To Be Loved
Chapter 21

By MadLizzy and HDKingsbury

"Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world. My heart, which is so full to overflowing, has often been solaced and refreshed by music when sick and weary."

~Martin Luther

0-0-0

Christine made herself as comfortable as possible in the worn but clean passenger car seat. There was still the prospect of several more hours of travel, and having engaged in a little detecting of her own, Christine had discovered which compartment Erik had secreted himself away in. He was much closer than she'd thought—in the car directly behind hers, in fact. That made her task easier.

She looked around at the assortment of humanity traveling with her. Hers was a general passenger car with rows of seats on either side of the aisle, seats that cost the fewest coins. The people were, for the most part, working class folk. There were mothers with young children, tradesmen, and traveling businessmen. The car Erik was traveling in, however, cost more but had private compartments on either side. Once she'd determined his location, she had staked out a seat that would allow her to discreetly keep an eye on all passengers entering and exiting that car.

At one of the earlier fuel and water stops, she actually caught a glimpse of him as he briefly walked the corridor and stretched his legs. This had both surprised and relieved her, as she had seen neither hide nor hair of him in the previous hours and was had begun to wonder if Erik were ill. But no, there he was, looking no worse for the wear.

She made sure to stay out of the way, waiting to see if he would get off the train. If so, then she would, too. This was Erik, after all. Who knew if he were really going all the way to Hamburg, or if he had changed his mind? But he only walked up and down the corridor a couple of times, rolling his shoulders no doubt to ease out the kinks that came with sitting for a long time. Once she was certain that he was back in his private compartment, she relaxed, and situated herself in such a way that she could keep her eyes on that car. Easier to keep track of her wandering Phantom this way.

"Guten Tag."

Christine blinked, realizing she had been wool gathering. She looked up to see who was talking to her, surprised to see a young lass smiling down at her.

"Uhm…Guten Tag, Fräulein," she replied, keeping her voice deep, hoping she got the words right and feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought that the young girl might be trying to flirt with her.

"Are you traveling alone, junger Herr?" the girl asked, batting her lashes coyly.

"No…er, nein. I am…waiting for a friend." Christine indicated the vacant seat beside her, suggesting that somebody else had been sitting there and would be returning soon.

"Oh." The girl looked disappointed.

Before anything further could transpire, however, the girl's mother came up and took charge. "Come along, Gretel," the woman snapped, dragging her flirtatious daughter off, chastising her for talking to strange men.

"But…I was just trying to be friendly," Christine hear the tiny voice whimper as the mother and daughter disappeared into the crowd of passengers. She exhaled a sigh of relief that a potential catastrophe was averted, and felt something lumpy beneath her. She stood up and found she'd been sitting on two books. Picking them up, she sat back down and looked to see what she'd found. One was a tour guide of the northern German states; the other was a book of common phrases. Both volumes were written in French, German and English. A quick look around the car revealed no one looking for the missing books. No takers? Oh well, finder's keepers. These would give her something to read during the trip as well as help her with any language problems that might come up.

Her knowledge of German was rusty, these days limited primarily to a few phrases she had picked up as a child. Her operatic studies were of little help, as there was currently an unwritten rule that no German operas were to be performed in Paris. The country was still smarting from the humiliation of the Franco-Prussian War—or the 1870 War as the French preferred to call it—when Prussian forces had occupied Paris and France had lost nearly all the territory of Alsace-Lorraine. Even the "safe" German operas—the old standards by Mozart and Gluck—were sung in French. As for that fellow Richard Wagner and his Ring cycle? Forget about him and them. Far too German for French blood these days!

So she settled back into her seat, lulled by the clickity-clack as the train rushed along the tracks. Above the chatter of the other passengers, she could hear the conductor announcing that the next stop would be Osnabrück. She turned her attention to the tour guide. If she couldn't get out and actually visit the city, at least she could read about it.

Osnabrück…city in Lower Saxony, about 100 km west of Hanover, she read. It lies in a valley bordered by the Wiehengebirge on one side and the northern tip of the Teutoburger Wald on the other…

"Too bad we won't have time to stop and look around," she muttered, imagining herself walking through the Teutoburg Forest. "Sounds lovely." She read some more.

…the town hall of Osnabrück houses the Friedenssaal, where the Peace of Westphalia was signed in 1648, ending the Thirty Years War…the Heger Tor, built as a memorial to the soldiers who died at Waterloo in 1815…

"Before my time, both of these," she chuckled to herself.

