Erik was pacing the small stretch of shore before the entrance to the house on the lake. He had been out here for hours, leaving before Christine was even awake. His official reason to himself was that he was checking on the alarms, but he was in fact stewing on the advertisement he had looked for and found that morning in the Epoque.
"OG - Have done as you requested. Stubborn at first, but after showing the letters the boy consented. Departing this morning in steamer. Am trusting you to hold up your end of the bargain. - D"
So the fool actually did it. Erik felt the bile slowly rise into his mouth, his body tensing, even as the rational segment of his mind calmly observed it.
It was this sort of split reaction that no doubt led people to think him mad.
Wasn't this exactly what he wanted? The boy gone, the prize his? Of course it was. It had been two months since the night he won, the night his beloved Christine agreed to become his bride. But since the universe delighted in taking every opportunity to spit in his eye, they were, of course, not to be left in peace.
That boy, that idiotic child, was not willing to face reality.
Countless times he had come across the Viscount wandering lost in the cellars, beating the walls in a frenzy, trying to find a secret spring or knot that would lead him to his love.
In Persia, Erik had once seen a small monkey nearly beat himself to death on a pane of glass, trying to reach a bowl of fruit on the other side.
The effect was not dissimilar.
Erik never confronted the lad - a simple rotation of a prop wall or two was always enough to ensure he did not progress through the cellars (in fact, the boy usually found himself thrust awkwardly into the ballet changing rooms) but his constant presence had become tiresome.
A week ago, Erik set Christine with the task of writing letters to assure her lover of her health and safety. She had nodded meekly and complied without question, not even flinching as Erik's gaze burned over her shoulder at the words she wrote. She was perfectly well, thank you very much, and eminently satisfied with her treatment. Once assured of the letters' proper tone and content, Erik had sent the packet to the Daroga, along with careful instructions to use whatever means necessary to get rid of the boy.
Between the letters and (most probably) the stern lectures of the Persian, the boy was finally - finally - heading off on his long delayed voyage to the arctic. The Daroga had agreed to charter a steamer in an effort to catch up with the main ship, which Erik calculated to be midway through the North Sea. As the advertisement confirmed, the two men had left this morning.
All was as it should be, was it not?
Erik was dismayed that, instead of the relief he expected, he was filled only with blistering resentment. He poked about in the twisted scrap heap of his psyche - a task not for the faint of heart - and it was not long before he located the source of his anger.
How dare the boy give up on Christine.
How could any man, once aware of her perfection, possibly consider any other object in life? Was the boy a coward? Well, yes, but was Christine not worth the effort? Was she not the very embodiment of goodness and innocence, enhanced by that enticing streak of sensuality? Men had laid down their lives for much, much less.
And that boy had just given up?
And then decided to go look at snow?
He was humiliated on Christine's behalf that such an unworthy ingrate had ever foisted his attentions on her. A real man would never have left her.
Erik certainly hadn't.
He ground his teeth. It was just more proof that the boy was a simpleton and a fool.
He tried for a moment to pity him, but all he felt was hate.
He kicked at a large stone, watching with a fierce rush of pleasure as it smacked into the surface of the lake and sunk. He wished it was that foul boy's head.
But no, he must not wish such things. If the boy were dead, Christine would leave him. That could not be allowed to happen.
The past two months had been - strange. Between his lavish fantasies and his deep fears, he hadn't anticipated that life with Christine after the marriage ceremony would be essentially identical to life before it.
Yet it was.
No...no, that was not true. In some ways it was perhaps worse, as there was nothing to separate them now but Christine's fearful coldness and misery.
She was a good girl, and she tried not to let it show. No doubt she thought her Erik fooled. Most of the time Christine was bent inward, lost in a world of her own making. It hurt him fearfully to realize she was most likely thinking of her boy.
Though largely silent, she occasionally surfaced enough to grace him with some small domestic talk or requests for supplies from the outside. But her voice remained quiet and unanimated.
Erik could sometimes get a rise from her when they sang together, but it was not as often as he could wish.
Then, every evening at eleven o'clock, she would say goodnight - so very sweetly - before she entered the Louis Philippe room, shut the door, and carefully locked it.
