Christine's eyes fluttered open. The light of morning peeked in through the dilapidated curtains, and she noticed that she was alone.

She sat bolt upright and looked around the room for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She swiftly got out of bed and pulled on her shoes. Just then, he entered the room, and their eyes locked.

"Where did you go?" she asked, feeling a strange relief.

"I went to inquire about transportation to the railway station," he said. "I found an obliging enough fellow who will drive us there at an exceptionally low charge."

She nodded, walking past him to the mirror. She had kept her hair bound up while she slept, but it was beginning to come loose. She washed her face in the little basin, then took the remaining pins out of her hair and shook it out so that it tumbled down her back. She suddenly became aware, from the reflection in the mirror, that he was staring at her. She blushed, and turned around.

He seemed embarrassed to be caught, and awkwardly smoothed his jacket. "You are very beautiful," he said.

She bit her lip. "I'll join you downstairs directly," she said. His mouth twitched, and he nodded.

After he had gone, Christine quickly used the chamber-pot and washed her hands in the basin. She hoped fervently that the water was clean and had not been used to wash some-one else's hands—the water looked all right, at any rate, but who knew, in this place?

She went downstairs and saw a middle-aged woman setting out plates. "You must be the one from Sweden," said the woman. "My husband mentioned you last night."

"Your husband!" said Christine with some surprise.

The woman shrugged. "When I was eighteen, he was nearing fifty, and he took me off my father's hands. That was close to twenty years back—he's got good blood, and he'll likely live another several years yet."

"Oh," said Christine. "Forgive me—I meant no disrespect."

"Don't worry about it, dear," said the woman. "It's common enough 'round here. Funny thing, though—your own husband…" She glanced suddenly at Christine's ring finger, which was of course bare, and grimaced. "I mean to say…your…ah…man…"

Christine blushed.

"At any rate…how old is he? Past forty, to be sure…and you can't be more than twenty."

"Twenty-one," said Christine uncomfortably.

"Close enough," said the woman. "But you're not very far off from our situation. When you come to be my age, he'll be fairly old himself, though not quite as old as my Albert."

Christine blanched. She hadn't quite thought of it in that way.

"Have you seen him just now, by-the-by?" she asked, quickly changing the subject. "He came downstairs, but I don't see him anywhere."

"Went out for a stroll, after eating one of my sausages," said the woman. "No doubt enjoying the brisk spring air. It'd do him good, too, being so pale, though he looks healthy enough."

At that moment, Erik came through the front door to the inn. "Ah," he said, his gaze falling on Christine. "There you are."

"Let her eat, poor girl," said the woman. "I'll even pack up some victuals for the way, if you'd like. Seems you've a long journey, if it's from Éperon to Culot."

Erik said nothing.

"Don't talk to many women, do you?" said the woman with a sage look in her eye.

Erik seemed a little taken aback. "What?"

"It's in your manner. Well, but it's a mercy you've managed to land such a pretty one," she said. "But it's true what they say—a man cares more for the look of a woman than a woman cares for the look of a man."

Christine quickly ate her sausage, trying to ignore the conversation, which was heartily embarrassing her. "Thank you," she said to the woman, who took her plate. "You've been very kind."

"Godspeed you on your journey," the woman replied, handing Christine a little kerchief filled with food.

The man Erik had hired drove them the two miles to the station in his horse-drawn cart. The trip was a fairly silent and awkward one.

"Fine weather we're having," grunted the man.

"Quite," said Erik blandly.

Christine was forced to sit quite close to him in order to avoid contact with the driver. Erik's strange, stale smell—the smell of underground—was quite preferable to that of pig manure.

"Pretty little lass there," said the driver. "Pretty as the morning."

"I'll thank you to keep that to yourself," said Erik coldly.

Christine's cheeks were so warm with humiliation she felt dizzy.

"I meant no offense, of course," said the driver, seeming a little miffed. No-one spoke until they reached the railway station.

"Thanks for the fare, master—and milady," said the driver, tipping his hat. "Good luck to you."

Erik went to the ticket window and talked with the ticket-master while Christine waited on a nearby bench. He came back bearing two railway billets in his long hand.

"The next train will be here in twenty minutes," he said. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, although it was a lie.

"The train does not stop in Culot," he said. "It changes direction before reaching it. We shall have to find another carriage to take us the rest of the way when we disembark at the final stop before it."

