7.

Christine sat on the bed and looked outside of the hotel room.

"Chris, are you all right?"

She gazed at her husband's handsome face. Raoul had been by her side since they left the Opera that night an eternity ago when she been stunned that Erik had released her. Despite being physically worn down from the constant barrage of questions, she'd nearly dropped at Erik's feet when he had slipped the ring upon her finger. "It's for you—you and your young man. I know you love him."

The tears all ready poured down her cheeks, dropped from her chin. The lost look in Erik's strange eyes had been one of resignation. He loved her enough.

Now she sat, miserably counting the days until the ship was to board and Raoul was to go to the Arctic. Hell was cold and dark, she believed. Not at all the burning wasteland of fire, it seared with the kiss of ice, stole the life from the body. Dreams had started, dreams of Raoul lost in the howling winds as the white death lured him from her.

She chided herself for being a stupid child, a silly young woman who was worried over nothing. He'd sailed before; it was his chosen profession until they had found one another again. Now it was the icy mistress who would pull him into the vast white emptiness.

"Did you sleep?" he asked, rubbing a hand down her back.

She longed to bury her face in his shirt, twist her hands in his coat and hide there, against his heart. Why couldn't she shrink to a small thing and live in his pocket. Why must he leave, as her Father had, as Erik had been forced to let her go.

She changed her thoughts to say what he wanted to hear. "I'm fine. I'm just worried over the lessons."

"Chris, you haven't sang like this for over a year. As he says, you are going to have to take small steps lest you ruin your voice."

Her eyes misted. Raoul was so gentle with her that at times it hurt. It was why she couldn't bear the thought of his leaving. His strong hand would be gone, his warmth, even his mumbling snores that made her smile at him in the night as she stood looking out at the lights of Paris. She felt as if her life was being leached away. "I'm afraid."

"Of him?" Raoul's gaze sharpened.

"No, not him." She felt a smile spreading her features. "He's," she paused to picture Erik. "He's alive, Raoul. Like he has seized something magical and held on."

Surprisingly, Raoul smiled. "Yes. I've talked to Mirielle. They are mad for each other."

"Mad? I don't think he's mad anymore. Can falling in love do that?"

"Chris, watch them when they look at each other. I have to say whatever it is between them is deep, deep as their souls."

"Raoul, that's beautiful. Do we look like that?"

Her husband smiled, a dimple grew near his lips and she had her answer. The morning grew a little brighter.


Erik felt his humor deflate as Mirielle sat on the edge of the bed looking contemplative. "What? Can't I even make my wife smile?"

"You can't shock me with what I already know."

He crossed to the bed and lifted one of her hands, placing a kiss upon it. "Thank you, my dear. It is my distinct pleasure," he placed a kiss upon her wrist, "to see to your pleasure."

"Could you see me to the water closet first?"

He offered a hand for her to lever herself up with. "I've had a chat with Anais."

"Oh, goodness. You didn't tell her you were the lord of sex did you?"

"No, she informed me that I am possessed by the Baron. That makes me the lord of death and graves."

Mirielle stared up at her husband. "Where did the sex part come from?"

He looked down at her intense blue eyes, turbulent with some unspoken question. A rare bloom of humor made him grin. "Why, Mirielle, you aren't jealous are you?"

She rested her body against the door jamb and Erik envied the wood. She raised a hand and lay it upon her bosom which was nicely followed by the contour of her thin silk gown. The dark henna had faded to a red, but still captured his gaze. The outrageous little flirt knew exactly what she was doing. She smiled. "No, your lordship."

The door was closed in his face, and it was a good thing, too. His wife might die of starvation before he let her out of the bedroom.

"Thank God for outrageous women."


The lesson was a wash out once again. Privately, Erik bled for Christine. A startled panic rose in her eyes when she missed a note. She was like a child in the dark, searching, shifting, looking everywhere but not finding. Despite a brave face, he could tell that his little soprano was in danger of folding in upon herself in despair.

He understood it more than others. Despair had been his dread companion for an eternity.

The other singers had shown up, eager to practice, hanging on his every word. Several of them watched in awe as he approached Christine and corrected her easily. A few watched, obviously envious of her voice. There were a few off stage that wore sneers as they watched her. The phoenix was struggling up from the ashes and they reveled in it.

