truly knows.  If he has allowed himself to know.

In any case, it is not her secret to divulge.  He will discover the treasure inside his children when the time is right.

With a deep breath, she stands upright.  She rubs a hand wearily across her forehead and catches Preston's scent again in the cloth.

Her body responds instantly.  Mary feels a sudden tightness in her throat.  She knows exactly what it means.  There is a growing warmth, an affinity for this man that she has never felt for anyone besides her brother.  The feeling is not necessarily welcome. 

Until today, it was nearly impossible for her to see him as anything but a Cleric.  Discovering his secrets -- the keys to his soul -- might be more than she bargained for.  Because now she must look at the enemy as an individual -- capable of many of the same things as she is. 

It is too much, she thinks.  Her release, his home, his family.  Look at how much he has done.

Understanding him forces her to know more about herself. 

Her shoulders ache with anxiety.

Before, she had pulled up stakes on the only kind of life she believed was worth living.  Now, she can only see how narrow that life had become.

Clerics, Sense Offenders...what fucking difference does it make?  They are all prisoners of the same reality.

She makes her way into the bathroom unsteadily and splashes water over her face.  The reflection in the mirror confirms what she already suspects.

Her blue eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed.  The red ribbon Preston tied around her throat stands out; drawing her attention in a way it never has.

She cannot remember what it was like to wear that ribbon before he came.  Instead, all she can feel is the imprint of his fingers on her skin...

There is a sound from the other room.  Preston. 

With a deep breath, Mary turns and heads back to him.

(cont'd...)