"Very well," she said. "Out of curiosity, what is in Culot, that you should be so eager to go there?"

"As I said, it is remote," he replied, "and I happen to own some property there, which has been looked after for some time by an acquaintance of mine."

"Acquaintance?" asked Christine dully. The very idea of him having an acquaintance sounded strange.

"To be more precise," he said, and paused. "My half-brother."

Christine stared at him in surprise. "Half-brother?" she said slowly.

"Fifteen years ago," he said, "I happened to be passing through the part of the country where occurred the unfortunate incident of my birth. I made a few inquiries. It seemed my mother had died of consumption several years before, and my father had taken another wife not long after her passing. I don't blame him for doing so. My mother was hardly an easy woman to live with."

It was so strange, to hear him speak so naturally of such things. He had a family. He was no dark changeling. She knew this, had always known it, but hearing him speak of it aloud was yet another jarring manifestation of his humanity, his ordinariness.

"This new wife of his bore him a child—a normal child," he said with a little bitterness, "which I daresay made him far happier than did my mother's bearing me. The boy was, at that time when I happened to be in the country, fifteen years of age. I had no desire to see any of them, but word spread that a masked man had been asking questions concerning the family. My half-brother was an impetuous young man. He cornered me in the street, wanting to know what my purpose was, why I had been gathering information about them. He said his father had gotten wind of it, and he had never seen him looking more uneasy. It was as if he had aged overnight, but he would not tell his son what troubled him. 'What is this hold you have on my father?' he demanded. I might have gotten angry, but I laughed instead. He looked so much like my father. It had really sunk into my soul that this was my younger brother, that here was a lucky soul who had been born of the same father, but had escaped my fate—and indeed, perhaps my misfortune was carried in the blood of my mother, rather than my father. 'Let us go see him,' I said, 'your father.' And so we went, and my father turned as pale as ashes when he saw me. I was in my thirtieth year then—I had run away from home when I was ten, which had been twenty years before—but how could he fail to recognize me? My appearance is, after all, distinctive. I could see from the look on my step-mother's face that she knew who I was, that he had told her. My half-brother was the only one who remained unenlightened. So…I enlightened him. There were rough words after that, by all of us, but at the end of it, it was, surprisingly, a fairly civil reunion, if a bit strained."

"What happened then?" asked Christine, thoroughly drawn into the story by now.

"I stayed in town for two days," he said, "at the request of my half-brother, who for reasons unfathomable, wanted to get to know me better. I confess, however, that the bond of blood, no matter how tainted, has an alluring pull on one's curiosity. He was no spoilt brat, as I had thought he must be when I had first heard of his existence. He was no pampered prince. Had he been, I think I might never have thought on the matter again. But we built a strange kind of filial rapport between us, strained as it was, and decided to keep a correspondence. It was far from regular, but it did cause me to not feel entirely cut off from the human race. When my father died three years later, a part of his inheritance passed to me—for, knowing with a certainty that I was alive, as he had not for some time, his conscience would not allow him to pretend me deceased. My step-mother soon followed him in death, owing to a perpetually weak constitution, and my half-brother, a lad of eighteen, became the owner of the family property, the larger part of my father's inheritance having passed to him. He sold it and moved to Culot—outside it, at any rate—and has, as far as I am aware, lived there ever since."

"Does he have a profession?" Christine asked.

"He is a stone-mason," Erik replied, "as was my father."

"You kept up correspondence when you lived in the bowels of the Opera?"

"On occasion," Erik said impassively. "As I said, our correspondence has been anything but regular."

"Does he know you are coming?"

"No," he said with a little amusement. "I daresay he'll be quite surprised to see me. The property I spoke of…I procured it two years ago, and he has obligingly looked after it for me, as I said, for it is not but half a mile from his own house."

"Two years ago?" Christine repeated musingly. "I did not know you then." It seemed strange to think of those days, when the world had been ordinary, when no strange forces had been at work. She could scarcely remember it, despite its being a relatively short time past.

"No," he said uncomfortably, "but…" The train-whistle sounded in the distance, and he broke off, looking relieved.

