Erik had a very hard time fathoming the fact that he had been married one year. The buds had just begun when he took Christine on the fateful carriage ride, and, outside the window, he could see the trees begin to live. In his mind, only yesterday had she triumphed as Marguerite, and not quite an hour ago she was in his house, with the guests in his torture chamber, and he was laughing, and she was crying. Time was blustering on without him, and, quite suddenly, he felt incredibly old.

Dear Christine could not wait until the mud had cleared from her garden. She was outside, no doubt dirt all over, happily planting that which Erik had brought for her. The big garden was reserved for her flowers; she had decided that long ago. He brought enough food home each day that a large vegetable garden was a luxury she did not want. She would not listen to him, either, when he warned her that a frost would kill everything, and the chance of a frost was still high. With a shrug and a bell-like laugh, she was out of the door, the wind picking up her hair and skirts.

When she came back inside, Erik was walking around and around his room upstairs, muttering to himself. He stopped, looked around, and then began again. Christine watched as he pushed the furniture against the wall and stood, his eyes sweeping the empty space. An angry, irritated sigh suddenly came from him, and he left the room. She followed, silent as he stood in the center of the large room downstairs.

"What is it?" she finally ventured.

A rapid train of thought ran through his mind, and he finished his last two words, "...quite small," out loud, confusing Christine further.

"Excuse me?"

The silence remained for another minute, and his head tilted slightly as he began slowly, "Christine, I...It is hard for me without my music, so...I purchased a fine piano." His eyes looked into hers pleadingly, as if he had done something terrible.

"That's wonderful!" To hear his fingers dance across ivory keys was something she missed.

"Yes," came his beautiful voice. "Yes...It is too large, however, to fit in my room upstairs."

"Put it in here."

He looked at her, aghast. "No, Christine, I would not take away your room."

"Yes," she insisted firmly. "You will put it in here. Please have it soon, Erik."

As he stared at her, she began to feel acutely uncomfortable and blushed slightly under his gaze.

"My little songbird has changed in more ways than one," he finally said, and this only hardened her blush.

Two days passed, and Christine woke one morning to the most glorious sounds. Haphazardly, she threw on the first dress that her hand touched and hurried downstairs. A magnificent, gleaming, vast piano dominated the room, and Erik, who was looking more relaxed and at home than he had ever been in his house, allowed his longing fingers to indulge their desire. For hours and hours Christine sat on the couch, drinking of his music as deeply as her mind was able. Having been so long separated from the full beauty of it, this was an overload, and she felt utterly powerless in his majestic presence.

Quite suddenly, the music stopped, and he turned to her, a gleam of true and untainted happiness in his eyes. Unfamiliar and new, it was a strange sight, but an appealing one.

"Come here," he commanded.

Her voice was fresh and pure, well-rested, and she felt as if her very being was carried into the heavens by the music. Erik was there, too, and they could not stop themselves, could not let the music leave them, could not bear to starve their souls of the ambrosia that came from the keys.

Tears came from her eyes, but she did not notice them, and they ran over her smiling lips, dripping onto his broad shoulders. With each note, another drop of happiness would escape from her eyes, and, in pure ecstasy, she twisted her fingers into the shoulders of Erik's coat, subduing those feelings that made her want to swoon away. Laws were defied in those hours, and the two were happy to break them.

As the last angelic notes died away, Christine discovered how weak her body was, and she fell heavily onto the couch. The heart within her chest was beating rapidly, pounding the blood through her, and yet her soul was alive, stronger than before. She felt faintly dizzy at the strong differences. Her legs were feeble, and her stomach gnawed impatiently.

Erik remained on the bench, running his long fingers over the keys, caressing them with the utmost tenderness and care. For many minutes, no words were spoken; there were none to say. Shaking, Christine rose to her feet. She felt utterly exhausted and, wearily, began to climb the stairs.

Something cold touched her back as she ascended. A glance told her it was Erik's large hand, and he graciously assisted her to the bedroom.

"I am sorry to make you ill," was his soft mutter.

"Of course you didn't," she argued. "I am not ill." Yet she lay down tiredly, sighing.

"Do you need something sweet?"

Yes, her mind whispered. "No, thank you."

His golden eyes looked into hers for a moment. "I will be back." And, shortly, he was, bearing a sugary pastry that she accepted without comment. Seeing that she was situated, he bade her a good night and went to the door.

