Réveillon—Christine attempts to recreate the Christmas tradition of her childhood, despite hunger pains & an unhelpful Opera Ghost, takes place several years after the events in Distractions; shared winner of NotaGhost3's 2018 Christmas One Shot Contest
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"I don't understand why you don't just eat something, my dear, if you're so hungry."
Christine grit her teeth and narrowed her eyes in the direction of a certain opera ghost, who was at present helping himself to a second glass of spiced brandywine.
If she hadn't been in such a state of stressed holiday hysteria, she may have found the image of him—in his brocade waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the cuffs folded back to reveal sinewy, white forearms, looking trim and casual and utterly unlike the frightening specter he was thought to be—quite appealing. Seeing him dressed thusly usually would bring a sparkle to her eye and a rush of heat to her core, but today she was in no mood.
When she had tasked him earlier in the week with the preparation of the festive drink, he'd grumbled over wasting a perfectly nice bottle of his Beaujolais on the "pointless holiday frivolity." Of course, once he'd started the job he'd attended it with all of the care and precision in which he undertook all of his projects, tinkering with the recipe she'd provided him until he'd improved it.
It had annoyed her initially that he couldn't simply do as he was told, although the result of his experimentation-fewer cloves, a touch more citrus, and odd star-shaped pod and an extra cinnamon stick-had yielded a completely lovely drink that warmed the insides and brought a flush to Christine's cheeks that he had pronounced "most becoming."
She tried to remind herself of that moment now, of how his amber eyes had twinkled when she'd leaned in to allow him a kiss to her wine-flushed cheek, and not dwell on how thoroughly annoying he was being at the present time.
As it was, when he reached across the table where she was laying out the serving platters, after his assumed pronouncement of her own hunger, his long, elegant fingers dancing in the air before plucking a choice morsel from a plate of honeyed dates rolled in walnuts, she struggled mightily to keep her composure.
He'd popped the offending snack into his mouth as he turned to her, his eyes widening slightly at the fury radiating off the normally placid soprano. A lifetime of shielding his features behind a mask meant that Erik was completely unschooled in hiding his facial tics and the face he pulled at her, reminiscent of a contrite schoolboy, might have been endearing under different, less fraught circumstances.
His collar was open, she saw, and the flash of exposed white skin gave her ample view of the way his throat bobbed as he gulped nervously. The same graceful, guilty hand quickly nudged the surrounding dates to disguise the hole he'd created on her platter.
"Dearest, I think if you were to just-"
Christine whirled away from the hand that was reaching for her, cutting off his placating words. "Do not speak to me of eating, you ungrateful man! We are meant to be fasting!"
She had forgiven him for his abasement of Mamma Valerius' recipe, as she thought the brandywine might be the gateway in which she could usher him into joining her in holiday merriment.
Thus far, he'd managed to prove her wrong.
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The réveillon de noël had been a tradition since she and her father had been taken in by Professor Valerius and his wife, when she was just a girl. Christine would help Mamma in the kitchen for days, making cakes and tarts, shelling chestnuts and ensuring no wayward feathers remained on the goose.
The sweet smells and festive decorations of those days of preparation stood out in her mind as being joyful and so much fun...she accepted, now, as she felt hair clinging to the back of her neck in perspiration, that perhaps her halcyon memories of those days were colored by youth and the distance of time.
Preparing a meal of such extravagance was work, and she was still waiting, perhaps foolishly, for the fun to arrive.
On Christmas Eve they would fast, her and Papa and Mamma Valerius and the Professor. After a day of quiet, seeing to the last-minute meal preparations before attending the midnight service, they would go to the mass together. As a young girl she had marveled over the crèche scene, and would ooh and aah over the animals and newborn saviour, who would be placed in the cradle at the mass.
After the service, they would walk home with friends in the snowy night. That walk home in the dark had always seemed especially magical to Christine, as giggling choristers had spilled from the church doors amidst their friends and neighbors. The crunch of the snow underfoot, their happy voices carrying through the still night...she felt like a maudlin fool thinking on it, but it all held such a special place in her heart.
Once safe in the warm house, the party and the feasting would begin. Papa would play his violin and she would sing and sing and sing until she was dizzy with the cheers from the guests the Valeriuses would invite. There would be sweets as far as the eye could see, desserts for each of the apostles, and she would eat candied orange slices and fat, sweet figs and chocolates until she was fit to burst.
