In July, Christine was exhausting her resources for entertainment. She lay sweating on her bed, thumbing through the last pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, while Edgar lounged pathetically in front of the fan set up next to the bed. Raoul had given her Babel by Mumford & Sons on vinyl for her birthday, and the album―now playing digitally in the background―always reminded her of him. With her room finally unpacked and arranged, it was beginning to feel like something closer to a bedroom than a cell. Pictures of Meg and her girlfriend Cecile―now, there was someone she didn't miss―sat among pictures of her parents and, later, just her father. One of the smiling, optimistic Class of 2011. Everyone from high school was probably in college now. Surely none were married. Not to men sixteen years older than them.

Christine returned to her book, holding her breath as she glanced over the last page, then snapped the book shut and placed it with a distinct sense of accomplishment atop the other six stacked on her nightstand. Done.

Honestly her bedroom setup―consistently free of husbands―would be pretty good if it weren't so flippin' hot. Again.

She peeled herself from the coverlet and crept from her room towards the thermostat in the hall and checked the numbers. To her irritation, it had been magically reset to a balmy seventy degrees. Who the hell let the thermostat run at seventy degrees when it was at least ninety outside with humidity so thick she could barely breathe? Erik, that's who. The madman. Scowling, she nudged the air conditioning back on. If she caught him changing it one more time…

She stepped back into her room just as "Not With Haste" started up again on the iHome on her dresser. With annoyance she stalked over to shut the thing off, followed by a pang of guilt. She used to be able to listen to this album for hours… now she was beginning to hate it, and everything it reminded her that she didn't have.

Christine sat back on her bed.

Now what?

This morning she had brushed enough fur off Edgar to form a second cat. Which she'd consequently done. Her eyes hurt from reading. She didn't want to watch movies. She didn't want to listen to music, either. And it was too freaking hot.

So desperate was she, in fact, that she actually went in search of the elusive Ice Man, who seemed to have no end of things to do, especially when she blasted Mumford & Sons from her bedroom. Every time she turned around, another painting or pair of drapes had been hung, another shelf filled with books, a closet filled―it was like the house was being unpacked by a ghost. Or a house elf.

Perhaps she could convince him to buy her Rosetta Stone so she could reread Harry Potter in Swedish and experience the adventure afresh…

When she did manage to find him, to her surprise, it was in the backyard.

In a mask made of pale fabric, Erik perched on a ladder near one of the main doors, power screwdriver in hand. In spite of the humidity and direct afternoon sunlight, he wore a long-sleeved shirt that made Christine feel uncomfortably overheated just seeing it. With Erik's attention wholly fixed on the task at hand, he didn't notice her at first, and hummed to himself while he finished securing a discreet black dome under the eaves.

She leaned against the frame of the open door, crossing her arms and looking up at him not a little critically. Without greeting him, she watched him with what was quickly morphing into suspicion.

If that was what she thought it was…

Erik then climbed down to the ground and backed away into the lawn to examine his installation at a distance. Only then did he appear to notice her. He pulled out his earbuds with a smile.

"Oh, there you are, dear!" he said. "How are you? Can I get anything for you?"

She blinked a few times, eyes narrowing. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Security!" He sounded annoyingly cheerful. Pacing over the patio to the door, he stopped a few feet away from Christine, his eyes still on the gleaming black dome.

Christine stood up a little straighter, defensively. "What is it?"

He glanced to her, apparently confused that such a question seemed necessary. "It's a camera."

At least she could see it, she had to give him that, but she had hoped agreeing to be bound legally to him would remove the need for constant surveillance―she still remembered the unsettling chill she'd felt when she'd realized that he'd rigged up her apartment with cameras and microphones and God only knew what else.

She raised an eyebrow, keeping her voice as even and reasonable as she could. "Why do you need a camera?"

Erik shrugged, arms folding over his damp chest. "It's a large house and people are stupid."