It was on her lips to ask him what he meant, but the whistle sounded again, and she felt a sudden bolt of panic deep within her breast. There really was no turning back. This was not a whim, or a game. He really meant to carry her off to a distant part of the country, where the chances of ever seeing anyone she knew from the old life were, at best, little more than none. And hadn't she agreed to it? She might have said no at any time, might have refused, or—

"Are you well?" he asked softly. "Truly?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm well."

She felt his fingers on her face, touching her skin as lightly as spider's-legs. "There's no color in your cheek," he said. "You look as though you are about to faint."

"I shan't," she said hoarsely. "Really, I shan't." Contrarily, she really felt as though she were going to swoon at any moment.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly on her face. "Christine," he said. "Christine—"

"Oh, dear God," she whispered. "I shall faint."

"Come, now," he said. "Come, pull yourself together, there's a good girl…the train is almost here, you know..."

He was grasping her by the arms now, pulling her to her feet. "Are you ill?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said. "Dizzy…afraid. Oh…so afraid…"

"Don't be afraid, beloved," he said, and there was something odd in his voice, something hypnotic, something bewitching. "You aren't afraid. There's nothing to fear."

Her body relaxed, sliding against his. She felt as though she were floating. Her surroundings seemed hazy.

I remember this feeling, she thought. I remember…

It was almost there, at the edge of her memory, but then it vanished. She nestled her cheek against his chest, deep and barreled. "I am not afraid," she said dreamily, for she wasn't. Not any more.

Ten minutes after they had boarded the train, the feeling began to wear off.

Christine came to her full senses while her forehead rested on Erik's shoulder. She sat upright at once.

"How could you?" she gasped. "Oh…how could you?"

He glanced at her irritably. "I didn't wish to carry you onto the train in a dead faint. If you intend to be perpetually hysterical for the remainder of the trip, I might be forced to hypnotize you again."

Her face grew white and pinched with anger. "I am surprised," she said coldly, "that you did not use that trick on me the night you abducted me from the stage."

His fingers twitched in the folds of his arms. He said nothing.

"I suppose you had wanted me entirely conscious then," she said sardonically. "Not limp and half-aware while you took your fill of me." She was suddenly shocked at herself.

He closed his eyes, and his mouth tightened into a white line. "Do you intend to tell the whole tale to the other passengers?" he queried. "If so, perhaps you ought to speak louder."

Christine felt deflated, as though she had been a great balloon pricked with a pin. Her scalp felt hot and prickly, and it seemed, indeed, that several pairs of eyes were resting on her. She sank down in her seat a little, willing herself from sight.

"What were you going to say," she asked quietly, staring out the window at the scenery rushing past, "before we heard the train whistle?"

He stirred a little beside her. "You did not know me," he said, "when I came to own the property outside Culot. But I knew you."

She turned quickly, her eyes meeting his. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly, although she thought she already knew.

"In January of that year, I came to be sitting in my box," he said calmly, "and I beheld a vision of loveliness onstage. She moved with a subtle grace, and her face was fresh and youthful, brimming with sweetness and beauty. Her greatest instrument, however, was lacking in certain disciplines. Her voice wanted warmth and emotion. It did not want for skill, although it required shaping."

Christine sat frozen to her seat.

"Through reliable sources not hard to find, I learnt the vision's name," he continued smoothly, and it seemed his face had a new kind of bright flush to it, as though he were steeped so deeply in memory that he could not help reliving his passion and delight. "I watched her perform, night after night, and I became convinced that I ought to be her tutor, that I could sculpt this budding rose into a brilliant, shining jewel. But how to make myself known, I wondered? How to reveal myself, without frightening the poor girl? I hit upon it one day, after certain information had reached my ear, but I harbored far more than a desire to become her tutor. I wanted to be her husband, her lover."

Christine felt as though the scarlet in her face would surely spread to the roots of her hair. There were few enough passengers, thankfully enough, and spread out generously so that they surely could not overhear his quiet narrative as they might have heard her loud outburst. Her whole body felt unbearably warm. That last sentence of his was a sensuous, sliding caress.

"She had no other suitors—none, at least, in whom she seemed to take a visible interest," he said, his voice seeming to harden a little. "I determined to win her, by any means I could. I was rash and impulsive. I traveled to Culot over a week-end, and bought the property I mentioned with money I had embezzled from the m—" He broke off here, and glanced around furtively before continuing. "With…my money," he amended. "I chose the location because I was aware that it might take some time to woo and win her over, and that I should have to remain in Paris during this time. I therefore asked my half-brother to watch over the property while I was away. He was unaware of the reasons for my strange behavior, and even in the last letter I wrote to him, in the week following the Masqued Ball this very year, I did not care to enlighten him completely on my dreary circumstances."

