A/n FIRST AND FOREMOST: If you are at all bothered by domestic violence, I strongly recommend skipping the middle bit of this chapter that is in italics. It's a bit more graphic than I usually get. Be warned before proceeding...

This chapter contains a salute to a fantastic opera performer and in my opinion one of the most wonderful mezzos of all time! I love you, Anne Sophie!

Also, I feel I owe you a briefexplanation to a reference that's in this chapter and will likely come up again. In opera, we have what is called a breeches or pants role—that's what Christine was supposed to be doing in Il Mutto (even though real pants roles have singing parts). It's basically a reverse eunic, if you want to put it in a nutshell—instead of being played by a man as a woman, it's a woman as a man (usually a mezzo-soprano or contralto). At some point later, I'm going to put this woman in a pair of pants and throw her on stage, and there's some references in this chapter to singing a bit lower.

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. I had a music ed moment. MEZZO-SOPRANOS ARE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD AND BLAST YOU WITH OUR MAD RANGES!

CHAPTER 5

Working out her lower range had been harder than Christine had initially thought it would be. She had selected "Voi che sapete" from Mozart's Nozze di Figaro and, unexpectedly, had encountered problems the first time she had run through it. Having hired a young man off the street to read a condensed score for her to practice to, she had frowned as her voice had nearly dropped out at a middle C. She hardly had enough to hire the boy to play for her, let alone find a voice teacher.

She had allowed her mind to wander and vaguely remembered something Erik had once told her about these lower notes...

You must not think like a soprano, and that these notes are too low. You must have the mindset of the contralto. You must believe that these notes are midrange. You must breathe as if these notes are midrange!

A deep breath from deep in her belly, one that expanded her diaphragm and not her chest, filled her and she immediately let out the most wonderful "l'alma avvampar" yet.

Now, she tried hard to focus on everything she learned and prayed that her voice would not fail her after so many years of disuse. A man stepped into the waiting area and called out, "Katrin von Otter?"

Christine got out of her chair, responding easily to the stage name she had adopted to avoid scandal. Following the man, she forced her breathing back to normal as she so that she could sing. She straightened the dress she still had from being married to Raoul. She looked every bit the part of a wealthy and successful diva in the amathest and lavender taffeta and silk dress. Her hair was piled up into an elegant twist like the ones she had worn when she had been married. She straightened up and set back her shoulders as she stepped onto the stage. She briefly introduced herself, handing down her resume to a chorus boy who was acting as a runner for the managers who sat in the center of the theatre.

As the music began, she inhaled deeply. The acoustics allowed her to hear herself differently than she had all week, and to her, it sounded as if her voice had changed. No longer as young as she had been, there was a fuller tone to it, which allowed her low notes to ring differently.

The managers nodded throughout, glancing at her between writing notes. Halfway through her song, a young man quietly entered the theatre, walking toward the managers. There was something of a strut in his walk and he swung an umbrella in one hand and twirled a hat on the other. He settled into a seat behind the managers, slouching back and crossing one leg lazily over the other. He propped his chin on his fist as he watched Christine, a critical look in his eye.

She finished and, staring the smirking young man straight in the eye, thanked the managers for their time. Smiling pleasantly, she gave a small bow and exited the way she came in. The man from before grabbed her elbow, gesturing for her to wait, and poked his head back into the theatre. He peered out and nodded at something she could not hear. Silently, he led her to a different room in the back of the house.

"You're to wait here, please," he said. "If there are any more girls to be called back, they'll join you, but if not, you'll have the job." He smiled encouragingly. "Not likely there'll be anyone else. There's only two girls left after you and they're already chorus girls. Auditioned for better roles before—neither of them can really project like they need to."

Christine tried not to let her hopes run away with themselves as he disappeared, closing the door behind him. She removed her gloves, burying her burning face in her hands and trying not to watch the clock as the minutes ticked by. She found herself calculating how long it would take the two girls to go, and forced her mind elsewhere, like where she would go next if didn't get the job here. Adelia might have an address for Michelle—she could try to track her down, maybe get a job with her. Her friend had mentioned wanting to work in a proper dress shop. Maybe Christine could get a job just doing hems until she could find work elsewhere. It was with reluctance that she spent money, now. Any day it could run out. The dress had cost a bit to get repaired from a seam that had popped long ago when Raoul had thrown her across a room in a fit of drunken jealousy.