Christine watched him a moment longer, quietly. "Okay," she finally said, blank. "I'm gonna go inside."

"Are you sure? It's a lovely day. You ought to get more sunlight. It's good for you."

As if Skeletor were one to talk.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Everything alright?"

Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. "I would prefer you didn't have that camera up."

"Oh, they're only on the outside," he cajoled, the slightest note of protest in his voice, "in the event something happens."

"That's what the police are for." She was staring at the camera now, as if scrutiny intense enough could make it spontaneously combust.

Erik laughed aloud. "The police? Oh, you're funny. If it comes to that, this will make their job much easier."

She was chewing the inside of her lip. "I don't want them here."

"They're only outside," he repeated patiently. "They are important to have. It keeps us safe."

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. "That's why we live in a nice neighborhood. That's why we lock the doors at night."

"Doors don't keep people out if they're determined to get in… And it's a big house after all..."

"So what if it's a big house?"

"Please, Christine, just trust me on this. They are important to have and it won't feel safe without them. What will make you feel better about it?"

"If you take them down." She had crossed her arms again, meeting his gaze without shame or intimidation. Sweat had broken out on her arms and neck.

"What if I showed you where they all are? What if I showed you how to use them?"

Her mouth was a thin straight line. "I want to feel safe enough to go into my own damn yard without being watched."

"Then go into the yard! I have better things to be doing than watching cameras all day. It's there for emergencies. If something happens..."

That was a laugh. Nothing that any sane person would deem an emergency had ever happened under his surveillance, and he had always been smugly able to report back to her the exact words she'd exchanged with Raoul when they were in each other's company―he had, indeed, seemed as if he did have nothing better to do.

Christine blinked and turned on her heel, retreating quietly into the house.

Erik followed after her. "What if I showed you how to turn them off when you go out? Would that be alright? It won't be like it was before, I promise..."

"No," she snapped, moving back to the living room.

"I would have thought you'd appreciate the fact that I picked ones you could actually see." A sudden coolness entered his voice, like a draft. "I didn't have to do that, you know."

She wondered fleetingly if he'd ever taken any of the surveillance down. Raoul's apartment had been bugged as thoroughly as her own. Perhaps he was still keeping an eye on Raoul, to be safe.

Christine turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Oh, you're right! How stupid of me! God, why didn't you say that in the first place? You're so good to me!"

"Oh, don't be like that..." Erik grumbled, pinching the space between his eyes. "There are certain dangers living above ground and as such, security is not optional. If I don't put them up, something will happen, and if anything happened to you..."

She rolled her eyes. "Nothing's happened for twenty years that would have changed if it had been recorded. I think I'm good."

"I wish I could say the same," he snapped. "Do you know how many windows I've had broken simply because I lived somewhere? Property vandalized? And if you'd been doing for the last twenty years what I'd been doing, you'd be a little paranoid, too."

"I haven't, though," she said viciously. "I don't get why I have to have them when I haven't been breaking the law like you have. Did you consider that that maybe has something to do with it?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," he snapped. "And, like it or not, you live here with me now! And that is why you must have them! Whatever bad decisions I've made in the past, I must live with the consequences whether I like them or not―that's fucking life. It would be naive and irresponsible to ignore that simply because you feel unfairly punished. No one is going to stop at the back window and think, oh, but Christine Daae did nothing wrong! We ought to leave Erik alone!"

Christine stared at him in silence, then moved quietly towards the stairs.

"If you hope to encourage my honesty, Christine," Erik shouted after her, "this is the last way you should go about it!"

"I didn't say anything," she replied, voice only raised enough for him to hear it.

"You don't need to. You walking away says everything I need to know."

"Does it?" She put her chin in her hands, sitting at the top of the stairs and glaring down at him. "Please do tell me what I'm thinking, then."

Motionless at the bottom, he gripped the banister with one hand. "You don't want to hear what I have to say because it's always one new terrible thing after another with Erik, isn't it? No matter if it's the truth, no matter how hard he's tried to make amends and be responsible for himself, you don't want to hear it. And if I'm a monster for trying to keep my house and my wife safe, then so be it―I'm a monster."