There seemed to be a breaking point in her voice now. She climbed high with ease, but ran out of breath. Part of that was the lack of practice, part was what intrigued him.

de Chagny was in the audience, arms crossed, watching his wife. He would. Erik could hardly blame him, though. He had been willing to let the boy bake in the catroptic chamber, while his own fevered ranting frightened Christine.

Good lord, he'd been a desperate fool. For love, for hope, he had nearly killed two men and threatened to kill himself and Christine for love. The idea of it made him shudder. He had been monstrous.

Erik looked down the line of faces, and dismissed them. "You're looking a bit wilted today. We shall try this again next week, here on the stage, unless the managers call for a rehearsal."

People filed past, still a little in awe of him. There were two men in the audience talking to one another across the auditorium from de Chagny. Erik looked them over surreptitiously. They weren't agents, and he doubted they were interested in the theater at all. They were—straight laced. Police or soldiers, he decided. Perhaps that annoying Captain still had a bone to pick with him.

"Excuse me."

Erik turned in response to the voice that had long filled his dreams. "Yes?"

Christine licked her lips, which annoyed him to a fine degree. A Diva did not need chapped lips.

"I'm having some trouble."

"You're reaching."

"I can do it."

"Not this way. You have it in your head that you have lost those notes, Madame. Searching for them will not produce them. Confidence will." He lowered his voice. "It was simple once. What makes you afraid?"

Her lips clamped shut and her gaze searched his. "How did you do it?"

Footsteps approached, and Erik knew it was her husband. He sketched a nod. "Good afternoon, Madame." He turned away, but could imagine her tucking her arm through her husband's and following him out of the building. She'd smile serenely as befitted a lady of station and a goddess of the stage. The echo of her words filled the cab he took home.


Erik hung up his coat and tossed his hat with a snap of the wrist to send it spinning to catch on an awaiting hook. One must never give up practicing their skills. Part was to stay resourceful and part was to earn a lopsided smile from Anais, who would shake her head.

Wasn't the Baron supposed to be a playful entity? Where was the fun in life if you lived it with no humor?

He took the stairs two at a time, slowing near the top and pushing open the door quietly in case Mirielle was napping. Happily, she was reclining on some pillows in a loose day dress and reading. She smiled when she saw him and dropped her book.

"How was your lesson?"

Erik shrugged. "It went all right. But as I left, Christine said the oddest thing to me."

"What?"

"She said, 'How did you do it'."

"What were you talking about?"

"Her voice. She's reaching for the higher notes." Her sat on the edge of the bed and explained, "You can't reach, you must make it happen."

"Hmmm. Don't try, do?"

"Precisely. Not to say there aren't some absolutely dreadful results, but eventually the confidence is there and the note happens. You just can't sneak up on it."

"Is she? Sneaking, I mean."

"It's like she's throwing stones while dizzy. She's hitting all around, just not on target."

They sat in silence before Mirielle replied, "Erik, she said, 'How did you do it'. Not 'How do you do it."

He sat with his elbows on his knees and started at the pattern on the rug next to the bed. Was there much to be found in so subtle and small a word? The question was what it was that he had done.

He tired of thinking in circles and turned to his wife. "How is your ankle?"

"It doesn't hurt. I've kept off of it as you told me to."

"Good girl. We'll have you dancing in no time."

She lay back with the slight Madonna smile on her lips. "We haven't danced."

"I haven't had instruction."

"You mean you haven't had a partner."

"I have a partner now. She's a beautiful, mysterious woman."

Murielle's eyes grew large. "Goodness. What did you do today that warrants a comment like that?"

"What do you mean?"

She smirked and Erik sensed disbelief in her expression.

"I mean you didn't pull any of your special talents on Raoul, did you?"

"I gave lessons! That popinjay sat in the audience glowering at me. I could almost hear his teeth grinding." He grinned at the thought, but it melted quickly. "Raoul? Since when has his Holiness becomeRaoul?" He examined his wife's face. "I suppose you are Mirielle now?"

She shrugged, and he heard himself humph again. He was starting to annoy himself.

"He's curious. Isn't Christine?"

"I don't know, we hardly talk. What do you mean curious?"

"About us."

"You mean about me."

She pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

"He had his arm around you," he spat. He leaned across the distance and put his face close to his wife's. "Tell that bluestocking Bluebeard your dance card is full."

"Is it?"

Butter wouldn't melt in that delicious little cupid's bow of a pout. "Yes, it is." He reminded his wife who her partner was.

Anais only grinned and handed him their dinner on a tray before she left for the evening.