Shaking her head to clear it, Christine rose as the door opened. One of the managers stood in the door. He smiled as he entered, pulling up another chair to sit across from her. He gave a small bow and gestured for her to sit before sitting down himself. He clapped his hands together once, lacing his fingers together.

"Well!" Beaming, he held out a hand here, introducing himself as James Hartwell. "We're pleased to offer you a position here," he said happily, "just thrilled!" He was rubbing his hands together excitedly as he spoke, and seemed as if he truly was thrilled. "We'd like to run a show with you and see how things go—the rehearsal, the chemistry with the rest of the company, the show, all that." He waved his hands, seeming a bit flustered with having to go through all the motions. "I assume you've been on stage before?"

Christine felt her face redden as she nodded shortly. "Years ago. I have decided that this is the only place where I am truly happy."

Mr. Hartwell smiled. "Then you truly are a performer." Sifting thought he pile of papers he was carrying, he pulled out a bound volume. COSÍ FAN TUTTE was imprinted in black lettering on the front cover. Underneath, in smaller letters, was the name Dorabella.

Christine smiled. "I am assuming that this is me for the next two months?"

Hartwell nodded. "This is you, yes. You'll be playing secondary soprano parts and mezzo parts, when they apply. We're not sure what we will be doing after this yet. At the moment, you'll likely be wearing pants."

Christine laughed. "As long as I'm singing."

Hands clapped together again and an excited Mr. Hartwell got to his feet. "Will you be staying with us here in the house, or do you have a flat?"

Christine shook her head. "I have been staying in a hotel until I find somewhere more permanent. It would be lovely if I could stay here."

"Ah." Hartwell beamed again. "Just arrived from France, I assume?"

She had forgotten her apparently strong accent. "Yes," she said shortly. "Just in the last two weeks."

"You speak the language here very well," he said happily. "You'll find not everyone does. We're always hitting language barriers with our tenor, bless him." Hartwell rolled his eyes skyward. "We hired a Portuguese tenor last year. He has the most amazing voice I've ever heard for his age and has wonderful diction when he is singing, but as sometimes when he tries to actually speak and comprehend English, he gets a bit flustered." Hartwell actually crossed himself before he stood up. "Excuse me for just a moment, won't you?"

Christine nodded, and flipped through her score while he stepped into the hallway. She was hardly in when she came to the trio that had always been her favorite in an opera. "Soave sia il vento" had always been a favorite. Trios never seemed to happen enough, and this one was with the bass rather than tenor, which she felt made the sound a great deal fuller. She hoped that her fellow company members were more likable than those in Paris had been...

The door opened again and Mr. Hartwell reappeared with the smirking man from before. "This is Archibald Palmer," he said cheerily. "Mr. Palmer is our primary investor. He will help you with moving your things into your apartment here."

"That is very generous of you, but I'm sure I can do it on my own—I haven't that many belongings here yet." Truth be told, she had had enough of opera investors, the last one having turned out so well.

Mr. Palmer wouldn't have it, though. He insisted on helping Christine to move her things, and the next thing she knew, she was in a carriage with him.

She sensed a change in him after they left. At the opera house he had been mischievous and almost flirtatious. Now, he was every bit the gentleman. He stared out the window, occasionally pointing things out to her as they rode along, and she studied him, trying to figure out exactly what kind of character he was. He was very good looking. His brown hair was a bit messy, but in an attractive way. When he glanced her way, she could see that his eyes were gray, like the sea before a storm. He was tall, but not so tall that she had to crane her neck to look at him. He was also familiar to her, and she kept feeling as if she should be staring at him from across a crowded room.

When the carriage stopped, she felt her stomach turn a bit. He hoped that he did not notice Jezebel's across the street. However, the first thing his eyes strayed to was the large house, which a woman was currently entering. Christine watched as the woman knocked. The door opened and Adelia appeared, shepherding the girl inside.

"Your replacement, I'm guessing?"

Christine's head snapped to Palmer, who was standing with a small smile on his face. She straightened up a bit, hoisting her chin hastily into the air. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Turning, she hurried into the hotel and away from his stare.

She heard him following her up the stairs just before he said, "Really, it's alright—I recognize you from the opera. You were there with that scum, Andrew."

At her door, Christine paused, staring at him inquisitively. "What?"

"You came to see—"

"No, I mean you called Andrew scum. Why?"

Palmer smiled a bit. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"Answer the question."

Palmer stared at her for a moment before he said, "How many bags do you have?" He rushed past her into the room and she stared at him, a bit perplexed.

