It was all wrong. Everything. Even the way they were greeted after the performance rang false, with only accolades and no questions about scandal or gambling debts. Christine clung to his arm unashamedly, girlish in her excitement despite her age. Had he ever seen her so unreservedly happy, even in the best of times? She'd been fearful of discovery during their early courtship, and so melancholy after their wedding. Now he could swear she was the same girl he'd once played with by the sea, unaware of any difference in rank or judgement from the outside world.
For his own part Raoul was silent until they'd begun the ride home.
"Christine..." What? What could he ask her? What could he say that wouldn't sound insane? "You were wonderful."
"Oh, Raoul. It's all thanks to you!"
"Thanks to me?"
"You've been the best agent any singer could have, as you well know. I don't know where I'd be without your help."
Was she playing a cruel trick on him? No; even in their worst moments, he didn't believe she would deliberately hurt him so. He was dreaming, or else truly had gone insane. He was imagining the world as it should be- or perhaps the last ten years of his marriage had simply been a nightmare. No explanation made any amount of sense.
Christine chattered on, occasionally giving him a quizzical look. Raoul mumbled something about feeling light-headed, not wanting to distress her. He would have to eventually, but if she was happy with him now, he would let it last as long as it could.
"My love- your hand!"
Raoul glanced down. Christine was pointing to a scar on the back of his palm; he'd had it for years, the result of a barroom brawl. Christine should have seen it before- but if nothing else made sense about the night, why should this be any different?
"It's nothing. Please don't worry about it." Christine didn't seem entirely reassured, but she didn't question him further. Instead, she changed the subject of conversation.
"I'm so glad we were able to come here. Marguerite has enjoyed it so much!"
"Marguerite?"
"Yes. The governess nearly had to force her to go to sleep tonight. So like her father, more eager than is good for her. I worry sometimes that you spoil her!"
A child. Why was there no mention of Gustave? And that name, Marguerite-
"Named for Meg," he found himself saying aloud.
"The Baroness, you mean! Her mother will keep insisting she use her full title in correspondence with anyone, even old friends. But then, she does write us so frequently- first thing when we go back to France, we must pay a call on her."
Raoul was grateful to arrive at the hotel; he didn't think he could take much more confusion in close quarters. Christine's chatter died down as they went to the penthouse, and he could see her studying him intently. Perhaps she was noticing more changes, scars and bruises she did not recognize. He realized as well that he'd been underdressed for the occasion, hardly looking like a well-kept nobleman should. What could he say to reassure her when he himself could offer no explanation?
Christine's silence continued until they reached the bedroom. Raoul wondered what to do; taking her to bed would feel deceitful, tricking her into thinking things were as they should be. Then again avoiding her might only distress her further.
Fortunately, Christine spoke before he had to decide.
"You have foreign scars, you avoid speaking to anyone but me, you stare at my face as if you hadn't seen it in a decade, and you don't recognize the name of our own child. Perhaps you're having a bad night."
Christine's voice grew cold.
"Or perhaps you aren't my husband. I know of only one man who could deceive me so completely, a man who had been working on crafting a mask that would make him look like another."
Raoul turned to face her, and once again her expression was foreign to him- one of pure, unhidden fury.
"Phantom. What have you done with Raoul?"
