A/N: This is, in fact, the shortest chapter in the whole fic. And I can say this because I'm working on chapter 13. Next week's chapter makes up for it though, because it's the longest so far.

In other news, for anyone interested in soft sweet modern E/C, I uploaded a one-shot during the week, Falsification, which is part of my ongoing Tinder 'verse where they meet as grad students. So if you wanted to check that out, I would be very grateful!

Also, Maighdlin is an Irish name pronounced Mad-lin, and the name comes courtesy of Louis L'Amour's novel Galloway which I basically absorbed when I was thirteen.


She does not have many things – blouses and skirts mainly, a dark blue travelling suit, her night things, ribbons for her hair, her father's old violin. Her sewing things. A couple of books. The letters from Marshal Lamonte, perhaps you should get used to calling me Erik, and his portrait. What she has is distinctly simple and unfashionable, because what was the point of fashion when she was living in a single room with Sorelli? She had a couple of better dresses when the theatre was still active, but she sold them off one by one, and though she was not exactly living in what you'd call society, she did retain one nice light blue dress, her best dress, to serve as a wedding gown.

It is a little ridiculous, how nervous she is to wear it. She'd built herself up before going to Leadville but when she got there and discovered the man was dead, the dress seemed to mock her, still lying in her suitcase. Packing it now, again, her fingers trace over the smooth fabric, the delicate appliqué around the neckline, and she tries not to think that she might not get to wear it this time either. Just because it happened once does not mean it will happen again. She must stay positive. There is no reason to think Erik will be dead by the time she gets there.

She was never this nervous before going on stage, and not even as bad as this before Leadville. Maybe it's true what they say about single women who have been out of the world too long, that it makes them start to go a little mad. Or maybe the touch of madness is why they were out of the world to begin with. But this anxiety can hardly be a sign of madness. She is simply being careful, and trying to foresee every possibility so she can be prepared to meet it head on.

At least, that's what she tries to tell herself. Sorelli just tells her she's overthinking.

Maighdlin Giry soon-to-be Barbazac comes to see her a few days before she is due to leave. "I hear you're getting married," she says, "and I came to wish you luck." Such a simple sentiment that might be believable from anyone else, but Maighdlin is a notorious gossip and always has been, making up several stories that the theatre was haunted and actresses had died there. But no matter how Christine investigated each alleged incident, she could not find a shred of evidence of any of the claims. No secret tunnels, no hidden lair unless you count the one where Firmin and Moncharmin were caught in indecent acts ("I told you so!" Sorelli crowed) and that one was very nearly public knowledge anyway. Sorelli had been there multiple times. She herself had been there once, though there was no man involved. The boys in the ballet all certainly seemed to know about it. Perhaps they were the source of the odd noises that Meg insisted came from the ghost.

She shudders to think of what Meg would say about Erik and his half-face, so she shows her the portrait she still has of Tom Robertson from Leadville that she's trying to decide whether to bring with her or leave behind, and tells her that he's her husband-to-be, mayor of a town and shockingly wealthy. A slightly sour look comes over Meg and inside Christine is proudly victorious, though she keeps her face polite. Let that rumour travel through the old theatre circle. Serves them right being such vicious gossips.

Sorelli holds in her laughter until Meg leaves only minutes later, having obviously not found the salacious story of a wild cowhand with three kills to his name that she came looking for, and then she lets out a near hysterical giggle as Christine smiles to herself, quite pleased, and tucks the portrait into her suitcase. Poor unfortunate Tom might come in useful again someday. It is always best to be prepared.

"That was devious, darling," Sorelli is still grinning when she turns back to her. "Like something I would do."

And now, at last, Christine lets her smile become a grin. "Clearly I learned from the best."

Suddenly, she doesn't feel quite so bad that her worldly possessions amount to one battered suitcase, and an old violin.


The one good thing that came from the ill-fated proposition to that Carlotta woman was that it spurred him on to have an extension built onto the house, for any potential bride of his. He would not force a woman to share his room, no matter how amenable to the idea she may be, but nor could he (or would he) ask Aman to leave. So the extension, which Aman accepted with a roll of his eyes, was decided on and built with a little help from some cash he won in a very lucky poker game.

If he played a strong part in dealing the poker game, well, some details do tend to be lost.