"Mr. Palmer—"

"Archie."

"I'm sorry?"

"I like to be called Archie." He folded his arms, looking around. "You're very tidy, aren't you?"

Christine nodded silently. "My husband never liked a mess," she said softly.

"You're married?"

"Widowed." She began to pack the few things that were out. "He shot himself."

Archie looked at his hands before glancing out the window. "Did they know why?"

She shrugged, ignoring the lurch in her stomach that happened every time she thought back to that night. "I never gave him children and I wasn't the perfect wife, apparently." Everything packed, she walked to stand next to Archie. She followed his gaze down to Jezebel's and glanced at his face. There was a thoughtful look there. "Mister—Archie?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm ready to go."

He snapped out of his daze and turned around, crossing the room to pick up her bags. She picked up the key from the table where she had tossed it upon arriving. Taking one last look around at the room that had sheltered her for a week, she closed and locked the door. She turned and headed down the stairs, Archie following behind her silently. She dropped the key at the desk and walked out the door, not looking at Jezebel's or Adelia, who was standing outside with a small smile on her face, as if she knew Christine would get along just fine.

The carriage ride back was not as silent as it had been on the way to the hotel. Christine had questions for Archie.

"How do you know Andrew?"

"Which one is your real name?" Apparently he had questions, as well. He smiled at the odd look on her face. "I know your name isn't Claire, and I'm suspicious that it's not Katrin. Don't worry." He smiled encouragingly. "I won't tell anyone. Quite the contrary. We'll strike up a deal. You answer a few of my questions, and I'll answer a few of yours, and maybe we can help each other."

"Help each other how?"

"I'll explain in a bit. What's your name?"

"How do I know you won't tell?"

Archie rubbed his temples. "Fine. I'll go first." He heaved a weary sigh. "I represent my uncle here. He lives in Scotland, you see, and he wanted to be 'invested in something' and I'd mentioned wanting to go to London. He sent me here to find something that would bring in what it put out and the opera was looking for someone to fund them. I saw a few shows and liked what they were doing, among other things." Holding up a hand to stop the question that would inevitably come with the confused look on her face, he continued. "I wrote home that I thought it was a worthwhile investment and he agreed with a lump of cash. I gave it to the managers with a contract, which they liked, and went out to enjoy the nightlife of London. That was how I met Andrew."

When he didn't say anything for a bit, Christine decided she needed to remind him that this was nothing she could hold against him if she told him anything about herself at all, and he nodded, snapping out of yet another daze before he continued.

"Andrew seemed an enigma to me when I first met him. He hardly spoke and when he did, he didn't have much to say. I'd heard rumors that he had... slightly different tastes than most men. I mentioned something about it one evening after a show and he was furious—said he wasn't a sick man and that he liked to 'fuck sweet little things,' I do believe he said. He went storming out after I had hoped that the rumors would be true."

Christine felt a bit perplexed by the whole story, and it made no sense to her. "Why would you want a rumor like that to be true?"

Archie's eyes met Christine's and there was an undecipherable look on his face. "If the rumors were true," he said quietly, "I wouldn't have to be so alone anymore."

It took a moment for the weight of what Archie had just implied to sing in fully, but when it did, Christine understood that no matter what she told him, she would have the power to ruin him for the rest of his life. She knew what happened to men like Archie Palmer. They were cut off from their rightful inheritances, shunted by society, and looked upon as mentally ill. If Archie breathed a word of what he knew, she could send him straight to hell on Earth.

She began speaking slowly. "I..." She took a deep breath. "I was born in Sweden, but I came to Paris after my father died to stay with a dear old friend of his. She was the one who started me in the theatre. I was trained as a ballerina."

"But you sing."

Christine smiled. "That's an entirely different story, my dear Archie, and one for another time." She continued. "I met my husband there. He was the son of the primary investor and was representing them, like you do for your uncle. I had known him as a child and he remembered me." Pausing, Christine quickly decided to skip a great deal of details and cut straight to what counted for today. "We got to know each other again and we were married about six months later. We'd been married for several years and I'd had several miscarriages when he killed himself. I couldn't take it, I suppose, so I left France that night."

Archie held up a hand, frowning. "You just left? You didn't go to the funeral or anything? He was your husband!"

"Yes, he was." A very bitter smile crossed her face. "I told you I wasn't the perfect wife, didn't I? He wasn't the perfect husband, either."

