Many thanks, as always, to those who have given such thoughtful feedback. You rock! :)

Carmencita Franco, the daughter of the Caudillo, has graciously sent the Press Association 200 volumes of stories, adventures, and travels, to be distributed among the children at Epiphany.

– ABC, December 27, 1940

After a Christmas Eve dinner of salted codfish, Christine slipped out her house on tiptoe to avoid detection by Mamá Valerio. She felt her gift for Erik crinkle beneath her coat. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, as nothing better was available, but she had decorated it with a green hair ribbon that had been carefully washed and ironed and scented with anise. The brass key Erik had given her weighed heavily under her bodice, and she brought her hand up to assure herself it was there. The key to Erik's kingdom, she thought giddily. He had instructed her carefully about how to use it to open the lock; then he had towered over her as she demonstrated, exasperated, that she was quite capable of turning the key properly. She remembered the exact place in the tunnel she had been told to stand when she called him. This would be her first visit to Erik's home under Montjuic – well, her first voluntary visit – and she felt a nervous tingle. He had wanted her to return there ever since she left, and his insistence had become more marked with each of their lessons in her dressing room. She had been reluctant to call on him before her conversation with Father Efrén. Now, though, something within her that had been closed like a fist was opening its fingers slightly. The Erik she had known before had been a frightening being, and she could feel something terrible simmering beneath his cool surface. Yet Father Efrén's words had conjured up the image of an injured and lonely child, and the vision haunted her now. He had not spoken a word about what he would be doing during Christmas. She imagined him alone in his cold sanctuary under the mountain, and the thought propelled her forward. She would give him his gift for Reyes early and truly surprise him with both the gift and her visit, and she would try to forget the ache that Raoul's absence caused her. They were both alone in a way, weren't they?

The streets were quiet. A few people straggled down the Ronda Sant Pau, headed back to their homes after their Christmas Eve dinners with friends and families. Montjuic loomed dark over the city, its castle outlined against the cold night sky. Christine walked southward through El Poble Sec and its narrower, less prosperous streets. The air smelled of coal fires; laundry dried from lines on the small balconies.

Finally, she arrived at Erik's hidden door, lit the lantern he had left for her, and entered the tunnel. She counted the number of paces and arrived at the place where she was to call him, and he would hear her. He had made it clear that she should go no further, and that there were dangerous traps arrayed throughout the tunnels. Christine considered, doubted, and finally scoffed. The entire thing seemed absurd to her now, and the idea of calling Erik seemed completely unnecessary. She squared her shoulders resolutely. She remembered the way to Erik's home through these tunnels, and she would make her way to his house without his help – she would surprise him completely.

Her footsteps were careful ones, and she lifted the lantern before her as she proceeded down the spacious tunnel at the entrance. As she approached the first narrower tunnel which branched off from the main one, she became more cautious, distributing her weight carefully on first the balls of her feet, then the heels; she wished to be as silent as Erik. She stopped now and then to lift the lantern upwards – to the right, and then to the left, examining the sandstone to make sure there was nothing lurking in the darkness. The inky blackness of the tunnel ahead might have terrified her, had she been younger. Yet she had long ago concluded that people were much more terrifying than things.

Just as she began to relax and let her footsteps be heard, something metal hurled towards her from the right. She dodged it neatly, pivoting to the left, and she was blinded by a sudden light. All around her flames had sprung up, forming a complete circle and trapping her within. All air was sucked out from within her lungs. About three feet separated her from the flames which danced and roared and licked the ceiling of the tunnel. Something above her made a loud cracking sound and gave way, and she tried to scream Erik's name as a scorched fragment of stone fell from the ceiling and hit her on the forehead. A dark form shimmered and swam through the wall of flame, which was closing in on Christine; now only two feet of space remained, and she could smell some of the wool from her coat singeing.

The flames subsided with a whoosh as Erik parted them with a broad arc of his arms. Christine felt herself scooped up in a fluid motion, though she could see nothing. She had dropped the lantern, and there were spots dancing before her eyes.