…the Bucksturm, once a prison for women accused of witchcraft…

"Don't think I would like to see that!"

And so she continued reading as the train sped on towards Bremen.

-0-0-0-

"Conductor. What is taking so long? Why haven't we started on our way again? Is there a problem?" The unexpected delay had heightened Erik's wariness. An ordinary refueling stop had lengthened interminably, and as the minutes ticked by, Erik began to wonder if the authorities back in Paris had wired ahead and alerted the various trains of his fleeing the country. He scoffed at his fears. As if the Germans would care about somebody escaping the French criminal justice system!

The conductor, a squat, roundish man with thick spectacles, shrugged his shoulders. Erik noted that upon crossing the border, the French crew had been replaced with a German one, yet the man responded in fluent French. "No problem, Mein Herr," the man told him, sneering at the impatient Frenchman and unable to resist adding a touch of German to reply. It was apparent that anti-French sentiment was as strong in Germany as anti-German sentiment was in France. "Supplies. Nothing more. The train requires water and other provisions. You may stay onboard if you wish."

Erik visibly stiffened at the inconvenience. Long hours in his cramped compartment, relieved only by brief sorties into the corridor to stretch his legs, had done nothing to improve his mood. "We weren't supposed to stop this long. How long will we be delayed?"

"Not long. Perhaps an hour, maybe less."

"An hour? That's outrageous." His suspicions were aroused, and he was determined to get to the truth. "There's something you're keeping to yourself." He lowered his voice, making it as soft as possible, and began to sing the siren's song. In spite of the injuries he had suffered at the hands of the mob seven months ago, he was still able to make his voice commanding, even irresistible when necessary, and could use his unnatural gifts to create complex illusions that were utterly mesmerizing. "Tell me the rest."

The gruff German blinked as if falling under a spell, and rubbed his ears and a spot between his eyes as though they tingled, but he obeyed the Voice in spite of his better judgment. "There is a repair that must be completed before we continue on our way," he admitted. "The boiler has sprung a leak. It must be fixed before we resume our trip, else a disaster beyond your imagination will occur."

"That will take at least two hours," Erik growled. "More likely, three!"

The spell broke and the conductor bristled, irritated at being talked down to, and removed his spectacles with meticulous care. He slowly cleaned them with a pristine handkerchief, making a point of polishing them to perfection. "Bremen is a beautiful city, Herr Verärgert Mann. Consider taking a walk. It will cool you off. Refresh you. See the cathedral, why don't you." Under his breath, the conductor muttered something in Bavarian that sounded like, "Or find the Beck Biergarten. It might help your disposition."

Erik switched easily from speaking French to perfect, unaccented High German. "Thank you, Herr Eisenbahnleiter," he said, calling the conductor by his job title, letting the other man know he understood he had been addressed as Herr Angry Man. "I am sure I will find a way to amuse myself for a few hours." He glared at the man as if to say, "No thanks to you," before closing the door in his face.

The conductor had been right about one thing; Erik, with his long limbs and lanky frame, could not abide being holed up in the train compartment much longer. His head grazed the ceiling when he tried to stand up straight, and he could touch opposite walls without stretching his arms. He felt like a sardine packed in a can! He grabbed his greatcoat and stumbled off the train through the outer door of his compartment, infuriated with the conductor. How dare the man talk to him that way? Didn't he know who he was dealing with? Suddenly, Erik laughed at himself. Of course he doesn't know, you ninny! Or did you want to announce your presence for all the world to know?

Erik wandered the streets of Bremen, seeking an outlet for his pent up energy. He stretched his muscles as he walked, rubbing his left upper arm where the long scar still ached, especially when the weather changed. Taking long strides, he covered ground quickly, never noticing the young man who had slipped off the train and was following him at a discreet distance. If he hadn't been so busy arguing with himself, he might have found humor in watching the boy struggle to match Erik's pace.

His anger dissipated as the exercise and the brisk autumn air invigorated him, and Erik began to take in his surroundings. The city was impeccably clean, evidence of good German civic-minded pride. Narrow streets wended between towering houses built of brick. Many dated back to the Middle Ages, with Gothic architecture the dominant style. Wood trim was invariably painted in bold, cheerful colors, in stark contrast to Erik's black mood. He turned towards the bustling market square, drawn by the aroma of fresh food and strong black coffee.