He sighed, glancing at her. "I preyed upon her youth, her naïveté. I overheard her speaking to a friend, of an old story she was fond of, and I saw my chance. I styled myself as the mythical Angel of Music, and ensnared her in this ill-conceived trap to win her affections."

"I believed," said Christine softly, "because I wished to." She had, indeed, embraced the idea all too eagerly, desperate for some scrap of proof that miracles existed. It was all well and good now to wish that he had not deceived her. If he had been confident enough to introduce himself to her in the first place as a man instead of an invisible supernatural being, would she have accepted him? She didn't know. She almost didn't care to think on it—it was too jarring a possibility that in lieu of accepting him, she might have spurned him far more cruelly and willfully than she had several months ago.

"When, however," he continued, as though he had not heard her, "my flower made an unfortunate renewal of acquaintance with the young heir to a noble family, I acted stupidly. The impulsive revelation of my true nature was not a happy one, and the object of my desires seemed to shun me utterly. She clave to the young noble instead, even going so far as to enter into an engagement with him. I was in a dreadful state for several months. When I emerged from that delirium of rage and torment, with Don Juan Triumphant the indisputable proof of my talent, I had an idea—a mad idea—that perhaps, if I could get her to perform in my opera, she would be persuaded to return to me. I thought I would impress her. I sought to lure her back. That went badly, too, and then…five nights after the final disaster of my ill-fated love affair, imagine my surprise when I happened upon a limp form in the catacombs, whom I recognized in an instant. It was a happy turn of chance which brought me to venture out that evening, though it was but for a short while. She brought all my former hopes to glowing life when she agreed to fly from Paris with me. I recognize the spectacular fortuity which is mine, the strange twist of fate which has caused her to return to a man she ought to despise with her whole soul. I apologize if my behavior, at any time, has caused her undue distress. I did not intend—I never intended—for it to be so."

Christine felt a little numbed at this unexpected depiction, this strange confession.

"I acted stupidly, too," she said. She was not attempting to excuse his actions, but to take at least some share in the blame. Some might have called her blameless—Raoul certainly would have—but she had felt a creeping guilt over several of her actions regarding Erik for some time.

"I've frightened many people," he said flatly, looking away. "You are young. It follows that you would not be immune to the effects of my black deeds."

She struggled for a moment. "My heart," she said, "my very soul, told me to accept you in spite of fear, even in spite of what you had done. My mind would not allow it."

He turned his head once more to look at her. There was a carefully contained eagerness in his eyes again. "Has the soul," he asked quietly, "at last triumphed over the mind, then?"

"Mostly, or I should not have come back," she said. "But it has not conquered entirely."

"Ah," he said, looking slightly disappointed.

Everything seemed to have become more strained since last night's goings-on. Ever since that horrid awkwardness of sharing a bed, and the frank implication of his ongoing desires, an oppressive cloud seemed to hang over them, between them. She was afraid to touch him, afraid to even look him in the eye.

They sat in silence for what seemed an age. She heard him humming again, so softly as to be barely audible, and when she glanced at him, his eyes were closed and his head laid back upon the seat. His arms were still folded, and his fingers were still. Clearly he was not humming out of nervousness. Was it merely a longtime habit, something to fill the silence? He must have endured so much silence underground that it was no wonder if it was so.

"What is that tune?" she asked.

His eyes opened, but he looked at the ceiling of the train rather than at her. "Symphony for a Morning," he said. "It's incomplete. I do hate it when a work of mine goes unfinished."

"It's very lovely," she said shyly.

This time he did glance at her, looking both embarrassed and pleased. "Thank you."

"Will you finish it?"

"No doubt," he said lazily. "Ah, if only I had my violin again. I shall have to procure another. Perhaps I shall even try my hand at making my own. I must, of course, invest in a pianoforte as well."

"Oh, wonderful!" she said. "It has been so long since I played."

He looked at her, a vague appearance of surprise stamped on his features. "I confess," he said, "I have never heard you play. I did not know…you never even spoke of it."