His breath smelled of Scotch whiskey, and as she came to her senses, she realized he was speaking to her. "…never dreamed that you, of all people, would do something so stupid, so very foolhardy! Did you think I was joking when I told you of my little traps? If not for the alarms, you would have been killed!" His grip was so tight that her ribcage felt restricted, and she could feel his quick, shallow breaths. All was in complete darkness save the angry incandescence of his eyes.

"You said 'little' traps, Erik, not big ones!" she protested weakly. "What on earth would you consider a fully-fledged trap?" The injured child that she had envisioned was gone now, and Erik was once more the frightening man she had met on the night he had kidnapped her.

With Christine still in his arms, he whirled around and glided swiftly through the tunnels. She was still too dazed to question how he could see in the blackness surrounding them, and unconsciousness claimed her as they continued towards Erik's house.

"Drink this."

She blinked awake. Erik was bending over her, and he brought a glass to her lips. She drank the cool, soothing, greenish liquid within and sat up. She was in his study once more.

"I seem destined to regain consciousness on your divan," she said, and pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Happy Christmas," she added, nodding towards the crumpled package that was lying atop her coat on an armchair. She noticed that Erik's cloak was draped over the top of the chair as well.

The glowing eyes scrutinized her, and Christine saw with surprise that Erik was not focusing on her words. It was odd, she decided; his wit was like lightning. He was usually so attuned to each nuance of her every word, so rapid and acute, that it was hard to keep up her end of a conversation with him. Speaking with Erik was both exhilarating and exhausting.

Finally, he heaved a shuddering sigh. "Fortunately, there was no harm done. I shall bring some water, now. You must continue to drink liquids," and he was gone.

Christine groaned, stood up, and picked up her coat. It smelled of oil-smoke and looked slightly blackened in several places. She would have to discard it, she decided ruefully. She glanced admiringly at Erik's cloak. Lifting it off the chair, she quickly gauged the quality of the fine wool – the best. The lining was the next subject of her examination – red satin, also of the best quality, but there was a stain near the inside pocket, and something coiled up within its depths. She looked around. There was no sign of Erik. She slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out a rolled-up line of thin, supple leather. Bits of it were stained and wet, and Christine dropped it quickly back into the pocket and carefully returned the cloak to its place on the chair. Her fingertips felt sticky. She glanced at them and froze, then brought them to eye level: blood. She could smell it; she knew its metallic odor too well. Sea-waves roared in her ears.

"Inquisitive creature, aren't you, my dear?" Erik had glided into the room with his habitual noiselessness.

The blood drained from Christine's face. "You had just arrived home when I set off your alarms," she deduced slowly. "And the errand you were returning from was...unsavory." The last word was a whisper, but she knew he heard her clearly. She wondered whether she, too, would eventually die by Erik's hand. All it would take would be a simple fall from grace, and she had seen many of those in her time.

Erik seemed to read her mind. "I would sooner end my own miserable existence than harm you," he said softly, but after a glance away from Christine, his tone quickly shifted to sarcasm. "I regret having taken my work home with me – how careless! Imagine my sullying the virgin soil of this peaceful country with the lifeblood of a poor, helpless Nazi collaborator...well, helpless is a relative term, I suppose. He was becoming far too friendly with your Miss Munroe."

"Gloria? He was going to kill Gloria?"

"Perhaps. The poor fool of a woman did not even realize what the man was. She is a poor, naïve college student sent to set up a network without the proper training – not that proper training is possible in this field. I do not doubt for one minute that, once captured, Miss Munroe could be persuaded to name names – and one of those names happens to be yours..."

"Gloria wasn't hurt, was she? She's – "

"What the devil do I care what occurs or does not occur to your incompetent of a network leader? She's already been far more trouble than she's worth. She has no idea what has happened to the man and is completely safe, for the moment, provided she doesn't fall into the arms of another conniving Lothario. I should not be required to dedicate time to playing shepherd to her when I am trying to watch over my own lamb." Here, his fiery eyes softened, as did his tone. "You came to pay your poor Erik a visit on Christmas Eve, did you not? I had thought you would be spending the entire evening with your guardian. But I am being a vile host to you!"