Wursts, schnitzels, and dark, heavy breads of every kind and description were being hawked by aggressive vendors, each vying for the attention of the tourists who, like Erik, had come from the train station seeking a diversion and a good meal. Bushel baskets of apples and pears overflowed with the first Fall harvest, tempting buyers with their tart, crisp fragrance, and piles of pumpkins, potatoes, onions, turnips, and beets hinted of hearty winter stews soon to come. His fellow passengers scattered like ants among the various stalls and carts, but Erik had no use for them. There was only one thing that could calm his restless spirit: Music, sweet Music. She beckoned to him like a guardian angel.

He could no longer sing – the lynching had effectively put an end to that—but the allure of music was still compelling. Had he an instrument, he would have sat right there in the market square beneath the giant statue of Roland and played his heart out. As it was, he ambled towards the only place he knew he would find an instrument he could play: A church.

Passing the town hall with its ornate gingerbread style façade, he considered going into the cathedral with its soaring central bell tower, but as luck would have it, many of his fellow travelers had already headed straight to it. It was packed with people gawking at the magnificent stained glass windows, the elaborate high altar, and the marvelous medieval architecture. On he walked, until finally he stumbled upon a humble church tucked at the end of a blind alley, in the shadow of the great cathedral. Far off the beaten path, the little church seemed all but forgotten. He reached out a gloved hand and tested the door. Unlocked. He opened it slightly, barely enough to peer inside and check for signs of occupancy, and entered, silent as a ghost.

-0-0-0-

Christine was close behind. She had followed him from the train station, trailing him across the market square. She'd been disappointed when he veered away from the cathedral – it would have been easy to remain hidden among all the people gathered there – but still she followed, knowing she had no choice but to dog his every step. It would be just like him to leave the train and go off on a tangent, and she might never see him again. When she saw Erik enter the church, she wondered what he was up to. Her curiosity piqued, she sneaked in behind him and hid behind the nearest pew.

Taller buildings on all sides blocked sunlight from entering the few plain, leaded glass windows that ran the length of the walls, enveloping the sanctuary in shadow. Nestled behind the pew in the dim light, Christine tilted her head to the side and raised it barely enough to see over the back of the bench. Her jaw dropped as Erik walked straight up to the altar. He stood before it, his back straight, his chin high, every inch of him proud and defiant. He rested his hands on the altar, and her heart pounded in her chest as he touched the heavy cloth that covered the sterling chalice, and when he removed the silver paten atop it, she nearly gasped out loud.

"Empty," he whispered. She heard it clear as day, and her lungs constricted as he casually explored the blessed accoutrements of holy sacrament. For a moment, she wondered if he planned to steal the set, but to her surprise, he carefully replaced each item. He was simply satisfying his curiosity. No one would ever know that he had been there. She ducked low when he turned to his right, towards the carved wooden screen that concealed a small organ opposite the choir stall.

Through the screen, Christine could make out Erik's shape as he removed his coat and tossed it over the mirror atop the keyboard. He frowned at the reflecting glass--which would have allowed the organist to see behind him and keep watch on the altar and the choir--as if its very existence were an affront to his dignity. He seated himself carefully, and fingered the keys reverently, fondly, like an old lover who'd been away far too long.

She heard the sound of keys being depressed, but as there was no air being supplied to the pipes, there was no sound. It was inconceivable: Her maestro, who loved music more than life itself, was unable to make a sound. She crept closer, and seeing him bent over the keys, imagined the music instead of hearing it. He needed the solace of music; she knew it instinctively. He had always needed the succor of it. In a flash of inspiration, she knew how she could give it to him.

Taking advantage of the screen that kept her out of sight, she positioned herself behind the pipe organ in front of the air chest that supplied the great pipes and took hold of its wheel-handled pump. "Sir," she said, doing her best imitation of a choirboy, "I'm sorry I'm late for practice, Choirmaster." And she began to crank the pump.

-0-0-0-

Tears poured down her face as his music soared into the heights of the church, a paean at turns so tragic and sorrowful that she thought her own heart would break in two. His anger and his pain seeped into the music, nearly overwhelming her with the force of its fury. Yet, it was indefinably exquisite, creating stirring images of hope and longing that made her want to cradle him in her arms and profess her undying love for him. On and on she turned the wheel, telling herself over and over again, He's wretched and hideous—but I love him, all the same.