Erik had taken to spending his nights pathetically leaning against the door to her chamber. He had several motives - to guard her from danger, to prevent her escape. A dark corner of his brain even hoped that, in a fit of madness, she would invite him in, but it had never happened. He tried to content himself with the peaceful sound of her breathing, melodious even in sleep, and sometimes it actually worked.
This sorry state of existence had characterized most of their married life.
Yet something had changed. It was difficult to put his finger on, but somehow life in the past week had seemed more...pleasant.
Though she still largely kept her thoughts to herself, Erik saw her walking about the house with a small smile on her lips. Yesterday she had even been humming quietly. The Magic Flute, he was certain.
When they sat together, she spoke with him. It was largely trivial things - certain feminine projects she was working on, a book she had enjoyed reading. But there was a growing animation in her voice, and Erik had been pleased to realize that she was looking straight into his eyes.
Yet the largest shock of all was when her hand gently touched his shoulder last evening, as she sang with him by the piano. For an instant he had forgotten how to play.
"What has changed?" He pondered aloud.
He listed several possibilities, and was just reaching some of the more abstract branches of astrology when his body seized up.
He felt the adrenaline coursing through him like lightning before he even realized what had alarmed him - a noise. A scraping noise at the front of his house. He whirled around, preparing to fight he knew not what - and saw golden light stream out from the interior as Christine carefully poked her head through the main door.
"What are you doing!" Erik tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the panic from his voice.
Christine smiled sweetly.
"There you are, Erik! I couldn't find you, and-"
"And what? Just thought you'd take this opportunity to escape? To leave your poor husband, is that it?"
She seemed surprised.
"No! I-"
He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and it was all he could do not to shake her.
"You know you couldn't find your way through the cellars without Erik!"
"Erik, please! I-"
"Do you expect to find a secret way unknown to him? Do you know how to evade the traps? Do you think-"
"I got lonely!"
He opened his mouth, but he forgot what he was going to say. He tried again. "You what?"
Christine flushed a deep coral pink, indignation raising the volume of her voice.
"I got lonely! It was so quiet and empty inside and I got scared, so when I heard you I came out here! What do you expect when you leave me alone for so long? There was nothing devious about it!" She actually stamped her little foot.
He stared at her."Oh," he said.
Yes, Christine must feel proud of her suave and brilliant husband.
Though she currently looked ready to murder him.
He loosened his hard grip on her shoulders and slid his hands gently down her arms, finally taking her own small fingers in his. He carefully examined her pearly nails. It seemed preferable to looking into that angry face.
Christine cleared her throat. "Erik?"
"Yes, child?" he said to her fingertips.
When no words followed, he risked looking up at her. Her eyes were cast down in thought, her straight white teeth pulling at her lower lip until it was red as a rose.
"I...well." Her voice petered out.
They couldn't both be inarticulate nincompoops. "What?" he asked. "Out with it."
She looked up at his mask. "Could we...go for a walk?"
"A walk?"
"A walk. Yes. We used to, you know, before you...before."
He thought for a moment.
"Of course, my dear. It would give me great pleasure. But it is raining outside." It was, in fact, a crisp, clear day in Paris, but then ignorance was bliss, was it not?
"Oh." Her sweet little face looked crestfallen. "Well, then...perhaps we could walk around the lake?"
Which was how Erik found himself in the enviable position of leading the most beautiful woman in the world around the shore of the underground lake, as she clung (perhaps more than was strictly necessary?) to his arm. Once, she stumbled on a hidden seam and leaned into him heavily. He was contemplating the ethics of deliberately jostling her again when she spoke.
"Erik?" Her voice sounded tense.
"Yes, my love?"
"How come you can always see where you're going? It's pitch black!"
"You must simply allow your eyes to grow used to it, my dear. You've just come from our lovely, well lit home, remember?"
She thought about it. "Yes, that is true."
She lapsed into her former silence, but it was not uncomfortable. Erik treasured the warmth of her next to him, the pleasing weight of her on his arm. His heart leapt into his throat when she drew a fraction of a space closer to him.
Suddenly they came to an open space. It was Christine's favorite part of the walk, for the grand view of the lake, and the monstrous pillars that formed the opera's foundation, were visible to her own eyes in a dim half light. The light was filtered carefully from grates that Erik had installed on the floors above.
Erik glanced at her, and glowed with pride at the joy on her face.
"Erik, might we stop here for a bit? You know how much I love this spot."
