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Chapter 21- Thorns

The soft click in the lock brought a smile to Christine's face. The door obediently opened, and she entered Erik's room with silent steps. There was something uncanny about entering Erik's room without his permission. Something against the rules of nature. He was a man who valued his privacy beyond measure, and her past experience of such a daring attempt to satisfy her curiosity could hardly have been described as successful.

Christine pushed away any memories of that night, thinking there was little resemblance between Erik, the man who had held her so passionately in his arms the previous night, and the angry man who had confronted her years ago. Not very satisfied by her hopeful thoughts, she consoled herself, thinking it wasn't curiosity that drove her to such extreme measures this time. She had every right to see her lover, and if the man had been avoiding her all day, he would suffer the consequences. He should never provoke a woman into action if he couldn't handle a surprise!

Christine sighed. She was being unfair to him. He wasn't avoiding her any more than she was avoiding him. Her heart skipped a beat every time she thought he might enter a room she was in, and she kept blushing every time the door opened. She was nothing but thankful for the eventful turmoil the whole house was in, since it hid her own strange behavior. At first, she thought that just a glance at her face would reveal every little detail of the previous night's events in bright and vivid colors, blinding, fascinating and damning, all at the same time, but no such thing happened. She inwardly laughed at herself, expecting the whole world to stop turning, but, in a way, her world had turned at a different pace since last night, and she felt it was written all over her face. Part of her wanted to climb onto the kitchen table and make a very non-ladylike announcement, while another part watched what happened around her with the apathy of an observer from another world. How could they not see? How could they not notice the difference?

In her defense, Emily was so frantic with the preparations for her pretend trip back from Plymouth that she hardly gave her a second glance. Christine had helped her choose a dress suitable for traveling and for hiding the few but now evident signs of her pregnancy. James had brought his mother's cart, and Erik, a small trunk from the Twin House which would be filled with clothes and linens, as if the couple had done some shopping for their new life together. Everything had been thoroughly planned, every detail attended.

Emily and James would spend the night at the Twin House, which was closer to the road to Swidon, so that Emily would not suffer the poor quality of the lane more than was necessary. The two of them would actually travel the 10 miles to Swidon, where James would make sure no other passenger from the village would be using the diligence. Only then would they make their way back to the village. Emily Nicholson was a few hours and a little more than 20 miles away from becoming Emily Duggan. Erik, once more, would be a magician!

And this magician, from last night, was her lover. The words had a strange sound to her ears, like a title of some sort, or like another trait of his that belonged only to her, over which she had complete power.
She found herself inwardly repeating the words during the most inappropriate times of the day, when making tea or folding the few items of Emily's clothes that would be in the trunk. Like a secret waiting to escape her lips and find its own destiny in the world.

Her fingers traced his books, the papers on his desk, his pens, the small bottles with the different colors of ink; she traced them lovingly, as if caressing his smooth skin. She let her eyes wander over the things that had kept him company during the years they were apart. Erik lived a Spartan life. The furniture in the rooms he occupied was sparse and only included items that were absolutely necessary. His room was large and extremely tidy for a man who did the task by himself. A little cold maybe…

Christine contemplated the thought of building a fire, but decided against it as she didn't want to leave any sign of her intrusion. She walked to the window, trying to see whether the lane from Twin House was visible through the fog. This was the path Erik would use to return home, to return to her. The seasonal shower was absolutely annoying, but the raindrops falling on the smooth lake's surface produced a mild, rhythmic sound that comforted her. Other than that, not even a bird's song interrupted the silence. Christine had heard of the ghosts' story and been rather amused by the irony in it, but there was something eerie in the silence that enveloped the Red Door Cottage this afternoon.

She shook the thought away, deciding it was a result of her anxious state and her restless mind. Christine sighed loudly just to hear the sound of her breath leaving her body. She took a look at the room as if looking at the man she had boldly invited to her room the previous night. For a woman with her upbringing, that would probably be considered as the highest rung on the ladder of sin, but no matter how hard she tried, she could never find it in her heart to feel ashamed or doubtful. Was that one more piece of evidence of her emotional and ethical downgrade since she'd lost her child?