This year was the first Christmas since Mamma was gone. Gone to the angels, to the Professor and to Papa, her last bit of family. Her guardian had been ill for some time and her decline had been steady, although she was surrounded by comfort and care and love at the end, Christine reminded herself...but that didn't keep the grief at bay once the holidays approached. The grief sometimes seemed to overwhelm her, and Christine felt as though she were not just mourning the loss of the old woman, but for her father all over again, for the carefree days of her childhood, and the person she once was.
As the cold winter swept into the city, Christine had decided to honor the memory of all of those she'd loved and lost by creating her own réveillon feast for Christmas.
She had spent hours decorating the parlour and the library, hanging boughs of aromatic greens and holly from the mantles and placing snowy white candles throughout. Her table was set with fine white china, she had polished the silver to a mirror shine, her Advent wreath sat glowing goldenly in the center of the table, awaiting her feast, the menu of which she'd planned for days.
A small hen had replaced the goose and guinea fowl, although Christine had still made Mamma's chestnut stuffing for the smaller bird. Coquilles Saint-Jacques, pan-seared foie gras with roast beef, her beloved candied oranges, an assortment of dried fruits and nuts, the bûche de Noël...Christine wasn't sure how they would be able to store the abundance of leftovers from the meal she'd slaved to create, but she found it necessary to have each of them on her table.
All that was missing from her planning was the companionship she remembered from her childhood days. There would not be a boisterous group of friends and family joining her for her feast, it would be a quiet meal for two, but she didn't think that was any reason not to try to keep to as many of the traditions of her childhood as she was able.
When she'd told him of her plans, she'd received a quiet "Whatever you'd like, my dear. That sounds lovely." He'd asked her for a recitation of the dishes she was serving, which he recorded on a slip of stationary in his spidery hand, and said nothing more. When she'd asked him if he would be joining her for her midnight supper, she'd received an even quieter "If it would please you."
If she'd been hoping for noisy excitement over the notion of a meal, she would have been disappointed, although, Christine considered, if it was exuberant excitement she wanted, she'd chosen very poorly all those moons ago.
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Several hours later, fun had yet to make an appearance in Christine's holiday celebration.
She relished the fact that the echo of her slamming door reverberated down the hallway, as she flounced to her dressing table in fury. She knew she oughtn't be so upset with him, after all the notion of celebration and Christmas was not one with which he was intimately familiar. But he wasn't even trying!
"We'll see if he's given the opportunity to be intimately familiar with this ever again!" she muttered, flinging herself down to her tufted bench.
Hunger and thus irritation had been gnawing at her for the better part of the late afternoon, making her snappish and ornery, not that she'd admit it, certainly not to him.
After the incident with the honeyed date, Erik had apparently decided the wisest course of action to ensure his continued good health into the new year was to disappear into his wine cellar, and she'd heard the odd muffled thump intermittently for the better part of the afternoon, as she grumbled.
A good amount of time had been spent on her toilette that evening; cleansing away the sweat from the kitchen, affixing her curls just so, arranging her beautifully embroidered overskirt atop her brand new forest green dress, and ensuring her lace cuffs frilled evenly. She had still been a disheveled wreck scarcely an hour or two ago, having spent the afternoon finishing off her fruit tarts and arranging the table, and now that she had managed to somewhat restore her appearance, the dreadful man, the brute! had informed her he would not be accompanying her to mass.
"Darling?" Christine had found him in the parlour examining the clock on the mantel, partially hidden amongst the evergreen garland, with a frown as he adjusted his pocket watch. She had finished dressing and had expected to find him similarly changed, but there he stood at a quarter after the hour, still in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. "Erik, we need to be leaving shortly for mass, we don't want to be late."
"Yes, of course, my dear. Approximately how long should the service last? I want to ensure I'm on time to fetch you, this cold air is not good for your voice."
She had stood there gaping for several heartbeats. His words made no sense, yet he waited patiently for an answer to his confusing query.
"Fetch me? Erik, I don't understand, what do you mean you'll need to-"
Christine cut off then, drawing in an outraged gasp. His eyes widened again as she clenched her fists furiously at her side.
"Do you mean to tell me you don't intend to accompany me to mass?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "After I've worked for days to make a nice holiday for us?"
She hadn't given him a chance to respond; stomping down the hallway, she'd slammed the door to her dressing chamber with everything she had in her. Sitting at her table now, she glared at her reflection in the mirror. Her favorite brooch, one he'd gifted her when she was still his student, was affixed at her collar, and the diamonds and sapphires glittered back at her mockingly in the firelight of her room.