"I might not even be able to remember how. It was long ago. Years ago," she said. "When I was a girl, in Sweden."

"Your father?" he asked.

"Yes, Pappa taught me," she said, a fond, faraway little smile on her face. "Oh, dear Pappa."

"It is strange to me," he said, "the idea of being so attached to one's parents. I never cared much for mine, but you must have had a happy childhood."

"Oh, I did," she sighed. "It was magical, growing up in Sweden, with all the stories, and the frosty nights, curled up beneath a great goose-down comforter. I confess I never liked Paris half so well. But I have gotten used to it, and it feels strange being uprooted once again."

"We'll live there if you wish," he said, "in Sweden—when a few years have passed, and the affair of the Opera Populaire is long forgotten, so that we might leave the country in peace."

"Oh, I would like that," she said, a faint smile on her face. She was lost in thought, remembering the blurred face of her mother from years before, the smell of her apron on baking-day. It was hard to remember what her mother had looked like.

She felt his cool fingers creep to her hand, resting lightly upon it. "Whatever can be done," he said, "to make you happy…I shall strive to do it. I want so badly for your happiness."

"I know," she whispered. She let him wrap his hand around hers, and she was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt. She gave his hand a little squeeze, and he pressed her fingers to his lips. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with passion.

She felt that seizing little iciness of panic in her chest, the agony of not knowing what to say. She felt as though she were an animal in a trap.

She swallowed, shooting a nervous little smile at him and then quickly looking out the window. He let her fingers drop, and she quickly returned her hand to her side.

It was late afternoon when they reached the stop closest to Culot. Christine had eaten nearly all the food in the kerchief—Erik had eaten hardly anything at all; she privately wondered how he survived—and nearly bored herself to tears with staring out the window at the trees. She was glad to disembark at last. It had been a tense and silent few hours, after the "I love you" fiasco.

She took his arm as they walked, a kind of unuttered apology. His muscle tightened a little beneath her hand.

"All of this," she said in a subdued voice, "has been…difficult for me. I am trying. I really am."

"I trust, then, that you will not object to becoming mari et femme once we arrive in Culot," he replied emotionlessly.

Mari et femme. Husband and wife. Christine shivered. "I will not object," she muttered. Really, what else could she say to such a proposition? To object now, at the figurative eleventh hour, would be nigh unconscionable.

The seriousness of the situation had not impressed itself entirely upon her when she had rashly gone to seek him out in the dark tunnels. The gravity, the responsibility, had not made its way into her impulsive thinking. What had she imagined, what had she thought would be the outcome of their reunion? Why had she not realized the utter foolishness of her actions, the consequences in store? No—she had realized the consequences, but in theory only. It had spiraled out of her control, beyond the pale of her stupid fantasies. Had she really imagined that she would be the one in power, the one holding all the cards?

She had not minded the idea, at first, of being married to him—when it seemed a comfortable, vague way off, some shadowy, nebulous possibility. Now that it was encroaching upon her—indeed, every minute bringing her closer to the final outcome—she felt like a frightened child, huddling in a dark corner, awaiting and dreading some nameless horror.

That thought made her grimace, suddenly. Horror, indeed! Surely not. In the old days, after he had revealed his true self and the very thought or suggestion of him was enough to frighten her out of her wits, she might have considered the idea of coupling with him horrific. She had possessed that strange, unconscious idea in her head for so long that he was somehow more than a man, someone monstrous and beyond her ken, that it was still a little difficult to think him as anything else. Of a truth, ever since she had at last come to her senses and really knew him for a man—only that, nothing more, however remarkable his gifts and uncanny abilities—he no longer horrified her, not really. He frightened her still, it was true, but he did not fill her with the same unimaginable terror, despite his gruesome acts of the past.

"If you would go into that little copse of trees for a moment," she said, suddenly. "I need to ask something of you."

He obligingly obeyed her, despite his apparent mystification.

When she was quite sure that no-one could see them, Christine put her hands on the lapels of his jacket, shivering like the hunted before the hawk. "If you…if you could kiss me…" she whispered, her face hot.

"Kiss you?" he asked, and there was a numbness in his voice.

"Yes," she said. "D-don't think me wanton, or abominably fickle…it's only that I think it might, perhaps, reassure me a little, perhaps, as to my present course. Please—"

He leant forward uncertainly. After what seemed an eternity, his lips met hers. The kiss was cool and timid. He lingered, however, and she began to feel his mouth grow warmer.