"I said I didn't want them, that's all. Stop being such a drama queen."

"I'm not! I am telling you exactly why they have to be there, as honestly as I can."

She watched him. "Don't you have something else to do?"

Erik stared right back, eyes narrowing in a glare.

"The cameras stay," he hissed, then stormed off towards the back doors with a snarl of frustration.

"I'm going out, then," she replied, getting up and moving towards her bedroom.

That stopped Erik in his tracks and returned him towards the stairs. "Where?"

She'd already made it to her bedroom when he asked that question and didn't see the necessity in rushing a reply for him. She was careful to take her time, shedding her damp jeans and t-shirt for a fresh set, and slipped on a pair of shoes.

When she stepped into the hall, Erik was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

"Where?" he repeated, a little more forcefully.

"Out," was her terse reply.

"Where?"

"Away from you. I'll take my phone." Her eyes narrowed.

Erik stiffened. "You'll be back in an hour."

Christine shrugged. "Maybe."

"There is no maybe about it. I want a time frame."

She glanced carelessly down at her left hand, fiddling almost threateningly with her ring. "Maybe I'll be back in an hour. Maybe three. I don't know."

"You had better decide extremely quickly."

"You'd better not tell me what to do."

She started to move cautiously past him to go down the stairs, but Erik stepped in front of her.

"I need to know where you're going to be and when you'll be back," he said in a forcibly calm voice that failed to mask a tremble of anxiety.

"Get out of my way."

"These are simple questions. I don't understand why it's so difficult to answer."

"Because you know where I am 24 hours a day. I'm here. I'll be back in a few hours."

Erik was silent a long, long moment, his jaw grit tightly, his hands trembling. "You have... two hours... but if you aren't home in exactly 120 minutes... I'm coming for you."

She crossed her arms. "Whatever. Get out of my way."

"Confirm you understand!" he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. "I do. Move."

Erik flung himself aside and sat down hard on the stairs, his fingers digging like claws into the back of his neck. He spoke through gritted teeth. "You have 119 minutes left."

Christine didn't bother hiding the smile of satisfaction on her face. "Bye."

"I'll be listening," he snarled and stormed up the stairs.

She walked out the front door and walked briskly away, feeling a small burst of triumph. Once out of sight, for an insane second, she contemplated smashing her cell phone, but he'd know. He always knew.

Christine tried to forget and walked on.

All the houses in the neighborhood were nice. She felt acutely how small, how young she was, and how out of place she was among all those people who had their lives together. She wondered if she'd ever feel that way. A few months ago, she'd had enough money to pay rent―barely―and she'd liked her job, and had a boyfriend, and lived in a big city. But now she was a wife in a house, and that was about all she was. She felt more lost now than she had then.

As she wandered, she chanced the occasional glance into other people's houses―always there were happy kids and men getting home from work and people a little older than her with hatchback cars and babies. Nobody seemed to be her age. They must have all been at college. She'd never been one for academia…

For one, she was terrible at math… but she was careful to return precisely 121 minutes later, and she was not disappointed.

Even as she walked up the driveway, Christine could see Erik pacing the porch like a fretful dog, phone in one hand and car keys in the other. The moment he noticed her, he stopped where he stood and casually shoved both objects out of sight into his pockets. As she came closer, he crossed his arms over his chest and she noticed the watery glare behind his mask.

Nonchalantly and with head held high, she walked right past him for the door as if he weren't there.

"You're late," he growled.

"Barely."

"What were you doing?" Erik voice trembled, though it was difficult to determine whether from anger or anxiety. Either way, he was unhappy, and she found herself unable to care.

Christine stepped into the house and Erik followed her, looming and hovering in a way that made her want to whirl around and push him away. Instead, she turned calmly to face him, raising an eyebrow and placing her hands on her hips. "What do you think I've been doing?"