He pulled a footstool towards a damask armchair and gestured for Christine to be seated. "I shall take your coat." He picked up her coat gingerly, between his finger and thumb, and sniffed in disgust. "You really must take some of the clothing I have given you to your guardian's house."

"Thank you, but no." Christine's clothing was a subject of discord between her teacher and herself. She accepted his gifts of food at a price to her pride, but she regarded his gift of clothing as inappropriate. No matter how Erik harangued or insisted, she remained true to her resolve. The clothing she wore was dowdy, old and dyed black, but she fit in. Erik's tastes were luxurious and stylish, much too stylish. She could imagine how the Church would view a woman wearing trousers; priests spent much of their time inveighing from the pulpit against low necklines and uncovered female arms. The thought of the ruby necklace she wore during recitals made her sigh in frustration. She had already accepted far too much from Erik.

"I've brought something for you. I didn't want to wait for Reyes on January 6," Christine said, handing him the gift. "It's nothing special, but I hope you can use it."

Erik accepted the package carefully, as though afraid he would break it. He opened it slowly, his long fingers nearly graceless for once, and his breath caught audibly as he withdrew the contents. The charcoal-gray muffler was simple, except for the "E" Christine had embroidered upon it in red silk. "It's beautiful," Erik finally said, and the tremor in his glorious voice astonished Christine. "Oh, Christine!" A bony hand reached towards her cheek but quickly withdrew. "My Christine. My Senta."

The adoration flaming in Erik's eyes sent waves of electricity throughout Christine's senses. She recovered herself by remembering that he had killed a man mere hours ago. How many men had he killed without even a shadow of regret? Any genuine love or affection must be foreign to such a man.

"Come, I have something for you as well," he said, regal once more, and he towered over Christine as he ushered her into a hallway. Opening a door, he exposed yet another door, this one of steel, with what appeared to be a combination lock. After turning the lock several times, much too quickly for Christine to follow, the door opened with a dry rattling noise. Dust-covers draped several large oblong forms, and Christine shuddered; she was reminded of Erik's coffin. Erik retrieved a small cedar box from a table in the corner and handed it to her, his gaze fixed on hers. Lifting the lid, she saw a glint of gold among the excelsior paper, and she carefully lifted a heavy figure from the box: an angel wrought in gold. The face was hers.

"This is beautiful, Erik...but how can I accept it? It's gold, isn't it?"

"It is indeed a gold alloy, but have no fear. I am by no means short of the material." He pulled the dust cover off of one of the forms, and the dim electric light shone and glinted off a large stack of gold bars. He strode over to the other stacks, pulling the cloths off to reveal even more bars beneath.

"It's true, then," Christine murmured, the blood in her veins cold with shock.

"What is true?"

She looked away. "Nothing...never mind."

But Erik's raptor gaze was steady upon her. "Look at me, Christine," he said, his beautiful voice dangerously mellifluous.

Against her will, her eyes were drawn to his, and she found herself stammering, "You...you supply German submarines and are paid in..in gold bars..." With a great effort of will, she tore her eyes away from his.

There was a silence, during which she could still feel Erik's eyes upon her. "How long have you known Don Efrén?"

"Don who?" Christine attempted, fixing her stare on the angel in her hands. The angel's face...her face...smiled up at her, its gaze empty and oblivious.

"You know perfectly well," he said in honeyed tones, but something like a dagger lurked beneath the sweetness.

When had she become so accustomed to lying? Christine wondered whether passing herself off as a widow had been the beginning. Why was it now her instinct to tell people the opposite of the truth? Her rubies were too real for her to bear the truth behind them...but what truth? Her mind closed down on the subject before she could go farther. And why didn't she deny that she had a lover? For the same reasons she didn't deny that she was a widow, she reasoned. She borrowed the guise to camouflage who she really was – it was her method of defense. Yet lying to Erik would be perilous. Still, if she wanted to protect poor Father Efrén from Erik's wrath, she would have to pretend not to know the priest.