Immersed in his thoughts, Erik had not noticed that another man had entered the sanctuary shortly after the music began. The man wore the garments of a Lutheran minister, and seemed to belong to the church. He nodded at Christine and said not a word before sitting in the pastor's chair close by the altar to listen as Erik poured out his soul.

It was then that Christine began to understand Erik's contemptuous words for what he called 'opera music,' a contempt that had stupefied her in the past. What she heard now had nothing to do with the sort of music that had charmed her when she had been his guest in the lake house. At this moment, he was immersed in his music in order to forget the bleakness of the present; it was nothing but a long, terrible, and magnificent sob into which poor Erik put all his cursed misery.

This music bespoke martyrdom in every detail; it led into every part of the abyss, the abyss in which a loathsome man lived. It showed Erik beating his poor hideous head against the funereal walls of that Hell and taking refuge there so that he could avoid terrifying men by the sight of him. She listened, devastated, gasping, pitying, and overwhelmed by the swelling of those gigantic chords where Sorrow had been deified. And then there were sounds that rose from the abyss and, gathered together, made a prodigious and menacing flight forming a whirling troop that seemed to mount upward toward heaven as the eagle rises to the sun. Such a triumphal symphony seemed to set the world ablaze so that when the work was finally finished, Ugliness, lifted on the winds of Love, had dared to look into the face of Beauty. It was intoxicating.

The music played on and on for what seemed like hours, and when it stopped, Erik slumped exhausted over the keys, his breath ragged and fast. He pulled himself to his feet when the pastor coughed softly to let him know that he was not alone. Erik opened his mouth, but he could not speak. Nothing but a strangled hiss emerged from his scarred throat.

The pastor wore a kindly expression, and put out his hands as if to say, "Don't be alarmed." Everything about him was unremarkable, from his looks, to the clothing he wore, to the way he spoke; but he carried himself in the manner of a scholar who had vast knowledge in that brain of his and who delighted in sharing it.

"I'm Pastor Kirchberger," the elder man said in warm and friendly voice. "But please, call me Emil."

"I'll be on my way," Erik said in his strangled, wounded voice. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You aren't intruding. This is your house as much as God's."

Erik regarded him coolly, but stayed behind the screen so his appearance would remain obscured. "I am hardly a child of God."

Kirchberger snorted, but let the derisive comment pass. "In all my years, I've never heard such music before. It was…cathartic. Are you by any chance looking for work? We could use an organist. Our choirmaster has his hands full."

Christine took advantage of this distraction, using it to distance herself from Erik. While the pastor was talking, she quietly slipped to the back of the church, close to the exit. She was far enough away that Erik would not be able to see her distinctly in the dimness, but close enough to hear what was being said. Fortunately, Erik's attention was on Emil. He paid "Christian" no mind.

"I'm only passing through town." He studied Emil's aquiline face, took note of the hands with not a callous on them, noting that the man was unaccustomed to heavy work. He's probably spent his entire life with his nose stuck in the Bible. "What kind of church is this that it has no one to play for the congregation?"

"A poor one," Emil said with a wry grin. "Lutherans tithe, but Bremen's Cathedral has attracted most of the people who live in the area. The few who remain here are either elderly or poor, and have little to spare. Their grandchildren sometimes serve as altar boys and choristers to please them."

"Lutherans," Erik muttered. "I haven't been in a Lutheran church before."

Emil made a steeple with his fingers as he leaned back against the chair. "Then you must have traveled a long way to come here. Most of the people you'll encounter in this part of the world are Protestant."

"I am familiar with Martin Luther and his ninety-five theses," Erik said dryly, "but I admit, I don't fully understand his position on salvation. Do Lutherans really believe that God will forgive a man anything? That salvation of the eternal soul need not be earned?"

The steady smile faded from Emil's face. "Lutherans believe that the Grace of God is freely dispensed by Him and Him alone. One doesn't even need to ask for it. Grace is given—even to those of us who don't believe we deserve it."

"I've never been to confession. It isn't…my way."

At this, Emil perked up. "Confession is between an individual and God. Lutherans don't hear private confessions, unless there are extenuating circumstances. A former Catholic, for instance—" He stopped talking as Erik walked around the screen, showing himself in the darkness.