She jerked a bit as Archie took her hand, pulling her arm toward him. "Is that where this came from?" he asked quietly.

Looking down, Christine saw one of so many scars, this one a permanent burn scar on her left forearm. She felt tears in her eyes and she nodded, her throat constricting as she remembered another night that could have left her dead...

The house was remarkably quiet tonight, and Christine was glad. She was tired beyond anything she had ever felt before, and all she wanted was to climb into her bed and hope her husband was having a good night. The last few months had been nothing short of frightening. Raoul had taken to the bottle to relax from his work, and he was nothing short of frightening when he came home if he had lost at a game of cards or was just in a foul mood. She hoped tonight would be different. She wanted Raoul to come home and come to bed so she could tell him her news.

She heard the front door open and soft footsteps coming up the stairs. She curled onto her side, saying a prayer that he would either be sober or silent. The door opened and she heard Raoul undress. She could smell liquor from across the room and resolved to tell him in the morning...

The bed shifted as he climbed in, not putting out the candle he had brought in with him. "Wake up," he whispered. "C'mon, Chrishtine, wakie wakie for your husband." He grabbed at her breast, and she winced. It didn't go missed by Raoul. Roughly, he rolled her onto her back. "Wassamatter with you?" he slurred. He almost looked a bit hurt. "Doesn't it feel good when I grab you?"

"It just hurts a little when you..." She trailed off, embarrassed.

"What?"

"When you do it so hard."

Raoul's face clouded over. Grunting, he rolled away from her. She didn't shift to face him, but closed her eyes, resolving to sleep. After a minute, she felt his hands on her waist. She fought a sigh and let him straddle her, pinning her hands up. Opening her eyes, she was shocked to see that his free hand was dangling his house key over the candle.

"It's the key to my heart, Chishtine." He laughed drunkenly. She squirmed, trying desperately to escape his grasp, but he was too strong. She screamed and cried as he brought the key down to rest on her skin and left it there until it had cooled. When he pulled away, taking the key with him, Christine looked at her arm. The key had left a blistered, aching mess on her arm, and she clutched at it as she sobbed. Raoul got out of bed and walked around to her side. She was still crying as he pulled her out, kissing her roughly. When she did not respond the way he wanted, he tossed her away as if she were a rag doll.

Thinking it was over, she had tried to calm him. He would not be soothed. Angrily, he backhanded her. She collapsed into a chair but was pulled out of it only to be hit once more across the face. She could taste blood as she tried to retaliate, but he was too strong. Tossing her to the floor, he kicked her over and over as she screamed for him to stop. He didn't listen. In his rage, he could not hear her.

When he stopped, she expected the terror to end. It didn't. Ripping her cotton night gown from her, he threw her to the bed. She tried to crawl away from him, to escape. He pulled her back, removing his belt and tying her hands to the bed frames so that she could not escape. She cried as he calmly removed his clothes before climbing on top of her. Her tears doubled when she felt him enter her unprepared body. His lips were against her ear as he whispered, "It's not rape if it's your husband."

He continued what he was doing and the torture seemed to go on forever until she felt him release. Groaning, he spilled into her, jerking violently as he covered her mouth with one hand. Still pressing his lips against her ear, he whispered, "I love you, Christine."

She sobbed as he pulled out of her, blowing out the candle and pulling up the covers. He pulled her close to him and she cried as she tried to figure out when they had gone so horribly wrong...

The next morning was the day of her first miscarriage.

Christine shook her head to clear it of the horrible memories. Archie was staring expectantly at her, and she simply smiled at him. Nodding again, she said softly, "Yes. My husband did this a long time ago."

Archie folded his hands in his lap. "You never did answer that first question, you know. I still want to know your name."

"Christine." She stared at the passing buildings, feeling hollow that her own name sounded so foreign on her own tongue. "My name is Christine."

"Christine." He sounded as if he were tasting her name as he said it again. "Well, Christine." Archie Palmer smiled slightly. "You keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

"That sounds like a deal, Mr. Palmer."

"Archie."

"Yes. Archie."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Erik was tired again. The day had been busier than those preceding it, and he came home, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

Time had passed, but at the pace of a slow belly crawl. Work was no longer as interesting as it had once been. He had been stuck in the office, hidden behind a pile of paperwork so that he wasn't at risk of having a spell on a job site. He went to work every day, tired and wishing for nothing more than to escape to somewhere far away. Spain sounded nice at the moment, and he wondered what was going on in Barcelona. All he really wanted, though, was just somewhere away from any bad memories he had of anyone or anything.