Christine pushed that thought away, too. At this moment, she wished so much for Erik to hold her and tell her that everything would be fine, no matter what, but she knew better than that. He would never deceive her, not even to comfort her, and that was a novelty in the man she had met at the Red Door Cottage, the same man who had introduced her into a make-believe world years ago; the same man who had introduced her to a world of pleasure less than a day ago. So many faces…

She looked again at the room, at its richly colored carpets, the dark curtains, the wooden shelves filled with books covering the greater part of one wall. An average bachelor's master bedroom. Well, if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that there was nothing average about Erik. She approached the bookshelves, looking suspiciously at the books. Her fingers searched for a strange gap, a lever of some kind, but found nothing. She diverted her search, looking at the titles. She didn't know how much time she spent gazing at scientific volumes, novels and books written in languages she didn't even recognize, but she found it!

It was a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's prose called Tales! The same book on two different shelves. She tried the first one, which was at the level of her eyes. Nothing! A simple book – nothing more – greeted her as she held it in her hands. Its pages opened, waiting to be read.

…And his eyes have all the seeming of a Demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

She abruptly shut the book, thinking it must have been one of Erik's devious tricks to have the book open at that particular page just to scare any potential reader away.
She was too old for such tricks intended more for Jamie's sake. Christine put the book on the shelf, irritated, and, raising herself on tiptoe, tried to reach the other copy on the higher level, half-disappointed with the thought that it could be just a different edition. The book seemed stuck. She tried again. Nothing moved. A victorious smile formed on her face. It was silly of her to even think it'd be on the lower shelves. With a small jump, she pushed the back of the book inwards. A clicking sound was heard, and a whole panel with heavy books on one side moved outwards. Christine walked into a dark room. She lit all the candles she found just to scare away the eerie feeling in her heart. What did she expect to find?

The room was small and had two doors leading to a watercloset with a massive bathtub – and a wardrobe closet with one of its walls covered by a mirror. That was where he dressed…it was so strange. Such trivial, everyday things held such a mystery when it came to Erik. Christine let her hand stroke the starched shirts, the numerous dark-colored brocade waistcoats. She loved his waistcoats! Her fingers lingered on the one he had worn that day in the music room. The raised patterns on the heavy silk welcomed her like an old friend. The buttons were still missing. She buried her face in the expensive fabric, taking in the scent that was all Erik. She felt tears threatening to flow, and averted her eyes from the clothes. Why was she sad? There was no room for sadness in a dangerous expedition like this! She opened a drawer to reveal an enormous number of cufflinks, each pair resting in its separate open case. A dark polished wooden grid displayed all the cases needed as the gold, the silver and the gemstones sparkled under the candlelight. Christine noticed that many of the cufflinks were missing, leaving their mates to look back at her miserably. No great mystery in that! Erik's custom was to roll his shirtsleeves up, leaving his cufflinks in every possible spot in the house. She herself had found one on the windowsill. Finding its mate, she stroked its engraved surface.

"Don't worry, little one. Your mate is in safe hands and will return to you," she whispered to the lonely cufflink as if waiting to see if it would come to life and answer.

Smiling to herself, she closed the drawer and shifted another panel, this one covered with a mirror. Her own smiling reflection looking back at her was the last thing she saw before her sight was filled by dozens and dozens of masks. One above the other, one beside the other, hanging upon a black velvet wall, Erik's eyeless masks looked at her, blaming, accusing, asking questions she didn't want to answer. Half masks, full-faced masks, black, white, red, made of porcelain, of leather, even of another material which looked like a smooth fabric, more like silk. Angry, irritated, sad, mad, terrifying masks left her breathless, petrified, staring back at them like the fox looking at the hounds, helpless and resigned to their power. For an instant, a tiny glimpse of a second, her stare locked on the most horrifying of them all, and she shut her eyes as if she'd been slapped in the face. She forced herself to open her eyes again, to examine the source of her horror. Her rapid heartbeat was deafening in her ears, and she regretted her curious nature once again. Christine looked at the mask, mustering all her courage against the evil thing that shattered her peace of mind. It was a simple, full-faced white mask glowing under the light of the candle she held in one trembling hand. Nothing strange in the material, nothing strange in the size. The expression carved was as disturbing as it was blank, showing no emotion – nothing of the passion, the feeling, all the other masks so vividly expressed. Just blank.

Christine closed her eyes again as the same frightening feeling filled her, suffocating her. Had he worn it at a time when he was angry? During one of their quarrels when hateful words had been exchanged, hurting them both, poisoning their memory forever? Or maybe at a moment when the Phantom had frightened her with the threat of violence against everyone else except her? Had it been at a time she had been afraid he'd hurt someone? Raoul, maybe?