Earlier, she had put a dab of the perfume she knew he favored-a heady blend of bergamot and vetiver, with a deeper touch of cedarwood and musk-at the pulse points on her wrists, at her throat, behind each ear, and down the center of her décolleté. He could have had his choice on which spot to bury his face with a throaty groan then, but oh ho! Not now!
A rumbling issued from her stomach, and Christine flushed.
She hated when he was right.
She twisted with hunger, and somewhere in the rational part of her mind, she knew she ought not be cross with him; he never attended mass with her, after all, and they had not discussed him doing so tonight.
Christine does not need Erik there to further sully her reputation, my dear.
His first thought, his only care was ever and always for her, she knew. That salient fact didn't seem especially important just then, however. Not when she was melancholic, not when she had worked so very hard on their réveillon dinner, and certainly not when the delicious smells of roast chicken and sweet cakes were calling to her, just out of reach.
She managed to squeeze out a few self-indulgent tears, before composing herself. You're a woman grown Christine, there's no sense in throwing childish tantrums, she could almost hear Mamma's voice say.
If she were a true diva, she thought, she would march back to the dining room, where her platters of cakes and hors d'oeuvres rested upon the sideboard, and flip the whole thing over, leaving him to clean the mess. She'd never been that sort, at any rate, Christine reminded herself, and she had no intention of starting now.
The parlour was empty when she came back out. Collecting her reticule and fur-lined cloak, she ventured out into the night. There was a carriage waiting at the street, and although she was loathe to give into anything he'd done for her, she didn't want to muss her dress before the mass. Climbing into the carriage, Christine looked out sadly into the still, chill air.
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The familiar smell of incense had wrapped around her as soon as she entered the cathedral. The glow of dozens of white wax tapers filled the space, and Christine allowed herself to be swept away by the pageantry of the midnight service, forgetting her anger and her hunger for the moment. Many of the hymns were the same she'd sung in her childhood, and silent tears had tracked down her cheeks as she raised her voice with the other congregants, hoping her father could hear her, that he and Mamma and the Professor were looking down on her and smiling.
As the mass let out, the doors opened, spilling congregants out into the night. She would not be getting into the carriage again, presuming it was still there waiting. This walk home was important to her, and she'd not be denied.
Around the vestibule the usual coterie of society ladies were making the rounds, to her great annoyance. Christine normally did her best to avoid them, although tonight they circled to wish her a happy holiday before she could make her escape.
"Christine, that is a simply stunning dress! I'm surprised to see you here, dear...I though for certain you'd be Christmasing with the Vicomte and Vicomtesse!" Juliette trilled, after blocking the aisle.
Christine felt her smile stiffen.
The invitation to the de Chagny's réveillon de noël had arrived two weeks earlier, much to her surprise. The newly-minted Vicomtesse had tellingly overlooked inviting her the previous year, shortly after the nuptials to Raoul. When Christine had run into her childhood sweetheart several weeks into the new year, he'd been disheartened at her absence, insisting that she must join them the following Christmas.
The invitation, as nice as it was, once it had arrived had gone into the fireplace.
Christine had no use for the parties and balls of the elite. The invitation was a nice gesture, but an empty one. She knew that no matter what events had transpired between her and the Vicomte, no matter what promises were blindly made and dangerously broken, she would always be little more than some tart from the Opera in the eyes of the wealthy, titled guests who would be at such an affair.
Let them press flowers into her arms at the Opera and offer congratulations at her dressing room door, let them show their gratitude with patronage of the theater. She would play the part of the diva at work, but once the curtain was down and her dressing room door shut, she and her time belonged to none but herself. She had made her choices and lived with them gladly.
Christine had always been thought of as odd young woman, so it did not bother her that people thought it still today.
"Just a quiet night at home this holiday," she demurred to the group of ladies who stood clustered.
It helped, she reflected, that she had no reason to hang her head in front of these women. Her velvet-trimmed dress was beautiful; her fine cloak was lined in plush, warm sable, her darling hat trimmed with the same. They would be able to find no fault with the quality or fashionability of her boots or spats or gloves, nor with the precious gems that glittered at her throat or ears.
She might have been an untitled opera tart, but the brute did keep her very nicely turned out.
She couldn't be cross with him, she knew. It was not his fault that she'd not informed him of her expectations for the evening, certainly not his fault that she was so bloody hungry.