"Why would God make a monster like me, Father? Make a man so hideous that no one…not even his own mother…could care for him?"

Christine bit her knuckles when she heard the pain in Erik's words, heard the suffering that he had only ever before let bleed into his music.

"Please, don't call me Father. I prefer simply, 'Emil.' Some of us do not believe that God afflicts men with curses, with suffering. We do not believe in a cruel God who tests men with temptations and hardship. We believe God cares for us, and that He suffers when we do."

"If that is true, then what am I to make of this?" Erik pointed to his face. "My entire life has been shaped, determined by my accursed ugliness." With a pained cry, he ripped off the mask and revealed what lay beneath the thin veneer of pure white porcelain. "It has doomed me."

The pastor gripped the arms of the chair, fighting waves of nausea, but he held Erik's steady gaze. "It is…unfortunate. How did this happen?"

"I believe I was born this way. My poor mother could not bear to be near me. I never knew my father. I ran away when I was very young and made my own way."

"No mother, no father? How did you manage?"

Erik shrugged, and with a heavy sigh, he sat back down on the bench. "At first, I roamed and foraged for food. Occasionally, I frightened people into giving me what I needed to survive. Food, clothing, shoes…they'd give me anything if I would leave them alone. It may be hard to believe, hearing me now, but once I had a voice that could be as loud as thunder or as soft as an angel's caress. I could use it persuasively." He began to weave an illusion. "Allow me to demonstrate." He hummed a quiet, soothing melody while Christine watched, agape, as he used his powers on the innocent man.

Emil pressed his hands to his ears and rubbed the middle of his forehead, much as the conductor had done earlier. Erik laughed, a ghastly, terrifying sound, as the siren's song began to take effect. The pastor reached into his pocket and drew out an ancient, battered watch. The glint of gold in the fading light caught Erik's eye.

"Put it away," he said, annoyed. "I don't want your father's watch."

Pastor Kirchberger shook the cobwebs out of his head as he slowly regained his wits. "How do you know it was my father's?"

Erik scoffed in disdain. "A lucky guess."

"That was a very impressive act of mesmerism," Emil said pointedly. "You could probably convince a man to do anything you wanted."

"You don't know the half of it." Erik closed his eyes. "Ill gotten gains. Espionage. Intrigue. Why, if I wished, I could convince a man to take his own life."

"What?" Emil asked, shaken. "Are you confessing to murder?"

"I said, 'if I wished.' For the most part, I've used my little illusions for entertainment as well as for profit. After I escaped from the gypsies, I traveled to Nizhny-Novgorod. Surely you've heard of the great fair there?" He watched the pastor nod, his eyes as big as saucers. "My fame knew no bounds. Soon, the Shah of Persia summoned me to his court, where I became his closest advisor. My powers grew and soon, the Shah wanted to use them for his own purposes…not entirely legal ones." Erik frowned. "People are always trying to use me, to take advantage of my abilities."

"Like the gypsies?" Emil stood and walked closer to Erik, very slowly, like a man approaching a dangerous animal. "You said you escaped. Did they keep you against your will?"

A low groan was the reply. Erik shook his head. "They were…brutal. Beatings were more frequent than meals. They quickly learned that if they kept me weak and ill from exposure to cold and want of nourishment, I was easier to handle. I responded to the reward of rancid food like a hungry cur. I was their trained monkey, their performing pet."

"Young man," the pastor gasped, "How did you survive?"

"At times, I didn't think I would. See this scar?" he said, pointing to an old wound on the back of his hand, the remnant of a severe burn. "It was the reward for stealing a morsel of bread. But worse by far was being told I was a beast, that God could not have made a human as ugly as I am. I was, so they said, a demon! And they treated me accordingly. They made my life a living Hell."

"But you survived. You escaped."

"That I did, but…are you sure you want to hear the rest? I killed a man, or rather, I convinced him to kill himself. It was the only way out. I don't think I could have stood it much longer. I was losing my mind, growing more dangerous. They were afraid of me. They were planning to kill me. There was…discussion among the elders of burning me at the stake as a warlock. They said it was obvious that I was evil. One had only to look at me to see it." He laughed again, that cruel, terrifying laugh that made Christine's throat clench. "Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face!"

"God isn't concerned about how you look, my boy," Emil said, moving closer. He sat down on the bench beside him, as if to show that he wasn't afraid. "It's your soul that matters."