The knot in her stomach tightened. She opened her eyes reluctantly. No, he hadn't worn that mask when he threatened Raoul. He could never wear that mask. At least, not in the state it was in. It was unfinished. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on its pearly, shining surface. There were no holes in the eyes! A full-faced mask with white, blank eyes, as if closed, and an expression of nothingness. God! This was the face of Death! Not any death. Not a corpse-like face. This was the face of Erik dead, with his eyes closed, his usual intense expression surrendered to the void.

Christine closed the panel forcefully as if wanting to exorcise the image from her mind. She hastily left after blowing all the candles in the small secret room out with fervent determination. Securing the bookshelf panel back into place so that nothing could reveal what had happened, she lay on Erik's bed, burying her face in his pillow, letting her senses fill with him as he had been the night before – strong, passionate, alive. Only after some deep breaths did she feel her heart pace back to normal and her recurring nightmare of the last three years safely retreat, as reality and logic prevailed.

II II II

Soft, impatient steps interrupted the sound of drizzle as Blue's nails collided with the wooden floor of the corridor. Christine leaned against the wall near Erik's bedroom door as Blue betrayed his master's whereabouts. No wonder Erik had had a cat while living at the Opera House. The sound stopped outside her bedroom and made her heart's pace quicken.

"Go eat, boy, go, go," she heard Erik's soft whisper prompting the dog; Blue moved in a brief circle and then ran down the stairs.
Her heart sank as she heard his bedroom door open. He hadn't knocked on her door. He wasn't seeking her. She shrank into her spot in complete darkness, trying to remain invisible as long as she could.

She watched his broad shoulders as he walked towards the bed. Raindrops shone like diamonds on his jacket. The weak light of his candle provided all the illumination in the room. He stood by the window for a while, deep in his thoughts, as the rain ran down the windowpane. Christine watched him sit with his back turned to her on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, his head bent, looking tired and defeated. She was amazed he hadn't noticed her yet.

Where was the god who had held her in his arms less than 24 hours ago? She looked at his tortured posture. If she had thought that making love to her would make him a happy man, she was miserably mistaken.

As his hand moved to his mask, she made her presence known. Seeing him unmasked without his consent was the last thing on her mind, and she didn't want to risk his wrath. It didn't take much. She just released the breath she had unconsciously been holding. His mask and his intense stare dominated her first impression of her lover since the passionate night they had shared.

"What are you doing here? It was locked." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"I had to use extreme measures, since you've been hiding all day," she said half-naughtily, half-accusingly. "I picked the lock!"

"You picked the lock?" He appeared amused by her triumphant smile.

"I remembered the theory, so I put it into action. I left the lights in my room on to trick you," she shamelessly bragged, seeing the half smile on his face. "The key to a good illusion is redirection of the observer's attention," she repeated his own words from a past long gone but not forgotten. "It's been a long time since the last time I practiced."

He looked at her knowingly. His eyes held a sadness that hurt her. Memories of all the sealed, locked boxes with gifts her Angel had given her floated around them. Her task had always been to find a way to open them. One in particular had made her mad. She had tried everything!

"If it is chocolate, it will be ruined by now," she had grunted, annoyed after trying for four days. She had even thrown it against the wall, many times, with no result.

"It is not chocolate," her Angel's disembodied voice had stated, amusement evident in his voice. "But it still may be ruined," he had warned her after giving her the necessary instructions.

It had been a pin with angel wings; its one side crushed, broken from the adventurous ordeal. Tears had welled up in her eyes as she looked at the small, delicate pieces in her hand.

"I've ruined it!"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Is that how you look, Angel?" A long pause had followed her question.

"I had you in mind, but now it looks more like me. Throw it away!" His voice had been pained, sad. Her Angel had sounded angry with her.

Two weeks later, she had sung for the managers of the Opera. She had kept the broken angel pin. How could she have been so blind?

"I've missed you today." Her voice brought them both back to reality.

"I don't want to mislead you, Christine. Not again."

How could he read her mind so easily? Was she so simple-minded? What did he mean? That he didn't love her, he didn't care for her?

"Did I displease you …last night?" The question had stung her all day. She was thankful for the dim light that hid her burning face.

In a fluid motion, he was before her. He leaned his palms against the wall just above her shoulders, trapping her in front of him, his face tilted inches way from hers.