She excused herself from the group of ladies and made her way out of the cathedral into the night. It pained her to admit it, as she stepped out into the clear, cold darkness, but the magic of the holiday, the sense of fun she remembered from her childhood was just that-a remnant of being a child, and she was a child no longer. A woman grown, wedded and bedded, it was time to give up her childish fantasies of the past.
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So intent on her ruminations she was, that when a dark shape pulled from the shadow of the building and placed a hand on her elbow, she let out a startled yelp of surprise.
A self-satisfied smirk had taken up residence across the thin lips below the edge of the black mask, and Christine swatted at his arm in outrage.
"You scared me half to death, you awful man!" she exclaimed with a choked laugh.
"That was absolutely the intent," came his airy reply, still smirking as he took her arm.
"What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were too busy hiding from me to notice I'd left for mass," she mumbled, glancing around for the carriage she was not getting into, no matter how much he protested. Instead, he huffed at her words.
"Erik would not permit you to walk through the dark streets in the middle of the night unaccompanied, Christine." His tone was one of aggrieved offense, and she glanced over just in time to see him rolling his eyes dramatically at her. "Walking home like a peasant is terribly important, evidently, and so Erik is here."
Tears threatened her eyes at his words, even as she smiled. It didn't matter that he didn't understand her need for things to be the way they'd once been, that he wasn't used to celebrating, or the pointless frivolity of these traditions...it was important to her, and so he was there. Gripping his arm, they set off into the night.
Snow crunched underfoot and the cold air nipped at Christine's face before she dipped her nose beneath the edge of her fur collar. She wasn't sure if the winters had grown steadily colder since she remembered taking this walk through the snow, or if, like the fun of meal preparation, this was a ritual best left for children to enjoy. She gripped her husband's arm a bit tighter, secure in the knowledge that Erik would never let her fall.
This cold air wasn't good for her voice, it was true, nor would it be good for his hip, which occasionally pained him. She never felt as though she were married to an older man, as one of Mamma's friends had said uncharitably once over tea, although Christine did like an excuse to dote on him, when he permitted. Tomorrow would be such a day. Older or not, he cut a dashing figure in his topcoat with the nipped in waist, she thought. The brim of his hat, coupled with the thick muffler wrapped around his own throat concealed most of his black mask, although he currently had his face lifted from its warm confines as he addressed her again.
"Did you know, my love, that there is, as we speak, a confectionary explosion occurring across our dining room? I cannot fathom what sort of vulgar holiday God demands sixty different desserts to appease its fragile ego."
His tone was light, lighter than it normally was with a musical air of mischief about it, and Christine couldn't hold in her short burst of laughter. Erik's voice was what she had fallen in love with first; deep and dark and inherently majestic, he'd seduced her with its rich, velvet tone long before he'd ever laid a finger on her, not that she'd realized it at the time, little fool that she was. Hearing him now, sounding infinitely more playful than he had all day brought a wide smile to her face.
"Oh hush, you fool. There are only thirteen desserts, one for Jesus and each of his apostles."
"Thirteen?! And presumably they all share around the table? It's a small wonder the wood on that bloody cross didn't crack from the weight!"
This time her laughter rang out across the street, unable to help herself. "Erik! That is blasphemous!" she admonished, shoulders shaking in mirth. His only response was to tug her a big closer as they walked, tapping his walking stick in an unconscious rhythm.
Further up in the road, Christine was able to see several children walking with their parents, and she smiled softly, thinking of her own Christmas Eve walks as a girl, tears pricking at her eyes once more. Perhaps it was because Mamma was gone, perhaps it was because this was her first Christmas with only her odd husband for company. They were married three years, yet her womb had not quickened, and although most days she gave it no thought, as busy as she was at the Opera, some days, days like this, the absence there hurt.
"Do you think we could hit them from here?"
Erik's dark, curling voice was musing, pulling Christine from her reverie. They had reached the gate leading to their home, she realized, the lovely home above the ground he'd purchased for her after. After, after, after; after the tears and the screams and the betrayals, after the Vicomte and the chandelier and the kiss. After, it had still been the two of them, just Erik and Christine, and she had still loved him as much then as she had the morning she'd awoken in that beautiful room, the morning she'd wanted nothing more than to confess that love and marry him.
"Hit? What are you…" Christine gasped, hands coming up to her mouth in delighted horror. "Erik you don't mean to...you wouldn't!"
He was already stooped, rolling snow between his gloved hands. Before she could form any further protest, he'd had several medium-sized snowballs in a neat pile, and his arm was rearing back to launch one at the family ahead. Christine yelped when the snowball released, ducking down as she giggled in shocked excitement. Her husband excelled at nearly everything he put his hand to, and sure enough, the snowball hit its mark.