"If I only wanted to think about it, I wouldn't have fucking asked you!" he snapped with unexpected volume, advancing on her, eyes gleaming and wet. His arms were curled stiffly over his midsection. "I gave you exactly two hours and you returned late! What were you doing?"

She recoiled a little, surprised. "Nothing! I wasn't doing anything."

"For the sake of you and others, that had better be the truth..."

"I was just looking around! I've barely had a chance to even see outside." Exasperated, her face hardened as she stared him down. "That's all. I swear on my wedding vows."

"Swear on something you actually cherish," he hissed.

"Why should I?"

"Because I don't trust you."

Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "When have you trusted me? Ever?"

The question stunned him. For a moment, he stood there lost for words, before he moved to sit heavily on the stairs and fixed her with a dark, miserable glare. The tears had not completely stopped. In a rough, but softer voice, he grated, "just… don't… do it... again, alright?"

This time, she did roll her eyes and stepped briskly past him on her way up to the second floor.

"I suppose I should have expected it…" he glowered as she passed, pressing his masked face into his hands. "You were never very good at keeping curfew, you know."

"Maybe because you're completely ridiculous in thinking you can enforce your stupid rules on me."

"Can't I?" He turned to glaring at her over his shoulder.

She watched him with a forcibly neutral look on her face. "Am I supposed to be intimidated?"

"If you aren't, go ahead and test me." His voice was soft. "We'll see who suffers more."

"Whatever," she hissed and stormed up the rest of the stairs. "I'm done with you."

After slamming the bedroom door as hard as she could, causing Edgar to regard her with shock from his perch on her dresser, she took a deep breath and counted backwards from twenty.

Even before their marriage, his relentless obsession with surveillance, with watching her, had made her feel like some sort of laboratory animal at worst or a prized pet at best. It had been stupid of her to hope marriage would make him more reasonable. If anything he seemed worse: at least she had a leash then and leaving his sight didn't induce a nervous breakdown. Now she had a cage.

Locking the bedroom door―at least she had a lock now―she stripped off her clothes and stormed towards her bathroom for a cold shower.

It was still so frickin' hot.

In September, Christine finally ran out of things to do.

She lay on the couch watching 27 Dresses for what felt like the hundredth time. Edgar, reclining on the top of his cat condo, observed the room serenely and she wondered if he was as bored as she was. Earlier that morning, she had finished alphabetizing the bookshelves on the far end of the media room, but now she wondered if perhaps it should be by color instead.

As she stood to walk over, reconsidering, she heard a sound in the kitchen and got up to investigate a little too quickly for her liking. It was Erik―of course it was Erik―shoving a Hot Pocket into the microwave. Even as he thumbed the buttons, his attention remained fixed on the yellow Schirmer edition of Ysayë open in his other hand. While the microwave hummed, he leaned back against the counter, eyes moving rapidly over the page.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked, sitting at the table. Yesterday it was Paganini. Khachaturian the day before that.

She received a grunt in reply and he turned the page.

"I'm bored, Erik."

Nothing.

"I really think I'm going crazy."

Another grunt.

"I found the gross magazines under your bed."

Nothing.

"My bags are packed and I'm running away with him tonight. You can't stop me. What do you think about that?"

He glanced up and blinked. "Did you say something?"

Christine sighed. "That's what I thought."

Erik stared at her blankly. If he was going to say anything more, it was interrupted by the beeping of the microwave. Without a word, he fetched his Hot Pocket, opened the fridge for a can of Monster which he tucked under his arm, and then he was gone, eyes still buried in the score as if they'd never spoken.

With a sigh, Christine returned to the media room and dropped back on the couch to the film that she hadn't bothered to pause in the first place. Almost immediately she snatched up the TV remote and put an end to it, only to find herself cycling listlessly through Erik's seemingly infinite collection of chick flicks and sappy period dramas.