The kiss hovered, and did not break. Very soon, his trembling hand cupped her cheek, and she timidly wrapped her arms about his neck. He sighed, deep in his throat. Their mouths pressed more firmly against each other, and she felt her back scrape the shaggy bark of a tree.

"Christine—" he sighed against her lips, a little desperately. The ponderous cold porcelain was pressing annoyingly against her cheek, and the bark of the tree poked painfully into her back.

His hand traveled from her cheek to her throat, the backs of his fingers sliding lightly over her flesh.

"Even a little?" he whispered, and she knew what he meant, knew it for the echo of an earlier question.

"I think," she said, "perhaps…a little." She could not quite bring herself to say the word love. He, after all, had not—at least just now.

"All along?" he asked, his voice soft and uncertain. "Or quite recently?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. The feather-light touch of his fingers made her skin tickle. She shivered.

He pulled away from her. "What about him?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, but laden with drops of poison.

"I…I thought I did, once," she said uncomfortably. "I'm not certain, anymore, if I ever did, at least—in that manner. There are different types of love, you know." She felt a weird little hitch in her throat when the word tumbled out.

"Enlighten me," he said coolly.

"Must we speak of such things?" she asked desperately. "I hardly know what to say, and it embarrasses me."

She straightened, having been leaning with her back to the tree, and began walking quickly and nervously out of the small grove. His gait was so long that even though he followed, he was soon ahead of her.

"I don't know what to think, or feel," she said dully, and he slowed, letting her catch up. She absently slid her arm into his. "I never really have, since the whole matter began. My thoughts and feelings have been a confusing whirlwind of which it is difficult to make any solid sense."

"Mayhap that is why you have so often allowed others to do your thinking for you," he said coolly, and she flinched.

He was right—painfully right, and perhaps that was why it cut her so keenly. He had struck a nerve.

"Like you?" she muttered suddenly, feeling a little stab of viciousness. She was both gratified and ashamed to feel him flinch as well.

"Like your Vicomte," he retorted. "If I remember overhearing correctly, you had no wish to take part in their plot to ensnare me. He convinced you quite thoroughly, however."

"Better to be convinced," she rejoined, "than to be forced. Or was I imagining it, when you placed that horrid choice before me, with him dangling from a rope?"

"I never attempted to force you into anything," he said. "It was, perhaps, a rather unorthodox method of persuasion."

"Persuasion!" she snapped, ripping her arm from his. "On the one hand, if I wished to leave, I should have had his life on my conscience. On the other, if I wished him to live, I should have had no alternative but to stay. You do not consider that you were attempting to force my hand?"

"A moot point, considering how circumstances have changed," he said evenly. "You've done quite admirably thus far as to thinking for yourself. Might I remind you that you have insofar raised little to no objection at all to our journey, or to the prospect of our legal, binding union."

Christine closed her eyes for a moment. "If I had really wished to leave, after coming upon you again," she said, "if I had tried, would you have let me go?"

He was silent for a moment. He glanced at her. "I don't know."

"Would you have kept me down there, in the dark, to prevent my leaving you again?"

"I told you," he said tiredly, "I do not know."

A scathing reply bubbled up to Christine's lips, but she held it back. This spat seemed worthless—a pointless waste of energy and words.

When they arrived at the carriage-house, there was no difficulty in procuring transportation. Christine thought that Erik's mask might indeed cause him to appear disreputable, but apparently a gentleman dressed in fine clothing—even if it was a little dusty—might wear whatever he liked on his face, as long as he could pay.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, it seemed further conversation would have to wait. The carriage filled with three other passengers. Christine privately lamented having to spend more than an hour—two, most likely—in a little black, moving box, enduring the stares of other people, being forced to sit close to Erik, unable to say a word to him without it being immediately overheard and scrutinized.

Far worse, however, proved to be the case. One gentleman seemed bent on engaging everyone in conversation. His idea of starting a conversation was to probe and question about the other passengers' personal lives.

Christine dreaded being the next in line for questioning. She thought she might be spared when the older woman sitting next to the gentleman engaged him quite amiably in meaningless conversation for a while, but at length he turned his attention toward the couple sitting across from him—namely, Erik and herself.

