21

Morning came swiftly. Mirielle blinked against the pink light that speared through the closed drapes. Erik's side of the bed was empty. Stretching out a hand, she groped along his pillow. Neither it nor the nightstand had a mask lying upon it.

She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was already eight o'clock. Erik always got up first. He said he required less sleep than other people. It was part and parcel to his boundless curiosity and indefatigable energy. But by now he would have made the coffee and retrieved the newspaper.

A dread coiled in her. She kicked her legs free of the covers and searched the foot of the bed for her robe. She made it to the landing of the stairs before she hesitated.

Was Erik angry? Was he regretting his actions, his revelation of his face?

She closed her eyes and held her breath. Foolish woman! Did you tell him you love him? She asked herself. Did you say it didn't matter?

It didn't. Not in the light of day. They were still man and wife. He hadn't been angry, or upset. Although with Erik, some of his emotions were bone deep and just as well hidden. Too many years alone. She took hold of the banister and tested her foot on the first step.

Over the sound of her gown and robe sweeping the stair carpet, she heard his voice. He was humming to himself, much as he was used to doing. The smell of fresh coffee and the folding of a newspaper preceded him from the kitchen. As he stepped up onto the stairs, he looked up in surprise. "Did I wake you?"

Mirielle shook her head numbly. The mask was back in place. Her husband appeared as he did every morning—consumed by his own thoughts until he had his coffee.

"Shall I bring you a coffee?" he asked politely.

"No, thank you."

He stood, looking up at her. "Are you all right?"

She busied her fingers with drawing her robe about her and tying the sash. "Are you? Dear?"

Erik's eyes looked amber once again. "Yes, I am."

"You--. You were gone. It's all ready eight o'clock."

"I slept in. I must have been tired."

Tired or emotionally exhausted, she realized. How often had her care of her afflicted husband in his last months wrung everything out of her? A bout of tears in a quiet corner away from him had been her release.

Erik bent forward and sat his cup upon the stairs and dropped the paper beside it. Looking up at her face, he came up the stairs to stop before her. Being tall and standing a step down, their gazes met. "I'm fine, dear girl."

Still shaken, she clasped her hands in her pockets. "I thought maybe last night I had said something wrong."

"Not at all, Mirielle." He stepped up next to her. "Upstairs or down? I can have Anais send up some breakfast if you'd like to stay warm in bed? I lit the stove." He pointed down the stairs. "Why don't I bring you a nice cup of hot coffee? Go on, dear girl. Climb back into bed and I'll bring it up to you." He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

"Yes, dear." Mirielle turned away and went back to her bedroom. Rather than her bed, she went to the water closet. Closing the door, she put her back against it and covered her mouth. Hot tears rolled down her face. She didn't hear him come back—Erik was always so quiet. She became aware of the soft pressure on the door and then his arms around her. His hand rested upon her hair, holding her to his lapel as she wept.

Mirielle clutched at his sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You have given me a treasure beyond my wildest hopes."

She looked up at the dark mask and her husband's eyes, Erik's eyes. He waved a hand, and a handkerchief appeared. His lips smiled at the edge of the mask.

"Come, sweet girl. Your coffee will get cold and so will your feet. I shant have you greet the spring with a fever."

She turned away and blew her nose, seeing her red-rimmed eyes and her disheveled hair in the mirror. Erik appeared behind her, his hands holding her shoulders.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, walking her back and tucking her into the bed robe and all. He put his pillow behind hers and settled the covers across her lap. With a fingertip, he brushed a tendril of hair from her temple. "You were perfect."

Taking a deep breath she turned her cheek towards his palm. "I wasn't foolish?"

A spark lit the buttery depths of his irises. "All women should be such fools. You, my dear, were splendid. Aphrodite incarnate. More than a match for the Baron."

"Oh", she scolded. "Not that. I meant when we were down stairs."

"I know what you meant," he voice vibrated with an energy that made her melt. "You were the loving woman that I married. I have no regrets. Do you?"

"No, Erik. I only thought…that maybe I did not say enough."

"You told me everything you could. It was a shock for both of us. I hadn't planned on it, dear. It just happened." He leaned away from her and retrieved the cup. "Have some coffee."

"Thank you," she replied. Closing her eyes, she took a sip of the hot liquid.