When the sound of his violin once again began to float through the house, she shut off the TV to stare at the ceiling. She rubbed at her face and tried to ignore the ache in her chest.

This had been going on for a week. She only knew he woke in early afternoon because that was when the music began. He had little interest in food, preferring to subsist on Bach preludes and fugues on the piano. Come a little past midnight, she assumed he slept because the music came to an end. Where she wasn't sure, but it certainly wasn't his bedroom. If she saw him at all, it was by accident.

She didn't miss him. Not by a long shot. It was a welcome change for him to fixate on something other than her. But to her chagrin, she was beginning to feel his absence. He'd never made a point of ignoring her like this...

Before long, she found herself drifting idly near the studio door, hoping that Erik would emerge of his own accord.

She couldn't hide from the facts anymore, standing there, listening like some scorned lover. She was lonely. Intolerably lonely. And Erik, as he was so fond of reminding her, was better than nothing.

The door was closed, though it was difficult to say whether it was from a need for privacy or a desire to not bother her. Either way, he currently played something slow, lyrical, and less demanding than his recent fare; Mendelssohn, probably.

Christine, rubbing her hands together apprehensively, paused for a moment in front of the door before she timidly knocked, taking a cautionary few steps back after she did.

The music stopped immediately. A few seconds passed before Erik opened the door and blinked down at her in blank confusion. "Am I being too loud?"

She shook her head, directing her eyes with embarrassment to the floor. "Just... came to see what you were up to."

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I can take requests, if you like," he said quietly. Then, he reached into his pocket for his phone, which wasn't there. He glanced around, looking briefly perturbed. "Or... is it dinnertime already? I can make you supper if you like."

"It's only five." She scuffed at a spot on the floor with a socked foot. "I'm not hungry, thanks."

In silence, Erik looked back to her, confusion returning to his hazel gaze. He folded his hands awkwardly at his stomach. "Is, ah... is there something else you wanted from me, then? I'm not quite..." He trailed off, frowning.

Christine blinked back tears. "Not really."

Erik opened the door further and took a hesitant step closer. "Are you alright, dear? Is something the matter?"

She shrugged, shrinking away a little. "I 'unno."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." His voice was suddenly low and soothing.

"I said I don't know." Now, she took an obvious step back, sniffing.

"Oh, no, please, don't cry..." he murmured, sounding almost distressed himself. He held out a hand to touch her shoulder, but at the last moment, his fingers curled back and pulled away. "Would you like to come in? We'll... figure this out."

Christine stepped forward again, silently nodding assent. She scrubbed at her eyes painfully. Crying had always felt weak. Doubly so in front of him.

He opened the door even wider and stepped aside to let her pass into the dim, muggy room that smelled strongly of violin rosin and his cologne. Though the sun hadn't set yet, a lamp near the piano was the only source of light due to the heavy drapes obscuring all the windows. Shadows lurked in the corners.

Christine stepped gingerly inside, looking around nervously as if something might jump out at her. Out of habit, she glanced towards a corner of the room. Leaning against the wall was the locked case containing her father's violin, which she had expressly forbidden Erik to touch. It was exactly where she had left it.

Moving ahead of her, Erik went towards the stiff leather sofa that was more decorative than comfortable and tossed aside a pillow and blanket. Then he gestured for her to sit.

She perched herself carefully on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, like she was cold. The thermostat had been sitting securely at seventy for a couple months. She sniffed again.

Erik took a seat, too, a respectful distance away, and glanced awkwardly towards her. He seemed uncertain what to say at first, then ventured hesitantly, "Might I... would you like it if I rubbed your back?"

Christine's chin wobbled and, shyly, she nodded, pulling her hair over one shoulder so it didn't get in his way.

Erik's entire demeanor relaxed at this consent. With a hand still warm from playing, he caressed her back in long, soothing strokes, first with his palm and then gently with his nails. "Bad day?"

Christine deflated a little, loosening her protective hold on herself. "Mm."