"That is an interesting mask," he said, and Erik twitched, shooting an annoyed look at the man. "May I ask of what it is made?"

"Porcelain," said Erik curtly, and looked pointedly out the window.

"You were injured in war, perhaps?"

Erik looked coolly back at him. "No," he said bluntly, again turning his gaze out the window.

"An accident, mayhap?"

"May I ask," Erik said between his teeth, "what business on earth it is of yours?"

The man looked a little taken aback. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not mean to be offensive."

"Nevertheless, you managed to do so," Erik replied coldly.

The man really looked uncomfortable now, even a bit put out. "I assure you—" He broke off with one look from Erik—an icy glare that could have frozen hot, dancing flames.

"So," said the man, a little nervously, "where you do hail from, mademoiselle?"

Christine abruptly realized he was speaking to her. "Paris," she said curtly, realizing too late that she should have named another place, any place but Paris. What if the man were well-acquainted with the news-papers? What if he knew, suspected? What if they would be found out, of all things, in this horrid little carriage? Would they stop the driver and call for the police, to have them arrested that very instant?

"You don't look at all well," remarked the man. "Is anything the matter?"

"I am quite well," rejoined Christine. "It is only the cold. I get quite peaked in the chilly weather." She said this airily, drawing on all her acting abilities.

"Do you travel alone?" the man asked.

Christine was shocked at his impertinence—but perhaps it was not meant to be an imprudent remark, owing to the fact that this man seemed utterly unaware of the officious, overbearing nature of what seemed to him to be perfectly normal questions.

"No," she said, glancing at Erik. "I do not travel alone."

The man looked a little ill, apparently realizing his error.

"Surely you aren't father and daughter," said the older woman.

Christine felt Erik twitch again, although he made no move to look at anyone or anything besides the scenery. Her own face felt hot.

"No," she said. "We are not."

"You know, I heard of something in Paris," said the older woman suddenly. "There was some strange goings-on with a singer named…what was it? Danube? Datte? Oh, surely not…what was the name? This old head…"

Christine felt Erik's body stiffen beside hers, almost imperceptibly. He seemed unnaturally still.

"You say you are from Paris, dear," said the older woman. "Do you recall it?"

She almost said no, but realized sensibly that this would draw suspicion upon herself. "I do recollect something," she said absently. "It was at the Paris Opera, was it not?"

"Yes, the very one," exclaimed the old woman. "Something about a singer…oh, I do wish I could recall her name…and a madman, who tried to kill half the audience and spirit the poor girl away. Dreadful scene!"

Christine happened to glance down and saw that Erik's fingers were violently clenched on his knee, so tightly that his knuckles had gone yellow. Whether this was out of anger, fear of discovery, or both, or some other emotion entirely—she had no idea. His face was turned from her, still staring out of his window.

"Yes, it was quite a chaotic affair," she said stiffly. "The whole of the Paris police force became involved. I don't much care for opera, myself." Immersed in her role, the lie came easily.

"Nor I," said the other gentleman, who had not spoken a word until that moment. "Silly, screeching sopranos and pot-bellied men strutting about pretending to be great lovers—ah! It turns my stomach, the lot of it."

"Now, you mustn't say that," said the old woman chastisingly. "Some of it is very beautiful."

"You are, of course, a woman, madame," said the gentleman respectably. "Women seem more inclined toward those sorts of things, I find. Myself, I'd rather be playing at a game of cards, or betting my luck at the horse-races. That's a man's pastime for you!"

Christine could have leapt from the carriage when they finally arrived in Culot for the relief it brought her to disembark.

"Thank heavens!" she whispered, when the carriage had clattered away. The older woman and the other gentleman were apparently both going on to a town farther down the road. The nosy gentleman got off at Culot, but had thankfully been ruffled enough by Erik's coldness and Christine's connection with him to not pay them the slightest heed as he quickly walked in the other direction.

"Excuse me," said Erik to an elderly passer-by, "would you be so kind as to direct us to the nearest place of worship?"

"Eh?" asked the old man, digging in his ear a little. "What's that, now?"

"A church," said Erik, and something went a little cold in Christine's bones.

"Ah," said the man. "Well, there's only two churches in Culot—one Catholic, and one Presbyterian. The Catholic is down the street apiece and to the right. The Presbyterian is that way, on the outskirts." He gestured vaguely. "They just finished Tuesday Mass at the Catholic church, I think."

