A/N—A very short piece from a thoughtful Christine who reflects after Meg asked what married life was like.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review. Shameless bribe—if we can reach five reviews, I'll post the second part, Erik's thoughts.
Revelations
Copyright 2016 by Riene
She has learned many things about her husband in the few short weeks they have been married.
There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of compositions stacked in the lacquered Chinese cabinet. He will not hear of publishing them. She thinks about it anyway.
He is fond of cats and they of him, but not dogs. Dogs will bark at him or slink away, perhaps sensing something is not quite right.
She has learned he prefers his coffee bitter and black, Russian tea in the afternoons with a twist of lemon, sherry and cognac in the evenings. He is never drunk….but he drinks too much.
She has learned he cannot sleep through the night.
He can and does go for days without eating; food holds no interest for him. She was not raised to be a housewife or mistress of a château; her culinary skills are poor. Meal times are awkward. He has not noticed she is losing weight.
She has learned that he never laughs. She considers it a victory when his eyes glitter and a corner of his mouth turns up when she has made him amused by some story of the goings-on around the Opera. She treasures the one dry chuckle and would move the earth to hear it again.
He speaks a foreign, vaguely Arabic-sounding language as well as he speaks French. She overheard him once when he was with the Persian. There are German, English. Russian, Italian, and Latin books on his shelves. He reads them all. She feels small and ignorant beside him.
She has learned to hate the organ, the dark and agonized memories that flow from it.
She has glimpsed a surprisingly boyish side to him, with the time he solemnly dabbed shaving soap on her nose, giving her a glimpse of the man he might have been.
She has learned to never startle him.
He is unusually fastidious about his appearance. Gloves are immaculate, collars and ties starched, linens snowy, suits brushed, boots polished. He would bathe and shave twice a day, were not so difficult to heat the water.
She has learned not to ask about the nightmares that haunt his sleep. She has learned that afterwards he can only stop shaking if she holds him tightly in her arms and gives him the kisses he craves.
He has an unreasoning hatred of the gypsy peddlers.
She has learned the violin can sound like a cry or scream…or like a lullaby or hymn.
She has learned the secrets of the dark, of kisses and caresses, of sweating and thrusting and shivering, of him stiffening in ecstasy, of her losing control. She wonders if it will always be in the dark, if she will ever see what her hands have discovered.
The scents of sandalwood and smoke make her smile.
She treasures the way he looks at her in disbelief each time she chooses to return to him. She has learned that marriage is more complicated and more joyous than she ever thought possible. She has learned he still fears losing her, and that he loves her more than life itself.
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