Chapter VII

For the weeks that followed Christine's physical recovery, there was a shift, and not just in the skies which turned even more inconsistent than English weather was already wont to do. Christine felt herself drifting. The air was muggy and the rain brought a strange dampness to the warm atmosphere. She considered the odd weather to have partial sway over her developing moods, but it was felt also in the manner of Dr. Derek towards her, and the presence—or lack thereof—of her ghost.

It was not that he abandoned her; indeed, he still was at the ready whenever she called him; but he was not the same. He did not hold the same power that he once did. He was becoming... distant. Not that she could ever hold a spirit close, but his voice no longer filled her as it once did; no longer caressed, and seduced her ears, and soothed her tears away. It was as if his own words had prophesied his departure. He could only create sound. And if sound was not real, then what was? The doctor could touch; could heal her with his hands. And as the weeks passed, and she called on her ghost less and less, she tried to determine if physical healing was perhaps the answer to her troubles. And perhaps if he was fond of her as she suspected...

She knew the dangerous line she walked. It was incomprehensible for an esteemed doctor of such an establishment to court the possibility of involvement with a patient. Their lives would both be devastated if it became known. Hers, perhaps, even forfeit. But she could not deny the gentle touches he administered whenever he checked her wound—though the nurses tended to it regularly, it never seemed enough to trust them—or found some other excuse for the meeting of his hand to her head, or at her pulse. And there was more. The sessions that once were carefully conducted with the utmost decorum became akin to romantic trysts. Not that he was overtly physical with her, or even so much as put a hand on her that could not be medically justified, but they reminded her of those first tentative weeks of her courtship with Raoul. How careful he was; how tender.

That was not how it was with her ghost. Her ghost was like their latter days together, before the wedding. When Mme de Chagny was insisting their love was not real, it could not be real, but it felt more real than anything she had known before. Though they had not consummated their love, and had it been known, in the eyes of so many, they were not husband and wife, their love was still real to her. That was her ghost. He even said of himself that he was an illusion, and yet...

Always she felt the pull from both sides. When she turned to one, the other seemed farther away. They spoke civilly of one another, excepting a few of the harsher insults from the voice, but to Christine at least, they were the bitterest of rivals, warring over her mind in a relentless tug-of-war.

The doctor she could never have; could not even trust, so far as she knew him, which was precious little. The voice had vowed to stay with her as long as she had need, but she feared to cling to such a promise would be the same as succumbing to madness.

She was mad. Mad to be in a situation where she felt compelled to choose between a ghost she longed to touch but could not, and a doctor who did, but should not have touched her.

There was another woman now in the office, and Christine did not like it.

The woman took up a place on the curious lamp. Just behind the piano, angled on the curve of the base so that only her profile was visible, a slender, white arm fell out of a full, lacy sleeve to rest on top of the piano. She was not there before, Christine was sure of it, but Dr. Derek insisted that she was.

"No, I... I know that lamp. There was never a woman on the lamp. I've memorised it."

"Are you sleeping well at night, Christine? Sleep can help consolidate your memories..."

"It is not sleep! That woman wasn't there!" She began to sob, "She... looks like me."

"It is not you. That lamp has been there since before the death of my patient." He sighed deeply. "Christine, what is wrong? You are trembling. Shall I bring you another shawl?"

"No, I'm not cold. It isn't the cold."

"Are you afraid?"

She shivered again, though shaking her head as well, in refusal to accept it.

"I fear you will always be afraid because you don't want to be well."

"Of course I do!"

"Christine..."

"If I was well..."

"Yes?" he prompted gently.

"If I was well, would you... I don't want to be alone!"

"The voice you speak to. He's promised to stay with you?"

"Yes."

"Why do you not lean on something real?"

"Because life is only a vapour. You... are only real until you are dead. The ghost is already dead. He cannot leave me."

"Have many people left you?"

"My father, Mrs. Valerius, Raoul..."

"Did Raoul leave you?"

"He didn't mean to."

"But he was cruel to you. You said so yourself."

"No! I didn't mean it. That is... He was cruel to bring me to his beautiful home, and tell his mother we were married so she would let me live there, to know what it was like before it all turned to ashes. He was cruel to be so kind and understanding when we were married and I was not ready to... to give him that. To be truly married. And he was cruel for frightening me! For slipping, and... and for leaving me!"

"Then his death is on his own head, you believe. It was his own fault. He slipped."

"I do not know that."

"What do you know? You are the only one who can say, Christine. And I think you are tortured because you know that he was cruel, you know that he hurt you, and in the end, you are glad you pushed him out the window to his death!"

The air seemed cloying, and oppressive. "No!" she sobbed, "That's impossible...!"

"Is it!? Christine..." suddenly, to Christine's great shock, he was kneeling at her feet, hands clasping hers. "I will not condemn you! I will not send you away! I only want to help you get well. You may stay here for the rest of your days, my beautiful, sweet Christine, if that is what you wish. But you must tell me the truth! What happened to Raoul de Changy?"

She had begun to gasp in large, heaving gulps. Why was the air so thick? Why was the room so warm? "He... he said it was time! He said... he was right! We'd been married over a week; what husband would not expect...? What husband would not come to claim what was theirs? He frightened me!"

"Yes, he frightened you. Because he was cruel! Because he would have taken you with or without your consent."

"No! I..."

"Christine, what did you do?"

"I killed him!" she wailed, "I killed Raoul, and I am not sorry!"