There was a sound of footsteps behind him and he glanced across the porch to see Abby walking toward him with a tray bearing his dinner. She smiled at him as she placed it in front of him.

"You're looking a bit better than yesterday, sir." Another motherly smile crossed his face and it was all Erik could do not to heave a sigh. He forced a smile in return and slowly began to eat. Abby seemed quite content to stand by and watch him eat, but the door opened again and George appeared.

"Abby, I need your help with something." As Abby stood and walked past George into the house, George gave his lord a wink. "I'll keep her busy," he whispered loudly. "Get some peace and quiet while you can."

Erik chuckled and George disappeared. He had a suspicion that George would have no trouble keeping Abby busy for at least an hour or so. It seemed that his illness had brought them a bit closer to each other. Only last week he had seen them embracing on the terrace. He'd been hesitant to disturb them—they had looked so peaceful. It was a picture of something he had always wanted, and he had found himself watching them for a long time. Abby had leaned against George, who held her close, resting his chin atop her head and staring out at the sea. Eventually, they moved, jerking Erik from his thoughts, and, a bit bitter, he had returned to the house.

He found himself approving of Abby and George, nevertheless. As two of only a small handful of people on the entire earth that he trusted fully, they were important to him. Abby, young as she was, had taken on the role of a mother or a sister, depending on the day. George was becoming more of a good friend than just a butler, often joking with Erik and scowling when he did not approve of something his master did, especially if it was bad for his health.

Erik was just beginning to drift off when he heard a horse approaching. Sighing softly, he opened his eyes to see a black stallion trotting up his lane, the man on top coming into clearer view. Erik shook his head. His young neighbor never seemed to forget to stop by when, after visiting home for a few days a month, returning to London. Erik liked that he never took a carriage. His youthful friend said he enjoyed the fresh air that he left behind in Scotland every time he returned to the smog of London.

At the end of the drive now, he hopped down. Tying his horse to the stake, he approached Erik with a concerned look on his face. "My uncle says you've had a heart attack?"

Erik nodded. "If I could only get Abby to stop mothering me, maybe I'd be able to go back to work."

Archie Palmer shook his head in amusement. "You only care about going back to work. Live it up a bit, old man. You won't be around forever."

"I've lived it up, Archie." Erik took a drink of water from the glass on the tray. "It's not for me."

"I don't mean those whores." Archie waved his hands in frustration. "You need to get away. You need to come back to London with me one of these weeks. Maybe that sweet young thing you had last time will still be there."

"I thought you said you didn't mean whores."

"Escorts—not whores."

Rolling his eyes, Erik put the glass back on the tray and leaned back once more. "I've had it with women, Archie. I'll never settle down—I'm a confirmed bachelor."

Archie made a noise of annoyance and crossed his arms, pulling up another chair and crossing his feet in front of him. "You'll find the right woman eventually."

"I'll find her when you find one for yourself," Erik retorted.

Archie blushed. "What would you do if I told you I found one?"

Erik burst into laughter. "You found one what? A woman? I'll believe it when I see it!"

Archie frowned. "I did," eh said indignantly. "she's the new second soprano. Her name's Katrin."

Erik's laughter subsided just enough that he was able to ask, "Does she expect marriage?"

"No." Archie heaved a sigh. "She knows everything about me and I know everything about her. She just keeps up appearances."

Erik had stopped laughing, but he was still smiling. "That may just be worth hauling myself into town. It will have to wait, though. Right now, I need to get back to my old self."

"But you'll come?"

"In due time, yes. Yes, Archie, I'll come meet your girl."

a/n Poof! The plot thickens!

Okay, long ass chapter—maybe the longest I've ever written. It all got deleted at one point, though, because NeoOffice randomly shut down and only saved a little bit of it from before. Ugh.

There was quite a bit to set up, though. Don't get your hopes up quite yet. Our beloved couple won't be running into each other just yet. A few more chapters and stuff, first. We must bring back Michelle, after all... :)

Keep it real—leave a review!

BTW—I feel the urge to explain a few confusing words that may have cropped up. I ran a spell check on autopilot (I'm trying to get ready for work) and some words are a but funky. Sorry, guys—if you're loyal readers of mine (apparently I have a couple—didn't know that!) you know this about me...

GRACE

CAN'T

SPEEL...

I mean spell...