"Wait. Will you – be back?" Christine fought down the heat in her neck and cheeks.

He did not face her. "If you wish."

"Yes," was her quiet, almost unheard whisper.

That night, she tried not to feel too grateful when Erik's arms slipped around her waist.


She worked farther and farther along in her garden each day until it eventually ended, yet she continued to plant flowers to the edge of the property. Erik left for the city in the mornings again, though his absences were not as long. One morning she was digging around in the dirt and fondly placed a little tulip in the hole, humming and smiling at the fact that Erik had left her another pretty dress as a surprise. Perhaps she would wear it when he returned...

"Guten Morgen," came a voice. Christine jumped sharply before turning around. A little boy, no older than ten, was staring at her, his brown eyes curious. She glanced back at the house nervously; perhaps Erik would be angry if she spoke to a little boy, so she continued to pat down the dirt around the tulip stem. The boy came closer.

"Wie heißen Sie?" the child continued, crouching down to look at her. Christine finished with her tulip, brushed the dirt from her hands, and started on another hole. The boy continued to pester her for several minutes, and Christine wondered why he didn't grow weary from her lack of response. Suddenly, a shout was heard from behind the boy, and he turned to see a woman hurrying after him. She had a child on her hip and another one trailing behind her.

"Niklas!" the woman gasped, stopping next to the boy and glaring at him. Her eyes glanced down to Christine, who was quite nervous. "Wer ist sie?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders and began to pick the flowers that Christine had just placed in their little holes.

"Ah! Halt, halt!" the mother cried, wrenching her son away. "Excuse my child," the woman suddenly said to Christine with a lovely smile. "He wanders off too many times."

The little girl behind the woman was tugging on her mother's skirts, her petite face scrunched up with tears, and she whimpered, "Mutti! Mutti! Mutti! Mutti!"

"Ah! Nach hause gehen, Sophie!" Here the little girl burst into tears and ran the opposite direction. The woman simply hitched the little boy on her hip higher and smiled again at Christine.

"I am Marta," she offered. "We are neighbors, I suppose, though we have never seen anyone inside or out of your house."

Christine stood slowly, clutching her small spade protectively. The woman was older than Christine. She had a motherly face with a permanent crease between her dark brows and a full, red mouth. Her hair, long and dark, was swept up haphazardly which brought out her strict jaw and straight nose. Christine, being isolated from all company except Erik's, made her forget her manners momentarily, but a forced smile finally stretched her lips.

"C – Christine," the young soprano managed to say. "I – we didn't get out much during the winter."

Marta nodded and then snapped at Niklas, who was busily digging a hole behind his mother's foot in obvious hopes that she would step in it. The little boy, now sullen, left the small group and ambled off to the large tree that was settled nearby. Christine swallowed anxiously. The woman was very friendly, yet, as a result of Christine's confinement, the presence of another woman made her anxious; nothing to speak about came to mind.

"I am sorry for my children," the mother said, her shapely lips curved into an apologetic smile. "I can hardly keep track of one, let alone five. My husband is always working all day, so I must watch them somehow. Do you have any?"

"No!" Christine gasped, chilled at the thought. Marta's expression made her blush. "I – I apologize. We are...newlyweds."

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" Marta said gaily. "I remember when we had the house to ourselves."

As Christine blundered through some inexpert and noncommittal answer, Marta grew impatient with the baby squealing on her hip, and she set him down, where he drooled and buried his saliva-covered hands into the dirt.

"We must speak properly," Marta insisted. "When – ?"

A faint crash echoed around them, and Christine paled to realize that it came from her house. Erik was home...

"I must go," she said, dropping her spade and then cutting her finger in her haste to pick it up again. "Thank you – goodbye."

Her golden curls bounced wildly as she ran back to the house, gathering her skirts in her hands and pulling them up to her knees. She wanted to look behind her but focused her sights on the back door.

Erik was not very pleased. He had entered to find the house quite empty. There was no Christine waiting for him with a smile on her sweet lips and a meal ready. Although he never ate it, he still enjoyed the normalcy of having a wife who cooked for him. He had looked in every single room, and a sweeping glance of the backyard told him that she had run away. An angry snarl promptly erupted from his belly, an animalistic growl, and he knocked over the closest thing: the tall bookshelf. She could not have gotten far...He rode to Paris often enough to know the roads better than God Himself.