"Who is Don Efrén?" she ventured, peeking up at Erik before she had the good sense to stop herself. What she saw was frightening. His eyes, which so often flashed gold, had somehow darkened with anger, and he had drawn himself up to a seemingly impossible height. Everything about him seemed black. A lightning-flash of realization illuminated the dark panic of her thoughts: This was Erik. This was no longer the man who diminished himself in order to soothe, comfort, or entertain her. This was his business side, this anger, and she did not wish to see it.

A movement startled Christine. She watched in horror as a large spider made its way across the face of the angel she held. Dropping the angel, she stifled a cry. "Please...I've only known Father Efrén for a few weeks. It turns out he knew my father, so I go to see him every now and then. He's such a nice man! He just wants me to be...to be safe."

"So, naturally, you told him about me and he warned you to keep away," Erik probed, but it was not a question.

"I told him about you during confession! I've not told anyone else about you at all, Erik, but I had to confess every sin I've committed – and with who – to receive absolution. And then it turned out that Father Efrén knows you and...he feared you might be trifling with me."

"Please be so good as to satisfy my curiosity. What, exactly, have you and I done that requires your penance?" The swift staccato in which Erik delivered this question betrayed some emotion that Christine refused to identify, but her body responded with sudden heat.

I've had impure thoughts about you! To Christine's dismay, she nearly blurted out the first thing that popped, unbidden, into her mind. "I've been a spy," she managed.

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence before Christine dared to look up, and she saw with surprise that Erik had relaxed and was even smiling slightly, his eyes distant.

"I'm sorry I tried to deceive you," she said, "but I'm so afraid you might...might..."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "I would never harm a man for trying to protect you, especially not Don Efrén. I have tormented that poor fellow enough for this lifetime as it is," he remarked, and Christine could not help staring at Erik in astonishment.

"There, now. Was it so difficult to tell your poor Erik the truth, Christine?" Erik's cool hand caressed her bruised forehead lightly, moving down her cheek to finally tip her chin up. "Do not ever try to deceive me, my dear, for I will know, and you must trust me completely. Do you understand?" His eyes bored into hers, searching.

Finally, she nodded.

"Good. Now, I've just received some excellent pâté...and some sweet Pedro Ximénez wine straight from Malaga. Yet I must insist that you take water with it – you've just escaped the flame! I think that in another hour you'll have recovered sufficiently..."

He then moved them to the dining room as though nothing had happened.

Christine's visit lasted until early morning, and Erik reluctantly escorted her through the tunnels until she was situated again in the streets of Poble Sec. It was Christmas Day, and all the shops were closed, but there was a clatch of revelers from the Calle Mayor de Gracia area still celebrating along the Avenida del Paralelo. The second prize from the national lottery's Christmas prize, thousands of pesetas, had been divided among a large group of shopkeepers. A group of about fifteen of them was singing a spirited version of "La Marimorena," a favorite carol of hers. She smiled to herself as she passed them and made her way towards her flat.

"Señora Cristina! A Happy Christmas!" greeted a voice nearby, and she froze. It was Manolo, the neighborhood sereno. The watchman's keys jangled at his belt as he approached Christine. "You have been out the entire night, haven't you? You must have more family nearby than I thought!"

Christine felt her ears go hot. She had not been careful enough to escape the sereno's notice, and now he could use her suspected lapse of morality against her. She thought about appealing to Erik – but, no, she did not wish to see Manolo strangled to death with the same strange lasso that Erik had used to murder Gloria's acquaintance.

"I was just celebrating...a relative of mine won part of the lottery prize, too, you know!" And rooting around in her purse, she extracted a 25-peseta bill and pressed it into his hand. "A very Happy Christmas to you, too, Manolo!"

He nodded, content with her generosity, and she continued up the steps to her building.