She could hear the muffled shouts of protest from the family, but Erik was already throwing a second snowball. Christine could barely breathe, she was laughing so hard. Fun. She was having fun, she realized. It had arrived late, but arrived it had.
She snatched a snowball from the pile at her husband's feet and leapt back several paces, but he had apparently had the same plan and was whirling on her. The snowball she threw connected with the front of his coat, exploding in a satisfying burst of white against the heavy black wool, but before she could enjoy her handiwork there was a cold, wet blast at her shoulder, the resulting spray of snow catching her exposed neck and sliding wetly into her dress.
Her outraged shriek was swallowed by his lips, and she found herself scooped up and hurried up the stone steps. "I promise to warm you, but we don't want to be caught out, dearest," he whispered, and she realized the noises from the pelted family were growing closer. The front door key was pressed to her hands as Erik hopped down the steps to close and lock the small, black wrought-iron gate. A moment later, she tumbled into the foyer, still shaking with laughter, Erik right behind her. He swung the door shut quickly, deftly bolting the locks as she fell into him, her laughter at first muffled by his heavy coat, then again by his mouth against hers.
"You are a wicked man!" she cried, still laughing as she pulled away, swatting at his shoulder.
Suddenly, the murmur of voices could be heard just out in the road and Christine tucked herself against his front. Strong arms came around her as her eyes slipped shut, breathing in the smell of wet wool and smokey sandalwood, and the undefinable, uniquely appealing smell of him.
"For heaven's sake, Patrice! Is this how you want to behave on Christmas?! In front of the girls?! I told you it was probably nothing more than some rowdy children!"
"It certainly didn't look like children," the man who was Patrice sulked.
Christine looked up with wide eyes, unsure if they had left any snowballs in the road in front of their home. It hadn't snowed since earlier that evening, so there were plenty of footprints and carriage tracks through the snow, but a pile of the offending weapons would be a damnable discovery. It certainly wouldn't do to have an ugly altercation on Christmas, she fretted.
"All evidence destroyed, my dear," Erik whispered, divining her thoughts before he kissed the tip of her nose. "Let us adjourn to the dining room, if it would please you, my Christine, and enjoy the meal my darling wife has spent so much time preparing, before that cantankerous beast who supplanted her earlier makes a return."
Her gasp this time sucked every bit of air from her body as he pushed past her, hanging his coat on the hook near the door as he did so, glancing back to her over his shoulder. His honey-gold eyes danced with merriment, and she struggled out of her own cloak, unsure of whether she wanted to slap or kiss the devilish, crooked smile off of his face.
"You are a rotten, ungrateful brute of a ma-"
Christine's voice cut off as she followed him into the dining room, at the sight before her. Dozens of candles winked back at her, from the credenza, across the fireplace mantel, and down her perfectly laid table.
"Tut tut, my dear, none of that. Aren't you the one who is such a stickler for traditions?"
He glanced meaningfully upwards, to the mantle of the doorway where she stood, where a ball of mistletoe was newly suspended. Her heart tugged as she leaned into him, letting him claim her lips softly. It appeared as though he was trying after all.
She pulled the mask from his face and kissed him properly, which was all she'd ever been trying to do in the first place, kissed him until he pulled away, leading her by the hand to the table where he insisted she sit.
She squealed in delight when he popped the cork on a bottle of crémant, pouring her a glass before attending to his own. The hot soup he placed in front of her was the first thing she'd eaten all day, and if she moaned in pleasure at the richness of it, which she absolutely did, Christine thought she should be excused. Conversation was forgotten as she greedily spooned up mouthful after mouthful, barely paying attention to the way Erik refilled her wine glass.
"Come now, my dear, drink up. I have a lovely Pouilly-Fume chilling in the wings for our next course."
For the first time that evening she noticed the redness in her husband's face. Erik had a pallid complexion at the best of times, if one took the time to notice anything past his lack of a nose and sunken cheeks, but now there were twin spots of rosy color bloomed at his jutting cheekbones. His eyes, still bright with mischief, also appeared a bit glassy to her, and a slow smile spread on her face.
"Erik, how much of that brandywine did you drink this evening?"
"If you have time to talk, you must be finished with your soup, my dear. On to the next course, shall we?"
He insisted she remained seated while he served her the next course, her Coquilles Saint-Jacques. After he poured the next wine he'd selected, he disappeared into the kitchen once more.