"Thank you," said Erik curtly, and grasped Christine by the arm. She flinched, but was hardly in a position to resist as he pulled her down the street with him. When they reached the church, people were filing out. Erik pushed through them with Christine and her valise in tow, and walked purposefully up the middle aisle. It was a quiet little church, made of stone, with two beautiful stained-glass windows on either side.

The priest and the altar-boys were clearing away the implements of the Eucharist when Erik and Christine reached them. Christine shrank a little, but Erik's hold on her arm did not loosen.

"I don't know how often you receive requests like this," he said, as the priest looked their way, "but would you be so kind as to marry us?"

"Marry you?" asked the priest, looking askance at the mask and at Christine's white face. "Is this union of an urgent nature, my son, that you should come upon me so suddenly requesting it?"

Christine thought she knew what he meant by urgent—trying to mask an illegitimate conception, perhaps—and she felt spots of color appear in her cheeks. "My God, no!" she said, without thinking, and everyone looked at her. She wanted to sink into the floor. More than that, however, she wanted to run as fast as her legs could carry her, away from Erik, away from Culot, away from this ogre of responsibility and of pressing, merciless decision-making.

"We merely wish to be married sooner rather than later," said Erik. "And we wish it to be done properly, which is why we have come. If you please—"

"Of course," said the priest, "as long as the young lady is not objectionable?"

I am going to faint, thought Christine.

A few seconds ticked by, each one seeming like an hour. "No," she said weakly, "I am not…not objectionable."

"Very well, then," said the priest. "Have you rings, my son?"

Erik started a little. "Only one," he said with a hint of chagrin. "I have not had time to procure one for myself."

Christine felt a little chill in her bones when she realized that the ring he was speaking of, the one for her, could only be the one she had given back, when she left with Raoul.

The priest pursed his lips. "Damio," he said to one of the altar-boys, "have you a piece of string, perhaps?"

"No, but I know where some is," said the boy. "I'll run and fetch it." He ran off.

"String?" asked Erik.

"You can tie it around your finger," said the priest, "until you buy yourself a proper ring."

The other altar-boy snickered a little, until the priest gave him a sharp look. "A solemn occasion, Robert," he said, "does not call for chuckling."

"Yes, Father," said the boy, looking quite serious again.

When Damio returned with the string, the ceremony was performed rapidly. "Forgive me if I seem to rush," the priest explained beforehand, "but I am very tired after Mass, and wish to go home to rest—that is why I suggested the string, as a temporary measure, rather than your hurrying to a shop to buy a proper ring before the ceremony. You did say, besides, that you wanted to be married quickly, did you not?"

Erik's hand was cold and dry in hers. She didn't dare look at him when he slipped the ring on her finger, and she felt a little silly tying a piece of string around his.

"You are man and wife now," said the priest. "May God bless you."

Christine closed her eyes as Erik placed a cool, seemingly emotionless kiss upon her lips.

A few inquiries in the street revealed where a little shop which sold jewelry was located. Erik purchased a relatively cheap band made of plain silver.

When he removed the string and replaced it with the silver band, he stared at his finger for a long moment, as though he were fascinated by the look of it.

"So," he said softly, "we are married. Do you think married life will suit me, Christine?"

She looked at him sharply. Was he making fun of her? "I don't know," she said curtly. "I could not say."
"Perhaps you will be happier when you see our house," he said. "That ring looks well on your finger, Christine."

She thought she detected a trace of accusation in his voice, and self-consciously covered her hand.

"I suppose," she said, "that we will travel now to see your half-brother."

"To-morrow I will send a letter requesting that my funds be transferred to a closer bank," he said. "In the meantime, to conserve cash, we shall have to walk."

"How far?"

"Two miles to my half-brother's house. He will, no doubt, oblige us by driving us in his cart for the remaining half a mile to our new abode."

"I suppose I can walk that far," said Christine, a little doubtfully. "When my father and I lived in Sweden, we would sometimes go ten miles, looking for someone who would pay to hear us perform."

"He would, no doubt, carry you for much of it," replied Erik.

"Not much. I was a strong child, but I'm afraid I've grown soft during my sojourn in Paris," rejoined Christine.

"We shall see," said Erik calmly. "Come."