"Is that what you think? That you…displease me?" His husky voice sent shivers down her spine. She felt her knees weaken just looking at his eyes. She felt herself unwillingly tremble. Such hunger contained in a man's look might have been frightening if it hadn't matched her own. Christine leaned her head against the wall, not able to support it anymore. He bent towards her ear. She smelled the rain on him.

"Those hateful braids again…" He didn't touch her. How could she feel his hands all over her body when he wasn't even touching her? A cold raindrop landed on her exposed neck. She almost jumped at the feeling. A very satisfied smile was on his face. He knew what he was doing to her.

"You said… for one night only…" His voice trailed off. He sounded indifferent, deadly serious and playful all in one sentence, in one voice. His eyes were burning her, passionately, accusingly, just like as his masks had a while before.

"I said…if only for one night…not only for one night—" Her voice broke as she felt his cold lips on her neck where the raindrop had left a wet trail. He followed that trail with soft kisses as his hands removed the pins holding her braids, one by one, in an agonizingly slow manner. How could he evoke that deep yearning, that need within her, just by removing hair pins? If that wasn't pure magic…she felt his fingers unravel her strands, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders.

"You'll tangle my hair. It will be a mess tomorrow…" But her moan interrupted her complaint. She slid her arms around his lean waist and propped herself against his slender body. She had to have possession of her wits this time, no matter how easy, how natural it felt to let go, to lose control as she lost her mind every time he touched her.

"So last night wasn't enough…" he said against her hair. His uneven breathing wasn't the only evidence of his need. She smiled against his jacket, feeling powerful. She wasn't alone in this game of need.

"Enough? Enough is a mediocre word for mediocre people," she quoted his reply from one time when she had complained that they had practiced enough. A deep, hearty laugh escaped his throat, and she felt she had pulled off the greatest feat in the world.

Erik lifted her up gently, holding her by the waist, bringing her face to the level of his eyes. He kissed her on the lips lightly, still smiling with that half smile that warmed her heart.

"If you wish for no one to know where you spent your nights, you should go to your room. I'll find you there in a while." He was looking straight into her eyes. "Emily's room is directly beneath this one," he explained, probably seeing her confusion.

"Emily isn't spending the night in her room tonight."

"You are a smart girl, but let's not make it a habit. Your room is already warm, thanks to the fire. Let me change out of these wet clothes…"

Christine frowned as she felt the ground under her feet again. Was it her impression, or was he addressing her as he would Blue? She looked at him as he walked towards the bookshelves. He seemed ready to push the hidden lever. Suddenly, imagining him opening the panel made the hair on her nape rise.

"You're right. We'd better go to my room. You'll catch a cold here." Her voice was trembling. His penetrating stare followed her as she lifted a book from his desk. Had he guessed what she'd done?

"What is this book?"

"I found it in your library, and since Les Mille et Une Nuits had a tragic ending –"

"I never catch cold," he said, taking the book from her hands. "The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night! This is not a book for a lady," he stated.

"What are you talking about? This is the English translation of the book you burned!" She resented that! She couldn't let him treat her like a child! She tried to take back her book, but he held it tightly behind his back.

"I didn't burn the book! It was an accident. And this is Richard Francis Burton's translation."

She looked at him defiantly.

"Let's just say this is the unexpurgated translation," he tried to explain. "Let's say… the man took the opportunity to add some quite scandalous appendices to the book you intended to read in the first place. Englishmen do need some help…"

Christine felt her face grow hot. She had heard of these kinds of books, which even unmarried women read secretly in their boudoirs. "And what is it doing in a gentleman's room?" she asked defensively, trying to diminish her shame.

Erik shrugged his shoulders. "Since James had grown taller, I'd removed some books I thought he'd better not read at his age. He's very nosy, and the last thing I needed was for him to appear before Mary's mother with Burton's book in hand. It had only recently been published and made quite an impact."

Christine blushed again and walked to the door. Her curiosity was piqued. Maybe she should have spent more time at this library rather than in his wardrobe. Erik looked at her intensely, probably trying to read her thoughts. She averted her eyes from his face as if this could help her.

"Would you prefer darkness tonight?" She uttered the question as if asking which tea flavor he desired at the moment. Christine dared to steal a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, pretending she was having a hard time opening the door. For a woman who had picked that same lock mere hours ago, it seemed a ridiculous excuse to stall her way out.