"Didn't St. Matthew say, 'And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee, lest it keep thee out of heaven'?'" Here he clawed at his face absentmindedly, raw red scratches appearing in long, thin lines where his nails rent the flesh.

"We don't interpret that literally! It's meant to be symbolic. Cast out that within you which—"

A choked sob filled the still air. "Which makes Christine hate me?"

"Oh, I understand now. Cherchez la femme. You have been unlucky in love, I take it."

"How droll you are, Pastor Kirchberger! I have never…ever…known love. Tolerance, perhaps. Endurance. Even kindness and pity. But never love."

"Every man needs love. It is the human condition." He stared openly at Erik's ghastly death's head. "No matter what your appearance is, the right woman might…care for you…if you treat her well."

"You're implying that if I were a better man, Christine would love me?"

"I didn't say that. I don't know this 'Christine' of whom you speak. What I said is that we can't earn love. It is given by grace, whether from God or from a fellow human being. You can no more earn love than you can buy your way into Heaven. It's preposterous to think you can."

"Well, if I give you back the chalice and the paten that I stole, will that help?"

Emil jumped up and looked at the altar, where the communion service still sat, waiting for tomorrow's service. "You're joking with me. That's good!" He laughed out loud. "You really had me going!"

The long, shrill shriek of a train whistle shattered the air, and Erik grabbed his coat, shrugging it on as he made for the door.

"Damn it! I've missed my train." He slipped the mask over his face, hiding his true features from view once more.

"But you found something far more important, I hope. Don't hold it against God," Kirchenberger said as he pointed to Erik's face. "He loves you, no matter what."

"I found a vessel for my anguish, nothing more," Erik snarled, before dashing out the door. It clanged shut behind him.

In the silence that remained, the soft sound of Christine's sniffling could clearly be heard. "You can come out now, child," Emil said. "I know you've been listening."

She stood up, and, seeing the shock on the minister's face, she tilted her head and took off the bowler hat, letting loose her long hair.

Emil gazed at her with concern. "He doesn't know you're following him," he said quietly. "Why don't you tell him? Talk it over with him. Whatever is troubling you can be resolved."

She stared at the closed door through which Erik had vanished. "The truth is, I'm afraid of him. Oh, he'd never hurt me, not intentionally," she added hastily. "It's only that…he can be overwhelming. He's a conundrum, a mixture of good and…evil…that both exhilarates and terrifies me."

"He's just a man. Granted, a very ugly man, but—my God!—did you hear that music?"

Her eyes shone bright with tears, and she wiped a few errant ones away. "It's always like that. When he's playing, you hope he will never stop, and when he stops, you crave it. It's what an addiction must be like." She laughed a little, in spite of herself. "Do you think it is possible for a woman to be addicted to a man? To want him in spite of her best interests? To know that any other man could never measure up to Erik?"

"So that is his name, then." He mulled it over in his mind before proceeding. "Sounds Scandinavian. Well, young lady, I am no expert on love, but I have been married for forty years. To the same woman! Imagine that!" He came down the aisle and stood next to her. "Do you know the teachings of Martin Luther, Christine? Don't look shocked that I know your name. He spoke of you. But I suppose you overheard that, didn't you."

"I was born in Sweden," she said, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. "Every Sunday, my father took me to services. He loved the music, and taught me to love it, too. I sang in the choir, and we were faithful members of our local congregation until we had to…before we lost our home."

"It is not our place to judge a man; that is reserved for the Almighty. Remember the words of Martin Luther? 'Pray, and let God worry.'"

"But, what can I do? I can't love a man who is capable of…anything."

"You can, my child. You can hate the sin, but love the sinner."

Upon hearing those words, Christine felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly, it was all crystal clear to her. She could love Erik, embrace his grotesque face and let herself enjoy it, too. She needn't feel guilty for loving a man with a questionable past. He might not be a knight in shining armor, but no man had ever made her feel the way he made her feel. She was his, through and through, no matter what. Now, if only she could catch up with him and tell him, before he disappeared forever. With no train to catch, there was no telling where he would go.

"Thank you, Pastor!" Christine said. She tucked her hair under her hat—it wouldn't do to be seen in public dressed as a man but with long tresses flying behind her as she ran across the market square. She dashed for the station, certain that Erik would be looking for the next train out of Bremen. Little did she know that he had taken an entirely different route, one that would endanger both their lives.

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