As he threw open the back door, an infuriating and relieving sight met his eyes: Christine stood breathless, her eyes wide and her hands filthy with blood and dirt.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

She swallowed. "I was working in the garden, as usual, Erik. I simply lost track of time."

A distinct unfairness washed over her; the injustice of Erik's acute senses was not fair. He could always tell when she was lying.

"Wash your hands," he told her, and she obliged quickly.

"I'm sorry," she offered. "I cut my finger on the spade. It was an accident. Time didn't seem to matter outside."

Erik sighed, looking quite ruffled. "Why must you always lie to me? It is always very tedious to listen to the deceptions. They do not become your pretty mouth."

All the mud was washed from her hands, and she concentrated on getting rid of the faint red stain that blemished her finger. "I met our neighbors," she finally admitted, and she flinched, thinking that he was going to hurt her.

"What?"

"Our neighbors – the family who lives in the house next to ours."

"Yes, yes," Erik said impatiently, waving his hand. "I understand that. You...you went over there? After I specifically – "

"No!" She turned around and approached him beseechingly. "No, I didn't. I was outside, and the little boy saw me. His mother came to find him, and she tried to talk to me – I only told her my name, Erik, I promise...I am not lying."

"Of course," he agreed after a silent minute of scrutiny. His cold hand grasped hers, and he pulled her to the front room, saying, "You must sing for me, Christine. Monsigny calls to you."

As he sat on the bench, Christine lightly touched the spot where she knew the repulsive scar was hidden; Erik jumped under her fingers and pulled away uneasily.

"Erik, will you tell me what happened to your shoulder?"

"Quiet, dear. Listen for your cue."

"You will always say that whenever I ask you and you will never tell me."

"Why should I?"

"Because I am your wife."

Suddenly, he leapt up, knocking the bench over. "Do not play that card with me, woman!" he snarled. "How should you react when I tell you? Hmm? You will scream, cry, lock yourself away in a room, leave Erik forever! You are my wife, eh? Then it lends itself to reason that I should tell you all!" He seized her shoulders. "Shall I tell you of the poisons in Mongolia? Perhaps you wish to know of the woman in Nepal, who sold her daughter to feed her other children for a mere week. Or do you want to hear of my armies, Christine, and how I defeated a king? Maybe I shall tell you of her, if you really wish to know. What about my only friend who died by my hand? Perhaps, wife, I shall give you detailed description of the tortures in Mazanderan. Would you like that? Which do you crave to hear first?"

Christine had gradually lost the support in her legs, and she slumped in his arms, unwilling to dwell on anything he had said. Erik looked at her steadily, his eyes burning, and she closed hers, unable to bear his gaze. And, as much as she wished to have this be about her, it was not. Erik gathered her in his arms and began to sob, fervently clutching at her. With her breath coming in shallow bursts, she gathered her courage and allowed him to lean upon her, his thin body overcome with grief.

"I did nothing," he wept. "But I did everything – it was all my fault, Christine...All my fault...but – now you're here, my beautiful, breathing wife." His sobs doubled. "Never, never leave me, Christine. Erik could not breathe, could not think, could not live without you. Erik loves you so much, and he will be happy with that. Just never leave me."

She was crying with him, feeling the tears run over her cheeks and to her chin. The tears were for his pain, for the fact that she would never understand, never come close to even comprehending his feelings and thoughts, for the harsh reality being that he had chosen someone who was too afraid, too weak to be his companion.

His eyes still wet, he looked up at her and used his long thumb to wipe away her tears. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Erik is not worth your tears, and he cannot bear to see you in pain."

Trembling, she leaned up and gently removed his mask, ignoring the flinch that shot through him as she pressed her lips against his cold forehead. His hand was waiting for hers, and she took it, leading him upstairs. Without bothering to change and uncaring of the fact that it was still late afternoon, they curled up in the welcoming bed. She huddled against him, putting a hand on his chest and feeling his heart pound steadily. The two were silent, drifting off into sleep. As Erik shifted in order to embrace her, she mumbled,

"I want you to be happy."

Allowing his eyes to close, he inhaled her scent, felt her comforting weight, caught one last glimpse of her angelic face, and replied, "I am."