Her unspoken question didn't elude him. The smile still lingering on his face from their previous talk faded. His stare on her turned cold. She locked her eyes on him, not avoiding his face now, trying to silently apologize for what she hadn't even dared say out loud. Would he change his mind about coming to her room?

"So, I'm not going to find out about Mr. Burton's interpretation of Arabian Nights?" She tried to use a mischievous tone that she hardly felt at the moment.

"Leave the light on. I want to see you," he replied to her first question in a warm, even, passionate voice. "And don't worry about Mr. Burton," he paused as a sly half smile appeared on his face "I have read it."

Christine smiled at him and walked to her room. She had heard what he really meant under his words, under his playful tone. He wouldn't take his mask off, not even in the dark.

II II II

Christine awakened as the smell of fresh coffee invaded her senses. She opened her eyes, stretching her muscles like a cat under the heavy bed covers. Her lover was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. She had come to recognize that kind of intense stare on Erik's face, and moaned in pleasure as she stretched again, only to watch his eyes darken. He didn't say a word. He kept looking at her, fully dressed and shaved, as the coffee he had brought became cold. There were other habits of her lover's she had come to recognize as his own, too. Habits that made her blush, even recalling them, and habits that made her sad. Like his self-consciousness, his need to wear his shirt after the intimate times they had shared together. She couldn't complain. She had curled up against his otherwise naked body and slept in his arms, spent, tired and content in the knowledge that pleasure and time would unravel all the mysteries, all the secrets he kept from her.

He gave her the cup, brushing her hair away from her face. She took a sip, making a grimace. It wasn't hot anymore. She kept his hand in hers, marveling at the difference in their sizes. His fingers were long, elegant, his palm large. Christine returned the empty cup to him with an expression of mock disappointment, and traced the long life line in his palm. She brought his palm to the level of her eyes as though examining it, and spread light kisses on the lifeline, as she had wanted to do since the first time he had entered her room after the awful ginger cookies. She smiled against his hand, recalling the memory, biting him lightly.

"This is for the cold coffee."

"You are the one who overslept."

"And you were watching me sleeping!" She placed his hand on her face, forcing him to cup her cheek and stroke it. She was in a playful mood this morning, like all silly people who thought life owed them happiness. She intended to drink every drop of happiness that was in her share. "Aren't you bored with watching me sleep?" she asked lightheartedly, not really expecting an answer.

"I'm jealous of your slumber." His tone wasn't playful. "Where do you go in your dreams? Where do you go when you're not with me?" The longing in his voice penetrated her. If only she could hear his voice during her nightmares…

"My dreams are so boring," she replied, avoiding his eyes. "I could tell you where I want to go this morning, though."

"Where?" His tone was guarded, either because of her lie or his own embarrassment at revealing too much.

"I want to see your garden!" She silenced his protests, barely touching his lips with her fingers. Christine smiled proudly, detecting no sign of his usual apprehension whenever she touched his face. Maybe that was all that was needed. Familiarity, intimacy.
"Look! The sun is shining, and Emily won't be back until noon."

"It won't last," he muttered as his eyes focused on her lips. Having power over Erik was a strange feeling. She propped herself against his chest, steadying herself by clinging to the pockets of his dark waistcoat. Her lips brushed the visible side of his face lightly. She trembled inside at his possible reaction, but kept on until she found his ear.

"We will be home before the heavy rain starts," she promised, doubting the ingeniousness of her idea at the moment.

Christine felt his cold touch on her bare shoulders, then on her arms as he put some distance between them.

"We definitely could use a walk right now," he said, and left her in the room to dress.

II II II

"God, Erik! This is magnificent!" Christine's eyes sparkled as she looked at the roses in the greenhouse. Hundreds of roses in every possible color and shade bloomed under the glass ceiling of the unique structure that lay between the two wings of the Twin House. Each color occupied a different area, separated by short, narrow footpaths, creating a large-scale rainbow. Christine walked among the roses, noticing the differences in the petals, the leaves, the shapes.

"A sea of colors!"

"Do you like them?" he asked, pride evident in his voice, standing behind her.

Christine nodded, overwhelmed by the sight. His forearm slid around her waist, stopping her in her tracks. She felt his mask, his cold lips on her hair.

"I could drown in your hair. You should always let it loose."

She looked at their entwined fingers on her waist, and brought his hand to her mouth for a light kiss.