"Of course."
Her smile was so beautiful he thought he would break in two.
Erik suddenly recalled a project he had begun, thinking to give pleasure to Christine. He had not progressed far, as their troubles above ground had soon dominated his attention, but he had completed enough.
"My dear, I have a present for you. Wait here for just one moment, will you?"
Her eyes held skepticism, curiosity, and - perhaps - a hint of anticipation?
"You will not go far?" she asked nervously.
"Only to the wall here. Close your eyes for a minute - there."
He flicked a switch, and the gas jets he installed nearby lit the surface of the lake, making it glow a deep and brilliant blue.
"Oh! Oh, it's beautiful! You did this for me?"
"You like it?"
"I do! Thank you."
He smiled, watching her creep to the shore's edge and peer down into the water. He did not mind - the drowned bodies were on the far end of the lake. There was nothing here that could alarm her.
She laughed as she saw her reflection, and Erik thought that there was nothing more exquisite in the whole world.
Suddenly, Christine knelt down for something at her feet. Erik had barely registered his surprise when he saw that she had picked up a smooth, flat stone. Instinctive fear rose through him as he saw her raise it high, but then she threw it -
And it skipped merrily across the lake.
She turned to look at her husband, like a child seeking approval, and laughed delightedly at the confusion which showed plainly in his eyes.
"Christine, what are you doing?" he asked, feeling wary.
"Erik! You mean you have never skipped stones before?"
He merely stared, and her blue eyes grew wide with surprise and amusement.
"Do not tell me I possess a talent that my maestro does not! You truly do not know how?"
"Erik has never had time for such silly fiddle-faddle. It is child's play, nothing more."
She pouted adorably and crossed her arms.
"Says the man who makes dolls of the opera staff and plays with them."
"Do not be silly. Those are figurines."
"They are dolls! Admit the truth, sir!"
He grunted and turned away sullenly to look at the lake.
He nearly jumped when he felt Christine's gentle hand on his arm.
"Come now," she said. "I was only teasing. I forget sometimes how ridiculously sensitive you can be. Do you forgive me?"
She looked up at him with melting eyes, and he made some sort of noise in his throat. It seemed good enough for her.
"Come," she said, pulling lightly at his hand, "let me show you how to skip stones."
"It's all in the wrist, you see..." She loosed another stone, and it sailed across the water. She turned to face him. "Do you understand?"
Erik had been paying much more attention to her figure than to the rock. "Oh. Yes. Completely."
"I do not believe you. Show me!"
He cast his eyes about for a suitable stone. When he found one, he copied Christine's motion as best he could remember, feeling nervous under her intense scrutiny. He threw.
The rock broke the surface instantly and sank to the bottom.
Christine clucked, and Erik realized that his cheeks were stinging. It took a moment before he realized that he was embarrassed.
They spent the next few minutes throwing stones, Christine offering helpful bits of advice to no avail. All of Erik's rocks sank instantly, while Christine's skimmed expertly over the surface.
"Papa was the one who taught me how to skip stones," said Christine, as she raised her arm for another throw. "He was really wonderful at it. I could never match him for height."
Erik's brow was furrowed in concentration. It had been ages since he had failed at anything. He didn't like it. He would win this.
Christine chattered on happily. "It served me well when we traveled. I could always make friends, showing other children how to do it. I even showed Ra-"
She choked on the name, but not before Erik spun around, fire burning in his eyes.
Her gaze sunk to her feet.
"Yes, well," she said. "I did show him." She suddenly raised her eyes to him, her chin set in an effort to look brave. "I don't see why you need to look at me like that. I should be able to talk about my own childhood."
"That doesn't follow. Erik doesn't talk about his childhood."
"Well, I may want to talk about mine sometimes. I thought that husbands were supposed to take an interest in their wives!"
"And I thought wives were supposed to take an interest in their husbands," said Erik coldly. "I guess we were both wrong."
Christine turned beet red and her face fell. She turned away and looked at the lake, and Erik felt poison rising up in him. He didn't bother to fight it.
"He is gone, you know," he spat out.
"Hmm. I don't know who you're talking about," said Christine airily, her back to him.
"Don't be absurd."
"I thought I wasn't allowed to talk about him."
"You are not. But I am your husband and can say whatever I like. And I'm telling you that he is gone forever!"