Responding, he grew more confident and began to one-handedly rub at the taut muscle of her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You're ignoring me," she said suddenly. Her voice was not accusatory; it was small. She didn't look up.

"I'm not ignoring you..." Erik protested softly. "I've been... preoccupied. I thought you liked me out of the way..."

"You don't let me go out. I don't have anyone to talk to." She wrapped her arms around her midsection again, eyes fixed straight ahead of her at the scores carelessly stacked on the Fazoli baby grand's closed lid.

Erik didn't immediately respond and shifted a little on the couch so he could employ his other hand as well. "I'm sorry. I... I forget... I thought I was making you happy."

Christine turned her head to look at him. "No."

Under her gaze, Erik immediately stopped what he was doing, though he left his hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry for neglecting you. I'm a terrible husband."

She didn't shrug him off, or dispute the claim. She stared back at her lap.

"Would... would you… Would you like a hug? Might that help?"

Christine rubbed her hands together. There was a tremor to her voice. "No, thanks. Not right now."

Erik paused, as if debating whether or not to press the issue, but he returned to simply tracing his nails over her back, and murmured instead, "If you ever need one, please let me know. I know how to do those at least..."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered. "We'll go out this weekend. Go somewhere nice for dinner or see if the symphony here is any good. Would you like that?"

At that, Christine seemed almost to return to her usual self. "I'd like that."

"I'm glad." And he sounded it, too. "We'll go into town more often, I promise. I don't mean to turn you into a recluse... I do that to people, I'm sorry."

She pouted, rubbing her hands together. "I'm so bored. I don't have any friends. I mean... I didn't have that many before. But now I don't have any."

Erik laughed quietly under his breath. "I don't really know how to make friends, I'm afraid. But... ah... I'm sure we could find you some."

She glanced at him with a slight smile. "You're not allowed to pay them."

Erik heaved an exaggerated sigh of dismay. "Not even a little?"

The smile grew. "No."

"Such exacting standards, my word," Erik teased. He might have been smiling. "Wherever can we find such upstanding people?"

"We haven't met our neighbors," she said quietly. "They might be nice."

"That's... true." It sounded as if this thought had genuinely not crossed his mind. "How does one normally do that anyway? Meet neighbors?"

She smiled. "Take them some cooking or something. Introduce ourselves."

"Oh, that's out of the question," he murmured in mock horror. "We might poison them... And I do know that is how not to make friends... But I see what you mean. We should do that soon, then."

She grinned. "They might have kids."

"Kids..." Suddenly the horror wasn't so fake. "Perhaps they'll need a babysitter."

"That would be amazing." She was delighted now. "Can you imagine?"

His eyes were soft, his voice warm. "Only just. Do you really like children so much?"

"I love them. I love kids." She was smiling still.

"Then let us find you some children to herd immediately," Erik said, stroking her back again. "Someone in the neighborhood must have popped a few sprogs."

She nodded, soothed. "I'd like that very much."

"I'm glad to hear it... Would you like to watch a film tonight or go for an evening stroll? We can case the neighborhood."

She found herself laughing. "Don't say it like that."

"Reconnaissance, then." He smirked. "How does that sound?"

"I don't think I ever want to watch another movie. So the walk, maybe."

"I'll cancel the Netflix subscription," he assured her solemnly, patting her back gently and getting to his feet. "Let me go powder my nose. Five minutes?"

Christine rubbed her own shoulder as if disbelieving that he'd touched her at all. "I'll get changed."

That night, they did in fact manage to run into a few neighbors. Two middle-aged women strolled by with yapping lapdogs; a couple around Erik's age sat with three children on their patio, the parents absorbed in books and the children in a card game; a senior was mowing his lawn and bending occasionally to move a rock that was in his way. And although they exchanged little more than casual greetings and introductions, it was something. It was human contact. Things didn't feel quite so hopeless and lonely anymore. And for now, it would do.

It had to.