A thought occurred to her as she sipped the Pouilly-Fume. "Erik, when did you pick out all of these wines? Have you been sampling from your cellar all evening?"
Her eyes widened as he came out carrying a second small platter of ice. Spread across the ice chips were a dozen oysters on the half shell. She had told him about their being oysters at the réveillon feasts in her childhood, but she'd never been permitted to try them, and hadn't included them tonight.
"Did you know, lovely girl, that oysters are thought to be an aphrodisiac?" he purred, his eyebrows raising suggestively as he deftly sliced the fleshy lump of meat away from one of the shells.
"Darling, I do believe you're a bit drunk," she giggled as he gave the bivalve a squeeze of lemon.
"Erik does not get drunk, Christine," he answered peevishly, holding up the shell. "Here we go, my love, your first réveillon oyster."
She squealed and slurped, nearly choking, and collapsed in laughter against him once she'd gotten the slimy-sweet lump down, and she agreed, the whole experience was very much an aphrodisiac. She wondered how amenable he would be to repenting for his earlier transgressions later in their bedroom. From the way his hand lazily trailed down her back coming to rest on her hip, she suspected very amenable indeed.
Once they'd eaten their fill, she announced it was time for music, insisting he accompany her as she sang the hymns and holiday songs of her childhood. A new wine with her foie gras and roast beef, a few bites of roasted hen, then Erik declaring dramatically, wine glass sloshing in hand, that they would both surely expire if she forced anymore food upon them.
She was uncomfortably full, she thought, again wondering if an indefinite stomach capacity was also a remnant of childish things past. She cut a single slice from the bûche de Noël for them to share in front of the fire as the brute filled them each a cup of his spiced brandywine.
Wine lubricated his tongue, made him more open and affectionate, and Christine found she quite enjoyed this side to her normally quiet, staid husband, filing the information away for future good use. When she turned away from the ornate cake, she found he'd already adjourned to the music room without her. The tinkling sound of the piano greeted her as she stood in the doorway, and she paused, taking in the sight of him with a soft smile; bare face and head, as she preferred him, swaying slightly to the music he made.
"Do you have any idea how much your Erik loves you, my sweet Christine? I suspect you couldn't possibly."
Her eyes burned with tears again as she crossed to him. "If it's half as much as I love my Erik, then I suspect it's quite a bit."
When she seated herself on the bench beside him, he pulled out a brightly wrapped parcel that had been sandwiched in between several scores. It was the perfect hiding spot, for Christine never tidied in this room, having previously experienced her husband's spectacular temper, which was only very occasionally directed at her, over rearranging his mess of music sheets.
"Only children open presents on Christmas," she whispered.
"Well, Erik shall refrain from telling your newborn saviour our secret then."
She smiled through tears once more. "Now you won't have anything to give me on New Years, darling."
"Oh, is that what you think?" he snorted, draining the wineglass that had also accompanied him to the piano, and she laughed. Yes, she very much enjoyed her husband being somewhat in his cups.
The necklace was ornate, with open filigree and winking diamonds, and Christine wickedly thought she might invite Juliette round for tea to show it off. Long, graceful fingers fastened it around her throat before cool, soft lips pressed to the back of her neck.
"Merry Christmas, my sweet Christine."
Her eyes slipped shut, and for a silent moment she breathed in the warmth of the room. Somehow, owing little to her, it had turned out to be a perfect night. Different in nearly every way from her childhood, yet perfect just the same.
"My Erik...Merry Christmas, darling."
The crackling fire was the only sound in the room for a long moment and she felt herself begin to drift into a warm, contented sleep against his shoulder.
"How do you suppose a babe managed to amass twelve acolytes each bearing a signature dessert in one night, hmm? Isn't he meant to be newly whelped?"
His voice tickled at her ear as long fingers trailed over the swell of her breast.
"You are a wicked man!" she cried, awake and laughing once more. "How did I marry such a blasphemous villain?!"
"My dear," he purred, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, before nudging her chin up to the ceiling where another ball of mistletoe was suspended.
"You should know very well..."
His hands were suddenly under her skirt, sliding up her stockinged legs. Christine dropped her head back with a sigh, feeling as though she was that green girl in her pretty peach dressing room once more, having an unorthodox lesson with her angel. Any moment now and his long fingers would reach their heated destination, distracting her from holiday piousness with carnal delight...instead, his fingers alighted to that insanely ticklish spot behind her knees, pinning her against him as she shrieked at his unrelenting ministrations.
"...every good story needs a good villain."