Chapter 1
Erik stood in the doorway and looked in on the scene. He had found himself in this position quite often as of late. It was where he had been just after the baby was born and Christine was holding it lovingly to her breast. Where he stood when Christine sang the crying thing to sleep at night.
All these things had been his. Now he lurked in doorways watching his wife and her child.
Our child, she said.
Your child, he replied.
Émilie, she insisted.
Like always, she looked over her shoulder, catching him where he stood. He hadn't made a noise, but she could sense him. Her hand came out to invite him into the room. For a moment, he gazed at it, then at the bundle on the floor, still too small and pink to be lovely.
Of course, she had not inherited his face, so she was beautiful. The fear he had felt, the guilt that had preyed upon him, all that had consumed him in the months his wife had grown was for nothing. Both she and Nadir had attempted to talk sense into him then, but it was useless. He was more emotional than Christine though he only cried at night when she was asleep. But he could hardly bear to touch her.
And here was the child, but the fear and guilt had not left. He feared it, the child. And he was ashamed for having trapped these two sources of light in a dungeon with him. Jealousy, as well, that Christine was busy with her baby and too tired to sing with him, talk with him, love him. Annoyance when it cried endlessly. And brief, brief moments of happiness, delirious and maddening happiness, when he imagined his future with his wife and child walking in the park on Sundays. Beside him.
His gaze drifted back to Christine's hand and he felt his own twitch in longing to reach for her.
He signed and turned away, seeking out his organ instead.
When he came to bed, she startled awake, a habit she had picked up when her baby was born. She settled, though, when she saw it was him, and wrapped herself wearily about his thin frame when he lay down. She had been tired lately, but tonight she could hardly stay awake to kiss him goodnight. Immediately she was asleep on his shoulder.
Until the baby began crying, he laid patiently beside Christine, running gentle fingers along in her arm and burying his hand in her curls. Even when it cried, he held out several moments, hoping it would stop. It did not.
"Christine," he whispered, shaking her. "Your baby is crying."
She groaned and rolled further into his side.
"Please go get her. She's hungry."
"No."
"Please go hold her for a while. Sing to her. Just for a moment, Erik."
"No. Erik will not touch Christine's child."
The thing had been with them nearly five months and Erik had only touched it twice.
Once the night she had been born. He had lifted her out of the cradle – the one Christine had insisted he build – while his wife slept and held her in one arm, a long forgotten phial of morphine in the other hand. All the while, he contemplated a lie to tell Christine the next morning. But the baby started crying. Erik left before Christine could rouse herself.
The next time had been several weeks later. He had lit a single candle and sat over the cradle, watching dreamily as her pink lips opened and closed and those delicate eyelids twitched. He had grown to like watching her sleep. She was beautiful and that made him happy. Christine deserved only beautiful things. He had gone too far though, and tried to brush the baby's cheek with a feather-light touch. Immediately she woke crying and Christine had to comfort them both – the babe at her breast and Erik clutching at the skirt of her nightgown swearing incoherently that he had not meant to hurt the child.
"Nonsense, my love," she murmured to him, her hand resting atop his head. "She was only startled."
"I frighten her," he wailed.
"She's a baby. Everything frightens her." She removed her hand from him so she could hold the child upright before her. In the voice she reserved only for speaking to it, she cooed, "Won't you quiet for your papa? He would like to get to know you, too, you know. Come Émilie, papa will hold you now."
"No."
And he hadn't held her since, nor would he. So Christine dragged herself out of the bed, lit a candle, and left the room. Erik followed.
By the time he reached the little nursery, the baby was quiet, nursing contentedly. It was Christine crying now, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. In the light of the candle, her skin was grey and her eyes dull. She had lost weight after the birth, becoming thinner and frailer than she had been. This wasn't tiredness. She was succumbing to the same darkness that had already claimed him.
When the baby was safely back in her crib, Erik strode forward to take his wife by the arms and guide her back to bed, but she would not move.
"Why won't you touch her?" she whispered. "For a child to go without her parent's touch…How can you?"
He felt her accusation sharply and responded just as harshly, "Erik's mother never touched him."
The tears returned. "But you are better. Please, Erik, you cannot hurt her. She needs your love, like I do."
"Come, you must rest."
She was too weak to resist this time when he pulled her along. Again, as soon as her head was against her pillow, her wan skin nearly the same color as the case, she was asleep.
Erik cursed himself. He left her there to rest and went to smash things in the parlor. A few broken trinkets were hardly satisfying though, so he brought terrible melodies into being on his organ and let them fade into the night. How had he not noticed how poorly his wife was? He was never able to give her enough, to give her what she needed to be happy and love him. A child hadn't been enough. Now she wanted him to love the child too. All the while she was wasting away and he had not noticed. She had been ill after her pregnancy, but he attributed it to excitement and lack of rest. He had fixed both problems and she had improved. But now, she was again unwell and he had not noticed. He had not seen from the doorways he lurked in.
She was worse the next morning. He woke her when the baby cried, but when she rose, her strength failed her and she collapsed into his arms.
"I will get a doctor," he said after returning her to the bed.
"No, please, don't leave me."
He sat down at her side. Her skin, already warm against his corpse-like chill, burned him now and sweat-moistened hair clung to her cheeks. When she fell asleep again, Erik fetched cool clothes to place against her forehead. Then he ran for the same doctor that had delivered her daughter into the world. The man was clinical and would not ask questions so long as he was paid.
It was an hour before he could return to Christine and she was no longer in bed when he brought the doctor in. Instead, he found her in the nursery, on the floor with the baby in her lap.
"Oh angel!" she exclaimed, not even looking at him. "You've come at last."
Turning to the doctor, who occupied Erik's usual spot in the doorway he said, "Fix her, won't you?"
"Take her to the bed," the man replied calmly before leaving to set up his supplies.
At his wife's side, Erik whispered, "I will take you to the bedroom. Hold tight to Émilie."
Then he lifted them both in his arms.
It was an infection, the doctor said, that caused the fever. He gave Christine laudanum and Erik instructions for feeding the baby until the mother recovered. He took Émilie back to the nursery. Then he left.
Erik sat beside Christine all night. If the baby cried, he didn't hear it. He didn't hear anything until Christine murmured in the dim candle light, "Do you love me?"
He felt his heart clench. Never had she asked that before. He asked almost daily, but she had never needed his reassurance.
"Yes, I love you," he cried, clutching her to him. With his ear over her heart, he could hear the raged breathing. "My angel, my life, I love you."
"If you love me, Erik, you will take care of Émilie. You will love her like you love me because she is ours. Promise, Erik?"
He raised his head and Christine took off his mask.
"A kiss?" he asked, his voice cracking on the hopeful note.
She obliged though it seemed to take all her strength.
"Do you promise, my love?" she repeated after he had lowered her head back to the pillow.
"Yes," he said finally, grudgingly. "I promise."
It was the last of his words she heard.