She spun around, her face patchy with anger. "I know he's gone! I wrote those letters for you, didn't I? And I can read the newspaper advertisements as well as you. Especially when you leave them open on the table!"
An idea slowly formed in Erik's mind. He felt his blood turn to ice.
"That's it."
This was not the answer Christine was expecting. "What's it?"
"This is why you've been acting so sweetly to me this past week. I hoped I had done something to please you, but now I see it's all a ploy."
"Huh?" Christine blustered, but Erik pressed on.
"Now that he's abroad, you think he is out of my reach! This explains everything! Your smiles all week, those little caresses, this whole..." he screwed up his face to think of the worst possible word - "walk."
"What?"
"Yes. That was your plan exactly. You would sweeten me up so that I would lead you outside, and there you could run from me. Good thing for you that I refused. You truly think that I would not catch you? That I would not hunt you down? That I would not pursue you with my last dying breath?"
"Of course you would!"
"Yes. Of course I wou-" he stopped, realizing that she had just taken all of the pith out of his argument. He scowled.
Christine did not meet his eyes, but she spoke fast and fierce. "Erik, you've won. You won two months ago. Why can't you see that? Why can't you accept that? I have."
He nearly choked on his rage. He grabbed Christine's hands and pulled her to him.
"I've won? Won what? What good is seeing you wear my ring on your finger when you barely speak to me during the day? When you stare at the wall rather than look me in the eye? When you lock your door to me at night?"
Christine was blushing furiously, and her eyes were screwed shut against tears. His words had hit home.
Erik growled and pushed her away. "Never mind. Perhaps I've no right to complain. Let us go home, Christine."
But when he turned to face her, he saw that she had collapsed in a heap, furiously stifling sobs behind her hands. She chanced to look up, and when she saw him studying her, she lost all control and openly wept.
Oh lord. This was definitely not what he had in mind.
He glanced wildly around him, hoping for some sudden inspiration. None was forthcoming.
He sighed and sat next to her, deciding it was best to wait it out. Her sobs shook her delicate little body like a flower in a storm. He really was a beast. Black melancholy settled heavily on him, and he idly picked up stones as he contemplated the depth of his misery.
Christine's overt crying didn't last long, and soon she was wiping away silent tears and trying unsuccessfully to stifle her hiccups.
"Hiccupping will ruin your voice," said Erik bitterly.
"They are my hiccups," said Christine, "and they are perfectly - hic - natural! I will hiccup if I so choose." Which she did. Twice.
Erik sighed again.
"As you wish." And he threw the stone fiercely.
Something about the sound was different this time - there was an echo. He looked up and realized that Christine was staring over the lake.
"Your stone..." she said.
"What about it?"
"It skipped."
A pause. "Really?"
"Three times."
"Hmph." Erik told himself that it didn't matter, but he still felt a little glow of pride form in his chest.
"Can I tell you a secret, Erik?"
He nodded.
"Raoul could never get his stones to skip."
"Ah."
"Yes."
He was glad he was wearing a mask, as he was now grinning like an idiot.
"Erik?"
"Yes, my love?"
"May I tell you something else?"
"Of course."
"I've been trying to be good to you this past week, because, well...because I should. You are a good husband to me."
"Do not think about it. I spoke in anger."
"I do think about it. I've been thinking about it for quite awhile."
They were silent once more.
"Erik?" said Christine softly. "May I tell you one last secret?"
"You may tell me anything."
"I'm glad you won."
And she reached for his cold, bony hand and held it.
Erik realized he forgot to breathe. His body felt warmer than it had in his entire life, and his heartbeat had certainly just fractured a rib or two. He didn't care. He opened his mouth to say something - anything - and was dismayed when he heard:
"What about Raoul?"
Traitorous voice! At that moment he wished he was a mute. But Christine simply smiled at him, then looked out over the lake.
"It is water under the bridge."
She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and leaned against him.
They sat like that for a few minutes, Erik fully expecting to die from happiness at any moment, until Christine made a tsk noise.
"There are no more flat stones. We've used up all of the good ones."
"Never fear. We will have more." If Erik had to specially import them from Kasmir, they would have more.
"It is not important," said Christine. She turned to look at her husband. "Shall we go home?"
"Yes, my wife." said Erik. "We shall."