She sways gently in the firelight, fine-spun hair glowing gold in a river down her back. Her eyes glisten at Guillaume, cradled to her chest, his head leaned against her neck. He's asleep, or nearly, and she's still singing, voice soft and sweet, words lilting through the room.
Raoul smiles, pretending to read the newspaper in his hands. The headlines slip from his grasp, but he can't say he much cares. The contents of the paper don't matter - there's nothing interesting in it now. Not when he has Christine dancing in front of the fire, and their son in her arms.
It's strange to him, still, that they can be here like this. They've come so far from their nights under the Opera House, when all of their hopes seemed lost. But it was Christine, his dear Christine, who saved them from the clutches of that demon.
A man. He was just a man. It seemed so hard to believe, then, that he could be as human as them, but now Raoul's grown to see how it could happen, loathe though he is to admit that. It doesn't haunt them as it used to, but still there are too many nights where he wakes with the water above his head, and he can't breathe until he can see Christine asleep beside him.
No. It doesn't bear thinking about now. They are here, so very far away from there, and they have Guillaume, and that world is not theirs anymore, has not been theirs in such a long time.
He lowers the paper and sinks back into his armchair, smiling at his wife. She dances on, slow and careful, their little boy sleeping in her arms, his heart swelling at how careful she is, how lovely in the firelight. This is their world now, this quiet simplicity of pinewood smoke and snow on the windowsill. And there is nothing more that either of them could ever want.t.