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Chapter 7

They started with music. It was where they both felt most comfortable, the place they could talk to each other with the most ease. And besides, it was the only thing Christine had ever really been good at. Her body fell comfortably back into the rhythms that proper singing demanded of it, and for a few hours every day, she felt whole. But the spaces in between singing lessons still terrified her. Between her missed cycles and continued morning sickness, Christine was now quite sure she was pregnant, and she had taken to lying in bed tracing circles on her abdomen, trying to determine if it had grown any bigger. She tried to imagine a faceless baby in her arms, tried to think of what on earth she could possibly give it, tried to find some well of strength and motherhood deep within her. But sometimes in her darker moments she wondered if God had forgotten to give her some of the vital pieces that adult women needed in their hearts. It was times like these that she would call Erik in, and he would sing to her or talk softly of silly things until she drifted into sleep.

But even those moments of peace managed to unsettle her. She didn't miss the glances Erik snuck towards her face, and sometimes other places, when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She understood that Erik's intense love for her was most likely gone, that she deserved nothing but hatred after the way she had treated him, but the naked desire from years back was still present in his gaze. She knew she had nothing to fear from Erik, that he would only ever look, but it made her miss Raoul, and ignited a desperate craving within her to be held and kissed and reassured.

So one night as she rubbed her stomach and listed all the motherly things she didn't know how to do and silently panicked, she got up and donned a dressing gown, deciding to leave her bedroom for once instead of calling Erik into it. She was determined to solve one of her problems tonight. She found him in his library, hunched over a thick book with a candle flickering next to it, illuminating the angles of his shoulders and his mask. She tried to creep in on silent feet, intent on reading over his shoulder and knowing what held his attention so, but she saw his back straighten the moment she crossed the threshold. His hearing was far too good unless he was caught up in music.

"Shouldn't you be in bed my dear?" He asked mildly, marking his place in the book and setting it aside. "I'll come in and read you fairy tales, if you like." Christine couldn't tell if he was mocking her or making a serious offer, and the thought made her cheeks burn with shame.

"Actually I was wondering" She paused, searching for a respectable way to make her request, then abandoning dignity all together "if you could teach me how to cook." He turned around, and she could tell there was an eyebrow raised behind the mask.

"Now? This is hardly an hour for proper young ladies to receive cooking lessons." Her first instinct was to blush again and return to her bed, but she chastised herself. Hadn't she just told Erik a few days ago that she was tired of being weak? So instead she stood her ground and said

"Were either of us really going to sleep anytime soon?" A corner of his mouth turned up at the question and he stood, motioning her toward the kitchen.

After lighting enough candles that they could see what they were doing, Erik handed her the matches and said, "First things first, light the stove." She approached the unfamiliar metal contraption warily, poking lit matches into the logs until there was a suitable blaze going. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she turned back to regard Erik and saw that the counters were full of fresh vegetables, and a large metal pot rested at her feet, waiting to be suspended above the flames. Christine just shook her head, marveling at how silently he could move.

"Well then, what are we making?" She asked.

"Minestrone soup." He said, rolling the "r" in the word with confidence. His accent had always been flawless when they sang Italian operas, and it made her wonder.

"Have you been to Italy Erik?"

"I have." He said shortly.

"Did you learn to make this there?"

"I did."

"Who taught you?" She asked, curious as ever about his life before the opera.

"The same man who taught me architecture." She opened her mouth for another question, but he held up a hand to stop her. "Please Christine, if we don't begin now we truly shall be up all night." So Christine watched in intent silence as he showed her how to prepare each ingredient and the proper order to add them to the boiling broth. Unsurprisingly, his hands were as deft and graceful with a kitchen knife as they were with the bow of a violin or his terrible lasso. Then he asked her to cut up a carrot, and she blushed fiercely as she reduced it to uneven slices in a much slower and clumsier fashion than he had.

"I suppose you think I'm pathetic." She said softly. "A woman who can't cook."

"Of course not." He said dismissively. "It is hardly a skill that determines one's worth. Though I do find it a bit odd that none of the adults in your life took it upon themselves to teach you." Christine shrugged, dropping the carrot pieces into the bubbling pot.

"Well you know I didn't have a mother. And papa was no master chef himself, but he always spoiled me and did all the work when I was little. And then at the opera I just ate whatever they served in the dormitories, and of course Raoul had-I mean we had a cook." Three years, and she still hadn't felt any ownership over the big house or any of its servants.

"How old were you when your mother died?" The question was just like Erik, bluntly acknowledging death instead of tip toeing around it with a phrase like "passed on." Christine rather liked it, especially after all the uncomfortable stammers of people asking about her father after he died.

"She died giving birth to me." She said, suddenly having a vivid memory of her papa holding a crying Christine in his arms and patiently explaining that she must never feel upset or guilty about her mama being gone, that God had a plan for all of them and her mama was so happy, watching her family love each other from heaven.

"She what?" Erik said sharply.

"She died during childbirth. It is not exactly rare."

"Is that a common problem in your family?" He asked, sounding almost panicked.

"Not that I know of." Christine said. "Papa said she was always rather fragile and sickly, but very beautiful." She smiled as she thought of her papa playing a sweet, slow song, and telling her he had thought of her mother's eyes the whole time he was writing it. But when she looked around at Erik his mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes were alight with concern.

"I hadn't even thought of it." He said quietly.

"You hadn't thought…oh really Erik, you mustn't think that the same fate will befall me. I'm sure the circumstances of my childbirth will be completely different from my mother's."

"I will see that they are." He said darkly. She recognized that tone. It always preceded some rather extreme actions on his part.

"Really Erik, I will be fine." Strangely the prospect of dying in childbirth hardly concerned her. It was life that terrified her.

"Just stir the soup." He snapped. No matter how many subjects she tried, she could coax nothing but cooking instructions from him for the rest of the night. Her last waking thought was that Erik's silences never boded well.