"Have you named the roses?" she asked, walking towards the section with the red ones, dragging him by the hand.

"Of course! They are my Christines," he replied mockingly, but something in his voice made her turn to look at him.

"Close your eyes." A devious smirk lingered on his face.

"Why?"

"Trust me," he whispered in her ear when her eyes were closed. "Feel this." He guided her hand so that it touched something lying on his open palm. "There…use only your fingertips. Be very gentle. It's fragile. What do you feel?"

"It's like velvet," she said with her eyes shut. "It's very smooth…but there is a kind of pile…"

"Open your eyes."

"It's a petal! It's almost black!"

"Sight is, many times, distracting. If you hadn't touched it first, you'd just have been impressed by its appearance. The effect would never have been the same."

"Is it black?" She moved the petal under the light to examine it.

"It is such a deep red that only in the sunshine can you see its real color. It needs light.
Smell it."

He chuckled at her grimace of disappointment.

"Imagine if we could combine the scent of this rose," he pointed at a yellow rose near them, "with the petal texture and the color of this one. A fragrant rose that looks like this." A single rose with five nearly black petals appeared in his hand out of nowhere.

"The perfect rose!" Christine ran her fingers over the petals, pausing at the few sharp thorns on the long stem. "What about the thorns? Will you keep them?"

"There are always thorns, Christine."

"Could you imagine it the other way around?" she asked teasingly at his condescending tone, taking the yellow rose in hand. "The awful smell combined with this boring rose?"

"A misshapen accident of nature." His tone was cold, indifferent.

Christine closed her eyes, letting her favorite scent invade her senses.

"I love this scent!"

"Why are words so easy for women?" Erik asked, rather like a scientist interested in a fact. The light scorn in his voice didn't escape Christine, who glanced at him, furrowing her brows.

"You must have spent endless hours here. So much effort… don't you love your accomplishment… your roses?"

"I have a fondness for them, but I could live without them," he stated.

"Why do you combine survival with love?"

"Can you live away from something you really love?"

"Life showed me that I can…" her voice trailed off.

"That you can?" His voice had an edge to it that had been missing completely before. Christine felt a shiver go down her spine.

"That I can…that I could…what difference does it make?" She looked at his stormy eyes, trying to find the true reason behind this mood change.

"We have to go back. Emily will be home by now."

II II II

"When I heard her shrill voice asking to see the kind of lace edging my linens, I couldn't believe it!" Emily was beaming. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement. "Mrs. Conrad concluded after thorough examination that only abroad could one find such excellent needlework! Imagine! Jane and Gillian's linens helped me prove my marriage to the village gossip! I have the ghosts to thank, too!"

Erik threw a glance at Christine, who smiled back at him at their own private joke.
The bell at the gate rang, and Emily rose from the sofa she had been sitting on.

"Jamie is back, and I haven't changed my clothes yet! How could you stand me talking for so long?" Her enthusiasm poured from every pore of her body. She looked so relieved. "I'll open the door," she said, exiting the room, stealing a quick glance at her sparkling ring.

Christine walked towards the window absentmindedly, playing with a curl, looking at the full moon.

"My hair gets awfully tangled when I don't braid it," she complained.

"You need to comb your hair very carefully. Actually, you need someone to do that for you…" He threw his voice in her ear for only her to hear, as if they weren't alone in the room. She shivered at his tone. "Someone persistent and gentle but fully dedicated to the task…" He was behind her now. "We can't have these curls—" His voice trailed off.
Christine's eyes followed his stare outside the window. A cart was coming towards the house at an unusually high speed. Jamie's horse followed, galloping behind it.

"Wasn't Jamie supposed to return the cart to his mother's store?"

"That is not Mrs. Oliveer's cart. There's something wrong…" She heard Erik's voice, but before she had turned to look at him, he was out of the room.

Christine ran towards the front door, which had been left open, with her heart racing as if she had run a mile. Emily was still standing by the front stairs, her eyes locked on the cart Mr. Hamilton was pulling up a few steps away from them. Erik had already half climbed onto its back, bending over something Christine could not see from where she stood. She rose up on her toes to get a better view of what he now seemed to be examining, and wondered whether she should bring a lantern. When she looked at him again, he was walking towards them, carrying what looked like a large ball of clothing in his arms. Her breath caught at the sight under the moonlight. It was Jamie he was carrying. His face, his clothes…everything was covered in blood.