Erik got up from the bed. "I'll bring up the newspaper."

"Of course, dear." Mirielle watched his retreat. He hummed as he went down the stairs. With a sigh, she sat the cup and saucer on her lap.

Erik was busying himself in the routine of the morning. What had passed between them last night was brushed aside with the light of day. It was how Erik handled his feelings. Like all men, he appeared to be able to compartmentalize his emotions. They ran as deep as currents that moved along the ocean, only to disappear in the distance. When he was ready to deal with the mask again, or remove it, he would do so. She would wait patiently; drifting along on the tide until it once again broke on a shore.

He slipped back into the room, balancing his own cup and saucer.

"Was that Les Huguenots?" she asked.

He glanced down at her. "No, but is one of Meyerbeer's."

"Robert le Diable?"

Erik tutted. "It's Hirtenlied. I'm writing a variation on it."

With that, they each sat sipping coffee and looking over the news. The morning had begun in the Vachon household.

~*~

Lunch was a light affair. Mirielle brought a plate to her husband and insisted he take a break from his harmonium. Erik looked her over from her hair tucked up under a scarf to her shoes which were at the hem of her housedress and apron.

"Good heavens. Is the house so dirty that you must help Anais?"

"I want everything to look nice," Mirielle protested. She produced a cloth from her apron pocket and wiped at the surface of the instrument. "It's our first dinner party."

"Perhaps our last," Erik muttered.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me," he complained. "I don't want to eat dinner with you-know-who."

"Sometimes I think they should have called you the hermit of the opera."

Erik cast a wry glance at his wife. The witty retort he had thought of lay stillborn upon his lips. His wife was looking at him in a most interesting way. There was a coy tilt to her head, her dark lashes brushed against her cheek. She had demurred in such a manner when they had first laid eyes upon one another the previous year.

Again Erik wondered if it was possible to fall in love with the same woman. Her bashful looks were a response to their previous intimacy. Not the tussle on the settee or the bed, but the mask.

Deciding this new facet of his wife's behavior was a direct result of his own, he resolved to study it deeply. For the moment, they would play their parts as they had before. "Faugh. Hermit," he grumbled. "That conjures the picture of some impoverished monk in a threadbare robe, tied at the waist with an old rope." He lifted a hand above his head. "Not that I have more hair than a tonsure."

"I meant how you keep to yourself still," she chided.

"I have no idea what you mean," he protested. "We go to dinner. We visit with Nadir." He whipped up a hand dramatically. "I just got married in front of half of Paris. I've taught lessons at the opera and now I find myself their security advisor." He placed his hands back on the keys. "I've rescued lost guards."

"How was your meeting last night?"

"Heaven help us—Percival is in love."

"What?" Mirielle grinned hugely. She came around the end of the harmonium in a bustle of skirts and scooted against Erik's hip, forcing him to move over. "Tell me."

"You really don't want to hear that nonsense do you?"

"Erik!"

"Evidently you do. You know you are as bad as Nadir. He has an excuse for it. He was a policeman."

His wife crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Erik made a show of relenting. "Solange Claretie came down with La Chance and de Brie."

"What a surprise."

"It was. Come to think of it, she is only the third female to ever visit my house."

"The lake house?"

"How many others do I have? You haven't been out shopping again have you?" He shot her a withering glance, which Mirielle promptly snorted at. "I leave for a lesson and I come home to a gardener. What was his name? Rafinesque?"

"Gus."

"Gus, the rose ambusher?"

Mirielle made a face. "What do you mean?"

"He has scratches over the backs of his hands. Looks like he's been in a row with a load of thorns."

"You noticed the bushes next door," she accused.

"Yes. I also noticed that you are sitting so that I cannot play my harmonium. Didn't you say you wanted the house clean?"

"Sometimes you are an oaf." She shot to her feet. "You just don't want to tell me about Percival."

"There isn't much to tell," Erik admitted. "You've seen how he gets around a woman. I told him not to toss his hat away this time." He waited until Mirielle bent over a table and began polishing the surface. "I do like the way your hips move when you do that."

Mirielle straightened and glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, go play with your instrument." She bustled out of the room in a huff.

Erik continued playing, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The old fire had returned to his wife's eyes.

Nothing made him happier.