Ever since the letter came from Christine (and he has been training himself to think of her as Christine as opposed to Miss Daaé), agreeing to marry him, he has been furnishing the room. The bed had already been installed, but he makes a "business trip" to Cheyenne, leaving Aman in charge of the office in his absence, to buy quilts to dress it, and linen sheets, and pale blue curtains, and blue paint for the walls (he enlists Max and De Chagny Junior to do the actual painting, pleading paperwork, but their work is very admirable). It is imperative that Christine be as comfortable as possible as soon as she arrives. And buying these things in Cheyenne leaves him reasonably anonymous. It might save him from too many questions if she backs out when she sees him.

He buys a new bathtub, solely for her en suite, and has it shipped. It takes longer than he expects to wrestle it into the room, but with his eye for engineering as well as drafting in Trev with Aman as an extra set of hands, the feat is achieved in a reasonable time, and no harm done to anything.

When he was new in town, shortly after becoming Deputy to Philippe, he sat on the committee for running water, and he's grateful for it now. The system is still not as widespread in the town as he would like, but they have water in their house and it saves him a great deal of trouble, and he adapts the same system he has for heating water in the bathroom he shares with Aman in order that Christine's water will be warmed for her.

Christine will appreciate those efforts, he is sure.

He always keeps the piano tuned and in good repair, and so he collects more sheet music that she might like to play. But still, all he has done doesn't feel like enough. Enough to make her comfortable, perhaps, but is it enough to keep her from getting bored? Surely women don't truly sit around knitting all day? And there could never be that much dusting.

Books. She will have to have books.

But what do women even read? Hardly philosophical texts and lawbooks, though both De Chagny brothers have an ample collection of those.

He isn't on good enough terms with any woman to be able to ask without sounding daft, except for Max's Beth, and to his knowledge she isn't much for reading. Though she is, by all accounts, an excellent dancer.

If his bride-to-be is something of a pianist, then she is unlikely to be a dancer. And he has never been one to appreciate those arts the way other men do.

He puts his cigar down, and sighs, looking around the table. Philippe is playing solitaire with a look of great seriousness, cigar perched carefully in his mouth and his bad arm in a pastel pink sling that brings out the salmon of his shirt. There's something painful about his insistence on being fashionable even if he can't do much of anything anymore, and Erik has to swallow against the tightness in his throat. Trev is beside him, cutting cards with almost the same intensity, though the glass of whisky at his elbow is slightly lower than it was a few minutes ago. And De Chagny Junior – Raoul, he must remember to call the boy Raoul – is asleep, wrapped up in his heavy coat, hat pulled down low over his eyes. It will soon be time for him to go on duty, but let him rest for now.

And so, Erik addresses the question to the table at large.

"What sort of thing might she—might Christine read?"

Trev, being the most literary one of the group, is the first to answer, though he doesn't look up from his cards. Clearly trying to improve his lacklustre dealing skills. "Miss Austen, I suspect. Possibly the sisters Brontë. You might try some poetry on her. Or the Greeks and Romans."

He's always been partial to Virgil himself, Erik will admit, though he read it in the original Latin. Christine would likely favour it in English. He has an English copy of it somewhere, he thinks…

"Shakespeare is always good," Philippe's voice is little more than a murmur as he looks up. "Adelia says their foreman is very fond of him. Shakespeare and Marlowe both." Erik is not quite sure of the value of the opinion of a foreman on a ranch in Texas, but if it comes with the accreditation of Philippe's sister then perhaps it might be worth listening to. "I like the Russians myself, and so did a dentist I briefly knew in Dallas."

Well, a Dallas dentist's opinion is probably better than a foreman's, depending on the dentist. He's known a few in his time that have been questionable though there was that one man in Dodge who was decent. Pity there's no pen and paper to hand. He should be making a list of all of these suggestions. "Any particular poetry?" Erik's own knowledge mostly amounts to Byron and his 'Don Juan'.

"Tennyson." Raoul's voice is hoarse as he straightens up. "And Marvell." His smile is slightly bemused. "Worked a treat the last time I was in Cheyenne."

Philippe stares at his younger brother. "You didn't tell me that when you got back." His tone is faintly accusatory, and Erik struggles to school his face impassive.

Raoul's eyes flicker to Trev and then back, his lips twitching, and Erik fights to hold in a snort. "You were rather busy at the time." He stands as Philippe glances away, his cheeks colouring. "I think I'll go and relieve Aman." He plucks one of the unlit cigars from the table and leaves without another word.

When the door closes with a click, Trev at last looks up from his cards, eyes dancing with amusement. "I think he's the one who needs a wife."

Erik, who was taking a sip of his whiskey at the time of the remark, loses the battle with his laughter and snorts it onto the table.